#that's how i learn anything in this family

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 38: November 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Belle hadn’t expected Jos to show up. 

Max’s father usually picked and chose his race weekends carefully—strategically. 

But there he was, Friday morning, standing in Red Bull hospitality with a coffee in one hand, his other already reaching out to squeeze her shoulder with the surprising gentleness of a man who terrified half the paddock.

“Hello, meisje,” Jos said. “You’re bigger.”

Belle blinked. “Thank you, I think?”

Jos nodded seriously. “That’s good. Baby is growing.”

Beside her, Max stifled a laugh and muttered, “Papa, you can’t just say things like that.”

But Belle only smiled, because honestly? It was kind of sweet—especially coming from Jos.

And so began her weekend being doubly fussed over.

Belle hadn’t known Jos was coming until Thursday night, when Max casually mentioned, “Oh, by the way, my dad’s flying in. He said he wants to see you.”

Which meant, apparently, see her, guard her, and silently materialize at her elbow whenever she tried to walk more than ten metres unsupervised.

This pregnancy had done something to him—cracked something open. Now Jos looked at Belle like she was an endangered species he’d been personally tasked with protecting.

“Sit,” Jos said Friday morning, pulling a chair out for her in the Red Bull hospitality lounge. “You’ve been on your feet too long.”

“I just stood up.”

“Exactly.”

Belle blinked at him. “Is this a Verstappen thing?”

“Yes,” Max said from behind her, handing her a bottle of water with the label already peeled off—he knew she hated the crinkling sound. “It’s hereditary. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes but sat.

Jos didn’t sit. He hovered. Occasionally refilled her water. At one point, he muttered, “You tell me if you’re too hot. I’ll find someone to fix the AC.”

“I think that’s just the sun, Jos.”

“I’ll still find someone.”

Helmut Marko nodded solemnly at her like she might go into labor at any moment. GP had even brought her a footstool.

After Max’s FP1, Jos came over and asked, “You okay?” in the quiet, awkward tone of a man trying to learn how to be soft.

She’d blinked. “I’m okay. Baby’s just doing somersaults.”

Jos had nodded once. Then muttered something like, “Stubborn. Just like the rest of the family.”

And patted her shoulder. Lightly. Carefully. As if afraid she might shatter.

She didn’t.

 Instead, she smiled and leaned back in her chair while Max returned from the debrief, sweaty and grumpy about understeer but visibly lighting up the moment he saw her.

“Drink anything yet?” he asked.

“I had water, juice, and a banana. Your dad supervised it like I was on probation.”

Max had snorted, leaned down to press a kiss to her temple, and murmured, “Welcome to Verstappen hospitality.”

***

The thing about being nearly eight months pregnant during a triple-header was that Belle had mastered the art of keeping her heart rate below 120—even when Formula One decided to descend into absolute madness.

Which meant when Max crossed the line third in the sprint, she didn’t immediately jump up and scream like half the Red Bull garage did. She smiled, placed a hand on her bump—where Emilian had taken up his current hobby of bladder kickboxing—and waited for the usual post-race chaos to unfold.

Max looked annoyed, not overjoyed, as he pulled into parc fermé. Not surprising. He hadn’t loved the car’s balance since FP1, and any time he wasn’t first was basically a personal offense to his racing DNA.

And then someone handed her a phone and muttered, “You’re going to want to see this.”

INVESTIGATION: CAR 1 – VIRTUAL SAFETY CAR INFRINGEMENT

“Oh, come on,” Belle muttered.

Twenty minutes later, Max had changed out of his fireproofs but was still pacing the hospitality suite like a panther in a too-small cage and grumbling under his breath. 

Belle didn’t say anything at first. She knew better.

Max wasn’t angry in the traditional sense—he wasn’t throwing helmets or yelling at engineers. He was the other kind of angry. The dangerous, simmering kind. The kind that cracked through in clipped Dutch, in jaw-tight silences, in the way his hands ran through his hair like he wanted to pull the whole world apart.

She stood slowly and walked over, pressing her hands gently to his chest. “Hey. Breathe.”

He did.

Eventually.

“They’re giving third to Charles,” he said, tone unreadable.

Belle blinked. “Wait. Charles is—on the podium now?”

He nodded. “They’re not redoing the ceremony. Just… swapping the results after. Retroactive podium inheritance.”

“So we get the drama and the logistics headache,” she muttered.

Max’s lips twitched, just barely. “And probably a Ferrari Instagram post with too many emojis.”

Belle couldn’t help it. She laughed. Then groaned, because the laugh made the baby shift into her ribs again. “Ow. Okay. You’re both giving me heartburn now.”

Max’s hand was instantly at her back, his thumb brushing over her spine like a reflex.

 “You should sit,” he murmured, and then paused. “I’m sorry. For all of this.”

“Max,” she said, guiding his hand to her bump, “our child thinks your VSC penalty is an outrage and is kicking in protest. We’re on your side.”

He looked down at her then—really looked. Some of the tension bled from his shoulders. He didn’t say anything more about the penalty, or the race, or Charles. He just rested his forehead gently against hers and exhaled.

Outside, the media spun.

 Inside, Max was just… her Max.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Emilie: How. The hell. Are you surviving that weather. I am NOT pregnant and it’s driving me absolutely insane. Lando said the humidity is making his hair “emotionally volatile”.

Belle: I’m still upright, so I’m winning.

Emilie:  Your unborn child is cooking in a Dutch oven. And you’re what, just… vibing?? Are you human??

Belle: Barely. I am 75% fries, 10% spite, and 15% electrolyte drinks at this point.

Emilie:  It’s like racing in a sauna someone cursed.

Belle: I have iced towels and a Verstappen man fussing on either side. It’s a system.

Emilie: Two Verstappen men fussing?? I would not survive. Respectfully, Jos looking concerned would send me straight into orbit.

Belle: Jos brought me a parasol. Didn’t say a word, just appeared with it like I was a 19th-century duchess and nodded once.

Emilie: What in the soft grandpa energy is going ON over there at RedBull??

Belle: Honestly? No idea. I just smiled, took the parasol, and accepted my fate as the Verstappen household’s most precious cargo.

Emilie: You are precious cargo. I just hope Baby Verstappen doesn’t melt before they get to the grid.

Belle: He’s already kicking in protest.

***

A day later, after Qualifying, Max stalked into the Red Bull motorhome. 

Belle had already finished half a bottle of water and braced herself emotionally.

She could tell from the way he pulled off his gloves—snapped, not peeled—that he was past the tight-lipped irritation and heading directly toward incandescent. The kind of mood that didn’t need shouting to be loud. His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed, and his racing suit was only halfway unzipped before he muttered something in Dutch that she didn’t need to understand to translate.

It was not complimentary.

She stayed seated, hands resting over the swell of her stomach, one eyebrow raised.

“You want to break something, or do you want a snack first?” she asked mildly.

Max didn’t answer. He paced instead. One tight circuit around the driver’s room like a lion in a gilded cage. His whole body buzzed with frustration—sharp, contained, and so very Max.

Twelfth in qualifying. Five-place grid penalty. An engine change that had already made him annoyed earlier in the weekend. And now a red flag that stopped him from putting in a second lap. All of it stacking up.

He exhaled through his nose. “I had pace. We had it. And then that flag—”

Belle nodded calmly. “I saw.”

“I had it, Belle.”

“I know.”

He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “And I’m starting from seventeenth.”

From the couch, Jos spoke for the first time.

“Well,” he said mildly, not looking up from his phone, “at least you’ll have someone to overtake.”

Belle blinked. So did Max.

Jos didn’t flinch. “No one wants a boring race. You’ll manage.”

Max stared at his father like he’d grown a second head.

Belle bit back a grin. Very calm Jos Verstappen was, somehow, more unnerving than yelling Jos. Like someone had dialed down the volume but left all the heat.

Max looked at him like he was insane. “That’s not the point.”

Belle watched them, biting back the urge to get up and tug him down beside her. But Max in this state didn’t want to be calmed. He wanted to fight air.

Jos just raised an eyebrow. “What is the point, then?”

“That it’s bullshit,” Max snapped. “The whole thing. They screwed the timing, and I get penalized for it. And now I have to make up seventeen places while everyone pretends that’s normal.”

Belle winced a little. The baby kicked hard. Possibly in solidarity.

“You’re not seventeen cars worse,” Jos said, still maddeningly calm. “You’re seventeen places hungrier.”

That made Max stop.

Belle finally spoke. “You always say you love a challenge.”

Max turned to her, and the moment their eyes met, some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. Just a fraction. Enough.

“I do,” he said, voice lower now. “But this feels like punishment.”

She patted the seat beside her. “Then punish them back.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then—finally—he exhaled, and the storm in his chest started to settle. He dropped his gloves on the table, tugged off the top half of his race suit, and walked over.

When he sat, Belle didn’t even hesitate—she pulled his hand to her belly and placed it there. Emilian kicked once. Max’s entire face softened.

“See?” she said, quiet and steady. “We’re on your side.”

And just like that, she saw it happen—the shift. His fire didn’t go out. But it became direction. Focus. The kind that didn’t explode, but honed in.

“I’m going to need to pass so many cars,” he mumbled.

“You’ll do it,” Belle said simply. “Just try not to give me a heart attack in the process.”

***

Belle had just wanted to get back to the garage.

She’d spent the last half hour tucked into a corner of the McLaren setup, feet propped up on a stool while Emilie made pointed, mildly threatening comments about the lack of air circulation and the state of the hospitality snacks. Belle had laughed, sipped her electrolytes, and finally set off back across the paddock toward Red Bull.

It was hot. She was swollen. Her back ached. And Max had given her that tight-lipped, barely-there smile that meant he was somewhere deep in his zone, unreachable to all but engine data and tyre temps. She wanted to be there before he stepped into the car — steady, present, quiet.

She just hadn’t accounted for the obstacle course of egos between her and the Red Bull garage.

“Miss Leclerc! One moment?”

She turned automatically, the smile already half-set on her face before her brain caught up.

“Mrs. Verstappen,” she corrected, evenly.

The journalist blinked. “Sorry?”

“It’s Mrs Verstappen now,” Belle said again. “I took my husband’s name.”

Two of them had formed a vague semi-circle around her—mics angled forward, camera light blinking red, and all the faux-casual charm of a trap already sprung.

“Of course,” the first one recovered. “Mrs. Verstappen. A quick question, if you don’t mind—”

Belle didn’t say anything. She didn’t nod, didn’t invite it. But he steamrolled ahead anyway.

“Given Max’s current form—ten races without a win—would you say he’s feeling the pressure? It’s been a very un-Max-like run, don’t you think?”

Belle blinked. She could practically hear the underline on un-Max-like.

The second journalist leaned in, chin lifted like he was asking about the weather. ““Do you think maybe it’s fatherhood? A change in priorities? Some fans think he’s losing his edge.”Belle’s spine straightened.

She wasn’t new to this. She’d heard versions of the same question, the same insinuations. That love softened men. That fatherhood made them slower. That happiness and greatness couldn’t coexist.

But today—thirty-four weeks pregnant, overheated, aching, and walking toward the one person who never asked her to be anything but herself—it landed differently.

 Belle exhaled slowly. 

She tilted her head, assessing them like she was choosing which wire to cut. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft and steady, “are we pretending four podiums in ten races and a sprint win is a crisis now?”

The first reporter’s mouth opened. Then closed.

She smiled, slow and glacial. “I’ll tell you what,” Belle said. “If Max doesn’t win today, I’ll sit down with you. On the record. You can ask me every dramatic question you’ve been saving in your little notebook.”

A pause. The baby shifted under her palm like they approved.

“But if he does win,” she continued, voice sweet with the edge of steel, “I want your apology. On camera. Same tone. Same energy. I’ll be watching.”

They didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

Belle gave them a polite nod that somehow felt like a knife being sheathed, then turned on her heel and walked away — steady, composed, and untouchable. The Verstappen name glittered on the credential clipped to her bag. 

She didn’t glance back.

***

Max found his wife exactly where he’d expected to: tucked into the corner of the Red Bull hospitality, perched on the edge of the leather couch like she was pretending not to be exhausted. She had one hand resting on her bump, the other gripping a glass of water she probably hadn’t remembered to finish. Her expression was unreadable—carefully composed in that way she sometimes did when she was second-guessing herself.

Max didn’t need to ask. He knew her too well.

He dropped down beside her, thigh against hers, arm along the back of the couch. “What did you do?”

Belle didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

Max raised a brow. Waited.

Belle let out a breath. “Okay, fine. Maybe… something.”

Max turned toward her, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion. “Belle.”

“I may have…” She paused, winced slightly. “I may have threatened a journalist.”

Max blinked. “Define threatened.”

“Well, it wasn’t violent.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“They cornered me on the walk back from McLaren,” Belle said. “Started asking if you were cracking under pressure, if maybe being a father was making you lose your edge—”

“Oh for—”

“—and I may have challenged them to a conditional interview-slash-public-apology wager depending on whether or not you win today.”

Silence.

Belle waited.

Max’s expression didn’t change at first. Then—

He burst out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a snort. A full-bodied, head-thrown-back, shoulders-shaking laugh that startled the Red Bull intern who had just stepped into the hospitality suite with a tray of fruit.

“You what?” Max managed, wiping at his eyes.

Belle huffed. “It wasn’t planned! I was hot, my back hurt, and they called me Leclerc first, so I corrected them, and it just… escalated.”

Max grinned at her, still wheezing slightly. “You told them to apologize on camera?”

“If you win,” she muttered. “Which, given the engine penalty, is probably not happening. So really, I lose.”

Max leaned over, kissed her temple, and laughed again. “You absolute menace.”

“I regretted it halfway through,” Belle admitted. “But by then it was too late, and the baby was kicking like they were cheering me on.”

Max looked delighted. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“If I don’t win, I expect a full dramatic press sit-down. Lights. Microphones. Maybe a chair turn reveal like The Voice.”

Belle groaned. “Please don’t encourage this.”

Max pulled her feet into his lap, began rubbing small circles into her calves like it was muscle memory. “I’m going to win just so I can see their faces. You’ve given me extra motivation.”

Belle sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re amazing,” he countered. “And also, terrifying when provoked. Remind me never to question your priorities while you’re eight months pregnant.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridgossipqueen: 🚨🚨NEW CLIP JUST DROPPED🚨🚨 Belle Leclerc-Verstappen being cornered by reporters about Max’s “10-race no win streak” and her saying:

“I’ll tell you what, if Max doesn’t win today, I’ll sit down with you. On the record. You can ask me every dramatic question you’ve been saving in your little notebook. But if he does win, I want your apology. On camera. Same tone. Same energy. I’ll be watching.”  Oh. She is NOT playing. 🔥

@/helmetandheels:  her tone. the precision. the “you cornered a pregnant woman and this is what you’re going with?” she read them like tire temps in the sun

@/babyverstappenfiles: max has a contract. belle has VENGEANCE.

@/f1softpower:  you don’t come for the king and expect the queen to stay silent. she gave them rope. can’t wait for the race. i hope max wins by 30 seconds

@/danielricciardosmirror:  i would simply never recover if belle looked at me and said “we can sit down on the record” like it was a threat. like she wasn’t holding back a full power unit of righteous fury.

@/gridcriersanonymous:  she walked away with her hand on her belly like a mic drop the baby already knows they’re being raised by a legend

@/chaosleclerc: max pls win i want to see that apology on air in 4K

@/wagsunfiltered:  they really tried to come for max through belle. rookie mistake. jos verstappen raised a driver pascale leclerc raised a fortress

@/redbullprmole:  i know the RB media team is already drafting the post-race caption if he wins: “we’ll take that apology now.”

@/gridwitch:  this woman is 7 months pregnant and still managed to backhand three journalists with one sentence and a single eyebrow raise

@/maxnation94: she didn’t even flinch. didn’t blink. and now I need max to win more than I need air because that man has a literal dragon defending him

@/oscarpiastrisburner:  belle looking them dead in the eye, hand on bump, and offering a conditional interview like she’s sealing a prophecy we are witnessing history

@/mclarenfangirl69: y’all remember how silent the journalists were?? like they knew they just unlocked a main character moment and couldn’t take it back

@/verstappenfangirlie:  if max wins today it’s not just a comeback — it’s revenge, it’s prophecy, 

@/charlesleclercsleftthumb:  not a single “no comment.” not a single “let’s wait and see.” she gave them a chance to be decent and then served consequences with a smile

@/tiregirlie:  “if he doesn’t win, I’ll give you an interview” MOTHER??? IS THAT YOU???

@/f1burnerwife: the way she didn’t raise her voice didn’t flinch just smiled and laid down consequences that’s leclerc blood and verstappen ferocity working in harmony

@/chaoslapcount:  belle: if he wins, you apologize on camera. journalists: 😐 me in the background: 🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦

@/landohaus: max hasn’t even started the race yet and belle already won the pre-show grand prix the PR sector was purple, your honor

@/gridpanic:  she didn’t threaten she scheduled a reckoning

@/verstappencryptid: belle said “i know my husband. i know what he’s made of. and i know what he’s about to do.” and i believed her

@/f1dramaqueen:  “cornering a pregnant woman before a race” AND she hit them with “public apology on that same camera” she’s terrifying. i want her as my lawyer.

@/mclarensmut:  max is about to win just out of spite

@/paddockdebriefs: if max wins today, someone better be outside that media pen with a camera and a mic asking those same journos if they’re okay

@/wagsunfiltered: we do not talk enough about how belle verstappen is media trained, ice-veined, and protecting her husband from slander icon behavior

***

The rain had started as a whisper on the windows of Max’s driver room, barely audible over the pre-race broadcast. But by the time the formation lap began, it was a steady drumbeat—insistent, merciless, loud.

Belle shifted in the armchair, one hand on her belly, the other curled around a lukewarm cup of tea. She was very much not in the mood for chaos. Unfortunately, Interlagos never listened to reason.

Jos Verstappen sat beside her, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t said much—he never did before a race—but Belle had known him long enough now to recognize the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed at the track feed. He was calm in the way thunderclouds were calm—full of warning.

“Max looks good in the wet,” Jos murmured eventually, almost like reassurance. “He always has.”

Belle nodded. “He’s P17. He’ll be furious until he hits the top ten.”

Jos snorted. “He was furious before breakfast.”

That, somehow, made her laugh.

They watched in silence as the race unfolded—Max carving his way forward with grim efficiency, overtaking with the kind of precision that made engineers hold their breath. By lap 10, he was already P7, and Belle felt the tight coil in her chest ease just slightly.

Then came yellow flags. A virtual safety car. Cars going off the road. 

The restart brought tension back. Intermediates? Slicks? Everyone second-guessing the weather gods. Belle kept watching, even when her spine started to ache and her bladder protested. Max was staying out—he hadn’t pitted. 

A gamble.

The rain slowed. The gamble paid off.

One lap, then two, then five. He took the lead and never looked back.

Belle didn’t realize she was crying until Jos handed her a tissue without looking at her, his eyes still on the screen. He didn’t say anything—just passed it to her like it was a gear change.

“I’m fine,” Belle whispered, breathless with something between adrenaline and awe. “I just—he needed this.”

“He earned it,” Jos said quietly.

It struck her, then, how similar and different they were—Max and his father. Fire and restraint, storm and structure. And yet she knew—somewhere under all of Jos’s silence—was pride so deep it was almost unbearable.

When Max crossed the line first, nineteen seconds clear of the rest of the field, Belle didn’t cheer. She just closed her eyes for a second, let her head tip back against the chair, and smiled.

“I hope he’s not cocky about it,” she said.

Jos chuckled. “He will be.”

They watched the cooldown lap, the radio messages. Max’s voice, elated.

The victory that had evaded him for ten races finally back in his hands.

***

The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time Belle made it down to parc fermé, one hand steady on the railing, the other curled instinctively under her belly. The paddock was electric—mechanics cheering, engineers shouting updates into radios, camera crews angling for shots that would scream Redemption in the Rain. She barely registered any of it.

She only saw him.

Max was out of the car, helmet off, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. He was grinning—wide and reckless in that rare way he saved only for the victories that meant something. That cost him. His suit was streaked with grime and rain and glory, and when his eyes found her, it was like the rest of the paddock vanished.

Belle didn’t move.

She didn’t have to.

He was already crossing the concrete in long, fast strides, weaving through his crew, ignoring the cameras, the PR handler saying something about interviews. His hands found her face first—damp gloves dropped somewhere on the way—and then her shoulders, grounding himself.

“Hey,” he said, like he hadn’t just taken back a race like it belonged to him.

Belle let out a shaky breath. “That was insane.”

“You watched?”

“Jos and I both did. He cried.”

Max blinked. “Jos?”

She smiled. “Okay, fine. I cried. Jos handed me the tissue.”

Max let out a soft laugh, forehead pressing to hers for the briefest second. His hands drifted down—one to her waist, the other to the curve of her bump.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. “Too much noise?”

“I’m good,” she whispered. “Better now.”

And then he kissed her.

Right there, under the spit of rain and the harsh lights and half a dozen camera lenses catching their every move. It wasn’t long or showy. It was just them—familiar, tender, full of relief and something heavier. The kind of kiss that said we made it through this day and came out the other side.

When they parted, she cupped his face, thumb brushing a smear of dirt from his cheek.

“You needed this,” she said.

Max shook his head, eyes still locked on hers. “We did.”

And for a moment, Belle didn’t feel the rain or the cameras or the weight of carrying the next chapter of their lives. She just felt home.

Then Max grinned, already stepping back as a team member called him over for the podium prep.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he said, backing away with one last glance. “Try not to start any fights while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Belle said, hand resting on her stomach.

Emilian kicked. She smiled.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1girlie77: MAX VERSTAPPEN. RAIN GOD. TYRE WHISPERER. FATHER TO BE. HUSBAND. LEGEND.

@/f1andfeelings:  Belle: if Max wins, I want your apology on camera Max: wins from P17 in the rain with a 5-place grid penalty, after ten winless races Me: oh she manifested that into existence

@/thepaddocktea:  the kiss. the kiss. someone write vows about that kiss in parc fermé.

@/softverstappen:  that moment when Max dropped everything and went straight to Belle after the win. kissed her. touched her bump. whispered something that made her smile. they’re so in love i’m going to cry under my couch

@/chaosgp:  the grid: fighting for scraps Max Verstappen: “I’m gonna win, kiss my wife, and make the internet explode”

@/leclercsleftbrow: the way Belle said “if he wins, I want your apology on camera” and then he WON??? that’s a WIFE who believes in her man

@/bellexrbqueen: do you think the journalists are drafting the apology right now or do they just cry in a group chat

@/griddywithmclaren: Everyone: oh no Max is in crisis Belle: bet he wins Max: bet accepted

@/dutchlionlegacy:  can’t stop thinking about how Belle looked at Max like he was the whole world after that win and how Max kissed her like the win didn’t matter unless she saw it

@/oscarpiastrisweater:  we all owe Belle an apology because apparently she made a deal with the motorsport gods last night and THEY LISTENED

@/safeforverstappen: Max Verstappen really said “watch me win this race and kiss my wife like it’s the final scene in a romance film”

@/jensonbuttongirlie:  Belle’s the only person who could make Max Verstappen smile like that before podium interviews. I don’t care what anyone says.

@/f1teaofficial: MAX VERSTAPPEN WINS IN BRAZIL. AFTER TEN RACES. IN THE RAIN. FROM P17. I AM ON THE FLOOR.

@/madforpadz: Belle making that bet with a journalist and Max delivering like it’s Amazon Prime is PEAK couple energy.

@/landofthedramas:  Belle: makes a petty bet with a journalist Max: wins a Grand Prix to defend her honour

@/dtsburner: Red Bull PR team watching Belle predict a win and Max deliver: 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️🧍 “well... that’s going in Drive to Survive”

@/spicygp: If I don’t get a follow-up video of that journo giving Belle the apology she’s owed, I will riot

@/teamradiochaos: I can’t decide what’s more iconic: – Belle correcting the reporter who called her Leclerc – Max winning after 10 races – THE KISS™ – or Belle smiling like she summoned rain and redemption herself

@/f1teaqueen:  BELLE VERSTAPPEN GAVE THEM AN ULTIMATUM AND HER HUSBAND DELIVERED A MASTERCLASS. ICONIC BEHAVIOUR.

@/slowpitstopguy: can we circle back to the fact that belle VERSTAPPEN threatened a journalist with an on-camera apology if max didn’t win and then MAX WON like what kind of power couple sorcery is this

@/lando4life: Max is getting the baby named after him now, right?? Or maybe Belle just names it “Pay Up” and tags the journalist 💀

@/f1teaaccount:  Max Verstappen ending his winless streak in Brazil and kissing his wife like that in parc fermé??? The DRAMA, the REDEMPTION ARC, the ROMANCE. Netflix could never. 🔥🏆💋 #BrazilGP #Verstappen

@/FormulaWivesClub:  Belle Verstappen gave us:

✨ A fashion masterclass

🍼 Pregnancy sass

🎤 Absolute media takedown

💋 Rain-soaked kiss with her husband She is eight months pregnant. She won. We all did.

@/lightsoutbliss: Someone check on that journalist Belle made a bet with. He’s probably hiding under a table writing a handwritten apology and crying.

@/McLarenLibrarian: Belle Verstappen: Makes a public bet with a smug journo. Max Verstappen: Starts P17. Wins the entire race. I have never seen two people more suited to each other in my life. 

@/charlesfanacc: charles leclerc fans watching max win, get the girl, and absolutely obliterate a losing streak like: well okay then

***

Post-Race Interview Transcript – 2024 Brazilian Grand Prix - Charles Leclerc

Interviewer: "Charles, bit of a wild race today—weather, penalties, strategy… but also, a lot of attention on your brother-in-law’s win and, uh… your sister."

Charles: (laughs softly) "Yeah, it was a bit chaotic out there. Congrats to Max though, and to Pierre and Esteban."

Interviewer: "So… were you aware that Belle made a bet with a journalist before the race? She apparently said if Max didn’t win, she’d give an interview—but if he did, they owed her an apology on camera?"

Charles: (blinks, visibly surprised, then lets out a short laugh) "Wait—what? Seriously?"

Interviewer: "Yes, seriously. On camera. She said it herself, apparently right after someone asked if Max was losing his edge."

Charles: (grinning now, shaking his head in disbelief)  "That’s… actually incredible. I had no idea.”

Interviewer: "Does it surprise you that she’d do something like that?"

Charles: (still smiling, but now a bit more thoughtful)  "Honestly? No. She might not race cars, but she’s got the same fire as the rest of us—she just channels it differently. People think Belle is quiet. Sweet. And she is, don’t get me wrong—she’s the kindest person I know. But don’t underestimate her." (pause)  "She has bite. You just don’t see it all the time. She saves it for when it counts."  (grinning)  “Good luck to whoever has to deliver that apology. She won’t let them forget.”

Journalist: “Would you ever bet on Max like that?”

Charles:  “Not while I’m still trying to beat him, no!” (laughs)  “But I respect the confidence. And I’m happy for them. That win meant a lot. You could see it.”

***

Post-Race Interview Transcript – 2024 Brazilian Grand Prix - Max Verstappen

Interviewer: "Max, congratulations. Ten races without a win, and now here we are—P1 in São Paulo. How are you feeling?"

Max: (grinning, still breathless from the cooldown lap) "Yeah, it feels good. We’ve had some difficult weekends, some weird luck, but today everything clicked. The car felt great. Strategy worked. I’m really happy."

Interviewer: "We heard some… interesting rumors before the race. Apparently, your wife made a bet with a journalist in the paddock? That if you didn’t win today, she’d give them an interview?"

Max: (laughs immediately, shakes his head) "Ah, yeah. I heard about that."

Interviewer: "Care to comment?"

Max: (deadpan, but clearly amused) "Well, obviously I couldn’t let my wife be forced to do an interview she didn’t want to do. So I won."(pause, smirk growing) "Also… I’m waiting for that apology she’s owed. On camera. Same energy."

Interviewer: "She really said that?"

Max: (smiling now, just the tiniest bit smug) "She did. And I love her for it."

Interviewer: "Does it add a little extra pressure, racing with Baby Verstappen on the way?"

Max: (genuine now, softer tone) "It adds perspective. But pressure? No. If anything, it makes everything more meaningful. I want to make our kid proud. And their mom, too."

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Belle: Just checking in on you. I know this one’s a gut punch.

Emilie: … You mean the moment Lando’s championship hopes fell off a cliff and spontaneously combusted in sector two?

Belle: I was trying to be gentle 😬

Emilie: I love your husband. I do. But right now I would very much like him to stub his toe on a trophy.

Belle: He’d still win the race on one foot, Emilie.

Emilie: Ugh. I know. God, I know. Lando’s pretending to be fine but he’s barely touched his post-race pizza. That’s how I know.

Belle: Okay but… that is cause for concern.

Emilie: Exactly. Also, what the hell was that last stint from Max?? Did he just decide physics wasn’t real?

Belle: He was very calm after. Said, “car felt good.” Like he didn’t just drive like Poseidon was co-piloting.

Emilie: I hate him. (I don’t.) (I love you both.) (But still. Let me sulk.)

Belle: Permission granted.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Belle Verstappen

Belle: Hey. I know you’re probably surrounded by people right now, but I just wanted to say—you were brilliant today.

Lando: Didn’t feel like it. Didn’t look like it either.

Belle: You kept it clean. You kept your head. In that weather. That’s more than most of the grid managed.

Lando: Max won by nineteen seconds.

Belle: You’re not Max. And Max isn’t you. You’re not in this sport to be a carbon copy. You’re in it because you’re Lando freaking Norris and you’ve earned every bit of your place here.

Lando: You sound like Emilie. (Which is mildly terrifying.)

Belle: She’s the smarter of us. Obviously. But also: you’re allowed to be disappointed. Just don’t let it eat you.

Lando: How do you not let it?

Belle: You let people hold it with you. And then you go again. (Also snacks help. I recommend whatever Emilie keeps hidden in her travel bag.)

Lando: …She has Kinder Eggs. She’s hoarding them like we’re in an apocalypse.

Belle: There you go. See? Everything’s survivable with the right sugar to sadness ratio.

Lando: Thanks, Belle. Really.

Belle: Always. You’ll get yours. I believe that down to my rib-bruised organs.

*** The hotel room was quiet when they returned.

Max had been silent the entire way back from the track—still in his team kit, cap pulled low, hand resting absently on Belle’s thigh during the drive. She could tell he wasn’t fully there. Not in a dangerous way—just… suspended. Caught somewhere between the high of victory and the exhaustion dragging him down.

The room was dimly lit. The sky outside was already dark, São Paulo’s storm clouds casting a heavy grey over the skyline. Belle kicked off her shoes by the door and turned toward Max.

He was standing in the center of the room, just staring. At nothing. His jaw tight. Shoulders high.

“Max?” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

She crossed the room slowly, her hand brushing his back, and only then did he move—like something inside him cracked and gave way. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and pulled off his cap with one hand, dragging the other over his face. When she stepped closer, he finally looked up at her.

His eyes were glassy. Distant.

“I didn’t think I could do it,” he whispered. “Not today. Not anymore.”

Belle crouched down in front of him, her knees protesting but her heart louder.

“You did,” she said gently.

He shook his head. “You don’t understand—every race, it felt like it was slipping. Like I was the problem. Like I’d peaked. Like maybe this was the start of the decline, and I wasn’t ready for that. I—” His voice broke. He looked away, jaw clenched hard against the rising tide.

Belle reached for his hand.

“Max.”

He pressed his knuckles to his eyes, the way a boy might try to stop tears he couldn’t control.

“I couldn’t breathe after quali. I was angry, and tired, and I saw everyone’s faces like they were waiting for me to fail again. And I thought—what if I do?”

He exhaled hard, chest stuttering like a misfiring engine.

“I don’t want them to think I’m done. I don’t want you to think that.”

Belle’s heart cracked open.

She brought his hands into hers, kissed the inside of his wrist, and said, very clearly, “I don’t care if you win again this season or not at all. I love you for who you are. Not for what the leaderboard says.”

His eyes finally met hers.

“I love the man who comes home to me. The one who makes me tea I and tells the baby they’re not allowed to arrive before the off-season. I love the Max who spoils the cats and who gets so focused he forgets to blink. That’s who I married.”

A long beat passed.

Then Max exhaled again, and this time it sounded like surrender. Like letting go. His shoulders slumped forward and Belle stepped into his arms.

He buried his face against her shoulder, arms winding around her back as if she were the only thing tethering him to the earth. She felt it then—the trembling. Not dramatic, not loud. Just the body of a man who had been carrying too much for too long.

She held him tighter.

“You’re allowed to feel it,” she whispered. “Even when you win.”

He didn’t say anything.

But when he finally pulled back, cheeks damp and eyes red, his voice was steadier.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Belle smiled, pressing her forehead to his. “Always.”

He kissed her—softly, gratefully—and then rested his head against her belly, one hand splayed protectively over their unborn child.

“I’m okay now,” he murmured.

And maybe he was.

But Belle would stay there anyway.

Just in case.

[djs-random-blog]

I'll be honest, I completely disagree with this take.

My mum and dad were each others best friends. They obviously loved us kids and cared for us. They had friends. Their relationship with their families was a little dysfunctional but they both still cared for them. But at the end of the day they knew adult friendships are often quite distant, you don't owe your blood family anything, and one day your kids will grow up, leave home, and find families of their own.

At the end of the day, it is you and your partner for the rest of your lives, so if you aren't their best friend and highest priority then what's the point?

As an afab enby who is attracted to men, my biggest issue with the straight ones is that they often don't want to be my friend. They don't want to be a team who tackle their problems together. They just want an object who will feed them, do their laundry, and provide sex.

I shit on the straights constantly for maintaining relationships with people they clearly fucking despise, and spend their entire relationship arguing and fucking, which means that if one of them does want to have sex as much or at all anymore, they both have to come to terms with the fact that their relationship is built on nothing. And usually they still decide to stay together and make everyone around them fucking miserable including each other.

Acting like prioritising your life partner is maladjusted and mentally unhealthy is actually incredible cishet coded of you. That's the bullshit mindset I had no idea even existed until I left home and realised that a lot of people's parents don't even like each other all that much.

I don't believe in soulmates in a divine intervention sense, but my parents were soulmates in that they just clicked. They cared and supported each other's interests, and they were each other's best friends because they chose to undo the unhealthy relationship dynamics they learned from their parents. I never heard them raise their voices at each other, not once, because they approached every hurdle as a team, understanding the other persons point of view, and discussing how they felt about it, and finding a solution they both felt happy with.

Unfortunately my mum and dad didn't get to keep each other company when me and my sister moved out. They didn't get to live out the rest of their lives hand in hand with the person they depend on the most. My dad died when I was eight, and my mum lost her best friend in the whole wide world. It must have felt like her world stopped turning, but she had to keep moving on because ours didn't, and now she has to finish the rest of her journey without him. It's been a tough go, but I know he's proud of all of us, especially her, his favourite person and best friend he cared for more than anyone else on the planet.

My wish for every heterosexual couple is to find a love like that. A love where they are the priority in their partners life, and they feel like they can get through anything because they'll be doing it with their favourite person. I pray every straight person can unlearn the cishet mindset of just finding someone of the opposite gender they like fucking and then staying with them and hating it until the day they die, and instead find a best friend who's gonna stick by them through thick and thin.

Actually loving and wanting to be with your life partner is not something to be gatekept by queer people. Straight people, heaven forbid, deserve that kind of love too.

TikTok has successfully convinced me that all heterosexual people are deeply maladjusted and mentally unhealthy.

[womanofwords]

Audience Participation (Part 5)

Neglected!fourthwall!reader x yandere!batfam

The next thing on the agenda was making sure they definitely couldn't find you. You went through every single piece of clothing you had and sorted them by least to most distinctive. While doing so, you found a small amount of strange, flashing tags on your favourite clothes. Trackers. Considering how much you were warned about your folks being nuts, this wasn't as many as you had been expecting, but was still a shock to see.

Your family really was crazy.

You weren't going to go too crazy with the false hints. If your family really was as smart as they said they were, then they'd probably catch up with the hints pretty quickly. The chat wasn't calling you smart for nothing.

First, the bouquet of dahlias that you got for yourself from the florist. Dahlias being Mexico's official flower, someone had to get the hint about this. You made sure to mention it to Alfred. "Aren't they pretty, Alfred?" you said, showing the British butler the flowers you'd obtained.

"Very pretty," Alfred admitted. "I'll send you a vase to put them in."

"Thank you, Alfred." You scooped up the flowers and skipped up to your room.

The chat had suggested that you use some fake hobbies to throw you off the trail you'd leave, so you went to the library. Some books about Mexican food and pottery were sure to entice them. You read in front of them at every opportunity, occasionally turning pages so they wouldn't be confused about why your eyes never actually looked at the book. In secret, you learned French and searched up how to apply for Canadian citizenship on your secret second phone that you sequestered away in the pocket of a coat you never actually wore.

But the real strokes of genius came with the trinkets. Bruce forgot your birthday without fail, but would buy you expensive jewellery that you never wore about two weeks later without fail. You sold these trinkets one by one at different pawn shops. Thank goodness he never got you anything personalised.

After you came back from trading a pendant for cash, you checked the comments section again. The little people were saying lots of stuff since the last time you'd checked. They were congratulating the alliance you'd made with Clayface while telling you to save it for later. They were also telling you to change your appearance when going as 'Alex Mass', which you were already doing. You attached a fake mole to your chin every time you went to work, a notable difference that Y/N Wayne didn't have. In case that didn't deter police, you also clipped fake bangs to the front of your hair after you left the house and took them off just before the security cameras saw you.

Since you had some time to kill, and nobody went near the part of the house where your room was (you bet that only Alfred even knew where it was), you decided to answer the questions that the comments section had.

"Why marine biology? I picked marine biology because I just love the sea. It was so peaceful and at the same time, it could be so violent. And so much of it's unexplored while at the same time, it's closer to us than the stars and galaxies. Marine life looked so much more mysterious and fun than life on land, so I wanted to get as close to it as possible."

Another comment asked you what your favourite part of the day was. "Leaving the house. I feel like such a weight has come off once I'm out of Wayne Manor. Other than that, showering is one of my favourite things to do. I just love being clean and I often feel so dirty around my family."

The chat wanted to know what your hobbies were. "Water colours. I just love them. I make water colour paintings of sea creatures, although they are straight up terrible. I do it because I like it. My fake hobbies include basket weaving, pottery, and conspiracy theories. Send them down some really weird rabbit holes just for the hell of it."

"Oh, and by the way, Alfred doesn't go into my room because I clean it myself. I have successfully raised to $10,000 I needed to escape this hell. Thanks for your support. Now, I'm going to be cashing some stuff in and making plans."

First

Previous

Taglist: @bunniotomia, @hai-there-how-are-you, @crystal-freak24, @maskedvoyance, @cupid73, @lettucel0ver, @wisefuncherryblossom, @lineakazuh16, @leeiasure, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @ee-1ovelifedownthedrain.

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ❛❛ — 05

꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: while spending the weekend at the barton's family household, you not only get a new friend, but unexpected good news too.

꩜ ۫ . GENRE :: country!au, country side life.

꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS :: light smut but mostly fluff.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 9.1k || masterlist

an ; i searched & saw on reddit that clint's farm is located in missouri - and that hiking is possible in the missouri apparently, so yeah :)

𖦹 part one 𖦹 part two 𖦹 part three 𖦹 part four 𖦹 part five 𖦹

HORSES & ROMANCE :

— Hello World, Good News

📍Manhattan, NYC

The cab came to a jolting stop at a street corner lined with steel and glass. Natasha stepped out first, sunglasses on, duffel slung over her shoulder, immediately taking a breath like it wasn’t just air — it was memory.

You stepped out behind her, blinking up at the towering skyline like it was a wall of stars you didn’t quite understand. You had swapped your usual denim for a black button-up tucked into dark jeans, boots clean but dusty enough to remind the pavement she wasn’t from here.

“This is... insane,” You murmured, trying not to gawk at the sea of movement all around you — people on phones, horns blaring, someone yelling from a second-story window.

Natasha turned with a grin, tucking her hand into the back pocket of your jeans with ease. “Welcome to my old jungle.”

The building was cozy. Natasha had picked it because the rooftop had a view she swore would “shut you right up.” She wasn’t wrong.

By the time you both dropped your bags and walked the few blocks to Natasha’s favorite café — a half-forgotten corner spot with peeling green paint and surly staff — the scent of the city had already started to cling to them. Concrete dust, rain on asphalt, something fried in the air that probably wasn’t legal.

Natasha held the door open. “Prepare to be underwhelmed.”

But you stepped in and smiled. “It smells like burnt toast and old love. I kinda love it.”

Natasha stared at you for a beat — then leaned in to kiss the edge of her jaw. “Good. There's more to love here.”

You both sat at the back booth, the one with a window that framed a rusted fire escape and a crooked streetlamp. Natasha talked — more than usual — her fingers always somewhere on you. Your thigh, your hand, the curve of your neck.

She told stories about late nights walking home with adrenaline in her veins. About kissing someone under that very fire escape and knowing it didn’t mean anything. About getting blackout drunk after a mission gone bad and waking up to the city still buzzing like it didn’t care.

You listened. Soft eyes, soft smile. Then said, “So… this is where you learned how to be alone.”

Natasha nodded, making you reached across the table, taking her hand. “No wonder it took you a second to get used to all that quiet back home.”

The Russian kissed your knuckles. “And yet I’d take your kitchen over this booth any day.”

You both wandered after that — through street fairs and graffiti alleys, through bookstores where Natasha knew the clerk by name, past apartment stoops where music thumped through windows.

By the time dusk hit, you two stood on Natasha’s old rooftop.

The skyline shimmered in twilight. Lights flickering on like stars made of concrete and ambition. You stepped up to the edge and looked out. “It’s loud.”

“Yeah,” Natasha said. “But it’s honest. It never pretends to be soft.”

You turned to her. “Do you think I'd belong here?”

“No,” Natasha said, stepping close. “But I like the idea of the city falling a little in love with you while you’re in it.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’m selfish. I want it to know what it missed out on.”

Then she kissed you.

Right there on the rooftop — lips pressing with a city’s worth of heat, tongue sliding with practiced intent, your hands gripping the front of her leather jacket. Natasha’s fingers curled around your waist, teasing just beneath the hem of your shirt.

It deepened fast — the kind of kiss that said we could right here. But Natasha pulled back first, smirking against your lips.

“We’ve got a whole hotel room, baby,” she whispered, voice low. “And walls thin enough for the neighbors to hear you say my name.”

Your breath caught.

“You gonna take me back?” you murmured.

“Run, cowgirl.”

.    .    .

Your fingers tangled as you both rushed back through the echoing hallways of the hotel. You laughed breathlessly when Natasha yanked you into the elevator, slamming the button for your floor like y'all were running from something — or toward it.

As soon as the doors closed, Natasha pressed you into the wall with a hunger she’d been holding back all day. Lips on your neck, hands sliding under your shirt with zero hesitation, like the city had reminded her of who she used to be — fierce, unapologetic, and always in control.

You gasped softly as Natasha’s teeth grazed just below your ear. “God, Nat—”

“You wore those jeans on purpose,” Natasha murmured, again gushing over your outfit, her voice dark and thick with amusement. Her fingers teased the button of them, just to feel the shudder ripple through your body.

Your head thudded back against the wall. “You said I looked hot.”

“You look like trouble.”

The elevator dinged. Natasha grinned and grabbed your hand again, pulling you out into the hallway, not even glancing around to see if anyone watched. The door to their room barely shut before you were being spun and pressed against it, Natasha’s mouth crashing against yours like she’d been starving.

Her hands found their way under your shirt again — rougher now, needier — cupping your chest, thumbs brushing nipples through your bra until you've whimpered into her mouth.

Natasha broke the kiss only to yank the shirt off, toss it somewhere, and kiss you again like she owned the night.

Your hands tugged at the hem of Natasha’s tank top, greedy and insistent. “Off. Now.”

Natasha smirked, obliging, and stepped back just long enough to strip it off. Her hair was wild from the wind and her eyes burned as she watched you kick off your boots and back toward the bed.

“You gonna keep looking at me like that,” You teased, crawling backward onto the mattress, “or are you gonna show me what else the city taught you?”

That made Natasha move.

She was on you in seconds — kneeling between your thighs, kissing you like the world outside didn’t matter. Her hands slid down your jeans, pulling them off slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on yours like every second of skin revealed was a secret she was grateful to be trusted with. She took her time tasting you.

Natasha’s mouth slid down your chest, between your thighs, lips parting against heat and wetness with a reverence that didn’t match how wicked her eyes looked. You arched under her, one hand gripping the sheets, the other tangled in red hair. Moaning openly, gasping out soft curses when Natasha moaned into you — the vibrations electric.

The Russian never lost the rhythm.

She read every twitch, every roll of your hips like a map, working her with tongue and fingers until you came hard, legs shaking, mouth falling open on a ragged cry.

But Natasha wasn’t done. She crawled back up, face flushed, lips glistening, and hovered above you like she was about to devour you again. “You taste like home,” she whispered.

You pulled her down, “Then take your time getting reacquainted.”

Jeans hit the floor. Skin met skin, slow and breathless. Natasha rocked into you, low moans building between your lips as she moved — steady, deep, the kind of rhythm that said I know your body now. I know how to keep you begging.

You buried your face in Natasha’s neck, muffling another cry. “Nat—oh my god—”

Natasha grinned against your skin. “You’re gonna wake the whole floor.”

“Then shut me up.”

Natasha did. Kissing you deep, moving harder, faster, until you unraveled beneath her again. Until the city outside faded away completely, and all that was left was heat, sweat, gasps, and the creaking of the old mattress.

The two of you fell asleep wrapped around each other. Natasha’s fingers still tangled in your hair, Your body curled into hers like you were exactly where you belonged — and maybe, for the first time, the city finally felt like peace.

.      .      .

The sunlight streaming into the hotel room was golden and soft, warming the tangle of limbs and sheets on the bed. Natasha stirred first — years of habit never truly faded — but instead of slipping out of bed, she allowed herself a rare indulgence.

She watched you.

You lay sprawled across the pillows, one hand curled under your cheek, hair messy and skin still kissed with the remnants of the night before.

There was a mark just under your jaw from where Natasha had lost herself a little, and another near your collarbone. Natasha couldn’t stop the lazy smile that tugged at her lips.

The peace in your face made her chest ache in that wonderful, terrifying way.

“Stop staring,” You mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed.

“Not a chance.” Natasha leaned down and brushed a kiss to your temple. “We’ve got about thirty minutes before I make you late.”

You cracked one eye open. “For what?”

“Clint. The farm. Remember?”

You groaned and rolled onto your back, a wicked little smile tugging at her lips. “You said we had thirty minutes.”

Natasha raised a brow. “You planning on seducing me in the shower again?”

You shrugged, already slipping out of the covers. “If the towel slips, it slips.”

.    .     .

📍Missouri State

The road stretched endlessly ahead, a blur of pine trees and sleepy gas stations, as Natasha adjusted the volume on the stereo. You sat curled in the passenger seat, one hand bracing your forehead against the cool glass of the window.

“You good?” Nat asked, glancing over, brows pulling together.

“I don’t know,” You muttered, swallowing thickly. “I think mixing pickles, tater tots, and vanilla pudding was… a choice.”

Nat snorted softly. “You insisted it was genius.”

“Yeah, well. Genius has consequences.” You groaned, pressing your hands over your stomach. The nausea had started twenty minutes into the drive. By now, it was a slow roll of unease, the kind that made you whimper and reach blindly for Nat’s hand.

Without missing a beat, Nat laced both your fingers together and squeezed. “You’re okay. Almost there.”

“If I puke on their driveway, it was your fault for letting me eat that pudding.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Nat smirked, stealing a quick glance to kiss the back of your hand. “Though I’d prefer you waited to throw up until after we greet the family.”

You only groaned louder.

“Need me to pull over?”

“No,” You mumbled, eyes closed. “Just… talk to me. Distract me.”

Nat kept her hand on your leg and started rambling about an adventure Clint once dragged her on that went horribly sideways. You laughed weakly through it, still a little pale, but visibly comforted.

The drive to the Bartons' house was long, winding, and sunny — the kind of golden afternoon that looked like it had been filtered through a sepia lens.

You had your legs pulled up in the passenger seat, Nat’s jacket draped over them like a blanket.

“I can’t wait to see them,” You said, lazily smiling, her voice warm.

Natasha smiled just as much, placing a warm kiss on the back of your hand. “They'll adore you, I'm sure of that.”

By the time they reached the Barton home, You were  a little less green, though still clutching a water bottle like a lifeline. The sky was warm with late afternoon sun and the smell of smoke and meat hung in the air.

The front door burst open before they even rang the bell. “AUNTIE NAT!” Lila screamed, launching herself into Natasha’s arms like a missile. “You’re late!”

“Oof, you’ve grown taller!” Nat laughed, catching her with ease. “And heavier.”

“Muscle weighs more than fat,” Lila said proudly. “I’m basically an athlete now.”

Clint appeared behind her, grinning with a dishtowel tossed over his shoulder. “Took y'all long enough.”

“Traffic,” Nat said as she let go of Lila and ruffled her hair.

You stepped out of the car next, and Cooper’s face lit up. He fumbled with his shirt like he’d suddenly forgotten how to stand naturally.

Natasha rounded the car and laced her fingers with yours, unabashed and sure.

“Barton,” she said with a smirk, “this is Y/N. My girl.”

You blushed lightly at the phrasing but extended your hand. “Hi, nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you.”

Clint grinned and shook it. “Some of it was good, I hope. Come on in — Laura’s got Nate napping.”

As they stepped inside, you were quickly swept up by the gentle warmth of the Barton household. Laura hugged you like you had met before, baby Nate squirmed and cooed in her arms, and Cooper — lanky, awkward, and just hitting his early teens — could not stop staring.

“Wow,” he blurted at one point, watching you laugh at something Natasha said by the grill. “She’s really pretty.”

Lila rolled her eyes. “You’re, like, twelve.”

“I’m thirteen,” Cooper muttered, cheeks flushing.

Natasha smirked from the grill. “Eyes off, Coop. She’s taken.”

“By you,” he said in disbelief. “How?”

Natasha simply winked.

Later that evening, after bellies were full and fireflies started blinking to life around the yard, you and Nat found youeselves curled up on a porch swing. Nate was asleep again in Laura’s arms inside, the elder Barton kids sprawled out with s’mores and stories under a blanket.

Clint stepped outside with two fresh drinks and handed one to Natasha before sinking into a chair nearby. He watched the two women for a moment, then lifted his brow.

“You look different.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Good different or run for the hills kind?”

“Settled,” he said. “Like maybe for once, you’re not running.”

You looked between them, sensing a history laced in unspoken things, but Natasha only smiled softly and glanced down at the hand she held.

“Maybe because I’m not.”

Clint lifted his glass slightly. “Happy for you, Nat. Just don’t hurt her.”

“I won’t,” she said quietly. Then with a smirk, added, “She’d probably beat me in an argument anyway.”

You bumped her shoulder, pretending to be offended. “Probably?”

The two of you shared a kiss there on the porch — slow, sweet, and private despite the open air — while the stars blinked into the sky overhead and the warmth of being part of something real curled around you both.

You’d stay the night in the guest room. Share quiet laughter over brushing teeth, steal kisses under borrowed covers, and fall asleep tangled together again — not with the rush of city heat, but with the soft, grounded love of something deeper.

Your heart felt full. And though Natasha hadn’t mentioned having babies again, the thought flickered in your mind as you drifted off to sleep…

Not knowing what was awaiting.

.      .     .

The Barton household was quiet in the early hours, save for the soft chirping of birds outside and the occasional sleepy gurgle from Nate’s monitor. Sunlight spilled across the kitchen floor, and the scent of coffee drifted through the house like a gentle wake-up call.

You had woken early. You moved quietly, slipping out from under Natasha’s arm and pulling on a hoodie over your tank top, soft steps carrying your into the Barton kitchen.

Laura was already there, a robe tied loosely around her waist, hair tied back in a messy bun, and a mug of coffee warming her hands.

“Morning,” she greeted warmly, voice still thick with sleep. “Hope we didn’t wake you guys with Nate last night.”

You smiled, stepping in to pour yourself a cup. “Not at all. I barely noticed. He’s sweet.”

Laura chuckled. “He is when he’s asleep.”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, settling into the soft stillness of the moment. It was comfortable. Easy. You found yourself surprised by how natural it felt to be here, in someone else’s family kitchen, as though you belonged.

Laura glanced at you over the rim of her mug. “So, how long have you two been together?”

You hesitated, then smiled into your cup. “Not that long. But… it doesn’t feel new, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Laura said. “With Natasha, that means something.”

You set your mug down and looked out the window, watching Clint and Nat moving around outside. They were talking over logs for the fire pit, and Natasha looked more at ease than you had ever seen.

“She mentioned wanting kids,” You said after a moment, quietly. “It wasn’t a whole conversation. Just one of those things she whispered, kinda playful. But I think… I think she meant it.”

Laura blinked, surprised. Then she softened. “Natasha Romanoff wants a baby?”

You chuckled. “I know. I didn’t expect it either. But since she said it, I’ve been thinking about it a lot more than I probably should.”

“Hey,” Laura reached out and touched your arm. “Don’t brush it off. If it made you think, maybe it’s something worth talking about. It’s not crazy. Or rushed. It’s just… you two, figuring out what comes next.”

You nodded slowly, heart warm. You liked Laura. Liked the way she made things feel steady.

Laura smiled. “Natasha’s been protecting people her whole life. Loving someone that fiercely? It’s built into her. I think she’d be incredible as a mom.”

You let that sink in, the quiet weight of it sitting in your chest.

Then the back door swung open and Natasha stepped in, cheeks pink from the morning chill, hair tucked under a cap. “What are you two plotting?” she teased, brushing her cold fingers against your waist.

“Just girl talk,” Laura replied innocently.

Natasha smirked. “That sounds dangerous.”

You leaned into her with a grin. “You have no idea.”

Laura left you borh not long after, heading to check on Nate, and you found yourself tucked into Natasha’s side, both of you sipping coffee from the same mug.

“You okay?” Natasha asked, sensing the shift in you.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… thinking about the future, I guess.”

Natasha pressed a kiss to her temple. “We’ve got time, baby. No rush.”

You smiled, letting yourself breathe in the comfort of those words. But deep inside, you held onto the thought like a secret hope.

A soft thump upstairs was followed by a creaking floorboard, then the pitter-patter of small feet.

Cooper and Lila had awakened and were already racing down the hallway, laughter bubbling between them.

The quiet morning was officially over.

Nate’s monitor lit up a moment later with a soft babble and a hiccupy laugh, and Laura moved instinctively, rising from the living room floor with a stretch and a fond sigh. “And that’s the house coming to life,” she said.

The screen door opened again and Clint stepped in, clapping his hands together to warm them. “Kids are up,” he said, unnecessarily, grinning as Lila crashed into his side and hugged him.

Cooper followed behind her, perkinga up as soon as he spotted you and Natasha.

“Are you guys staying forever?” Cooper asked hopefully, climbing onto the porch beside the two of you.

Natasha chuckled and ruffled his hair. “Tempting. You have the best waffles.”

“Also the pancakes,” he offered proudly. “Especially the blueberry ones.”

You smiled, watching the scene unfold, your heart full. Lila waved to you shyly, and you waved back, a spark of warmth flaring in your chest.

Laura returned with Nate cradled in her arms, the little one wide-eyed and sucking on his fist, blinking sleepily at all the activity.

“Looks like everyone’s up,” she said, smiling.

.     .     .

(Next day)

Lately, you hadn't been a morning person and enjoyed napping a lot. You'd blamed the fatigue on the trip because since Nat brought you in the city, the only times you weren't going out was recently since you both were spending the weekend at the Barton's.

So, you told yourself that it was just you catching up with sleep.

The sun was barely cresting over the trees when Natasha nudged you awake with a kiss to the shoulder and a soft, “Time to get up.”

Yoy groaned and dramatically flopped your arm over your eyes. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because it’s beautiful outside,” Nat whispered, leaning over you  “And I want to show you something.”

“Is it a bed?”

“No.”

“Then I’m out.”

Nat chuckled and gently peeled the covers away. You groaned again, grabbing a pillow and burying your face into it like you were being exorcised.

Thirty minutes later, you were dressed in Nat’s hoodie, shorts, mismatched socks, and an expression of absolute betrayal.

The Bartons were already up, of course — Lila munching cereal on the steps, Clint cradling a cup of coffee, and Laura bouncing Nate on her hip. Cooper stood suspiciously close to the front door like he wanted to offer to come too.

“Morning!” Clint called with a knowing grin. “Sleep well?”

You blinked blearily. “No. I’m being kidnapped.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Nat said, grabbing your hand and leading you down the porch steps.

“You said that last time when we went ice skating,” You muttered.

“I was right last time.”

“I cried last time.”

“You survived last time.”

You looked back at the Bartons with a save me expression. Laura gave you a sympathetic smile. Lila just waved. Cooper looked devastated.

As soon as you both hit the trail behind the property, you started to wake up more — mostly because Natasha looked obnoxiously radiant in the morning light. The kind of radiant that was rude to mere mortals.

“I hate how good you look right now,” You mumbled, breath fogging slightly in the crisp air

Nat chuckled. “Flattery won’t save you from the uphill climb.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I throw myself into the creek, will you carry me home?”

“I’ll carry you either way,” Nat said without hesitation.

That made you stop mid-step. “Why are you like this?”

Nat blinked, smile softening. “Like what?”

“So... freaking nice to me.”

Nat stepped closer, hooked a finger under your chin, and kissed you. Gently. Slowly. You melted.

“You make me want to be,” Nat whispered.

Your cheeks flushed in the morning light. “Ugh, rude. Now I like hiking.”

You jept walking, hand in hand, with Nat occasionally pointing out flowers or tracks in the dirt. You mostly used that time to admire how the sun lit up Natasha’s cheekbones. Very important nature appreciation.

About halfway in, You tugged Nat to a stop.

“Wait. I think I know why you wanted to come out here.”

Nat raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“You’re gonna propose.”

Nat burst out laughing. “What?!”

You nodded sagely. “That’s why you wanted me to wear decent socks.”

“I wanted you to wear socks either way!”

“Same thing!”

Nat shook her head, grinning. “If I were going to propose, I’d do it somewhere you wouldn’t assume it.”

“…So now I’ll assume it everywhere,” You said smugly. “You’ve ruined the element of surprise.”

The two of you reached a clearing with a view that stretched miles — orange and gold trees rippling beneath a slow breeze, sky open and blue above.

Nat stood behind you, arms around your waist. “Worth waking up for?”

You leaned back into her, smiling. “Yeah.”

“You wanna head back?”

“Only if you carry me.”

Nat didn’t hesitate. “Hop on.”

Yoy shrieked, giggling, as Nat swept you off the ground like it was nothing.

“Clint’s gonna make fun of you so bad,” You laughed into her neck.

Nat just smirked. “Let him. I got the girl.”

.     .     .

The afternoon felt slow at the Barton household.

Natasha had driven off earlier in the day with Clint to help repair fencing on the far side of the property, leaving you behind with Laura and the kids.

The house had finally gone quiet — Lila was at a friend’s, Cooper was playing outside, and Nate had gone down for his afternoon nap.

You stood at the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in sudsy water, scrubbing the remnants of lunch off plates. The open window let in a warm breeze, carrying with it the scent of lilacs and fresh-cut grass.

Laura leaned against the counter, sipping iced tea and watching her with a faint smile. “You okay?”

You looked over your shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. “Yeah, just a little tired, that’s all.”

Laura hummed, her eyes thoughtful. “You’ve been tired a lot these past two days.”

You laughed lightly, rinsing a plate. “Yeah, well, living with Natasha is basically a full-time job.”

“That part I believe.” Laura’s tone was teasing, but her gaze remained fixed. “Any other symptoms?”

You blinked, turning off the faucet. “Like what?”

Laura stepped closer. “You’ve been picking at your food, haven’t had coffee in days, and you nearly fell asleep standing up on the porch swing yesterday.”

“I’ve just been—” You paused, brows pinching together. “Wait…”

Laura didn’t say anything, just tilted her head gently.

Your heart skipped. You put the plate down slowly and braced your hands on the edge of the sink, your mind suddenly racing. You thought back — to the calendar, to the quiet craving for orange juice every morning, to the waves of nausea you chalked up to heat.

“Oh my god,” You whispered, your breath catching.

How could you have not thought of that?

Laura stepped forward, gently setting her glass aside. “I could be wrong, but... I’ve had three kids, Y/N. I recognize the look.”

Yoy turned, eyes wide, hands now trembling slightly. “Nat said—” You cut yourself off, suddenly overwhelmed. “She said something once. That night at my parents’. She teased about wanting a baby, just whispered it in my ear. It wasn’t serious, but…”

“You haven’t said anything to her yet, have you?” Laura asked gently.

You shook your head. “No. I didn’t even think…”

Laura smiled kindly, grounding. “You don’t have to know what to do yet. But I’d maybe get a test. Just to be sure.”

You nodded slowly, still caught in the whirl of realization. “She’s not even here right now. What if I… what if I am?”

“Then you take it one breath at a time,” Laura said, resting a reassuring hand on your arm. “You’re not alone, Y/N. And knowing Natasha? She’ll love you even more.”

You swallowed hard, your throat thick. You were trembling, but there was also something else blooming beneath the surface — awe. Wonder. Maybe even a quiet sort of joy.

The door creaked open outside, a kid's laugh echoing faintly, but you didn’t hear it. You were still staring ahead, a hand unconsciously coming to rest over your belly.

You whispered so softly, “Oh my god… what if I really am?”

Laura just gave you space, watching your young self before her move from stunned silence into the beginnings of quiet acceptance.

There would be time to tell Natasha. But right now, it was just between them — her and this tiny maybe.

And somehow, that felt sacred.

.     .    .

Later, Cooper was reading in the living room, Nate was still down for his nap, and the sun had dipped just enough to bathe the kitchen in golden light.

You had been unusually still for the past hour, curled up in a chair by the window, staring out at nothing with her hands loosely clasped. Laura moved through the space with practiced ease — loading the dishwasher, wiping down counters, never once pushing or prying.

But eventually, she walked over and gently laid a small paper bag on the table in front of you.

You blinked and looked down. The logo from the nearby pharmacy peeked out over the fold. You looked up at Laura with quiet surprise.

Laura said softly, her tone casual, almost too casual. “Just to be sure.”

You didn’t speak at first. You just stared at the bag, your fingers twitching slightly. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to take it right now,” Laura added, pulling out a chair across from you. “Or even today. But I figured… better to have it and not need it than the other way around.”

You nodded slowly. “Right.”

“I feel like I should be panicking,” you murmured. “But I’m not. I’m scared, yeah. But also…” you trailed off.

Laura smiled gently. “Hopeful?”

You looked up, surprised by how much that word fit. “Yeah.”

Laura leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “You’re allowed to feel both, you know. Hope and fear — they tend to show up together.”

The house creaked around them in the warmth of the day. It felt like one of those moments where time tucked itself into a pocket, where nothing else existed except this room and this truth slowly revealing itself.

You reached for the bag. Your hand was steady now.

“Will you stay?” you asked, quietly. “Just until I know?”

Laura nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

You stood and padded softly to the downstairs bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her. Laura stayed seated at the table, sipping from her tea, pretending not to count the seconds.

Minutes passed and then the door opened again.

You emerged slowly, the test still in your hand, her expression unreadable. You stopped a few feet from the table, eyes lifted to meet Laura’s, then you nodded.

Laura rose immediately and pulled you into a hug without a single word. You didn’t cry, not right away — you just leaned into it, held tightly, silently, your whole world quietly shifting inside your chest.

There was no rush to speak. No grand declarations. Just the quiet, overwhelming knowledge of what came next.

You were pregnant.

.       .       .

You sat outside on the Barton porch long after the sun had shifted westward. The afternoon breeze was gentle, brushing through her hair like a whisper, the sounds of the countryside stretching far and wide — cicadas humming, chickens rustling somewhere near the coop, and Cooper's occasional laugh from inside.

The test was tucked away, hidden in the folds of your duffel bag upstairs. Out of sight, but not out of mind.

You sat with your knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, gaze fixed on the trees just beyond the field. Your mind was full and still, all at once.

Like you couldn’t stop thinking, but couldn’t quite focus on anything either.

Pregnant.

The word felt too big and too small at the same time. Like it hadn’t fully settled into her body yet, like your soul hadn’t caught up with your biology.

There wasn’t panic — not really. But there was fear. Quiet, low in your belly. What if Natasha wasn’t ready? What if this changed everything?

And then there was the bigger question you hadn’t let herself fully face: what did you want?

You ran a hand over your stomach, palm flat. There was no change. No difference. Just the knowledge that something small and impossibly important had already begun.

Laura had come and gone, a gentle presence — saying nothing more than, “Take your time,” before returning inside to give you space.

And you were grateful for that. For the way no one rushed you.

Because this wasn’t something you could rush. This wasn’t like choosing a path on the ranch, or deciding what breed of horse to train next.

This was your whole life, about to tilt.

No — both your lives. If Natasha still wanted it.

And you kept thinking about the way Nat had held baby Nate that morning — the way she’d cradled him with a soft steadiness, her body instinctively swaying, even though she probably hadn’t noticed. The way she’d looked at you afterward. Like she was already carrying something in her heart.

You took a shaky breath and leaned your head back against the wooden beam of the porch, eyes fluttering shut.

Would you be a good mom? Would Nat? Could you both do this?

You weren’t sure. But for the first time, the idea didn’t feel like a storm.

It felt like sunrise. A little terrifying, yes. But warm.

You let the silence stretch, wrapping you like a blanket, the low hum of the Barton property carrying your thoughts gently across the golden fields.

And somewhere deep in your chest, amid the nerves and the uncertainty, something else began to grow.

Not just the child. But a quiet, fragile joy.

And soon, you would tell her.

Not tonight.

.      .    .

The creak of the screen door caught her attention. Clint stepped out first, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder, brow damp with sweat and a crooked grin on his face.

“Firewood’s stacked and we only broke one axe handle,” he announced proudly.

“Because you were showing off,” came Natasha’s dry voice as she followed behind, her baseball cap pushed back and wisps of auburn hair curling at her temples. She looked relaxed, a little flushed from the work, eyes scanning the porch before landing on you.

“Hey,” she said gently, slowing as she stepped closer. “You okay there?”

You nodded. It was automatic. Reflexive, even.

Natasha knelt beside your chair, bracing one arm on the armrest, searching your face more closely now. “You’ve been out here a while.”

“I just needed some air,” You murmured, managing a smile. “It’s quiet out here. Helps me think.”

Nat nodded like she understood — and maybe she did. But you could tell she was still watching you. Trying to read you.

Clint tossed the towel over the porch rail and disappeared inside, giving them a moment alone.

You reached for Natasha’s hand and squeezed it, grounding yourself.

Nat’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You sure everything’s okay? You know you can tell me anything, right?”

You wanted to tell her. The words perched at the edge of your tongue. But something inside you said not yet. Not here, not with the sun still hanging low and the world so quiet around them. You didn’t want to drop something that big into the silence. Not until you knew what to do with it.

“I’m sure,” you said softly. “I’m just… tired, maybe. Lot on my mind.”

Natasha leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “Let me know if that mind of yours needs a second one to sort through it.”

“I will,” You whispered. “Promise.”

And you meant it.

But not tonight. Not while the air was still warm and Clint was whistling inside and baby Nate was squealing with laughter in Laura’s arms. Not when everything still felt suspended in something that could be peace — or change — but hadn’t tipped either way yet.

For now, you let Natasha sit beside you, your hands laced loosely between you two, the moment stretching long and soft like summer light.

And you kept your secret quiet a little while longer — letting it grow, letting yourself grow with it.

.     .     .

The Barton household stirred with the soft chaos of morning — the sound of Nate babbling in his crib, Cooper and Lila arguing over whose turn it was in the bathroom, the smell of toast, maple syrup, and fresh coffee.

You stood in the hallway with your overnight bag slung over her shoulder, your eyes drifting slowly over the framed photos along the wall — snapshots of family, of years stretched between baby milestones and Christmas trees and summer lake days. There was a peacefulness to it all. A rhythm. Something she could only describe as real.

Behind you, Natasha emerged from the guest room, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair damp from her shower. She caught the look on your face and stepped up beside you, bumping your shoulders lightly.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… liked it here.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “It’s a good place. Warm.”

“Safe,” You added.

Nat looked at you then, eyes lingering longer than usual, something flickering behind them — something like hope, maybe. Or maybe worry. You weren’t sure. But you reached for her hand anyway.

Laura met them at the bottom of the stairs with a travel mug in each hand. “For the road,” she said, giving you both a knowing smile as she passed you over.

You hugged her a beat longer than expected. Laura didn’t comment on it. Just squeezed her tightly, and when you parted, there was a softness in her eyes that only deepened your ache.

“You call me,” Laura said quietly, under her breath. “Whatever it is — whenever you’re ready.”

You nodded, the lump in your throat pressing upward.

Clint came out next, Cooper and Lila hanging off his arms like extra limbs. Natasha grinned at the sight, ruffling Cooper’s hair.

“Thanks for letting us crash,” she said.

“Anytime,” Clint replied. “You’re family. Both of you.”

You didn’t miss the way Natasha’s fingers tightened around yours at that. She glanced over and saw it — the quiet awe in your expression. She was still getting used to being loved like that. Unconditionally.

The two of you waved your goodbyes, promises of visits soon and texts later tossed back and forth, and then the car doors shut with soft, final thuds.

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as y'all pulled away from the Barton home, the porch shrinking behind them, Nate’s sleepy wave still etched in your mind.

The drive was mostly quiet. Natasha reached over once to tangle your fingers together on the console between you. Her thumb traced slow circles along your skin.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said gently, not prying — just there.

You turned your head, offered a small smile. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

Natasha gave a faint laugh. “That’s a lot.”

You squeezed her hand. “It is.”

But she didn’t say more. Not yet. The city loomed ahead, distant still, but growing closer with every mile. Noise and motion and memory all waiting to pull them back in.

You had this. Your hand in Natasha’s. The warmth of family still wrapped around your shoulders like a borrowed sweater.

And the quiet certainty — tucked deep in your chest — that something had begun to shift.

.    .     .

The sun had already dipped behind the buildings by the time they reached the city. Traffic lights blinked through hazy dusk, and familiar skyline silhouettes stretched out in every direction.

You rolled down the window a few inches, letting the cool breeze brush across your face as you both pulled off the freeway and wound through the neighborhoods toward Natasha’s apartment. The city didn’t feel as harsh as it usually did — not after the Barton farm, not after quiet mornings and soft voices.

Natasha unlocked the door to her apartment, kicking it open with her boot and flipping on the light. “Home sweet mess,” she muttered, surveying the trail of jackets and half-unpacked bags left behind from their rushed departure days before.

You stepped in behind her, setting your bag down and toeing off your shoes. The warmth of the apartment, the comfort of being back in Natasha’s space — it grounded you in a way you didn’t expect.

But what grounded you more was Natasha. The steady, unshakable presence of her. The kind of love that looked you in the eye, even when you didn’t say a word.

“You want tea?” Natasha asked, already half-turned toward the kitchen. But before she could move, you stepped in close and caught her by the wrist, pulling her gently back.

“Wait,” you murmured.

Natasha blinked, surprised — and then you kissed her.

It started sweet — a slow press of lips, an exhale between them. But it deepened fast, unspoken weight curling behind her ribs, your fingers finding the collar of Natasha’s hoodie and holding on like you didn’t want to let go.

When you finally pulled back, Natasha was breathless, blinking at her like she was trying to figure out what just happened. You smiled, wide and warm. “You’re the best person I’ve ever known.”

Natasha’s brow arched, the corner of her mouth curving. “What brought that on?”

You just shook your head, that smile still lingering. “Nothing.”

But Natasha tilted her head slightly, studying you. She could tell something was different — softer, surer — but she didn’t push. She leaned in and kissed your forehead instead, lingering there.

“You’re being weird,” she whispered against your skin.

You grinned. “And you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” Natasha deadpanned.

You laughed and let yourself fall back onto the couch, arms splayed, heart light.

For now, it was enough — to be here, to be loved, to know, without saying a word, that Natasha would meet you with open arms no matter what came next.

And when you glanced over at Natasha — now making tea with a ridiculous amount of honey — you felt it again.

That quiet certainty.

.     .     .

The apartment was dimly lit save for the warm kitchen light Natasha had flipped on and the soft glow of the city pouring in through the living room windows. It wasn’t quiet — the hum of distant traffic, the occasional siren — but it was their kind of quiet. Familiar. Lived-in.

You wandered to the couch and dropped into the cushions with a contented sigh. Natasha came back with two mismatched mugs, handing one off before flopping down beside you.

You took a slow sip of tea, letting your gaze drift over Natasha’s face — the relaxed line of her jaw, the faint smudge of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the way she always tucked one leg under the other on the couch like she owned the whole damn thing. Which, of course, she did.

“You’re still being weird.”

You grinned into your mug. “Maybe I missed you.”

Natasha looked at you sideways. “We were together all day.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.” you tilted your face up and kissed Natasha’s cheek, deliberately slow. “Is that allowed?”

Natasha tried not to smile, but she failed spectacularly. “You’re being suspiciously sweet.”

“Mmhmm.” You traced a finger lazily over Natasha’s wrist where it rested on her thigh. “You’re gonna get used to it and then when I go back to normal, you’ll miss it.”

“This is your normal now?” You smirked. “Kinda.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” You replied — again — and this time you laughed softly, almost giddy, because it felt so good to know something you weren’t afraid of anymore.

You shrugged innocently, sipping your tea. “Maybe I’m just happy.”

She leaned back, eyes narrowing a little, thoughtful now. “Yeah?” she asked, more softly. “You’re happy?”

You nodded, setting your mug down. “You’re everything, Nat. You know that, right?”

That made Natasha’s mouth twitch — a mixture of emotion she wasn’t expecting, and maybe didn’t know how to hold all at once. She looked down at your intertwined hands and then back at you.

“I try to be.”

“You are.”

The two of you sat in silence for a long moment, knees touching, fingers tangled, the weight of the week still lingering on their shoulders but lighter somehow. Less sharp.

You settled in Natasha’s lap without asking — arms looped around her neck, forehead resting against hers.

“I’m gonna tell you something soon,” You whispered.

Natasha didn’t flinch or press. “Okay.”

You kissed her. Soft and sure. Your hands in Natasha’s hair, heart full.

And when you pulled back, you said it one more time, just to feel the words between them.

“You’re the best person I’ve ever known.”

Natasha grinned, finally leaning back with a small huff of breath. “You’re setting me up. I can feel it.”

You just kissed her cheek and curled in closer, smiling like someone with a beautiful, impossible secret.

.       .      .

By the time the two of you were brushing your teeth, Natasha was even more suspicious.

You hadn’t let go of her all evening — and that meant literally. Whether it was sliding into her lap during a movie, pressing kisses to her shoulder every ten minutes for no reason, or sitting on the kitchen counter just to wrap your legs around Natasha’s waist like some overly affectionate koala.

It hadn’t stopped. Not once.

“Do you need oxygen?” Natasha mumbled around her toothbrush as you hugged her from behind, arms looped under her hoodie like it was the last warm thing on Earth.

You looked at her in the mirror, face smug. “Nope.”

“You’re clingy.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Like, stage-five clingy.”

“Correct.”

Natasha rinsed her mouth and raised an eyebrow. “Something happen? You hit your head?”

“I just love you,” You declared dramatically, planting an exaggerated kiss on her shoulder. “Is that illegal now?”

Natasha tried — genuinely tried — not to smile, but the edges of her mouth betrayed her.

“You’re annoying.”

“You know you don't mean it'”

“You're right.”

Natasha was laughing now, and you grinned like you’d won. You kissed Natasha’s neck, her shoulder, her jaw, her temple — rapid-fire and relentless until Natasha groaned and ducked her head.

“You’re exhausting,” Nat muttered, but her arms had already found your waist and pulled you closer.

The two of you ended up in bed soon after, though getting there was a journey in itself. You clung to her back like a backpack on the way from the bathroom, giggling against her neck while Natasha stumbled forward half-laughing, half-complaining.

Once they were under the covers, you sprawled out dramatically across Natasha’s chest.

“Can’t breathe,” Natasha said flatly, though one arm immediately curled around your back.

“You can. You’re just being dramatic.”

“You’re literally on my lungs.”

“I’m in love with your lungs. Or just all of you.”

Natasha snorted. “Get off.”

You looked up with wide eyes, lower lip sticking out just slightly. “You don’t love me anymore?”

“God,” Natasha groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m your problem now.”

“Always been.”

Then Natasha kissed your forehead and pulled the blanket higher.

“You’re warm,” she said, quieter.

You softened instantly and rested her hand against Natasha’s heart. “So are you.”

They stayed like that for a long while. The city buzzed outside, soft and distant, but the apartment was its own little cocoon. You, pressed close. Natasha, grounded in a rare kind of peace.

Just before drifting off, You whispered, “Sorry for crushing you all night.”

Natasha smiled into your hair. “Don’t be. You’re the only weight I’ll never mind carrying.”

You didn’t answer, but your arms tightened slightly around her.

And in the dark, Natasha knew — even if she didn’t say anything out loud — that something had shifted. Something good. Something warm.

Something worth holding onto.

.      .       .

It was sometime after three when Natasha felt the soft tap on her shoulder.

She groaned, eyes still closed. “If you say ‘babe, I’m hungry’ right now, I will smother you with this pillow.”

You giggled softly. “I’m not hungry.”

Natasha cracked one eye open. The room was dim, the moonlight barely slipping through the curtains. Your face hovered close, sheepish and glowing faintly silver.

“Then what is it?” Natasha asked, voice low and gravelly.

“I just… wanted a kiss.”

Natasha blinked. “You woke me up for a kiss?”

“Yes,” You said, completely unrepentant. “You weren’t giving me any in your sleep, and that felt wrong.”

“Baby.” Natasha groaned, rolling onto her back. “I was asleep.”

You leaned over her anyway, straddling her hips carefully under the covers. Your hands cupped Natasha’s face, thumbs brushing soft over her cheekbones.

“Please?” you whispered. “Just one.”

Natasha could never say no to that face — not when you r eyes were shining like that, not when your voice sounded like honey and sleepy stars.

She reached up and pulled you down by the nape of your neck.

The kiss was slow, barely-there at first, until Yyoumelted into it, humming quietly like she’d just been given air after hours underwater.

When you finally broke apart, Natasha squinted. “Are you gonna let me sleep now?”

You leaned in again and pecked her lips once. Then again. Then her nose. Then her forehead. Then both cheeks.

“…That was six kisses,” Natasha mumbled.

“I lied earlier,” You whispered, voice smug. “I wanted a lot.”

Natasha sighed. “You're lucky you're cute.”

“I know.”

Natasha let you fall asleep on top of her again, the way she always did when she was like this — clingy, soft, overly in love in the middle of the night.

And before she drifted back to sleep, with your breath warm against her neck, Natasha pressed one last kiss into your hair.

“I love you,” she murmured.

You didn’t answer — but the smile on your lips said everything.

.       .       .

You’d made up a vague excuse that morning — something about wanting to “romanticize city life” before you both had to head back to the ranch and spend a lowkey day together outside the apartment. Nat had been skeptical, but when you flashed that deliberately vague please-trust-me-but-don’t-ask-me-anything look, she nodded.

“I’ll let you be mysterious,” Nat had smirked. “But only because you’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Now, three hours, two coffee shop detours, and one unnecessary antique bookstore stop later, they were at the park — the quieter corner of Fort Tryon, where the Hudson sparkled between tall oaks, and tourists rarely wandered.

Nat was sitting on the bench with one arm slung across the backrest, squinting at the sky. “So, what’s this all about?”

“I have something for you.” You pulled out the small box you'd been guarding all day like it was the Hope Diamond.

Nat raised a brow, curious now. “Did you get me a necklace? Or do i need to run right now?”

You laughed breathlessly, heart pounding. “No, no, you just need to open it.”

Nat took the box gently, eyeing you with something between fondness and suspicion. The brown paper wrapping was neat — too neat. Y/N-neat, which was code for this is a big deal and I’m overthinking everything.

She opened the lid.

The positive test was tucked neatly in tissue paper, cleaned and safe in a clear zip pouch. Beneath it was a folded letter, then a ultrasound with the figure of the baby being slightly visible.

Natasha stared at the contents.

She didn’t move.

“Natty,” You said softly. “You okay?”

Natasa didn't answer. Slowly, picked up the letter.

You chewed your lip as Natasha read. Your fingers were twisted into the hem of your shirt, and the world had gone completely silent except for the pounding of your own heart.

When Nat finally looked up again, her eyes were glassy. “You’re… are you serious?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I wanted to do it right. I didn’t know where to go for a scan here yet, and there was no way I was doing that without you, so… I borrowed an old one from Laura. I assumed the baby might have this size.”

You bit your lip an continued as she didn't say anything, still. "Laura… she figured it out first. And I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure, but— yeah."

Nat still hadn’t said anything. Just stared. And suddenly she was reaching forward, cupping your face in both hands.

“You’re pregnant.”

You sniffled, smiling wetly. “You’re repeating it like you don’t believe it.”

“I don’t,” Nat said, grinning now, teary-eyed and stunned. “I mean, I do, I just… I— When?”

You laughed. “I’d say when, but that would be oversharing in a park.”

Nat let out a delighted, disbelieving laugh and pulled you into the fiercest hug, burying her face in your neck.

“I’m gonna be so annoying about this,” Nat whispered.

Tears slipped from Y/N’s lashes. “You’re not mad? Or scared?”

“I’m terrified,” Natasha laughed, breath shaking. “But not in a bad way. In a… holy shit, we’re about to change the entire course of our lives kind of way.”

You nodded, forehead pressed to hers. “Yeah. That kind of terrified.”

You kissed again, this time slower, deeper — a little trembling at the edges. And when you pulled away, Natasha’s hands found your belly, resting there gently. Reverently.

“Hi there,” she whispered, voice catching. “I guess we’ve got a little something to get ready for.”

You curled into her arms again, warmth blooming in your chest like sunrise. Whatever came next, you knew now — you’d face it together. And that was everything.

There was silence again, but this time it was full — soft and warm and vibrating with the kind of joy that made your hands shake.

Nat kissed you. Tender and long and grounding.

“I love you,” she whispered against your lips. “Thank you for telling me like this.”

“I love you more,” You murmured. “And I promise next surprise won’t involve bodily fluids.”

Nat smirked. “Make no such promise.”

You laughed — then gasped. “Oh my god. You’re gonna teach our baby sarcasm.” You groaned into her shoulder. “This poor child doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Poor?” Nat grinned. “Lucky.”

And with that, she wrapped both arms tightly around Y/N’s waist and didn’t let go for the rest of the afternoon.

“I love you,” she said fiercely. “I love you so much.”

.      .     .

The city was loud and alive the way only New York could be — car horns blaring, someone playing jazz on a street corner, the distant thrum of footsteps and life and chaos. But for you, everything had taken on a strange kind of softness.

Maybe it was because Natasha wouldn’t let go of your hand. Or maybe it was because every time you looked over at her, there was that spark — that shared secret that made the rest of the world feel quieter.

The two of you were walking through Chelsea Market, sipping overpriced lattes, laughing over the little samples of cheese at one of the food stalls. You had tried to keep it casual — tried to act like everything was normal — but Nat kept giving you these looks. Soft, stunned. Like she'd been hit by lightning and was still trying to catch her breath.

At one point, when you leaned in to sample a bite of truffle pasta, Natasha slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a quick, spontaneous kiss.

“You can’t just ambush me in public,” You whispered, grinning.

Natasha kissed the corner of your mouth. “You kissed me five times in a row before breakfast.”

“That was before I told you I was—”

Natasha gave you a sharp look. “Do not finish that sentence in the middle of a pasta vendor’s booth.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Right, right. Super secret.”

Natasha tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “It’s our secret. I like it that way.”

You both moved on, walking along the High Line, You taking pictures and talking a mile a minute about all the places they could visit. Natasha didn’t say much — just let you talk, let you dream. Every now and then she’d tug you in a little closer, watching you like she was seeing you in color for the first time again.

an : & it's finally over, yay !! too much fluff 😓😓 my heart is full.

[hymen-restoration-project]

Things I processed/learned as a result of my writing this blog:

Being homeschooled SUCKED!!! Objectively! Any other CC kids want to talk shit about it? I fucking could. Especially the stupid fucking right wing libertarian Christian bullshit. I hated every second.

I'm a lesbian??? Aaaaaaaa. Girls

I don't owe anyone fucking anything! I create what I want. Some people have criticized my writing or asked me to take the story a different way, and learning to say no was awesome.

I am lesbian catnip. The amount of girls who got pictures with me at Dashcon... If you got any with me, tag me in the post, I'd love to have them too.

Sometimes you just need space to work things out. Sometimes it involves completely restructuring your life and taking some risks.

The Midwest is a zone of hell and no one should go there. I hate everything there is to hate about shitty white Midwesterners. That being said I am saying this because moving there immediately after college traumatized the fuck out of me so my opinion is biased as shit. Still working through that one.

By the way, true story from that time: I was dating this girl when I was living in Minnesota. She had a habit of stealing my boxers (back when I still wore them, I was much further behind in transition then) and saying "it wouldn't be the same!" when I told her to get her own. She had a pet bunny named Valley (RIP, I loved you so much) who needed supplies from the local pet store. I lived a few blocks away so I usually just slept at her place. She was at work and I had to get the bunny supplies, so I got dressed and headed out. I began to notice a weird smell and thought "hmm, that's a little fecal" but otherwise didn't think much of it. I bought my shit and got back in the car. The smell was worse. I was beginning to grow suspicious. I got back to her place, dropped off the bunny stuff, and checked my pants. Thick. Dry. Brown. Line. In my fucking underwear. Good people of the jury, I swear on my life that I did not leave that there. I was mortified. I had just experienced what it's like to be the straight man in a sitcom. I questioned her on this and she said she was too embarrassed to deal with it so she just left them on the floor. And I wore them to the fucking pet store. And yet, I was so desperate, I was with her another two months. Worst person I've ever dated. Bethany is loosely based on her in some ways (mostly her nightmarish family situation).

I like men a lot less than I thought i did. Perhaps Bethany's misandry had a grain of truth to it. Either way I've seen them do some dumb shit lately

I have a niche affinity for making friends with Internet microcelebrities. If you can believe it strange is the fourth one. What the fuck is my life.

Bethany's obsession with the word "fecal" has thoroughly infected my marriage. My wife and I both cannot fucking stop saying the word "fecal". Everything that bothers us is fecal now. By the way, this all started because of an advertising jingle I wrote about a "peanut butter dookie sandwich". The specific line was:

🎵 Take a dump

And mash it up

Fecal Reese's peanut butter cup 🎵

Speaking of my wife, I met my her through the Muppet Joker of all people. Turns out we were a good enough fit to be looking for a house together now. Crazy how that works. I flew up two weeks into dating her and we went on the best vacation I've ever been on. Completely spur of the moment. She was my Harrow at Dashcon! I love her so much :3

[xylatox]

dare me to || sjy

Ive been waiting for this ugh!! I dont think anyone knew how excited i was for this.

Jamie pushed herself to learn tennis all on her own at nine, simply because she found Serena Williams incredibly attractive wielding a racket like a sword. 

This line still makes me giggle because Jamie is so cute I genuinely love this girl. I love how much she values the friendship she has with mc like <//3 Shes such a sweet person, I just also think its so funny how mc says Jake is too young and is literally going to eat her words. Like

You would barely look his way if he didn't have familial ties he shared with your best friend, although he was always friendly and funny to you.

😭girl if only you knew

You, you're just short because of the universe's sarcastic design.

I love this line, she may be tiny but at least shes cute. I love that Jamie has this dramatic vibe, just as Jake does. Despite it being sad, I think the difference in family dynamics is nice, and I just love how they welcome her with open arms honestly, its super sweet and just suits them.

Will never get over the ladybug nickname for her its so darn sweet

Jake takes that suggestion as a dare, lips pursing in a suggestive pout. He runs before you can take the hint, grabbing you between his biceps and immediately squeezing you against his wet skin as you squeal. "When has that ever stopped me, ladybug?"

Oh im so giggly, the Jake effect is real

You're still the same girl who cried trying to save the insect you're lovingly nicknamed after during a thunderstorm. 

The reasoning behind her nickname is so cute😭

He shakes his head, blushing suddenly. "You're the first person I've told."

I still even back then they were just super sweet. AND i cant get over Hee and Jamie theyre so fucking cute oh my god, and im even more giggly over mc and Jake taking the shot at the same time ah. This just being the start is driving me crazy

"You're safe, ladybug." His words are so soft that the clap of thunder accompanying them almost drowns them out. But you think you could hear him even if the lightning came down right next to his face.

Going to pass out and sob actually

Jake's jaw ticks as he smiles, the action as artificial as your previous laugh. "Right. It would be crazy, wouldn't it? To think about you in that way still."

Im going insane I swear

Jake tastes like cherry lip balm with traces of chlorine, a mixture that could not feel more perfect on your tongue. You want to drink it forever now that you've gotten a sip, both the act and sensation long overdue.

GNAWING AT THE WALLS

His humor morphs back into raw vulnerability, and he kisses the spot between your eyebrows before whispering, "Meet me back here tonight, yeah? Wanna finish what we started."

I will pass out holy fuck

I will always love how downbad Jake is like??? I am obsessed

Jamie noooooo😭😭😭😭

You nod without realizing. "I swear to God." Good thing you're not a religious person, or a higher power would most likely strike you down on the spot. But you'd do it again to spare Jamie of the fact you did more than your fair share of things with Jake last night.

Despite the fact that Jamie being angry is kinda scary this line is hilarious. God and I feel so bad for Jake because hes clearly so in love with her and cares about nothing else

Jihyun raises her hands and shakes her head. "I didn't say you were anything…" She walks closer and sets a hand on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "But if you were, this family would be more than better off with you in it. Whether or not some of us see that right now, it's true."

I love her loving them honestly, she just knows and Im living for it

Jake smirks softly and captures his hand in yours, fingers intertwining. "Then have me. Have me in whatever way you want, as long as I get to have you back."

Hes so sweet😭😭I cant

Seeing Jamie talk about mc like that just makes me realize she doesnt want to share her best friend oh my god :( and I feel like shes creating a bigger problem because shes afraid she’ll lose her best friend to her brother.

"I just don't want to lose you if it ends badly," Jamie confesses. She finally turns her gaze on you, irises glassy and the white of her eyes becoming red. "I can't."

😭😭shes cute i cant even lie

Jake plants kisses all over the crown of your head before meeting your lips, the taste of spearmint gum coating your tongue. You giggle mid-liplock, and Jake smiles brightly down at you. "Hi."

They are so cute ugh

I loved this, every single part of it. I genuinely loved this so much lex and ugh Im so glad with how it turned out!! I honestly loved Jamie’s outburst(??) because you realize she just didnt want to lose mc :( ugh this was so good

DARE ME TO

〔 𝒾 〕 Your best friend told you her brother was off limits years ago, and that should have been the end of it. But feelings, especially reciprocated ones, don't die, not when you're going to be in close proximity for a week.

𝐬𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧 𝓍 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 11.7K ⋮ 18+ ⋮ angst, fluff, smut, best friend's (younger) brother!jake, forbidden attraction au, college au, alcohol use, feat! heeseung, dry humping, clit play, body worship, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie ᯤ 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈: new emotion — the aces, do you think about me — lahar, boys like you — who is fancy, starving — hailee steinfeld, butterfly rain — tori templet, i'm not in love — emily james, dive — ed sheeran, ready set go — bnza, shooting star — muna, say it again —frances

⌗ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── Nobody ever really does female best friend's sibling and I wanted to for this because Jake is clearly my muse and I'm obsessed, so here we go! Bless all my friends who read the story before its release— @tinycatharsis, @lovetaroandtaemin @xylatox @xomakara @aeristudios @hannieoftheyear and @frenchkisstheabyss—because they kept me going to post it! I love you all so much, thank you. I hope you guys enjoy!

There are two things you are certain of in this life. Sim Jaemin, Jamie to those who know her best, will always be your dearest friend, and she is relentless in getting what she wants.

Jamie pushed herself to learn tennis all on her own at nine, simply because she found Serena Williams incredibly attractive wielding a racket like a sword. She decided in middle school to make you her best friend, even as she was an opinionated, bouncy thirteen-year-old that made you, a girl who still hid behind her lunchbox, feel intimidated to no end. She convinced her parents to take in the neighbor's dog at sixteen when the old couple decided to leave the beautiful pup behind. "Layla is too cute to just go to anyone!" The pout she threw, perfectly curved with the cupid's bow of an angel, made every single person in the family cave without another word. Jake needed little persuasion; her little brother was always fond of animals. Still is.

Then, she got older, and more reasonable demands came to the forefront.

"I don't want you ruining our friendship by liking my brother." When she said this on the verge of your first year of university, it was the furthest thing from your mind. Tuition paperwork, scholarship applications, and the freshman fifteen was all you could focus on back then. Even as you watched Jake, on the tail-end of junior year, swim a few laps in the family's pool.

"One, he's too young for me. Two, you're worth more than a crush, as if I had one." Your arguments convinced her because it was true. You did not like Sim Jaeyun. You would barely look his way if he didn't have familial ties he shared with your best friend, although he was always friendly and funny to you. Yet, that was the intention: a younger brother, annoying, yet well-behaved.

He crosses your mind now and then, some photos he shares with Jamie popping up on your feed when she goes to her parents for visits without you, leaving you behind in your shared dorm room to doomscroll and avoid the problems awaiting at home. She's beautiful, bright, magnanimous in personality.

It's no coincidence her brother shares the same level of allure.

Now, he lingers on your mind as your hands clench the steering wheel. You and Jamie always went home for spring break, tradition the strongest facet of the Sim family. As Jake is also on his way home for his first spring break since starting college, his soccer scholarship keeping him plenty busy, you wonder how the dynamic between all of you—three full-fledged adults—will change. You're not much older than each other. Two years separate you girls from the only boy in the Sim household, but Jamie has always been smaller than her brother; the youngest sprouted like a tree when he reached high school. You, you're just short because of the universe's sarcastic design.

"Are you even listening? I'm baring my soul here about Chungha and you're too busy lost in thought!" Jamie cries, throwing an arm over her eyes for a dramatic flare.

You chuckle. "I'm actually too busy driving the car, asshole," you note with a quirked eyebrow. "Anyway, I thought your broken heart was because of Seungcheol."

"That was two months ago! This is now! She was supposed to Facetime me last night about her plans for the break, but never did. She hates me now, it's official."

Just because Jamie is headstrong doesn't mean she's prone to being realistic.

You sigh. "Her phone probably died. And we left pretty early this morning. I bet she'll text you as soon as she gets up today."

She nods, whining but agreeing. "I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd have lost my head by now."

Laughing, you make another turn. The street the Sim family house resides on comes into clear view, birch trees and tulip bushes welcoming you like an old friend coming back from a long trip off to faraway lands. You breathe easy, already feeling more at home here than anywhere else, including your parent's place twenty minutes away.

You always tell them you're too busy to visit, even during the occasional weekend off from exams and term papers. It's too hard to watch them bicker and pick you apart like they've done since you were small. At Jamie's, with her parents and Jake, you don't feel like an outsider intruding with every eggshell you stumble upon. You're safe, content, fearless.

When you see her parents at the front door, ready to welcome you both with warm hugs, you're reminded of the peace they provide. There's no need to act formal, not anymore. Not when they've seen you through all of your formative years with more kindness than your own family has ever provided.

"There they are!" Jamie's dad, Yongjin, exclaims. He pulls Jamie into a bear hug as Jihyun, her mother, wraps her arms around you.

You drop your bags on the doorstep, embracing Jihyun fully. She smells like rosemary and plum, with hints of book pages. No other scent can replicate it. "Let me look at you," she says as she plants both hands on either side of your face. "Have you been eating? You look pale."

You nod, grinning. "Just wanted to wait until we got here to dig in. Besides, I know there's braised pork waiting for us on the counter."

Her face scrunches up as she smiles and pats your cheek. "Nothing gets past you, huh, ladybug? Let's go inside then! I know you girls are hungry."

Your old nickname used to drive you crazy. But you'll always hold a special place for it, especially when Jihyun says it with every ounce of love she possesses.

"Where's Jake, dad? Still on his way?" Jamie asks as she drops her bag in the hallway.

"He's in the pool. He actually got in last night. Practice was canceled last minute, so he came straight here." Yongjin coughs as he picks up both of your bags, heading upstairs to drop them off in your respective rooms. "Bring the rascal in for lunch, won't you?"

"Not before your daughter helps with setting out the plates!" Jihyun turns to Jamie with a smirk. Your best friend rolls her eyes but runs to the kitchen without a word of protest. Jamie may get what she wants, but she knows to follow a parental order like holy scripture.

Jihyun turns her smile on you. "Ladybug, go bring in Jake, please?"

You nod, walking toward the glass doors leading to the backyard area. You open one slowly, taking in the surrounding sunshine that bathes the pool in an ethereal glow. The spirit of the Sim house extends to every corner, including the water you've swum in a thousand times.

Before you can even call out to him, Jake's moving out of the pool and leaning down to grab his towel from the beach lounger. Once he sees you, his expression changes from intense focus to his usual softness. His shoulders slack like any pressure he was carrying disintegrates, his face contorting in the same way with a cheery grin and raised eyebrows. His wet hair swipes across his face like a mop, but you could recognize him anywhere. 

A pregnant pause sits between you both, and you’re unsure why. Maybe it’s because Jake looks different from the last time you saw him that week in August, before he left with the wrecked nerves of an incoming freshman. He was scrawny, not a muscle on him except for the ones he gained from soccer—which weren't that many because of his stature—with braces that carried him through his teenage years like a backpack. Now, he’s all white teeth and chiseled abs, body confidently glistening under the rays of sunlight. 

You’ve been the same appearance-wise for years, but Jake looks at you like you’ve gone through a metamorphosis only he can see. It makes your cheeks bloom a shade deeper than you're used to, but you try to brush the feeling off. It means nothing, can mean nothing.

“You’re early,” he says finally.

"Wanted to miss all the traffic," you reply, hands splayed out on your thighs. "I'd hug you, but…you know."

Jake takes that suggestion as a dare, lips pursing in a suggestive pout. He runs before you can take the hint, grabbing you between his biceps and immediately squeezing you against his wet skin as you squeal. "When has that ever stopped me, ladybug?"

Despite his soaked form and the small distance he puts between you both when he's satisfied he's greeted you properly, he's still radiating a warmth that cuts through the decorum you thought was still necessary to use with him more than anyone else in the family. It might be the reason he's so eager to thaw it out immediately. He can recognize in that instant your nerves from being away for so long are the cause.

But there's no reason to be formal. You're still the same girl who cried trying to save the insect you're lovingly nicknamed after during a thunderstorm. You've detested the bleak weather ever since, and sometimes the term of endearment too, and he knows that.

He knows so many things about you, more than you want to admit.

"C'mon kiddos, the food's getting cold!" Jake's dad calls from inside the house, and Jake immediately takes the cue to jog inside, leaving you standing there, slightly damp and confused.

He turns back at the archway of the glass doors, a smile framing his face. You turn just as he asks, "You coming?"

This break may be harder than you expected it to be.

You throw stones from the garden floor and across the lush field in front of you, tears streaming down your face as the sun blares above. It's too bright today for how terrible your heartbreak feels.

Almost 500 miles between two universities was enough for Taeyong to call it quits. As if a year of dating didn't matter in that instant when your ex had to come face to face with the unknown. You were willing to brave it, to see if your love could survive long-distance, but he obviously wasn't. "Be realistic," he said a few hours ago, feigning false pain.

You couldn't bear to stay in your own house, your parents' judgemental eyes staring you down in a way that made you keep all your anguish inside. A trip over the fence to the Sim house wasn't a tough feat when everything else felt insurmountable.

And there you are, sitting near Jamie's mother's prize roses and hating everything they represent. Love, passion, desire. It's all for show; none of it is true when the harsh realities come around the corner. Taeyong and your parents proved that.

Out of the blue, Jaeyun appears in soccer attire not meant for JV players. You hide your face from him in that second, trying to avoid the mirage of questions he'll throw at you if he sees your red-rimmed eyes. "Climbed over again, huh?" he asks, a joke you can't take interjected in his voice.

You nod, shoulders steeled and windpipe tight. "Didn't feel like staying home right now. Gonna tell me to go back?"

Jake raises his arms in defense. "No, I mean—I don't mind. Would've seen you later, anyway." He moves to sit next to you, crossing his legs in the dirt and splaying his arms behind his back.

"You're home late," you realize. The sunset brews under the clouds, seven o'clock a few minutes away.

Jake chuckles again, the sound light and unbelieving. "I was actually trying out for varsity," he confesses. "I got it."

You wipe your subsequent tears away, focusing on your friend and his achievement. He's always wanted to play with the bigger guys at school, and you won't let such success go understated. "That's amazing! Does Jamie know yet?"

He shakes his head, blushing suddenly. "You're the first person I've told."

"Wow," you say. "Sim Jaeyun, soccer prodigy, letting me be the first to know? I'm honored."

He knocks your shoulder with his own, saying nothing verbally. His smile says enough. "Gonna tell me what's bothering you now?"

You sigh, the sadness bubbling back up. "Taeyong dumped me. Said going to schools so far away from each other is too much to handle." You throw another rock, anger suddenly replacing the misery you walked into the garden with. "Fuck him."

"Yeah. He doesn't know a good thing when he has it." Jake says it like he's afraid it'll mean more than what it does on the surface, his voice low and tentative. Is it out of his depth to say something like that to you, his older sister's best friend? He doesn't know, but it felt right to say.

You laugh sadly and run your fingers through the grass. "I just gotta move forward. Spend the summer focused on me, you know?"

Jake nods and knocks his shoulder into yours once again. "Come on, let's take a dip in the pool. It always makes you feel better." He motions to the house behind him. "Go borrow one of Jamie's swimsuits, yeah?"

You grin at his suggestion. He always makes the worst times better somehow, a ray of sunshine that isn't blinding to the eye. It's welcoming and soothing, a salve on a day you thought was hopeless. "Sure."

As you head upstairs, Jake's mom smiling at you both as you run past the kitchen, you think about the way you can float with all of them rather than sink.

The memory washes over you as you stare at the same patch of grass from that day, reminiscent with a smile on your face, thankful nobody can see it under the cover of night.

"Earth to my best friend! There's tequila that's going to waste over here," Jamie says as she hands you another shot. She's careful to avoid dropping it into the pool thanks to the mirage of garden lights around your spot. The both of you sit on the edge with your toes in the water, teasing the idea of slipping in with the two boys already wading around in the water. "Chungha ghosted me and I need your unwavering support right now."

"It'll never go to waste on you, JJ," Heeseung, Jake's best friend, flirts with Jamie as he floats past you both. "And whoever that girl is is clearly a dipshit."

Lee Heeseung stayed local for his college experience, but he's always remained close to Jake and the Sim family in the same way you have, except he and Jake grew up together from primary school and on. And as far as Jamie goes, he'll be damned if he stops trying to get her to take a chance on him one day, despite every rejection she's delivered with a loving middle finger in his face.

Jamie kicks some water at him before downing another few ounces of liquor. "Thank you but if that's another covert shooting of your shot, no thanks, pal."

Heeseung scoffs playfully as you giggle. "Anyway, since we have an appropriate beverage for it…" he says just in time for Jake to swim over from his usual corner near the hot tub. "Let's play Never Have I Ever, shall we?"

You all roll your eyes, but you don't object. Anything to ramp up the chill session by the pool; your spring break is already too lackadaisical at this point.

"Never have I ever stolen candy from Jungwon's parents' convenience store."

All of you take the shots with ease. The poor kid always knew when you and Jamie were bagging an extra candy bar in your purse or pockets, but batting your eyelashes in his direction was enough for him to look the other way. "Boys," Jamie said once, "are too predictable."

Jake begins his turn with, "Never have I ever used my parent's car without them knowing," as he pours drinks for everyone, only for Jamie to sip hers in that instant.

She raises a hand to speak her mind, and you giggle into your shot, downing it in time before the liquid can trickle down your chin. "In my defense, Mom decided to change her mind at the last second. I just stuck to the original promise she made." She turns to you. "When did you hijack yours?"

"One time when I wanted to go to Taeyong's house. I was back the next morning before they could realize it was gone."

"Asshole," Jamie and Jake mutter simultaneously, to which Jamie poses the question to her brother, "What would you know about him besides his stats, dipshit? And you're the one who played on the same team as him, like a traitor."

"Not at the same time!" Jake yells, offended. "Besides, even if we did, I would've never passed the ball to that douchebag."

Heeseung chuckles. The sound holds some type of knowledge neither you nor Jamie are privy to, but Jake looks at his friend with a death stare. You want to dissect the interaction further, but you guys pass over questions and drinks quickly after that. The tequila blurs your inhibitions as you fall into more teasing banter and laughter. Finally, your trip is getting fun.

"Alright, my turn again," Heeseung says. He pours another set of shots before he declares, "Never have I ever had a crush on someone in this circle."

The posed statement sinks into your gut like a stone; any chance of excitement for the night is gone. Your buzz disappears as soon as the last word falls from Heeseung's lips.

He immediately gulps down his drink, smiling the whole time. "Oh shoot," he says with his devious smirk pointed in Jamie's direction. "Sorry, love."

"Still never gonna happen, pipsqueak," Jamie responds with a slur, the edges of her statement warbled by the alcohol.

What you don't expect is for Jake to take his shot at the same time you do. You both stare at each other over the rims of the tiny glasses. Your faces turn crimson, a mutual understanding passing by in a flash.

Never in your dreams did you expect Jake would also harbor a crush on you. It's been years for you, so long ago you forgot the shape of it until you were in his presence again. But the revelation he also held those emotions at some point makes the stone in your chest strengthen in size, the new information befuddling you.

When did it start? Was it around the same time as you? Does he still feel that way? You ruminate on the quick questions for only a second, knowing none of the answers matter. Jamie would've never allowed it anyway, and still wouldn't. And she's more important.

A pregnant pause lies between you and Jake, even as Heeseung sputters out a shocked laugh and Jamie drinks another shot just for fun.

"Oh damn," he says, "guess we're learning a lot about each other tonight, huh?"

"Shut up, Hee," Jake mutters. He slams the empty glass down near your thigh, and the sudden brush of his hand as he pulls back makes you tingle.

It's from the tequila, you tell yourself with bated breath. Nothing else, nothing at all.

"Yeah, shut up! 's a stupid game anyway," Jamie explains as she stands up. Her body buckles with the equilibrium change, and Jake immediately jumps from the pool to help her regain her balance. "I'm fine, Ikeu!"

That's the tell. She never uses her childhood nickname for Jake unless she's drunk. You smile to yourself and stand up as well, using the sobriety Jamie doesn't have now to help her brother.

Heeseung remains in the pool as you and Jake take Jamie upstairs to sleep it off, wading around again like a baby who hasn't upended all of their bathwater. Your best friend insists she's fine on the trek upstairs, but the way she leans into you both says otherwise.

Jake tucks the bedsheets to her chin, handling her as she thrashes around with a sequence of grumbles spilling from her lips. "Ikeu, let me go to sleep," Jamie mumbles. You laugh to yourself at the state of your best friend as she babbles nonsense. She'll be mopey and hungover tomorrow, but you'll handle that when it comes.

You close the door to her room behind you, shaking your head. "She's gonna act like a kicked puppy in the morning, I know it."

Jake laughs. "And yet she still insists she's not a lightweight. Or, at the very least, a mid-weight with how much of that bottle she drank."

You agree, nodding with a smile. Silence rushes in, the uncertainty of what to say next sitting between you both like a piece of glass you're terrified to break. Do you mention what happened just a few minutes ago in the pool, or let it go? And, more importantly, what does Jake want to do?

Jake coughs quietly, his cheeks flushed. "I should get back to Heeseung. Make sure his drunk ass doesn't drown."

You nod again, bashful. "Yeah. I gotta wash off all this chlorine, anyway."

As you both go to walk in separate directions, you heading to your room and Jake going back downstairs, your fingertips brush. It's the smallest movement, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but the spark that was ignited when he touched your thigh comes back, as all-consuming as it was then.

"See you tomorrow," Jake says over his shoulder, not turning back as he walks down the first few steps, but you can tell he's smiling. Somehow, you always know. You reply with your own acknowledgement, heart hammering as you open and close your door.

That night, you dream of his hand in yours, the liquid courage giving you the right amount of boldness to tell him you want to keep holding it for as long as you can.

"You think you'll make it out of the storm in one piece?" you ask into your phone, walking around the guest room as you listen to Jamie's frustration over the quick food run now halted by the terrible weather. The supermarket bustle muffles Jamie's voice, her words practically passing through a tin can.

"Pretty sure, but the damn car is parked too far. My parents want to wait until it settles down rather than walk into a tsunami, as if I still don't have a headache kicking my ass." You picture her rubbing her temples while she talks, exasperated but with nobody to blame but herself for last night's escapades. "Be glad you don't have to experience their terrible fruit and vegetable puns right now."

You chuckle, flicking at the dust on the windowpane. "You act as if I don't know them all by heart."

Jamie laughs too, probably nodding in the middle of the store aisle like you're right by her side. She sighs when her mother calls her away. "Mom's looking at the funny birthday cards, probably wants to show me one to give Dad next month. I gotta go."

"Alright, see you soon!"

Minutes or hours pass by in a blur, the house quiet save for the rain that patters on the rooftop above. In the instant you throw your phone on the bed after another session of endless scrolling, Jake comes into view, lingering by the doorframe. His down-turned eyes point at his feet while a pout covers the lower half of his face. When he's like this, his disposition is akin to a kid caught with cookie crumbs at the edge of his mouth. "Was that Jamie earlier?"

Was he listening? How long had he been waiting to talk to you?

"Yep," you confirm. "Still stuck in the storm. Hopefully it passes quickly." You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly chilly. The cold of the rain seeps into your skin like it knows you hate the frigid and unrelenting downpour. It plucks all your nerves to their highest frequencies. You think so, anyway.

It can't have anything to do with last night, or this moment being the first time you and Jake have talked since then. It's not like his admission changes anything between you, and your past emotions have no bearing on the present. Being awkward about it, despite your best intentions not to, solves nothing. Yet, you feel the prickle of your anxiety all the same.

Jake's eyes pinch at the corners. "Still freaked out by the weather?"

You shrug, hands clenching to your skin. "Yes and no."

Going back in your memory, you can barely recall the first time you experienced a thunderstorm as a kid outside of how it made you feel. Small, fragile, open to all the elements. It was bad enough life in your parent's home made you feel that way daily, but storms only amplified the insecurities.

That first time you experienced one in the Sim house, a ladybug glued to the glass doors downstairs as the outside world thrashed and rumbled, reminded you even the tiniest beings endure harsh conditions. And you did everything in your power that day to help ensure the creature's survival.

Maybe the nickname stuck because it fit you too well, and it hasn't gone away since for good reason.

Jake walks over, his face now tilted in your direction, and shucks his zip-up hoodie off to wrap around your shoulders. You start to speak, "You don't have to—"

"I want to," he replies, a scoff teetering on the edge in his voice. "Got a million more."

You nod, giving him a soft smile of gratitude. Stuffing your arms through the sleeves, you smell his scent on the fabric. It lingers like all the words you've stamped down. Bergamot and tangerine, with the faintest trace of sea salt.

"You're safe, ladybug." His words are so soft that the clap of thunder accompanying them almost drowns them out. But you think you could hear him even if the lightning came down right next to his face.

"I know," you say, knowing it's never been more true than right now. Yet, you feel something else resting underneath his words, an iceberg you can see past the top of. The sentence eases your mind, yet ramps up a different emotion entirely, one you haven't felt in a long time for him.

"Last night, I—"

"It's fine, Jaeyun," you insist. You shake off whatever he's about to say with a forced giggle. "We've changed. Sure, we both had little crushes on each other back then. It doesn't mean anything now."

"It doesn't?"

"I mean…why does it need to? It would be crazy, anyway. Like it could work now when it didn't then."

Jake's jaw ticks as he smiles, the action as artificial as your previous laugh. "Right. It would be crazy, wouldn't it? To think about you in that way still."

"Yeah, crazy." You don't realize he's stepped forward a few inches until you notice his body in sharper clarity. The long-sleeve Manchester United shirt with a tattered logo on the center, one of his favorites, and how it rises with every inhale and exhale. The shell necklace touching his collarbone, the one you made for him the summer before he started high school.

"So if I said I still feel the same way I did at sixteen—that it's hard not to every time I look at you—would that be crazy, too?"

Your brain becomes hollow, coherent thought and reasoning out of your reach.

The storm continues battering the house, but its strength compares little to the forces stirring in your heart. The desire to hold him close churns in your stomach like the strongest tornado known to man.

It's irrevocably wrong, so why does he still pull you in?

Jake reaches for you, hand pressing to the skin between your lower jaw and neck, and it feels too warm. It makes your body shiver, but he doesn't pull back. He just inches closer, so close his breath ghosts over your face.

His eyes speak with the pleas his mouth can't verbalize. Let me know if I should let you go now before I can't. Tell me to stop thinking about you, once and for all.

You don't stop him. Not when you take the last step to his lips, not when both of your eyes flutter closed, and not when you finally feel his mouth press to yours.

Jake tastes like cherry lip balm with traces of chlorine, a mixture that could not feel more perfect on your tongue. You want to drink it forever now that you've gotten a sip, both the act and sensation long overdue.

You move in sync. His hands find purchase on your hips as you wrap your hands around his neck, deepening the kiss. He grunts against your lips when your tongue presses to the seam of his mouth, and he lets you in eagerly. You've kissed many boys—and a handful of girls—in your life, but nothing compares to this, to Sim Jaeyun.

You're utterly fucked, the implications of your choice clear, but you don't care. It's too right to think of all the reasons it shouldn't be.

You both hear the front door below slam, the sound knocking you both away from each other like a bomb. Jake's eyes open, the irises lust-blown with a fire that mirrors the raging one in your stomach. You don't know what to say in time. The chance flickers by as the rest of the family makes it known they're back.

"Kiddos, we're home!" Jihyun calls from below. Jamie yells something about the traffic being a bitch, and both of her parents chide the profanity so loudly you and Jake chuckle discreetly.

His humor morphs back into raw vulnerability, and he kisses the spot between your eyebrows before whispering, "Meet me back here tonight, yeah? Wanna finish what we started."

You nod with a bitten lip, eager to know what he means as he exits the guest room and walks downstairs. Your heart is lurching, your palms are sweating, but you've never felt more giddy than this moment.

They should terrify you, all the consequences of your next moves that lay at your feet, but you're not scared at all. Not an ounce.

You tiptoe past Jamie's door, a smidge of regret glazing over your excitement about being alone with Jake again. Seven hours after he left you in the guest room, your need consumed you. It was all you thought about in that time flipping through magazines with Jamie and sitting next to her at dinnertime.

Your eyes couldn't help but pass over Jake's at the table when you caught him staring first. His parents were talking about cute memories of all of you, your middle school years specifically, yet your insides were on fire. You were a blaze of obscene proportions as he gazed at your figure.

Now, you're eager to see him, to have a repeat of the scene in the guest room, to know if there's more to the story that's currently unwritten.

Jake opens the door the second you raise your fist to knock on it. Your hand sits in mid-air as he stands there, a quiet smirk playing on his lips. "Thought you'd never show up."

He brings you in with a hand at your waist, and soon enough, he locks the door behind him to have both palms all over you. He tugs your lips between his teeth and kisses you like a starved man, the only salvation being your mouth and body.

Jake's an excellent kisser, holding the right amount of pressure with a level of tenderness in each touch that weakens your knees. He still smells like his lip balm, but there are traces of mouthwash this time, spearmint hitting your tongue as his muscle touches the roof of your mouth.

"I love how you taste," Jake says in between you like a confession. "I can't wait to have more of you."

You moan and squeeze his biceps between your fingers. "Nothing's stopping you, Jaeyun."

Jake tugs at your cotton shorts, wanting them off so much that he makes that want a reality. Your cotton underwear sticks to your legs, arousal drenching the insides of your thighs like another person hasn't turned you on this much solely from kissing. Maybe no one ever has, not like this. Maybe he's that good at this already, transforming you into a puddle for him alone.

Moving you to the edge of his bed, Jake makes the back of your knees knock into his comforter as he undoes his drawstring sweats and yanks his sweater up and over his head. You help him discard what you can, but you're too eager to reattach your lips to his. He can't blame you; he's caused the chasm that is your need, and he has to see it filled.

"You're beautiful, you know that right?" The question tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it, and Jake just runs his hand across your face lovingly and smiles.

"Let's not talk about who's the beautiful one here, yeah?"

He crawls atop of you, the only clothes left on both of you being his underwear and your undergarments, and it's anyone's guess if he'll take them off of you soon or will tease you to the very end. Jake sees the wet ruins of your panties and a cheshire-like grin spreads on his face. "I think I could make you come just like this with the way you're drenching my sheets, baby."

You quirk an eyebrow and rut your hips into his, your underwear brushing the outline of his pulsing cock. You can almost feel the spot that's damp on his own briefs through the fabric of your panties, positive he is also ready to be relieved of his own pent-up desires. "I could say the same to you, Jakey."

Jake grunts at the nickname, one only few people have ever used, and captures your mouth with his again. He rubs his core into yours with hard, languid strokes. Your wetness melds with the hardness of his bulge with each meeting of your hips. You run your nails down his back to prove how good it feels, even if it's just the two of you rutting against each other's clothes. It's carnal how hard and fast you both grind against each other. The two of you want nothing more than to come apart at each other's hands.

There's still the uncertainty there if it's too soon to take it to the last hurdle, with sex and your relationship, whatever that is, but that doesn't matter now. The need to have each other in any way you can drowns out the sound of your doubts and what tomorrow will bring. You can only focus on right now, the end of desire right on the horizon.

"I'm not gonna last much longer, sweetheart." Jake rubs his hands along your ribcage, fingers splayed under your breast. You grip him harder as he says the words, and he smirks as he pants. "Would you like that? Knowing you made me come untouched?"

"More than anything," you admit, his cock hitting your clit in just the right way that has you frothing at the mouth.

His tongue delves deeper into your mouth as he continues to thrust against you, precum smearing down the fabric of his underwear and making it his briefs as soaked as your panties. You're so close, the ridges of him rubbing the velvet walls of you through the materials of your underwear to make you see stars.

"That's it," he growls. "Come for me, baby. It's gonna feel so good."

Those words undo you in that second; the magic of them can't go understated. Your body shudders as you reach the peak and fall off of it in the same second. It's white hot and searing, and you let it take you down as you feel the orgasm seep into your toes.

"Come with me, Jaeyun, please?" you whisper when you have a hint of coherent thought left in you, yearning to see him unravel.

Just like his words crumbled you, yours break him. He whimpers a broken moan as he comes in his underwear, meeting his end with his massive load soaking through and dribbling down across his thighs. Your bodies' essences mix as you keep riding your highs out, and it feels too good to stop until you're too sensitive to continue.

You both sit there in a mess of sweat and cum, unsure how to address that you've both just done that together. It can't go back to the way things were before, the two of you always on a fault-line of teasing each other and living in half-measures around your emotions. How could you?

When he cleans up and lays down next to you, both of you clothed once again, you run your fingertips over the veins of his arm until you're at his shoulder blade. He watches you as your venture higher, and your face heats, suddenly bashful.

"I meant what I said earlier. You're so beautiful, it's incredibly distracting." You run your hand through the ends of Jake's sweaty hair.

"Is your form of pillow talk just compliments?" he jokes partially. "Because I could give you a dozen of those at any time."

"What's yours?" you ask, beaming at his admission.

"Besides doing that again?" You giggle at the reference until he cages you in his arms, his warmth bathing you in gold. "For starters, this."

You whisper about everything and nothing, Jake stopping occasionally to run his lips over the space of your forehead and the crown of your hair. You fall asleep that way in no time, pleased to be on the cusp of something beautiful beginning.

You don't expect to wake up to the sight of Jamie peering down at you, wide-eyed and lips in a firm line. During the night, Jake must have gone to use the bathroom and forgot to lock the door again, and you hadn't noticed.

The sight of her in front of you almost makes you forget you're still entangled with Jake like two vines, legs intertwined and your head nestled on his chest.

Jamie points to Jake's door with a trembling finger, deadly silent, before walking back out of his room.

"What the fuck?" are the first words out of Jamie's mouth. Her face grows darker in that instant, anger overtaking her. "What the actual fuck is the reason I found you up against him like that?"

"Jamie, you gotta relax, please."

"Oh, so I should relax after catching my best friend and little brother practically tonguing each other down?"

The way she emphasizes "little" could make you vomit. She acts like she witnessed you pressed up against the teenage version of him and not the adult he is now. You know she's overdramatic, but she can take it overboard too often; it's one of her fatal flaws to boot.

"Jamie, I swear it was nothing," you lie immediately. "We were just watching a movie after you passed out because we couldn't sleep, and then we must've fallen asleep together. That's all, okay?"

"You didn't do anything?" She looks over the clothes you walked into Jake's room wearing last night, not seeing anything she can speculate over, but still on edge from the scene she's just witnessed. "You swear?"

You nod without realizing. "I swear to God." Good thing you're not a religious person, or a higher power would most likely strike you down on the spot. But you'd do it again to spare Jamie of the fact you did more than your fair share of things with Jake last night.

She huffs, relieved but still agitated. "Okay. Well, just never let that happen again, please. I almost ran out of here ready to pluck my eyes from their sockets and bleach them."

You rub your arms protectively. "Would it be so bad if Jake and I did happen to like each other? See where—"

She puts a finger in between you, making a face like she will in fact vomit. "I was so ready to have Mom's hump-day pancakes and now I can't even think of drinking a glass of orange juice right now after hearing you even suggest that idea to me."

"Jamie, come on," you chide her.

"You come on! It would never work, Y/N. Be realistic!"

That's rich, you jest at her in your mind. "Why? Because he's related to you and I'm not?"

"That's the biggest reason, for sure, but you both are going to school hours away from each other and Jake is drowning in intramurals and labs half the time." She swats away her own words with manic hands. "Why are we even talking about this? It's not gonna happen ever!"

Your heart sinks, the stone that you held in your gut days ago back with a vengeance.

"Tell me you'll stop thinking about this, please."

You sigh and nod, keeping your arms crossed to guard yourself from the promise you've just made Jamie. Your best friend has clipped the beating wings of a promising future with Jake so unceremoniously, you're unsure what to do with that info now, or how you'll present the topic to Jake when he wakes up.

"You coming?" Jamie asks over her shoulder as she descends the staircase, and you're transported back to that first day you arrived at the house for the trip, Jake's mirrored words holding more hope than you realized back then. You follow behind as the seams of your heart rip the muscle in two, sadness seeping into your every pore with each step.

After you all clear your breakfasts from the table, Jamie's parents retreat to their room and Jamie takes her usual midday R&R nap. Jake steps behind you in the kitchen, the coast clear from prying eyes. Nobody's around to witness him cage you in by the sink, eager as he runs his hands up your sides. "You were gone this morning. Where'd you run off to?" he whispers into your ear, and you shiver from his proximity. You're both terrified and tantalized by what Jake does to your body by doing nothing substantial. Just the subtlest act unwinds you.

He makes it difficult to resist him, but you replay your discussion with Jamie from a few brief hours ago in your head. The act helps you solidify your promise in your heart like iron, no matter how much you want to melt into Jake's embrace and forget it all.

"We can't do this, Jaeyun."

"We're not doing anything…not yet."

The second Jake's lips brush your neck, you skitter away and drop your plate in the sink. If he keeps touching you, you'll crumble without another thought, so keeping him at an arm's length is the only option. "I mean it. Last night can't happen again."

"So what? It just meant nothing?" Jake laughs in disbelief, almost like he's waiting for the punchline of the joke you're making just to get a rise out of him.

You frown and bite the inside of your cheek. "I never said that."

"Then what are you saying right now?"

"I'm saying it won't work," you parrot Jamie's words to him, trying to find some objectivity there to stop feeling like you're chewing glass. "Where do you think we will go after this? Long-distance dating back and forth between two colleges? And that's if Jamie doesn't kill us before we get to that point."

"Is that what this is about?" Jake tries to step closer, but you back away in time. "Y/N, I'm not Taeyong. And you're more than just Jamie's best friend to me. I thought I proved that to you yesterday."

He did, in so many little ways that you barely see him like he's Jamie's little brother now. He's just Jake, solid and sweet and so within your reach right now. Yet you can't have him, the fallout from such a choice too catastrophic to verbalize.

"Jaeyun, we have to be realistic." The words feel like toxic waste on your tongue, the pain present under your skin but well-hidden behind your willpower. You can only pray he believes everything you've said up to this point, but a small part hopes he doesn't. That he'll see through it and brave the storm for the both of you.

Unfortunately, the former occurs as Jake's eyes go cold, his jaw sets into sharp lines and his hands go limp at his sides. "Realistic?"

"Yes."

He doesn't fight back or spew insults he's well within his rights to say to you. All he does is walk out of the kitchen with hard stomps. The silence is worse than any profane exclamation he could've thrown out, and that's when you know you've broken your own heart by breaking his.

Jake isn't yours, so why is it so torturous to watch him mingle with another girl, especially one he knows as well as he knows you?

Aria Song, a local veterinary technician and Jake's high school ex-girlfriend, haunts you like a phantom as she wades in the pool like she's always belonged there.

"Jaeyun, stop it!" You hear her squeal, and you want to dunk her head so deep in the water you forget she exists.

Layla tucks her head in your lap as you watch Jake and Aria through the glass doors. He's swimming around his ex-girlfriend's pool lounger like he has no cares in the world. She kicks water at him with her toned legs and a wide grin on her face.

She may be nice enough for Jake to have remained friendly with her since their high school days, but you've not liked her one bit since they broke up and neither has Jamie. But Aria's solid proof to Jamie that you're not chasing after her brother, and therefore she's content to relax by the pool outside and suffer through the younger folks giggling and splashing each other like they're teenagers again.

You couldn't, not without your heart cracking even more than it already has. You thought feigning a stomach bug and deciding to rot on the couch was the best second option, but it only meant you had a semi-adequate front-row seat to Jake's little show that's been going on all afternoon.

He glances at you now and then beyond the panes of glass like he knows you're judging. Like he wants you to be envious of Aria's position.

The worst part is that you are; you're sick with jealousy to the point it's creating bile in the back of your throat. The green monster inside of you rears its head with gnashing teeth and cruel thoughts, and you don't stop it from growing in size.

She's younger, prettier, not intricately tied to his older sister the way you are. It's so much easier for him to not bother with you, to pick a safer option that isn't riddled with roadblocks. And he's clear he's chosen from the way he fawns over his guest with intense eyes.

Layla nuzzles your side as you grimace, stopping you from attempting to burn a hole in the pool attendees' heads with your stare. "I'm being ridiculous aren't I, girly girl?"

You take the tilt of Layla's head as confirmation you're acting crazy. You're about to take your blanket and pillow back up to the guest room when Jake walks into the house, body sopping wet and creating tiny puddles on the tile.

"You're gonna have to mop up the floor," you say to break the ice, despite being irritated with him for consorting with a perceived enemy.

Jake only nods and moves to the kitchen without another look in your direction, grabbing two water bottles from the fridge and then slamming it shut.

Before he leaves, he walks over and presses one of the plastic bottles in your palm, fingertips brushing yours. "Hydration will help with the stomachache."

With that, he leaves out the back door. Now, you're more confused than annoyed. What does it mean, one minute unable to speak to you and then caring for your wellbeing the next? It's a cacophony of whiplash, for sure.

You hear a cough behind you that takes you out of your ruminations, and you see Jihyun smiling at you before entering the living room, rubbing behind Layla's ears. "Ladybug, you two are something else."

You shake your head and pop open the water to gulp down. When you've taken a hefty sip, you say, "We're nothing Mrs. Sim. We made that clear already."

"Please don't call me that, honey. Mrs. Sim is my mother-in-law and you know that."

You chuckle. "Like I said, it's nothing to worry about."

Jihyun raises her hands and shakes her head. "I didn't say you were anything…" She walks closer and sets a hand on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "But if you were, this family would be more than better off with you in it. Whether or not some of us see that right now, it's true."

Before you can ask her what she means, she saunters back towards her bedroom with Layla following in tow; your brain imprints her knowing grin to memory.

The Sims can be incredibly cryptic when they want to be.

Aria spends dinner with all of you, and Jake even invites Heeseung over to liven up the mood that you and Jamie sour by remaining quiet. You can't help it; Aria is too bold, too bright, too everything you can't give Jake right now.

You spend that night with the family stoic and deadpan, only conversing with everyone in small sentences. You barely say goodbye to Aria and Heeseung when they take their leave, nodding at her once and not again as she walks out. Jamie notices the tension in your body, but you don't want to talk. You don't give her the time to ask. You just walk into the guest room without another word and hide away, hoping to finish the rest of the trip with no more issues. Your best friend might call you a buzzkill, but it's better than going against her wishes.

Another hour rolls by, and when you're on the verge of sleeping, Jake barrels into your room without closing the door.

"Do you care at all?" Jake huffs out, chest rising and falling fast. He tries to remain quiet out of your fear he'll wake Jamie in the next room, but you can tell from the tone in his voice that he's breaking his own resolve.

You rise from your bed and quickly shut the door, confusion overtaking you. "What are—"

"I spent all of this morning ready to burn under the sun without SPF trying to prove a point because you wanted me to be realistic, and you said nothing. All day and since the second Aria came by, you've had this terrible pout on your face. What do you want from me?"

You know exactly what you want. Maybe it's better to let it out now and give Jake some clarity, even if it'll kill him on the inside like it's doing to you.

"I want you to be happy," you say, "but I realized pretty quickly I want that happiness to be with me." You raise your arms weakly, tears threatening to spill over. "But I can't. Jamie is too important, and she's made it perfectly clear she thinks this would be too weird for her."

"What do you think?" Jake steps forward, hair tickling your face from how close he is to your body. That charge between you reignites; the current that's kept you inextricably linked hums like a live wire once again. "What do you want?"

You sigh, taking a deep breath, unable to swallow another unspoken word. "I want you. Of course I want you."

Jake smirks softly and captures his hand in yours, fingers intertwining. "Then have me. Have me in whatever way you want, as long as I get to have you back."

The time between Jake's last words and now, the two of you in a tangle of clothes, feels like a lifetime. The previous time you were intimate like this is nothing compared to right now. Where that was frantic and fast-paced with undergarments stuck to sweaty, sexually charged skin, this is slow and reverent. Jake undresses you like he's afraid you'll take back what you said and did just an hour ago. As if you could ever.

There's no way you can change your mind now; his charms have unknotted all of your left brain's logic.

He kisses your neck and collarbones with tenderness. He leans down to kiss the tops of both of your naked breasts, and it's like he's striking the match that will burn you alive.

You want to savor the moment like he clearly is, but it's too much and not enough, two sides of the same coin. You arch into him on his bed, your legs intertwining with his. "Jaeyun, if you don't do something right now, I will combust."

Jake chuckles and sucks one of your nipples in his mouth the second after you command him, biting and teasing the bud with his teeth, and your body bows even harder off of his sheets. The pleasure builds like a wave, and he's barely done anything.

Hedonistically, he slides his fingers down to your aching clit. Essence gathers between his fingers as he runs his hand across your folds eagerly. "You're dripping," he mumbles, his lips resting a breath from yours. "So warm and wet."

You moan and ride his fingers, his figure-eights on your swollen bud building you up further.

"I want to make you come, more than anything," Jake starts before kissing your lips between every other word. "But I want to feel you around me when you do it."

His naked body slots against yours when he moves in closer. His biceps, thighs, cock, and fingertips cling to you like it's your own skin, but it's only a fraction of how close you want him to be.

You've spent so long hiding in the shadows and denying your feelings for him, and now that you have him, you need to cherish every millisecond of time before you're forced back into that corner of the world he didn't occupy.

You clench around nothing, your walls fluttering from the way Jake's tip slides against your clit agonizingly slow. He watches it all, how you writhe and beg with your body, and he adores it.

"So beautiful." The resounding breathless chuckle on his tongue could be as loud as a gunshot with the way it rings in your ears. "If I knew how pretty you'd look like this," he starts, "I'd have made you mine a long time ago."

You gasp as his thumb replaces the head of his cock on your clit, rubbing small but intentional circles there. "Do you want me to be?" you ask, dazed.

In that second between your question and his response, he slides the entirety of his cock into you until he bottoms out, pelvic bones meeting like hands in prayer. "What do you think?"

You want to pinch yourself in this moment, ensure yourself it's real as he moves. He holds the back of your neck with one hand as he leans down to press his lips to yours. His hips give a sharp thrust that has you moaning into his mouth. You find purchase on his naked skin, running your palms along the lines of his shoulder blades down to the smooth planes of his hips.

This can't be another dream, can it?

"You're perfect," you gasp as he thrusts again. "How are you real?"

Jake smiles down at you, mystified by the question being asked by you and not him. He takes one of your hands in his to press to his chest. You hear the frantic tempo of his heartbeat, the sound a messy drumbeat that makes your own heart clench. "Is that real enough?"

It was never supposed to be like this, you and him. But it's too beautiful for the most extravagant words, thoughts, or feelings to describe.

"More than enough," you say with a breathless giggle. You pull him down for another kiss, tangling your fingers in the ends of his hair.

It's holy how much he cherishes you and the experience of having you. He doesn't press too hard or take too much, giving as well as he gets it. When you bite down on his neck, leaving a mark that for sure will bruise soon, he runs his fingers along your burning clit, running lovingly tight circles there to prove he enjoys your possessive acts. When you tell him how good it feels, he moves faster and deeper, returning your praise with more pleasure.

"It feels so good, baby. You're like heaven around me," he swears. "Tell me how it is for you."

No coherent words come to mind, but you settle on, "So fucking good, Yunnie. More than that even." The words sound jumbled off of your tongue, and he smirks from how fucked you already are on his cock. But the smile isn't condescending or smug, just teasing in the most loving way.

He's safe and open and yours, and you can't fathom how you've become so lucky to receive the chance to be his in return.

You suck him in eagerly as you near your release, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the screams you can't release into the air. Not unless you want to wake up the entire house.

"I know you're close," Jake grunts. His hand comes up to the headboard for leverage as he slams into you harder, his other hand stroking your clit with more pressure. "Come around me, baby. Show me what it's like when you let go."

You show him with all your might when you shatter into the millions of pieces he's created of you with his passion. Your eyes scrunch shut as your mouth falls open, jaw slacking from the pleasure that overloads your entire being. Body limp and face buried in Jake's pecs, you think about all the times you've spent in secret, wanting and wishing for him, whether or not you knew it.

Now, you know too well the way he envelops your soul, and you never want to stop knowing him like this.

Jake comes undone soon after, warmth flooding your body with his release as he moans in your ear about how beautiful you are alongside a barrage of curses. "Holy shit, I'm still coming," he swears, another minute spent with his body thrusting up into yours to release what's left of his cum into you. You could spend forever here, you think, wrapped up in each other and this man who is now yours lost in ecstasy.

Jake finally pulls out when he's exhausted all of his energy, and beads of pearly white cum drip out of you from the separation. You don't clean it up, and neither does he. You're both too spent and satiated to care.

"Hi," you croak, head resting on Jake's shoulder when he gets comfortable in his bed and pulls the covers over you. You're tucked up to your chin, protected but still vulnerable in the aftermath of your orgasm.

Jake grins and tucks a stray sweaty hair from your face. "Hi to you too, beautiful."

When he continues to stroke your hair like it's the most precious thing he's ever touched, you think all the consequences in the world are worth this. You believe, without a doubt, that every price you'll pay for his affection is worthwhile.

"You and Jake."

Jamie says the three words like they don't belong in the same sentence. She sits on the dining chair across from you and Jake, both your hands interlocked in front of her like you're her parents sitting down to reprimand her. But it's the other way around, clearly.

Today, she probably expected to find you both making breakfast again, like it was a normal day through and through. Even when you told her you both needed to speak to her, she trotted over to the dining table like nothing was wrong. And nothing was wrong in your eyes, but you knew Jamie's opinion would change the second you told her the truth.

"Yes."

"Dating?"

"Yes." It feels so good to say. You bite back the smile that threatens to tug your lips up. You should feel guilty for betraying Jamie the way you have, going against her word so shamefully, but you can't. It's not a sin you've committed, or a traitorous act that can't be forgiven.

Jamie slaps her hands against her knees, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "So, the talk we had meant nothing, clearly."

"It did, J. I just—"

"Wait, what talk?" Jake squeezes your palm once, showing his concern that you didn't tell him about whatever Jamie is referencing.

"That day before breakfast. She found me the morning after she went grocery shopping with your parents…and I said I'd stay away from you because she asked me to."

"You never told me that," Jake responds sadly. The blush creeping up his neck shows how embarrassed he must be by his actions afterward. You don't blame him for a second of it, though. It all worked out, anyway.

Your best friend huffs, prepared to vomit. "Don't talk to her like you know her."

"I do, Jamie." His tone drops, the soothing aura he had for you replaced with irritated admonishment of his older sister. You can tell he's exasperated from her judgement already. You squeeze his palm back to ask him silently to loosen up, and he unclenches his jaw to prove he's listening to you. He always seems to know what to do to make sure he is.

It's not love yet, but you're so close, it hurts.

"Please stop acting like you're the only one who does," Jake says finally.

"Really? Did you hold her hand the first time she got her period? Or when her and that douche boyfriend in sophomore year broke up with her right before Valentine's Day? Oh, let's not forget how she stole me a pack of Plan B during our senior trip to Spain."

"Jamie!" you shout, face turning red. "What the fuck?"

Jake just laughs sadly. "You may think you have a leg up on me, and that could be true. I don't have the history you both do. But I've cared about her for so long, longer than you may think." He sighs and turns to look at you, a small smile shared between you both as he strokes your skin with his thumb. "If you have to hate me or us for the way we feel, so be it."

"Stop acting like you're the mature one here!" Jamie shrieks. "Do you not understand how fucked this is?"

"You're the only one who thinks that way," you cut in. "You're making it more of a big deal than it has to be when we're all grown adults."

The scrape of her chair and stomp of her feet towards the backyard's glass door signifies your betrayal in her eyes. And the slam of the door against its metal lining exemplifies her burning rage. She would've yelled if not for her parents sleeping soundly upstairs, you know it.

You follow quickly behind, letting go of Jake's hand to run out to the backyard and follow her, passing Layla on the way to the door. Jake knows not to follow, and you appreciate him all the more for it. The end of the conversation lies between you and Jamie now.

You find her sitting with her knees tucked to her chest, overlooking the backyard fence and facing away from the pool. You cautiously sit down next to her, and she doesn't bristle or immediately scoot away. She's just quiet, unsure, and somehow that feels worse than her exploding at you right now.

"You know I love you, right?" you begin with that question because it feels the most apt. If she truly knew what you were risking, she wouldn't take your feelings or her brother's in this way, like it's a game both of you are playing with blind eyes.

She nods, silent and staring down at the surrounding grass.

"I really like him, Jamie." Your voice, as well as your eyes, flood with tears. It cracks on the sounds her name creates, and that makes her own eyes well up too.

"I never said you didn't."

"But you act like it's some fling. It kills me to see you hurt, but I can't put how I feel on hold anymore and neither can he." The words are both a relief to your own pain and an ache in your chest. Jamie's never been unable to feel the way she does, and you've never stopped her from doing so. But it's never been about her.

"I just don't want to lose you if it ends badly," Jamie confesses. She finally turns her gaze on you, irises glassy and the white of her eyes becoming red. "I can't."

You laugh sadly and pull her in close, shocked she could think such a thing. It gives way to understanding the fears Jamie has that're hidden beneath all the bluster. "That's never gonna happen, J, I promise. And I wouldn't be doing this if I thought your brother wasn't worth it."

Those two words—your brother—cause her to fake a gag. "Did it really have to be him, though? He doesn't brush his teeth until after breakfast, you know this."

You both share a chuckle, heads knocking into each other's and knees touching like nothing has changed. 

In a way, it doesn’t have to. With the silence, you feel her anger ebb away, replaced with a resigned acceptance that she can't change this; it's too late, and she'll have to go with it even if she's against it.

But some things will never change. You're still best friends, and you’ll always have each other, despite being Jake’s significant other now and her being his sister. They’re not mutually exclusive, and that’s okay. Above all else, you’ll be the one person she can turn to forever, and vice versa. That's how it's always supposed to be and will be.

"Josh finally wised up, thank God. He'll be coming to the house in a few days to meet my folks, so you and my brother better be on your best behavior!" Jamie waggles a finger in your direction as she drives further down the road to the university. She doesn't look at you directly, but the instruction is clear, for you and your boyfriend to be nice to her new flavor of the week, and it makes it that much more hilarious.

"Aren't we always?" You wiggle your eyebrows despite her not seeing, and her finger becomes a full-fledged hand in your face. You giggle, taking that hand in yours. "How much longer?"

"Ten minutes, you freak. You act like the last time you saw him was a thousand years ago."

It's been a month and two days since you've been in the same space as Jake, but who's counting? You fell asleep on the phone together last night, so it wasn't as though you went without him for too long, but physical cohabitation was another thing entirely.

Happy didn't explain the emotion you felt when Jamie recommended picking Jake up from school on the way to her parent's, even if it added an hour and a half to the drive. She knew as well as you did how much you missed him. That didn't stop her from teasing you about it incessantly, though.

You shrug and put her hand back in her lap, not denying her exaggeration. Your heart thrums harder with every minute that counts down to your arrival.

Jake's dorm hall appears through the thicket of trees. Small pockets of students walk out of the building holding beach bags and other luggage to take to their cars. Finally, emerging from the sea of people, Jake appears. His mess of floppy hair you'd recognize anywhere, the locks almost falling to his shoulders. He dons a long-sleeved shirt that hides every beautiful line of the body you know so well by now, and you think he hasn't changed at all. Still beautiful, still yours.

You barely wait for the car to stop before you get out. Your feet carry you with the speed of a thousand strikes of lightning. Unbothered by the way your ankles and thighs burn as you run faster, all that matters is the smile that widens on your boyfriend's face when he sees you.

Jake catches you in his arms after you leap into them. Your legs immediately wrap around his waist and squeeze his lower half. The Sim house used to be one of the few places you found solace, but it's just not true anymore. Now, it's in Jake too, his love the greatest peace you've ever known.

Jake plants kisses all over the crown of your head before meeting your lips, the taste of spearmint gum coating your tongue. You giggle mid-liplock, and Jake smiles brightly down at you. "Hi."

"Hi," you respond before pressing your mouth to his again.

"Okay, horndogs! We need to leave soon before all that braised pork goes to waste!" You both separate and turn to see Jamie with her arms crossed and a close-lipped smile on her face. She's not angry or put off by the sight before her, her best friend and little brother entangled like vines. If anything, the spark in her eyes is all for show, her happiness hidden under the surface, even with the added snarky commentary.

You used to think that there were two certainties in the world. But now, they're accompanied by another truth.

No matter how many trials and tribulations you go through, Jamie will always be your best friend. Your best friend often gets what she wants—although she couldn't stop you from falling for her brother. And you are head over heels for Sim Jaeyun, forever and always.

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@lovetaroandtaemin @filmnings @innocygnet @jaylaxies @xylatox @xomakara @gyubookeries @tinycatharsis @prkhaven @hannieoftheyear @frenchkisstheabyss @lovenha7 @wonberries @lyks02 @seokjinthescientist @icatpjs @kristynaaah @ikeuheartz @enhaslxt @jakeznii @heebear @immelissaaa @riqomi @universallyllamatimetravel @enhxlvr @jakesaverse @omglivss

© 𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗨𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!

[wisdomseulogy]

YOU WERE SO GOOD

MOB BOSS AU, Platonic! Batfam x gn!Reader (Mainly Dick)

TW: Death, gore (ish), angst, traumatic experiences

You were adopted by Bruce fairly young and didn't know that Bruce was actually the head of an organized crime syndicate (the mob) until Jason died and you learned the truth about your family.

You hated the mob/crime and the second you could you moved out of the manor and got your own apartment and job on the completely opposite side of Gotham

You never spoke to anyone in the family for years, having even gone so far as to get a new phone and phone number

But everything comes crashing down on you when you accidentally kill a man who was drunk and already injured after a bar fight. He runs into you and you gently push him out of the way but it makes him stumble backwards and hit his head just right on the pavement to die almost instantly

Freaking out and unsure of what to do, you decide to call the only number you still had memorized. Dicks. (Well you could probably try to remember Bruce's number but there was no way you were going to call him)

"Hello?" Dick says in a confused voice.

You shakily explain to him the situation and give him the cross street that you are standing at. Before you know it, there is an nondescript van pulling up with tinted windows.

Men in suits jump out and give you a once over before opening up the passenger side door. Dick steps out in his signature blue and black suit. Older than you remember but just as intimidating.

He walks around you looking for any injuries before motioning to the car. You open up your mouth to try and explain yourself but he shakes his head.

"Not here," he says in a rough voice while nodding his head toward a CCTV camera that was pointed precariously at you.

Most of the men that got out of the car stay there while you get into the backseat.

"Don't worry, they'll take care of it. I have Tim erasing the footage as we speak. The clean up crew will just make sure there is no trace of you on his body," he says so casually it makes you want to throw up. "I'm taking you to a safe house."

You open your mouth to argue, all you wanted to do right now was curl up in bed, but you decide not to fight it. You didn't know anything about the 'family business', once you found out the truth Bruce forced you to learn self defense and how to handle multiple different types of weapons. But you didn't want to learn all those things, you wanted to be a normal child from a normal family.

"I thought I could escape this life," you say softly. Dick's face twitches ever so slightly at your comment, but you can't see it. His face is focused on his phone as he is waiting for confirmation from Tim and the clean-up crew that everything has been handled.

"You're going to have to talk to Bruce eventually. It is only a matter of time before he knows. Nothing goes undetected under his watch," Dick says.

You shake your head, trying to keep both tears and your own thoughts at bay. The last thing you needed right now is to talk to your adoptive father.

After moving out of the manor, you changed your last name back to your birth parents last name, throwing away 'Wayne'. It was more than an act of rebellion, it was a way for you to signal to yourself that you were different from those monsters.

You're not sure how much time has passed, but you eventually arrive at the safe house. It is a decent sized cottage in a forested area. Out of all the safe houses, Dick decided to bring you to the one farthest from the city. If it wasn't for the fact that you knew Dick wasn't going to try and kill you or anything you would have been suspicious.

Instead of going straight to one of the rooms, you decide to hunker down on a slightly dusty couch in front of the fire place. Dick grabs some firewood and old newspaper and starts a fire.

Your brain wonders as you watch the flames dance around. The reality that you inadvertently killed someone clawing at the outer edges of your consciousness.

You don't even notice that Dick's phone keeps buzzing and barely even register when he steps outside periodically.

Some part of you wondered if this was all a very elaborate dream. In no real world would you ever willingly call your siblings. Thus, this must be some figment of a twisted imagination. A nightmare meant to instill lifelong psychological trauma instead of a quick momentary fear.

But the way the mans blood pooled under him and the scent of copper and liquor was all too real. And you didn't know if you would ever be able to remove either of those two from your memories.

You're sure everyone has heard about this by now. And in your twisted imagination fueled by self-hatred and yearning, you imagine them laughing at you. Joking about how you have finally become like them. That you finally killed someone and so now you can no longer say that you are not like them.

You imagine Damien's sneer, his insults were always the worst and you can't imagine he has changed all too much since you last saw him. Even though he was just a kid back then.

Their wicked smiles and sneers, teeth speckled with blood and flesh taunt your waking mind. Dancing behind your eyes like a macabre comedy. And even in these glances of imagination, you could not defend yourself. Defend yourself from your own torture. The torture you started.

You grabbed the whip when you pushed the guy out of the way, and you cracked the whip against your own back when you stood there silently watching him bleed out. Maybe you could have called an ambulance. Maybe you could have tried to help and maybe that could have saved him. But instead you just stood there in abject shock. The whip hits you again when you decide to call the mob instead of the police. And once again when you hear Dicks voice again. As if all those years that you made sure to distance yourself from that hellhole of a family were nothing and you were back living at the manor.

But no amount of physical pain could ever drown out the knowledge that you are more worried about being seen as a monster than you were about the fact that someone died. That was a fact that you pushed far into your subconscious, deep into the pits of hades. And you threw the only key that could unlock that knowledge into the river Styx and stood silently, making sure it sunk all the way to the bottom.

You don't remember going to sleep, or grabbing a blanket, but all of a sudden you are back in reality. The ocean-like sounds of the forest surrounding you like a pastoral hug. Birds were chirping. Flies were buzzing.

Even though your world ended, the world did not.

"Do you still drink coffee?" Dick asked from the kitchen.

Right, he was still here. You look down at the multicolor wool blanket depicting the migration of bison that Dick must have wrapped around you while you were sleeping.

"Yeah," you respond.

"Any preference?" He asks.

"No."

Not before long, Dick walks over with a mug. You grab it hesitantly and look down at the sand colored liquid.

"Put some oat milk and sugar in there," he said as he slowly sipped his own coffee.

Your chest tightened slightly. Of course they would know how you made your coffee every morning. At this point, it feels almost stupid to ask how he knew that without you telling him. Could it be a guess? Or more likely, did they never stop watching you.

How many cameras were installed in your apartment? Microphones? Of course you could never escape them. You were family. And when you have nothing and the world is a dark dangerous place filled with death at every corner, at least you still had family. Or that's how they thought. But you hated their twisted version of what it meant to be family.

You take a tentative sip and then look up at Dick expectantly. There was an unspoken connection. Both of you knowing what the other was going to say.

"How do you know that?"

"Do you really want to know?"

You think for a moment and take another sip. In all honesty, you didn't want to know. You enjoyed the illusion of privacy and the illusion of freedom. And anything you did to try and hold on tighter to that illusion (finding cameras, figuring out which people in your life they pay for information about you, etc.) was only going to make them work harder. Because you were family. Family.

"Not really," you conceded.

His lips twitched upward slightly, like he had won some grand victory. You started questioning everything. Had they planted that guy there so you would call them? No...they wouldn't do that. They just have a depraved version of care, and Bruce was never one to let someone die without a reason.

"We're having a family dinner tonight, maybe you could stop by. For old times sake, you know?" He asks casually, leaning against the mantle of the fireplace. The fire had long died some time in the night.

You almost chuckled at his question. "With those monsters? Hell no. I would rather die." A bit harsh, even you knew that, but its how you truly felt.

They were monsters and you were...well not a monster. Whatever the opposite of evil incarnate was. That was what you were. A bright and glowing peal in a dark sea. A singular white dove in a wildfire holding onto the last unharmed olive branch. That was what you were.

They were the fire. They were the darkness. They were evil and they were death. They were the monsters under your bed and you were praying helplessly for them to go away. You were on top of the bed and they were below it.

"Monsters...right. Monsters. Evil scary...monsters. How is your life by the way? Got yourself a nice apartment." You don't notice the tightness in his jaw, the coldness in his eyes.

"It's good. I work 9-5. Administration stuff mostly. Lots of email. But it pays well. I have my nice little studio apartment in the good part of Gotham. I have a cat named Titus. That's pretty much it," you respond casually. The coffee tasted just like you always made it. Dick must have gotten the same blend too.

He waits a moment. Wondering if you were going to ask him how he's been, but he knew that such a wish was not grounded in reality.

"Why did you stay in Gotham? The apartment, the job, the cat, it all makes sense. But you could have all those things in any city. Why did you stay here?" Maybe a part of him hoped that the happy kid that he always remembered that would sneak out with him to look up at the stars and listen to music was still there.

They had wanted to protect you. Thought that maybe by never explaining what the family business actually was, you'd be happier. And maybe if Jason didn't die and the truth came out in a much smoother and more regulated way then you would have understood them better. But Dick lost two siblings that day, you and Jason. And Bruce lost two children.

Nothing was the same after that. Though, how could they expect everything to be the way it once was. Holding onto those poisonous nostalgic memories brought him a slight hope that maybe things could eventually go back to the way they once were. Before you shut all of them out.

His question startled you. You never thought about it before. You could have moved to Bludhaven, Metropolis, so many different places. But you never left Gotham. You found the 'safest' part of the city and moved there. Found the safest job and worked there. But you were always only a few bus rides away from Crime Alley.

There weren't that many sirens in your part of the city. Not that many people screaming in the middle of the night. Not that much crime. Your apartment building even had a security guard that would walk you to the bus station if you asked.

When your neighbors learned that you grew up in Gotham, they told you how happy they are it is finally getting better. That finally all that evil crime was going to be stopped and all Gotham needed to drive out all the criminals was more coffee shops and Pilates studios. An old warehouse was recently demolished to build an expensive high-rise building.

But you knew the unsettling truth. There weren't less homeless people, they were just being put onto inter-city busses with a one-way ticket out of the city. There wasn't less crime, the crime was just invisible. Because this was still Gotham.

A part of you wondered how you could ever leave the city that raise you. Gotham was just as much of a part of your family as your dead parents were. And to leave that behind, the last proof you had that at least at one time you were loved, would mean to leave yourself behind.

And you knew who truly controlled Gotham. The Wayne family had the power, trash, gas and water company under their control. Let alone also having control of a multi-billion dollar company. Some of the police force was even inside the Wayne's pocket book.

"The rent was cheap," you respond. You stared at each other in a long awkward silence. "How have you been?" You finally ask.

He raises his eyebrows and looks off to the side. "Oh you know, same old same old. Working nights. Got a few modeling gigs though. I also do a few podcasts here and there about the importance of philanthropy or you know how to be a playboy 101. Few events here and there. Nothing you can't read about in the news."

"Working nights?" You knew what that meant. But you had to ask anyways.

"Yeah. Working nights. As I am sure you are aware. Since you just saw me on the job. Though," he takes a long drawn out sip of coffee. "I thought you wouldn't want to hear about all of that monster talk."

"It's-" you begin but he cuts you off.

"No I get it. I really do. You are a good person. You have a good person job and you live in a good person apartment in a good person part of town with your good person cat living your good person life. I get it. I am a bad person living in my bad person penthouse going about my bad person life. That's why you left right? So you wouldn't have to associate with bad people?" His face is cold and indifferent. Something you've seen from Bruce many times, but never Dick.

"I-I don't want to be a bad person. I don't want to hurt people."

Dick sets his empty cup of coffee on the mantle of the fireplace and stares into the coals. "You act like you're so high and mighty when we both lived and grew up in the same manor. The only difference between you and me is that you got to have a childhood and I didn't. We both have the same adoptive father. We both laughed and played together."

"That's before I found out what the family business actually was!" You nearly shout. This was your worst nightmare. Having to relive all of those memories while trapped in some secluded safehouse.

"Your toys, your furniture, your clothes. It was all paid for by the family business. It was all bought with dirty money. You wouldn't have all of those things if it weren't for the business."

"I didn't want those things. I just wanted a normal family that loved me!"

Dick turns around instantly. His eyes like darts honing in on the bullseye. "We love you. Our love for you wasn't fake. You were the one that threw it all away. Granted, Bruce should not have instantly thrown you into the fire by making you train like some soldier, but he was doing that so that you could defend yourself. The most dangerous weapon in this line of business is knowledge all of a sudden you knew everything. Which meant there was no longer any plausible deniability in case something happened."

"After Jason died..." you pause as the memories flood back. "I told Bruce I was scared that the Joker would kill me too. And you want to know what Bruce did? He handed me a gun! He should have told me I would be fine."

"But there is no guarantee you would be fine. He wasn't going to lie to you. Would you have preferred we just lied to you the rest of your life so that you could live in this fake scenario where we are all one big happy normal family?"

You wanted to say yes but you hesitated.

"Why do you care so much about being good?" Dick asked. His chest heaving with unresolved anger and frustration. All those years of no-contact finally getting to him.

You fidget with the hem of the blanket. In all honesty, you didn't know why you cared so much. But isn't that what everyone should strive for? To be good? To be perceived as good? Right?

The moral of every superhero story is that the hero is good and the villain is bad. The villain is defeated because they are bad and the hero is praised for their goodness. The villain is never praised. They are buried with maybe a headstone if they are lucky.

The villain is forgotten while the city rejoices and parties in the streets as the hero once again saved everyone. Maybe that's what you wanted. To be praised by everyone. To be loved. By everyone. To never be forgotten. But in doing so...you forgot yourself. Forgot who you were and forgot where you came from.

---

Not beta read

[kannady]

through the embers

pairing: dragon!sylus x dragon-slayer!reader

summary: you're a dragon slayer who lost her family to a massacre years ago. when youre ordered to capture a rare dragon for the royal arena, you instead find a grieving creature mourning his lost kin.

a/n: learning from my mistakes, i organised all my ideas for this story beforehand. ive been thinking about this plot for sooo long, but idk if anyone's written smth like this so i decided to try it myself. hope you like this one! (reposted)

For generations, it was simple.

They were not to be spoken to. They were not to looked in the eye. They were certainly not to be trusted. Yet for all the fear they inspired, they had never earned it. They nested in distant peaks, their great shadows passing over villages like fleeting storms. No farms were ever pillaged. No children were stolen. The worst they ever did was occasionally snatch a sheep, and even then, the shepherds would find coins left in its place by dawn.

Until the night Traus burned.

It should have been just another night. The city had been alive with lanterns and laughter, its streets humming with merchants closing their stalls, taverns spilling warm light onto the cobblestones. 

You could still smell the bread from the ovens, they said. Still hear the last notes of the minstrel’s song.

Then the sky caught fire.

No warning. No demands. Just the sudden, searing horror of wings blotting out the moon. The dragons fell upon Tarus like a reckoning. They did not simply burn the city, they erased it. Stone melted like wax. People turned to ash mid-scream. By the time the first embers cooled, there was nothing left to bury.

No one survived.

That was the official decree, anyway. But fate has a way of leaving loose threads.

A traveling physician found you at dawn, curled on his doorstep like a discarded doll. A child, no older than eight, skin streaked with soot and blood, breaths shallow as a wounded bird’s. You didn’t remember running. Didn’t remember how you’d escaped when thousands had not. 

When he pressed you for answers, all you could recall was the sound of screams, the roar of flames.

In your nightmares, the dragons returned, their eyes like polished coins, their wings slicing the sky into ribbons. You awoke gasping, fingers clawing at your throat, as if you could still feel the heat of Tarus choking you.

Everyone called it a tragedy, but to you it was a promise. A promise of revenge.

***

You’d woken at dawn, as always, and slipped into the forest with a basket hooked over your arm. The earth was still damp from last night’s rain, the air thick with the scent of wet soil. You moved with practiced ease, plucking sprigs of lavender, winding roots of valerian from the soft earth, anything Dorian (the physician) might need for his remedies. 

It was peaceful work. 

By midday, you returned to the cottage, its thatched roof smudged against the sky, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. Gilda (physician’s wife) was waiting, as she always was, with a cup of tea steaming in her hands. Chamomile and honey, your favorite. You took it with a smile, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

"Long morning?" she asked, brushing a leaf from your hair.

You shrugged. "The woods were generous today."

She hummed, eyeing the basket. "Enough for a dozen tonics, at least. You’ll put your father out of business at this rate."

The word 'father' still sent a flicker of warmth through your chest, even after all these years. They’d never asked for anything in return, never treated you as anything less than their own. But love like that came with a price, worry.

You saw it in the way Dorian’s hands stilled whenever you sharpened your knives. In the way Gilda’s voice tightened when you mentioned the dragon hunters’ guild.

"Dragons are monsters, and monsters are meant to be slain," you’d say, parroting the words that had kept you awake for years.

"Then let someone else slay them," they’d reply. "Why does it have to be you?"

You never answered. You didn’t have to because they knew.

The knock came just as you were finishing your tea.

Three sharp raps against the door. You set the cup down, frowning. The physician exchanged a glance with his wife before nodding at you.

The man at the door was dressed in colors you recognized instantly, the king’s livery. Crisp emerald and gold, a silver brooch gleaming at his collar. He held himself like someone accustomed to delivering messages.

Without a word, he extended a scroll, its parchment thick, its seal pressed deep with the royal insignia. You took it, and he bowed, crisp and formal, before retreating to wait beside a polished carriage.

This wasn’t a request.

Back inside, Gilda clutched her shawl tighter as you broke the seal. The parchment unfurled, the ink stark and commanding.

You read it aloud.

"By order of His Majesty, King Astor, you are summoned to the royal court at once. Your presence is required in matters pertaining to the security of the realm and the fulfillment of a court order."

A pause. 

"The carriage awaits."

Dorian’s face paled. Gilda reached for your hand, her grip trembling.

This was it. The moment they’d feared. The moment you’d prepared for.

You looked up, meeting their eyes.

"Well," you said softly, rolling the scroll shut. "Guess I’d better pack my knives."

Gilda rushed to your side as you packed, her hands fluttering over your belongings as if she could will them to disappear. "This isn’t right," she whispered, voice fraying at the edges. "They’ve never called for you before. If the king is summoning a hunter now, it must be something terrible, something even his knights can’t handle."

Dorian stood rigid by the door, his knuckles white around the frame. "You don’t have to go," he said, though they both knew the lie in it.

You paused, a dagger half-wrapped in cloth, and nodded toward the window. The royal messenger stood motionless beside the carriage, his expression unreadable. "He’s still waiting. I don’t think I really have a choice here."

Her hands caught yours, warm and rough from years of grinding herbs, stitching wounds. You held them tight, squeezing once. "It’s okay," you murmured. "If it’s anything too dangerous, I’ll step back. I promise."

They didn’t argue. They just watched, silent and stricken, as you slung your pack over your shoulder and stepped outside.

They knew you wouldn’t step back.

The carriage ride was smooth, almost insultingly so.

No bumps, no jolts. Just the steady rhythm of hooves against immaculate stone. The road to the castle was wide and well-tended, lined with torches that burned even in daylight. You stared out the window, watching the world blur into shades of green and gold.

Too soon, the iron gates loomed ahead.

The castle was worse up close. Towers clawed at the sky, their banners snapping like the wings of caged birds. A group of officials waited at the entrance, their postures stiff, their faces carefully blank.

The carriage halted. The door swung open.

A man in embroidered robes stepped forward, his hand extended. "Welcome," he said, voice clipped. "I am Lord Edric, the king’s advisor. You are expected."

You took his hand, cold, despite the sun and let him guide you forward. The others fell into step behind you like a funeral procession.

"What’s going on?" you asked, keeping your voice low.

Lord Edric didn’t so much as glance at you. "I am strictly forbidden to speak on this matter."

The great doors of the royal court yawned open.

The weight of stares pressed against your skin like a blade’s edge. The court stretched before you, a sea of silk and jewels, every noble’s gaze sharp with judgment. At the center, atop a gilded throne, sat King Astor, his posture relaxed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Beside him, the queen regarded you with an icy look. Her lips curled faintly as you approached, as if the mere sight of your worn boots on her polished floors was an insult.

You halted before the dais, acutely aware of how out of place you were, rough and common. Swallowing, you attempted a curtsy. Your knees wobbled and your hands fumbled at your sides.

A sharp, derisive scoff cut through the silence. The queen didn’t bother to hide her smirk. Heat crawled up your neck, but you forced yourself to straighten. "Sorry," you muttered. "I’ve never done that before."

The king waved a hand, his smile easy. "No matter." His voice was warm. He leaned forward slightly, studying you. "So. You’re the famous dragon slayer."

You let out a dry chuckle. "Famous? I don’t know about that. But dragon slayer?" Your fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at your belt. "That, I am."

The king didn’t blink. For a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of courtiers shifting on their feet. 

"Would you like gold, jewels, and wealth ten times your weight?"

You blinked. "Sorry, what?"

He didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he gestured to a servant, who unrolled a map across a nearby table. The parchment was old, its edges frayed, but the markings were unmistakable.

"A thousand miles east," the king said, tapping the map, "lie the ruins of Tarus."

Your breath hitched.

"My officials tell me," he continued, "that a rare species of dragon nests there now. A creature unlike any other." His gaze locked onto yours. "Bring it to me. Alive and unharmed. And you will be rewarded generously."

The queen’s scoff echoed again, quieter this time. "Assuming she doesn’t get herself killed," she murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

You ignored her. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the whispers of the court.

Tarus. The city of ashes. The place where your nightmares began.

And now, the king wanted you to walk back into its heart and steal a dragon from its ruins?

You exhaled slowly. "Alive and unharmed?" you repeated.

The king nodded. "Generously."

Your fingers trembled as they traced the map’s faded ink, over the jagged coastline, past the forests you once knew, until they hovered above the smudged ruins.

Your city. Your home. The place where your childhood had ended in fire and screams. But of course, no one knew that, apart from Dorian and Gilda. He’d forbade you from ever disclosing that secret. He never told you why, just brushed it off as a gut feeling. So to all prying eyes, you were just an orphan they’d adopted out of the goodness of their hearts. 

A hot pressure built behind your eyes. The court blurred, the murmurs of nobles fading into a distant hum. You could almost smell the smoke again, hear the crackling of burning wood, the screams of people as they burned alive.

"But why?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and unsteady.

The king leaned back on his throne, unfazed. "My son’s eighteenth birthday approaches," he said, as if discussing nothing more than a feast or a tournament. "He’s always been... fascinated by dragons. Wishes to see one up close." A dismissive flick of his hand. "I’m organizing an arena for the occasion. A spectacle."

Your stomach turned.

An arena. A spectacle.

They wanted to drag a living dragon, one of the creatures that had turned Tarus to cinders, into some gilded pit, to be gawked at by nobles who had never known fear, never known loss. And they wanted you to fetch it for them.

The queen’s voice slithered into the silence. "Surely a dragon slayer isn’t frightened of a little hunt?" Her smile was all teeth. "Unless, of course, you’re not as skilled as they say."

The king shot her a warning glance before turning back to you. "Name your price," he said, as if that settled it. "Gold? Land? A title? It’s yours if you bring me the beast."

Your nails bit into your palms.

This was sacrilege. This was madness.

But it was also your chance. To return to Tarus. If you couldn’t harm the beast, you could surely slay the rest. Perhaps those who massacred your family, still remained. This was what you’d prepared for your whole life. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and met the king’s gaze.

"I’ll do it," you said softly.

[devswritingcornerorsmth]

Headcanons for Mitchell Linn and Stefan*Underrated Dateable* who are dating a Reader who a baker who often stress bakes dozen pastries and desserts to point of overstuffing pantry cabinets and fridge

stefan my BELOVED i would kill for mr cluckles rip freddy and cabrizzio tho

Stefan

= Stefan was never much for baking, but did enjoy it every now and then. He doesn't mind it at first when you first start to bake, ending up with a dozen pasties or so. And then the next day, and the next, then he realizes there's a problem.

= He knows you love baking, and it's your job, but there's this nagging feeling inside of him that something is wrong. Even this is too much for him.

= Cabrizzo ends up complaining to Daisuke, who now barely has enough room to even breathe due to all the tupperware being filled with sweets, bread, and other things like that. Freddy has had to "secretly" throw some of the sweets away after sitting for too long and going bad. They all go to Stefan since he's the one technically helping you make all the sweets. He, with some annoyance and encouragement from Mr. Cluckles, agrees to help.

= Stefan wants to give you the benefit of the doubt, telling himself you're just doing what you love, but clearly this is for your own state of mind instead of putting the pastries in your bakery, or bringing them to friends and family, you wrap them up and put them away for later.

= Stefan confronts you as calmly as he can next time you go to bake, asking if everything was alright and why you were baking so much, with the helpful supervision of Mr Cluckles. He understands how calming it can be to focus on doing something you love, hell, he's a chef and cooks to see people smile.

= If someone is causing you to do this, like a bully or rude relative, he takes a moment, looks to Mr Cluckles, looks back to you, and says that the person is lucky he's a stove rooted in place.

= If you tell him it's no big deal, he gets a little ticked off but quickly calms down. Stefan won't force anything out of you if you don't want to tell him, but he still tells you that he's worried... and won't turn on until you tell him. He quickly takes that back when he sees your face fall, trying to play it off as a joke. Stefan cups your cheeks and tells you that he's here for you when you're ready.

= When you do tell Stefan what's going on, he stays silent and listens while cooking your comfort food. Baking helps you focus, helps you get away, comforts you, etc. He understands all of that since he is a chef, but this is a little much, even for him. Freddy and Cabrizzio are worried about the pasties going bad and making you sick if you do try to eat them, and Stefan is worried for you in general.

= He tries to convince you to try and find another way to alleviate your stress. He suggested asking other objects for things to do or to hang out with a friend (or multiple) to get your mind off things. Stefan doesn't want you to give up baking altogether if it's your ultimate relaxer, but maybe take a small break to get your chicks in a row. And hey, he can always give you cooking lessons instead!

--

Mitchell Linn

= Mitchell only notices when Cabrizzo and Freddy start complaining about being overstuffed and uncomfortable. Also, the fact that he barely has any breathing room anymore. He's noticed you around Stefan a lot more and figured you were planning on moving your bakery here for him to review, or starting one! Mitchell quickly learns that's not the case when he sees Freddy throw out a few week-old pastries.

= He's quick to ask you about it, asking if everything was alright and why you were baking so much. He won't mind if you don't tell him right away, but he'll be worried about you and wonder what he could do to help.

= Mitchell tries to help you relax in his own way, taking you out to the few restaurants in the house to just relax, calm down, and talk. He doesn't jump to your stress baking just yet, listening to you talk about everything and anything until he places his hand over yours, unless you don't like physical touch, and clears his throat.

= He tells you that he knows you've been stress baking and that something is clearly stressing you out to the point you make so much so often. Mitchell has heard about stress baking and why people do it, but he wants to know why you're doing it. He won't force you to say anything or tell him, but it's clear he's expecting an answer and an honest one.

= If it's someone in your personal life bothering you, he advises you to try and limit contact with them or cut them out entirely. If/When he's Realized, he writes a horrible review of that person even if they're not a food critic out of spite.

= If it's personal things like mental health or something close to that, he offers to be a shoulder to lean on if you need it.

= Mitchell then offers to help you start a bakery here at the house for all the objects, so none of the sweets go to waste! He helps you go over a location, menu, style, etc. Even if he finds some things tacky, he keeps them to himself, just wanting to see you happy.

= The both of you are surprised when the bakery becomes a hit, objects coming in and out almost every day to try some of your baking. Even Rebel showed up and proceeded to steal a dozen or so sweets from you. Talking to them later, they admit to actually liking it... before calling you a few choice words and running off, embarrassed.

= Mitchell is happy that you're using your talents for good instead of stuffing them away to either be thrown out later or eaten by yourself. All the rest of the objects and Dateables are happy too.

----

stefan is underated and i love him and Mr cluckles his realized form was a jumpscare tho-

[djarins-cyare]

A Be-All And Endor NSFW Alphabet

(and my eternal gratitude)

So, that crying you hear is me because the week before last, Be-All And Endor exceeded 2,000 kudos on AO3! 😭😭

I’ve been nowhere near emotionally stable enough over the past two weeks to adequately express how this made me feel. When it ticked past 2k, I was four days into what turned out to be a ten-day-straight stint of working between 9 and 16 hours a day (literally illegal), had a birthday approaching (an unwelcome event past the age of 39), and a mandatory visit to the loony bin (AKA family home) on the cards. I was f-r-a-g-i-l-e.

And I also wasn’t ready. I hadn’t prepared something fun to offer in return for all the kindness my readers have shown. I wanted to do something special, like write you a bonus scene or something, but I had nothing to offer. Okay, sure, I’ll be posting a brand new fic as soon as the editing’s done, but this is a Be-All milestone, so I wanted to do something related to that fic.

So, I scoured the resources I’d put together when writing Be-All, and in a subfolder I hadn’t looked at in ages, I stumbled across the beginnings of an NSFW Alphabet I was going to write for Din. I had actually forgotten all about it!

But I had only written one letter: A.

Okay, my tired brain thought, I can write a few more letters in between the work and family shitstorms. So I did. And I think it’s what kept me from completely breaking down beneath the weight of the stresses. This fandom, the people here, the symbiotic acts of producing stories that bring happiness to others and being rewarded with kudos, then passing the appreciation onto others… they’re what keep me going when times are tough, and you have no idea how thankful I am for that.

So, I hereby offer you my undying gratitude in the form of six letters extracted from the still-under-construction Be-All And Endor NSFW Alphabet:

T, H, A, N, K and S.

Be-All And Endor NSFW Alphabet (excerpt): The Gratitude

Rating: Explicit (18+) Pairing: Din Djarin x OC!Reader Word count: 5,460 Tags/warnings: A young and very naïve version of Din; mentions of prostitution, sex toys, masturbation, anal (fingering, pegging, P in A sex), P in V sex, creampie, cum play, taste kink, mention of extra-marital sex/partner sharing, hickeys, exhibitionist urges, mention of bondage and breath play, cockwarming, somnophilia (bordering on non-con but not really bc they just fell asleep in the middle)… did I miss anything? Author’s Note: If you haven’t read Be-All, this will spoil a few things for you. The original fic is written entirely from Reader’s POV, and this bonus is intended to be read at the end to offer some insights into the origins of Din’s adorable sexual naïveté, as well as what and how he was thinking during particular (sexy) events that occurred before, throughout, and after the fic.

T = Toy

Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?

Din’s apprentice journeys took him to many shadowed corners of the Outer Rim. After all, he had to learn how to fight in uncontrolled conditions. But it wasn’t until he ventured out into the galaxy alone, chasing credits and quarry, that he discovered the seedier side of the underworld, and with that came the revelation of sex toys.

Sure, he’d been to red light sectors and leisure zones before. He knew the basics of sex and was aware that many beings throughout the galaxy treated it as a commodity. His teacher had even dragged him through a brothel on a mission, though all Din saw were scantily clad dancers and the polished gleam of a well-stocked bar.

He’d also passed countless shop window displays during his travels – endless rows of imitation genitals, slick lubricants, and bizarre contraptions lit up behind transparisteel. But without context, and with his teacher hurrying him forward... well, you couldn’t fault a naïve kid like him for assuming such places were pleasure droid repair shops. Just another unseemly trade flourishing in those morally bankrupt districts.

It wasn’t until later that he learned most of those items were toys for living beings to use at home on themselves and each other. Mortification crashed through him at his innocent mistake, instantly crystallising into a disdain for sexual aids. Not that anyone ever uncovered his childlike ignorance on the topic, but Din was always his own harshest critic.

He convinced himself such things were superfluous. Vulgar. Pointless. He could bring himself to climax without artificial assistance, and surely, the heat of living flesh would surpass anything synthetic. So why resort to using substitutes? Despite his sexual inexperience, he was adamant that anyone skilled at sex wouldn’t need to augment their performance.

He was still stubbornly clinging to this belief when he met his soulmate on Endor’s forest moon. Once they became intimate, he found subtle ways to convey his opinion to her, one such chance arising after her mid-session plea for him to fill her with anything – even her hairbrush handle. He swallowed his fierce objection and gently dismissed her idea, telling her that whatever she’d used before he came along had no place in their relationship. It delighted him that she instantly backtracked, promising she’d only tried it once, and it found it lacking.

Excellent – his cyar’ika shared his disdain for such artifice.

Or so he believed.

Attitudes shifted when they began exploring anal play. Din knew it was something that intrigued him, having figured out as a teenager that a carefully positioned finger in his own ass could intensify his orgasms. But he’d learned the hard way that saliva was a poor lubricant, hurting himself more than once, so he rarely risked it. When he discovered the self-lubricating miracle of the vagina, he was somewhat envious. However, he remained adamant that he didn’t need artificial assistance. He wasn’t that desperate.

Being with a sexual partner he trusted finally gave him the chance to push boundaries, but he didn’t know how to raise the topic of anal play. Questions were difficult for him anyway, unpractised as he was at courtship, so he found ways to hint at his interest.

He started with brief caresses, testing how slick he could make her back there using her own arousal. Then, when the opportunity arose, he cautiously slipped his thumb partway into her tight little hole. She was clearly shy about it – though so was he – but her willingness to explore further both relieved and delighted him. When she suggested she return the favour, joy blazed through his chest.

He hadn’t realised she’d purchased lube on Tatooine. En route back to Endor, she suggested it was his turn, and he leapt at the chance. He didn’t consider how until he emerged from his shower to find her waiting with the bottle at the ready. She must have ventured into Mos Eisley’s leisure zone and bought it from some sex toy vendor, which he wouldn’t have approved of had he known. But with the prospect of pleasure so close, his appetite outweighed his aversion.

The next half hour shattered his preconceptions. With her fingers working magic in his ass, he shot the biggest wad of cum of his life down her throat and decided that lube was a welcome addition. Okay, so it wasn’t a natural substance, but it wasn’t a toy.

And so, Din adjusted his bias.

But as determined as she was with her fingers, it wasn’t long before he began wondering how something larger might feel. The thought invaded his dreams, where it evolved into a fantasy. Soon, he found himself imagining an impossible alternate reality in which his riduur possessed both the soft warmth of a cunt and the firm length of a cock.

Eventually, after a session where he’d demanded she press deeper despite knowing the limits of her fingers’ reach, she suggested a toy. She prefaced her proposal by addressing his dislike of them, promising to consider his specific needs and tastes when selecting something.

Once again, appetite outweighed aversion. Din agreed, and she visited Glavis Ringworld’s red light sector before they departed. Since his Darksaber injury prevented him from escorting her, he insisted she arm herself to the teeth in case of trouble.

When she unveiled her choice weeks later, he was thunderstruck. He hadn’t thought it possible to love this woman more than he already did, but somehow, she’d plucked his deepest, most outrageous fantasy from his mind and given it perfect form. The realistic dildo strapped to her even matched her skin tone, its synthetic flesh warm and inviting.

Suddenly, his historic contempt for sex toys seemed so ignorant.

And as he climbed over her and slowly lowered himself onto the firm yet silky cock – lubed up and warmed by her body – his baseless prejudice dissolved entirely. Finally, he understood that sex toys weren’t just substitutes for deficient sexual skills but gateways to entirely new realms of pleasure.

He hasn’t looked back since.

H = Hair

How well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?

Personal grooming remained a mystery to Din until tragically late in his adolescence. Once foundlings swear the Creed, they’re encouraged to keep their hair short enough to stay hidden beneath their helmets. For the young boy from Aq Vetina, however, things weren’t that simple.

Most Mandalorian children and adopted foundlings have families they can remove their helmets around, who guide them through proper self-care methods. Din was ten when rescued – already two years beyond the age at which training begins. That meant instant enrolment in the Fighting Corps, bypassing the adoption process that the younger foundlings underwent. All children aged eight to thirteen were trained within the Fighting Corps, spending three nights of the week in the barracks and the remaining two nights with their families. Din was the only foundling raised in the Fighting Corps, spending all five nights of the week in his narrow bunk.

His lessons focused on combat and survival, covering everything from physical prowess to tactical thinking, as well as practical skills and knowledge. But whilst his training emphasised excellent hygiene (since scent could betray one’s position to enemies), personal grooming was not part of the curriculum.

When his dark hair grew long enough to escape his helmet’s confines, he hacked at it with a vibroblade. The concept of facial shaving simply didn’t occur to him, having never witnessed those around him perform such maintenance. But awareness slowly dawned as he went on his journeys with his teacher. Observing human males throughout the galaxy gave him pause, stirring buried memories of his father’s neatly trimmed beard. He soon concluded he ought to do something about the patchy whiskers framing his face.

After badly slicing his chin with his vibroblade, he approached his teacher for guidance. The older man was genuinely surprised to hear a seventeen-year-old ask about shaving. He’d never considered that his apprentice lacked anyone to instruct him in such basic self-care. Their next journey included a market stop, and Din returned to Concordia’s barracks with his very own electric grooming device.

He used the groomer on his scalp for a while, too, having decided that efficiency was the key to good grooming. It only took him a couple of months to realise that he preferred the cushioning effect of more hair inside his helmet. Frustrated, he let it grow out again. On his next market trip, he acquired some proper scissors, then spent weeks working out how to trim what he couldn’t see. Wearing a thick leather glove to protect his fingers worked wonders, and he took genuine pride in this self-taught skill.

He didn’t consider trimming his pubic region until years later, when a cruel comment from Xi’an made him self-conscious enough to wonder if other men maintained their hair down there.

The instant he declined her request for a repeat fuck, she transformed from flirtatious to furious. Hurling every insult she could conjure, her tirade was so loud that it drew the crew’s attention. Once the vindictive Twi’lek realised she had an audience, her attacks turned personal, attempting to ‘expose’ whatever she could about Din’s hidden appearance.

Most of it was patently false – he was pretty sure his cock wasn’t tiny – but when she sneered, “And he doesn’t shave at all – his pubes are like a kriffing Salsola bush!” it struck deep because the first part rang true. He didn’t shave down there. He had no idea what a Salsola bush was, but he was suddenly self-conscious. If Xi’an was able to feel his lack of grooming without even catching a glimpse, things must be bad.

Din needed guidance, but he’d grown distant from his Tribe, only returning when he could sneak away with his cut of the credits Ran’s crew were making from mercenary jobs. His teacher now had a new apprentice, and this wasn’t the sort of topic he could raise with the older man anyway. His options seemed limited to brothels or holoporn, and he reasoned he’d get a more authentic perspective from live observation. So, when the crew next visited the local leisure zone, he tagged along, found a place with live shows, and checked out some dicks.

His quest for answers proved educational. He really needed to utilise his groomer. On the plus side, he also confirmed that he was rather well-endowed, judging by the premium prices charged for performers with cocks of his size. That was a relief, at least.

Since Mandalorians don’t engage prostitutes, while his crewmates chose their preferred performers and got laid, Din returned to the privacy of his ship. With ground security protocols engaged, he fucked his (apparently very lucky) fist to relieve the massive hard-on all his fact-finding had triggered, then located his electric groomer.

Copying what he’d seen, he shaved it all off that first time. Within a day, the itching was worse than a blaster wound, and his balls were on fire. He knew he’d made a mistake. Just like with his beard, it appeared that a close shave was unwise. He wondered how other men achieved smoothly shaven skin without the burning sensation, but since he wouldn’t learn about balms and lotions for another decade, he simply did what worked best for him. A quick pass over his face every few days, and the same for his groin every couple of weeks when he trimmed his hair. It was a simple routine, and once again, he was proud that he solved the problem himself.

After meeting his gorgeous salvager on Endor, it was a while before he felt confident being naked around her. Xi’an’s cruel words still echoed in his mind, and he was nervous. But his cyar’ika looked at him with such unfettered desire and devotion that his fears steadily lessened.

Later, when he tried to adjust his grooming routine to suit what he assumed she’d prefer, she asked him to simply stick to what he wanted. He wondered if she understood how healing that acceptance was. He briefly told her of his slow induction into personal haircare, but he never mentioned Xian’s poisonous comment.

To this day, her steadfast acceptance of the choices Din makes for his physical appearance remains a source of confidence in his heart.

A = Aftercare

What are they like after sex?

Din never had to worry too much about aftercare during his past encounters, perfunctory as they were.

His preference was to pull out and come on his partner’s ass or lower back, though he would always wipe them off with his cloak. They tended to excuse themselves to the refresher at that point. He didn’t like to linger, so he would take his leave then, slipping away to the Razor Crest and tossing his cloak straight into the washer. A simple equation with a predictable outcome.

But when it became clear that things would get intimate with the bright spark of a woman he met on Endor, anxiety suddenly struck.

He wanted to come inside her – the first time he’d ever had such an urge – but that would alter his established routine, and he wasn’t quite sure how to adapt. How was he supposed to clean up his cum if he didn’t have easy access to it? Even he baulked at the idea of wiping her intimate area with the tail end of his cloak, so he would need a more hygienic solution. Should he prepare a cloth in advance?

And was it appropriate to dive right into the cleanup, or was he supposed to dote on her a little first? He didn’t want to seem desperate to erase the evidence of what they’d shared. Plus, the thought of his seed slowly dripping from her was a serious turn-on.

He actually had no idea how fast it would escape, having never climaxed inside anyone before. Sure, he’d caught glimpses in the seedier brothels. A freshly fucked whore with spread legs, scooping cum from her cunt to spread across her breasts or tongue. Although maybe it wasn’t cum… he’d had little time to watch, after all. He rarely visited such places except to hunt, and curiosity wasn’t enough to distract him from his primary means of making credits. He had no clue whether a woman could control how swiftly it exited her.

He realised this was all moot if his cyar’ika didn’t have an implant, a little miffed that those arousing thoughts might not become manifest. Nonetheless, he resolved to buy seals, despite finding them uncomfortable. His curiosity wasn’t worth the risk.

When the moment arrived, he was overjoyed to learn she had an implant after all. She also seemed entirely unconcerned about cleanup, and he was so sated by their coupling that he mostly forgot to worry. Coming inside her felt fucking glorious – and she’d even asked him to.

The atmosphere was so natural and relaxed, and he stayed buried in her warmth longer than planned, revelling in their connection while whispering how much he loved her. It was heady and blissful. Still, he had to withdraw when she squeezed his oversensitive cock, and he felt the wetness escaping as he slid out.

Panic flickered through him, making him sit up sharply, ready to leap up and find a cloth... but the sight before him stopped him in his tracks. There wasn’t much yet, but some of his cum had leaked from her pussy as he’d withdrawn. Small pearls of it glistened on her swollen folds.

It was his first proper look at her down there – his first close-up look at anyone, in fact. Whilst he already considered her utterly beautiful, somehow the sight of her cunt glazed with his seed grabbed at his very soul, stirring something… possessive. Euphoric. Profoundly rewarding.

Din couldn’t help himself. He reached out, running his fingers through the evidence, exploring the possibilities planted in his mind by those brief glimpses in brothels, painting her thighs and pussy with his claim.

She made her reaction to his intrigue clear, spreading her legs wider and smiling beneath her blindfold, so he let himself indulge completely. He soon learned to avoid oversensitive areas, focusing instead on gentle strokes to coax more beads of fluid to escape, which he eagerly collected and spread along her thighs.

He was learning the answer to his question about how much control she had. Clearly some, but not total, and it was time-limited. He suspected it would make its way out regardless of how hard she clenched those exquisite inner muscles. Still, he was thoroughly enjoying helping her relax and let his cum slide out easily – paint for the masterpiece he was creating on the canvas of her thighs. Combined with her own copious fluids, it was thinner than usual, making it all the more likely to escape.

The indulgence almost slipped into loss of control when he scooped up the evidence of their first coupling and brought it to his tongue. It was a split-second decision that unleashed something entirely new deep within him. Kriff, he was learning so much about himself from this single encounter.

He’d tasted himself before. Curiosity had overwhelmed him as a teenager when he’d developed a crush on his sparring partner. He had reasoned he should know what it tasted like in case things ever progressed that far with Orilan, although they never did. When he’d later discovered his preference for women, the idea of eating cum became a vague and infrequent thought – a sporadic fantasy on the few occasions when an attractive man caught his eye.

Until that first fingerful of his own from her cunt. The notion of swallowing the results of their mutual pleasure just felt… special. Worshipful. Devoted.

And forbidden. And that made it even more appealing.

She talked to him after – a carefree conversation while he was wordlessly urging her to relax her muscles and allow his cum to escape. Her placid demeanour and his new intrigue were enough to distract him from his former concerns. In fact, it all felt so natural that a suitable moment to stand and fetch a damp cloth from the refresher presented itself without conscious thought. He had no doubt that it was his duty to clean up the mess he’d created on her thighs. It was the courteous thing to do, and she seemed grateful.

He learned so much that first time with his beautiful salvager, and every time since, he’s done whatever he can to ensure her comfort, never fretting over or rushing the process. He knows she’s content for him to move at a languid pace, and she doesn’t expect his aftercare. But he also knows she’s grateful when it comes, and so he’s happy to provide it.

After all, Din is nothing if not a giver.

N = No

What wouldn’t they do? Any turn-offs?

There’s little Din wouldn’t do for his riduur if she asked. Sometimes, he thinks she could convince him the galaxy spins backwards, and not just because of her uncanny aptitude for logical debate.

She’s never asked for anything extreme – sexual or otherwise. Every request has either fallen well within his comfort zone or proved to be a worthwhile gamble despite any initial misgivings.

There was one occasion, though, when he was forced to confront a scenario that he instantly dismissed as out of the question.

They were on Tatooine, having received a summons to the palace. There was news of a potential lead in Din’s search for his covert. In exchange for using his status as Daimyo and his extensive underworld contact list to track down Mando sightings, they had promised Boba Fett a favour. A small one if those efforts bore no fruit, a large one if they yielded results.

The old man was claiming he’d uncovered a promising clue, which was exciting news and worth the trip halfway across the galaxy. The downside was that the cost would be steep.

Outrage flooded Din’s entire being when Fett calmly requested “a night with your beautiful wife”, and he was instantly reaching for the Darksaber.

He was acutely aware of his jealous streak – it had caused friction early in their relationship – but this was utterly non-negotiable, not to mention a grievous insult to his honour. Mandalorians weren’t supposed to covet what legally belonged to their brothers. Technically, Fett could issue an archaic challenge to initiate shuk’la riduurok, though it required consent from all parties. If that were to happen, he would fight to his dying breath for his riduur, but bargaining to share her for a single night was cowardly and decidedly not the Way.

Darksaber in hand (unlit for now), he explained his position through gritted teeth to the smirking Daimyo lounging on his stolen throne.

But before Fett could respond, Din’s clever wife stepped forward and deployed her logical debate skills to dramatic effect.

She reasoned that a night with her could never constitute payment for what they sought because other cultural mandates took precedence. Din could not agree without Fett issuing a formal challenge and combat occurring. Setting aside her fierce objections to that, it would create an entirely separate set of proceedings beyond the ‘favour-for-info’ deal they were currently brokering. Any victory or defeat would represent the outcome of the challenge, and regardless of the result, they would still need to decide upon the original favour.

Fett looked doubly impressed at her argument, grinning broadly, but Fennec fortunately intervened with another suggestion. It seemed they were in some trouble with the Pyke Syndicate. Despite the high risk and uncertain timeline, if Din was willing, they could use his assistance as extra muscle in what they suspected may be upcoming hostilities.

With the favour agreed, Din left Grogu at the palace’s crèche for the staff’s children, then calmly escorted his riduur to their opulent suite. The second the door slid closed, he fucked her hard against it – a blazingly passionate pounding that had her screaming his name at full volume. She knew exactly what he needed, declaring she belonged to him, that he was the only one to ever satisfy her, that she could never be with anyone else.

He worried afterward that he’d let emotion drive him to act without seeking her perspective first. She was quick to reassure him, though – she had no desire to be shared and was just as keen as he was to broadcast that fact. Double-checking the door’s lock, she lifted his helmet away and kissed him gently, then guided his mouth to her throat, inviting him to mark his claim for all to see.

It was evident at dinner that their hosts had heard their performance. Fett said nothing but offered him an impressed smirk and a respectful nod. Fennec’s lustful gaze was shockingly blatant, not to mention unwelcome, but his riduur glared at her until the former assassin received the message.

Neither Din nor his wife would share with others what they had vowed to share only with one another.

K = Kink

What less-standard acts turn them on?

Din never considered himself kinky until his fateful encounter with destiny on Endor. However, safe within their rapidly forged bond of trust, his cyar’ika opened his eyes to the fact that he did, in fact, have a few fledgling kinks he was eager to explore.

His first discovery was taste – particularly in an exhibitionist context – although it took him a while to figure out why.

It wasn’t until a much later discussion with his riduur that he learned kinks often root themselves in childhood feelings of shame. As a foundling, he’d been taught not to eat or drink in front of others. It was an act he’d brazenly performed in full view of multiple people for ten years on Aq Vetina, the memory of which first became shameful, then later thrilling.

Grateful for his rescue but angry at his losses, during his initial years of training, Din embraced its violence while failing to respect its restrictions. He would constantly commit tiny acts of defiance, such as sneaking food under his training helmet in front of others. Since he hadn’t yet sworn the Creed, his elders lectured rather than punished him, but they warned that unless he observed the Way of the Mand’alor with greater piety, he would never rise from foundling to apprentice. Those who did not respect the Creed were not permitted to take it.

His desire to become the best warrior soon outweighed his defiant impulses, and he committed himself to the Way, coming to believe in its tenets once he did so. But as his body grew stronger and his fighting skills improved, he found himself longing for the thrill those tiny rebellious acts sparked.

Perhaps that explained his choice to support the Tribe by venturing out into the galaxy to earn credits. Away from their scrutiny, he was able to perform his minor acts of defiance. He never went so far as to break his now-beloved creed, but he always found excitement in the risk of slipping food beneath his helmet in another’s presence.

He had no idea that innocent thrill formed the basis of a kink until he began pushing boundaries with his cyar’ika.

From the moment he lifted his helmet to kiss her, he knew that he would become obsessed with using his mouth on her. He revelled in it every chance he got – licking, sucking, and especially tasting. Still, he didn’t understand the full extent of his obsession until he was laid out on the grass of the Anantaparan atoll’s northernmost isle, worshipping her while she rode his tongue.

She was drenching him with copious amounts of her own slick as well as the cum he’d just shot inside her pussy, and he was already in paradise. But if the twin thrills of using his mouth on her and tasting the unique flavour of their combined pleasure weren’t enough, the moment her eyes locked with his, his cock was hard as beskar again – mere minutes after his previous climax.

She was watching him feast on her, and the exhibitionism he’d flirted with as an unruly child was well and truly fulfilled. Din Djarin – forbidden from letting anything pass his lips around others – was not only swallowing their combined cum, but he was doing it in full view of another.

His taste kink had reached its peak.

That wasn’t the only boundary they crossed together that day. It was their first foray into anal play, too, though it certainly wasn’t their last. He didn’t consider it a kinky act, but he was aware some found it taboo, and his cautious approach paid off, earning her trust.

They’ve both since come to enjoy the delights of anal penetration, especially once his opinion on sex toys evolved. Given the size of his dick, she probably wouldn’t have been able to take him back there without the expanding plug he bought for her. That was a truly worthwhile investment.

Another kink that he assumes is fairly standard involves restraint. His binders have always been a welcome addition to their sessions. He’ll often hold her down somehow, too, either through his weight or with a careful hand around her throat or wrists. Though neither of them gets off on pain, they do enjoy it rough, which often involves the idea of pain. He knows she finds pleasure in a little light choking on occasion, and he loves that she enjoys it.

Then there’s their mutual penchant for fucking while one of them is asleep. Right from the start, they both enjoyed the intimacy of cockwarming, and he often remained nestled inside her pussy for as long as possible.

It was during their honeymoon that they stumbled upon the most exquisite discovery. While spooning in bed, exhaustion overtook them both as he slowly fucked her from behind, and they fell fast asleep.

When he awoke, his cock was hard and still buried inside her. He knew several hours had passed, and he couldn’t have maintained an erection that long. Based on the evidence, he concluded that he was just large enough, and her inner muscles were just tight enough to ensure he hadn’t slipped out while they slept.

He suspected it would be painful for them both if he simply started pounding away without preparing her, so he wet his fingers and gently teased her nipples. When that earned him sleepy sighs and gentle flutters along his shaft, he began tentative thrusts. Finally, when he felt she was slick enough, he steadily increased his efforts, wondering if her dreams were reflecting his actions.

Feeling her waking up right as her cunt pulsed a profound climax around his cock… dank farrik. It wasn’t something he could enjoy just once, and she agreed. After that, they attempted to recreate the magic whenever possible, and he was beyond pleased when he was the one waking up mid-orgasm after similar efforts on her part.

Though sex while asleep is not so much a kink as an act of absolute trust and consent, Din suspects few couples have perfected this technique. Because of that, he certainly considers it a less standard fixation, unique to them. Just another thing about his riduur that makes her perfect for him.

And if either of them has any other latent kinks, he looks forward to exploring them together.

S = Stamina

How many rounds can they go for? How long can they last?

For much of his life, Din considered his sex drive to be fairly low. Sure, he had needs, and he took care of them whenever necessary, but a single climax always seemed sufficient. He was also able to attune his focus to whatever tasks he had to perform, and sexual urges rarely distracted him.

All that changed when he met his gorgeous salvager on Endor. Just one speeder ride with her, and suddenly, all manner of sinful thoughts flooded his mind. When he found himself in a storage closet, fucking his fist to those fantasies, he hoped he could expel the urges alongside his cum and get back to his hunt.

By the following day, when he was lying in a ventilation shaft two metres above her, pressing his rigid cock against the metal every time she sighed, he knew he was in serious trouble. For some reason, this woman had ignited something deep inside him. He’d never felt such a profound need for anyone before.

It soon became apparent that his strangely amplified libido was distracting him from the hunt. He couldn’t let that happen, so with extreme effort, he resolved to wait until he’d captured his bounty before indulging his uncommon urges. The challenge seemed insurmountable until he surrendered to the suspicion that lurked in the back of his mind. He was falling in love. Focusing on that helped him contain the desire he felt for her, and it also explained its potency. He’d never been in love before, so he’d never endured the desperate ache that came with it.

Finally getting to fuck her unleashed a compulsion, a constant hunger of such immense magnitude that he struggled to comprehend it. He couldn’t seem to sate it. They would fuck, and then before long, he would crave her again. Thankfully, the restraint he’d taught himself at the beginning let him control it, but his desire burned bright and strong.

He was glad to discover that his cyar’ika was equally hungry for him, always eager for multiple rounds. When they secured themselves several days of complete privacy during their honeymoon, they certainly made the most of that time together. It was then that he discovered his refractory period was far shorter than he thought.

At his age, he’d assumed his dick needed a rest after shooting its load, given that it softened soon after, so their sessions would conclude once he’d climaxed. It wasn’t until he gave into his post-orgasmic urge to taste his new riduur and had her sit on his face that he felt himself growing hard again.

That revelation led to all kinds of others. Multiple sessions without even leaving the warmth of her delicious pussy were now possible. It became a guilty pleasure of his to see how much cum she could contain before it began squelching out around his cock.

His stamina hasn’t diminished with age, but Din has always been wary of overindulgence, mindful that it has a downside. Right from the start, he routinely checked in, ensuring she wasn’t becoming too sore from their frequent fucking. He’d received a complaint about that once – his partner urging him to climax soon or she’d end up chafing – so he understood the need for a careful balance in session length. He didn’t want his own equipment to chafe, either.

Thankfully, though, his riduur has never struggled to reach orgasm with him and tends to encourage his own climax when she needs a rest. They’ve always been able to read each other perfectly, a connection that extends to their carnal pursuits, ensuring each session is the perfect length to satisfy them both.

At least until the next round.

TRANSLATIONS:

cyar’ika – sweetheart/darling (lit. ‘little love’)

riduur – partner/spouse

shuk’la riduurok – divorce (lit. ‘broken bond’)

COMMENTS RAMBLINGS:

I want to reiterate what I said in the notes for chapter 2 of Be-All, in that I do not consider Din a himbo. He’s incredibly smart. The definition of a himbo is someone who is good-looking but unintelligent. Given his skill set, he doesn’t fit that definition at all. But his sheltered upbringing alongside the factors I described in Be-All (wasn’t adopted, so had no family; was two years older than those he trained with and full of angst and anger, so made no friends) meant that he was socially isolated. That led to him being a combination of whip-smart about things like combat, languages, engineering, calculations, negotiations, etc, but adorably naïve about more personal things like sex and grooming. Din is a complex character, and I love that he can be both well-informed and clueless about different things.

We all like to think of Din as a fair-minded and accepting paragon of virtue, but the reality is, it took him a while to get there. This is the guy who blindly believed lies he was told as a child, because of which, he accused Bo-Katan of stealing her armour and refused to accept she was Mandalorian, huffily flying off without hearing what she had to say. If she hadn’t persevered, he would have abandoned his only lead on finding a Jedi because of his stubbornness and his unfounded prejudice. As mentioned above, he is also adorably naïve about certain aspects of the world (despite his intelligence), and readers of Be-All will be aware that I’ve centred that naïveté around sexual inexperience. I think when you combine those character traits, the idea that he had an unfounded prejudice against sex toys that was rooted in his stubbornness and a childish mistake seems to fit a young Din perfectly.

If you missed the pegging scene that I partially wrote back in February, here it is. I promise I’ll write the smutty part eventually!

Salsola bushes aren’t Canon; I did try to look up a suitable bush for Xi’an to compare Din’s untamed pubes to, but it seems the SWU doesn’t currently feature tumbleweeds (odd, given much of Star Wars is based on the Western genre), so I used the real-world genus of the Russian thistle, which is what most tumbleweeds in the US are – Salsola tragus. Honestly, I think Xi’an was just exaggerating and Din’s situation was never quite that… bushy, but it certainly got him worried enough to trim. I also based it a little on my ex-husband, who had never been intimate with anyone before we met aged 17 and had no concept of pubic grooming at the beginning. It wasn’t so much an overwhelming amount of hair as it was a surprising level of… springiness!

If you recall, in the last chapter of Be-All, I set it up so that Din asked Boba to try to uncover a lead for where he could find his covert. This means I’m playing with the Canon timeline slightly. While Din and Reader go back to Endor to wait for a tip, the covert is regrouping on Glavis (when he would’ve gone there himself in the show). Boba hears from his Ishi Tib contact on Glavis that she’s seen some Mandos there, so he summons Din to Tatooine. The whole business with the Pyke Syndicate goes down, Din gets a scorpenek droid pincer to the leg, and by the time he’s healed up and they get over to Glavis, the covert has moved on. But they left coordinates, so one unnecessary Darksaber injury later, he’s healed up again, and they track them to the new planet. The topic of the Darksaber doesn’t come up straight away because he’s recovered by the time they arrive, so there’s no challenge by Paz until much later, and they get to hang out there a little while before the whole ‘apostate’ shitstorm occurs. That means Reader gets her helmet forged, Grogu gets his chainmail, and Din and Reader’s marriage is formalised.

I genuinely believe Din has had phases of rebelliousness throughout his life, mainly because even when he’s being dutiful, he’s always depicted in the show as slightly different to the rest of the Children of the Watch. He’s the only one who leaves the covert at the beginning – he dutifully brings credits and beskar back to the Tribe, yet Paz and the others are jealous of his new armour and annoyed that he gets to leave and live on his ship while they’re stuck in the sewer “like rats”, so they gang up on him and call him a coward (the worst insult). Plus, Din willingly lifts his helmet to drink his soup next to Grogu, despite telling Bo-Katan later that you have to go somewhere you can safely remove your helmet – he could’ve waited until the kid was asleep! And he’s the only Child of the Watch (that we know of) who has broken the Creed and removed his helmet. We know he hung out with Ran’s crew for a while when he was younger, so I think he’s always been a little troublemaker. It also gives credence to his desperate need to redeem himself in season 3, since it’s often the case that people don’t appreciate their main support structure until they’ve inadvertently sabotaged it.

A little hint in the last section that Din is bordering on demisexual, having only had a passing interest in sex before meeting Reader, and only fucking others out of curiosity, social experimentation, or convenience. It also explains why he wasn’t that fussed about exploring ways he could improve his masturbatory techniques before he met her, and why his fantasies were rare and fleeting. He simply wasn’t that affected by sex before she came into his life. When discussing their sexual histories in chapter 32 of Be-All, he tells her, “But when I met you […] I knew it was different… real.” The original fic depicts them as essentially falling in love at first sight, so he’s immediately faced with an overwhelming desire for her, the likes of which he’s never felt before, and once they cross the line of sexual intimacy, he never looks back. These two are very much in love, and so their sex life is very much alive.

Definitions: We saw a leisure zone in Andor s1e1, featuring various brothels, and in Legends, there are entire red light sectors on certain planets. Canon doesn’t overtly mention pleasure droids, but the BD-3000 is clearly meant to be a sexbot; Legends is a little more blatant, with BD-3000s used as ‘escorts’, a mention of a ‘sex droid’ in the Legends novel, Planet of Twilight, and a sentient hologram in the now defunct MMORPG, Star Wars: The Old Republic, declaring she’s “no mere pleasure droid”… so they exist, we just don’t see much of them. A reminder that Din does indeed say he was raised in the Fighting Corps. A further reminder that a Standard week in the SWU is only five days long. A groomer is a device from Legends for haircare; there is literally no such thing as a shaving razor in the SWU, despite many things being named after it, but fortunately, Legends gives us scissors, at least. Imagine my surprise when I found a nice long article about holoporn on the Wook! 😳

I’m so deliriously grateful to have reached this milestone, I think you all deserve a sexy Din gif to express my appreciation, so here you go – the Dorito-shaped man himself says it best…

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[lara635kookie]

Rant on Jinu because his haters are not safe from me:

Okay, let's start with the accusations against him.

TW:Death, Betrayal.

He said "I only made a deal with Gwi-ma to get MYSELF out of that miserable life." But we don't know how the deal truly went. We see Gwi-ma saying Jinu is not good enough, and he can make him good enough. And that's it. We don't know exactly the terms of the deal. I think the most probable scenario is that he asked to leave poverty and misery and just thought his family was implied to be included, even though neither Jinu and Gwi-ma mentioned ut because they both thought it was "obvious". Jinu thought it was obvious his family was included, while Gwi-ma thought it was obvious he meant only Jinu, so Jinu probably hates himself for being naive and making his family go all the way to the castle, that I suppose It's far from the peasants areas, just so they couldn't come in with him at the end. Why would he do that if he knew they wouldn't be allowed in?

Yes, he made a mistake. But Rumi didn't hold this against him and it didn't change what she felt for him. Also, acting like it was just a simple mistake he made out of cruelty instead of a nuanced mistake he made by necessity, is wrong and just dumb.

Jinu was a peasant in the JOSEON dynasty of all times. The Emperor lived like God, while people like Jinu suffered every day. And we gotta point out the fact that the family doesn't have a father figure, which means Jinu had to provide for the three of them, likely his whole life, because we don't know when his father disappeared/died. And even if the father was there, he would put Jinu to work with him since childhood, so Jinu is working alone while his mom takes care of his little sister and the house. And I think the fact the father is missing really plays a lot here. The mom and the sister were in the same hardship as Jinu, but at the very least they were always together, and having each other's company probably prevented them from hearing Gwi-ma's voice and kept them grounded. Jinu was all alone. If he had a father working alongside him, maybe he would have resisted Gwi-ma because he would have him there to keep him sane and ease the pressure he felt on his shoulders on having his family depend on him. How much a father was missed in Jinu's life, in my view, is shown by that one bit when Gwi-ma goes:"I taught you well, Jinu." And Jinu just smiles proudly but then he looks off. I just headcanon he likes this type of validation from Gwi-ma, he likes when Gwi-ma acts proud of him, but at the same time he beats himself for it because he knows it's not real, and he tried not to feel happiness when Gwi-ma does it and Gwi-ma also uses this against him because he knows Jinu wanted a father to be present.

Anyway, the only thing to his name was an old bipa. It was probably the only thing he knew how to do, because in his conditions he probably didn't learn how to do anything else. So his only choice was leave to the streets with it to work or just wait for death to arrive either by starvation or the cold.

The human brain is rewired, programmed to survival. To do anything to survive. To in the face of danger prioritize life and try until the end to live and never waste any attempt to survive. Especially under extreme circunstances. Like the one Jinu was. What he did was wrong for sure, but let's put ourselves in his shoes. If death is knocking at our door wouldn't we desperately take ANY chance at all to survive? If given the opportunity to live wouldn't we take it without thinking at first about the consequences of saving our own lives? We're human beings after all. We are likely to make selfish mistakes in situations like this. The movie made it clear Jinu beats himself every day for 400 years because of what he did. He let his family down and condemned them to a terrible fate alone. He knows this. Sadly, Jinu's situation is the type of situation that would go wrong anyway. If Jinu didn't made a deal with Gwi-ma, nothing would change and him and his family would just die eventually of malnutrition. So it is a situation extreme enough to the point accepting Gwi-ma's offer is a temptation many would fall upon just like him.

Anyways, next. The Takedown scene.

"It was Jinu's ide–"

GIRL IT WAS ALL JINU'S IDEA. That's the whole point.

In-universe, without Jinu, we wouldn't even have a movie in the first place. Because it was also his idea to have a demon boy band. Gwi-ma would never think of a demon boy band, and would just keep sending demons, the girls would defeat them, and the honmoon would turn gold, Rumi's patterns would (probably) disappear and never be revealed. And that's it.

I'm sorry but Jinu is the one that moves the plot. He is the one that makes things HAPPEN. And that's one of the reasons why I want him back on the sequel so much, for him to keep doing that.

Yes, he exposed Rumi but he WAS going to help her after Free. After he didn't hear Gwi-ma's voice after the song ended. After he almost told her something else that we don't know what it is but instead says:"I... Can't wait to see you on that stage tomorrow." But some seem to forget the scene that happened right before the Idol Awards.

Gwi-ma immediately pushes Jinu back to the demon world, all the other demons looking at him, fearing for Jinu and feeling pity of him, sorry for him, because Gwi-ma probably made them watch the whole thing with Rumi to torture Jinu. To use him as an example that they can NEVER be free from him and what happens to those who think they can even THINK of trying to be free.

Gwi-ma, now stronger than ever and almost enveloping Jinu by his flames to kill him completely, first makes fun of him, then says that if he truly believed Rumi he would have told her the truth, then tells him to remember their deal and threats him saying instead of erasing his memories he can increase the voices in his head and ends by saying "Don't think you can escape what you are."

All of this is not only extremely painful, it makes Jinu lose the very little hope Rumi had restored in him. Because he spent 400 years without feeling hope and 400 years under Gwi-ma's control, Gwi-ma knew "all" it took to make him lose hope again was a few seconds of his manipulation and of course, his torturous threats. Not much as you can see (ironically).

After that, anyone in Jinu's place would be doing anything Gwi-ma wants from them to keep him without being upset with them too.

As I said, another mistake, but once again, Rumi is willing to forgive him. He says it was all a lie. She insists she knows it was real. He reveals he left his family. She still keeps insisting he can still fight his inner demon and be better.

Seriously, Rumi's mom did the same thing as her. Fell in love and had a daughter with a demon who probably made mistakes similar to the ones of Jinu. They were able to look past that and see that they could still be good people and their past mistakes didn't define them. Because not everything is black and white. They did bad things, but they did good things, too. At the end of the day, Rumi would hate this mischaracterization of Jinu, the guy who she is CLEARLY in love with and who is EVIDENTLY in love with her too.

The point here is that you can dislike Jinu for whatever reason you'd like. You can dislike Rujinu and can criticize it and ship something else (or nothing at all) if you want (at the anti tag), but spreading hate without considering the many things Jinu's character arc involves is incredibly stupid, reductive and completely misses the point of the message of hope the film wanted to pass. That even if you think you are hopeless because of your past mistakes, like Jinu did, you can still find hope. Someone who makes you believe it and ignites that spark in you. Someone that gives you hope, and you give them hope too.

[vampimich]

About P's hair

This is something silly, but with the DLC giving us more images of Carlo (THANK YOU SO MUCH NEOWIZ 🙏🏻), I noticed something.

Carlo had his hair styled with more of a middle part, and we can see that in every picture and painting he’s depicted in, even in the drawing he made of himself.

And while P’s initial haircut kind of resembles how Carlo looked in the portrait of him wearing the Monad Charity House uniform, I realized something: the one who has a side part to the right is GEPPETTO HIMSELF.

Look at him! The haircuts are really similar. Sure, Geppetto’s is longer and all white and dull, but the resemblance is undeniable. And I’m sure Geppetto looked very similar to P when he was younger.

To me, this is just another very clear sign that Geppetto never truly wanted Carlo back,  he wanted what Carlo represented: his and Camille’s child.

He didn’t want the Carlo he abandoned. Not the Carlo who had learned to be happy without him. Not the Carlo who had found love and family elsewhere.

He wanted a child he could control. A child he could mold into his ideals. Maybe even a child who was just an extension of himself.

And when P’s hair starts growing longer, Geppetto is clearly upset. He says:

“I’m glad you’re growing, but I’m not sure what to make of this. Be wary of dangerous people, and always be a good boy for me.”

Once again, he’s trying to subtly reinforce the idea that his expectations are what’s right and anything else is “dangerous.” And please Geppetto, please stop saying things like: be a good boy for me, just don’t.

He wasn’t prepared for the puppet to change. But more than that, he wasn’t prepared for Carlo’s ergo to change. To grow? To evolve? That was a risk. Because if Carlo's ergo could change, it meant he could become someone else , someone beyond Geppetto’s vision of him.

Geppetto hadn’t accepted that the child he lost no longer existed. The one who idolized him. Who was miserable without him. Who craved his love. That Carlo had grown. Changed. And even if he still loved his father, he was no longer that boy he used to be.

And the hair, it represented that change and growth. So what did Geppetto do? He gave P a haircut that immortalized him as a child, attached him to strings,  his strings,  and made him someone he could control.

And I bet he was incredibly shocked when he saw P’s hair looking so different. Maybe even resembling Romeo’s,  someone Geppetto knew had been very close to Carlo. He probably hated that. His son choosing that “miscreant” over him must’ve felt like a nightmare come true.

But anyway,  this is just me rambling and overanalyzing everything, because my mother might have given me life… but Lies of P gave me the joy and will to live it. 😭

[bingbongsupremacy]

You Fucked Up, Bob

Pairing: Toxic!Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Warning: Y/N use, Fighting, Substance Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Verbal Abuse, Childhood Abuse Memories, Aggressive Bob, Fighting in front of children

Request Summary: After struggling to deal with being a parent, being a New Avenger, and the guilt of The Void, Bob comes home drunk and high, leading to a tense argument in front of your two young daughters Liijia and Astra. Has Bob destroyed his family forever? Is he turning into his worst fear: His father? Will you ever be able to feel safe with him again?

Request from @horrormovielover2000

*Not Proofread*

No description of reader's weight/body type or race.

"Thanks for watching the girls tonight, Lena." I give the woman a small tired smile as I walk into the living room area of the tower. I shrug off my coat, revealing my work clothes underneath. "Hi babies, I'm home." I greet my daughters happily.

"Mama! Hi!" Asta, my toddler and the oldest, shouts happily, sending me an excited wave before turning her attention back to the kids movie playing in front of her.

"Of course. Auntie Lena loves spending time with her nieces." Yelena coos slightly while handing a toy to my youngest, Liijia. "Isn't that right, дорогой (sweetheart)."

Liijia responds with a happy babble, smashing the stuffed animal in her hands softly against the ground.

"I really appreciate it. I'm so sorry it was super short notice." I take a seat on the ground next Asta. Is Bob done with training yet? I thought he'd be up here by now." I look around the room curiously. He said he'd be done before I got off my shift.

"Training?" Yelena's brows draw together. She sends me a confused look before returning to play with Liijia.

"Yeah." Now I'm confused. "Bob told me he couldn't watch the girls while I worked because he's got a late training session with Bucky. Bucky's supposed to be teaching him some fighting moves."

Bucky's been insisting Bob needs to learn some fighting moves in case he's ever trapped in a situation and needs to fight his way out. He has his powers, but he refuses to use them because of the Void.

The Void taking over New York really took a toll on him. I know he feels a lot of guilt still about what happened. He's always had a hard time forgiving himself for making mistakes. No matter how many times I try to remind him that his mistakes don't define him, that he didn't mean for any of that to happen, and that it was something out of his control, he never seems to believe me.

"Puppy!" Asta giggles excitedly at the sight of a dog in the kids movie she's watching. She eagerly pats my leg, pointing to the animal on the screen across from us. "Mama, puppy!"

I gently brush a loose strand of her hair out of her face. "Yeah baby, that's a puppy."

The older she gets, the more she looks like her father.

"He can't be training with Bucky. Bucky's been gone all night. He's been looking around for leads on a gang of mutant robbers attacking local businesses." Yelena informs me.

Did Bob lie?

I feel worry bubble in my chest as my mind wanders to memories of when he's lied in the past about doing one thing, only to be out getting high.

No. Bob wouldn't lie to me. He promised he'd never lie to me again. He went through rehab. He's sober. He would've told me if he felt like using again. He promised to. He wouldn't do that to the girls. He wouldn't put me through that again.

Right?

He has to have made a mistake.

"Maybe he meant John. Maybe John is training him tonight." I offer, hoping I'm right and Bob really did make a mistake.

"Maybe." Yelena doesn't sound convinced. However she doesn't say anything further, instead sending me a slightly concerned look.

I ignore it, trying to focus on spending time with my girls.

I play with Asta and Liijia for a few minutes before going to change my clothes, leaving the girls with Yelena again. When I return, the first thing I notice is Bob.

His grey hoodie is covered with small dark dots, like he just came in from outside where it's raining. His left sneaker is untied and dragging on the floor, the once white lace now stained dark brown with mud. His shoes, which were new about a week ago, are badly scuffed like he's been dragging his feet around for hours. His whole body seems to sway ever so slightly, causing his leg to bump into couch, pull away and then bump into the couch again, over and over again.

His back is slightly bent as he reaches towards Asta on the couch, obviously trying to pick her up. He's too far away though, like he's can't judge the distance correctly. His hands slightly tremble, his fingers straightening and then curling slightly.

"Daddy!" Asta exclaims happily at the sight of her father.

"H-hi babygirl." Bob's voice is happy and slightly slurred.

Yelena speaks up as Bob leans towards Asta further. "Bob, I don't know if picking her up is a good idea right now. Are you okay?"

Bob laughs slightly. "Of course I'm fine. I just missed my girls." His face finally turns towards me and immediately, my stomach drops.

His eyes are glassy and bloodshot, slightly closed like his eyelids are too heavy to keep open. His face is slightly flushed, with sweat gathering at his hairline. His lips are curled in a lazy, relaxed smile.

It's a look I've seen before, one he promised I'd never see again.

"Hi, Baby." His expression remains the same, unfazed at my arrival. "Sorry I'm late." He slurs while straightening up. He makes his way towards me, stumbling slightly with every step. His foot nearly steps on Liijia's small hand, missing it only because Yelena quickly pulls her out of the way and onto her lap.

"Bob!" I gasp at the sight of the near accident.

"What?" He asks, oblivious to what almost happened.

Yelena looks between Bob and I, her brows drawn in concern. She protectively holds Liija against her chest, slightly shielding her from Bob.

Liijia and Asta continue to play and watch the movie, completely unaware of what's going on with their dad.

Thankfully, the last time Bob relapsed, they were both fairly young. They had no idea what was going on, and were too young to remember. That was a little over a year ago right before we moved to Malaysia.

Bob and I moved to Malaysia for a fresh start with the girls. In the US, he was struggling to stay sober. No matter where we moved, he found a way to access drugs or alcohol.

When I got offered a job in Malaysia, I decided it was time for some change. It took a bit of time to get him on board, but eventually Bob agreed to the move and promised to go to this rehab facility I found in the city. He was doing good. Really good. I thought the rehab stay really helped this time. He came home with a better mental state and the tools to cope with his trauma and addictions. He went back to being an amazing dad. I didn't feel like I had to worry if the girls were going to be safe when I left them with him anymore. I knew he was going to take care of them.

Things took a bit of a turn when the company I worked for started making job cuts. Since I was one of the newer hires, I was the first to go.

That put us in a financial crisis. Suddenly, we had a bunch of stress again. Bob started working odd jobs while I looked for work and tried to figure out a way back to the US. Eventually, Bob discovered a medical trial that would pay him enough for us to survive. He was hesitant at first, but we didn't have any other choice. That's how he got sucked into everything with Valentina.

It was the hardest 6 months of my life. They wouldn't let me see him. They wouldn't let the girls see him. He missed so many of their milestones, things he was so excited to see and he that he still struggles with the guilt of missing. We couldn't face time. We couldn't text or call. All we were allowed to do is send a weekly message through the nurses. What I didn't know is that they heavily monitored the messages, taking out anything he said that could cause them trouble. I had no idea what was going on with him and he had no way to tell me.

Bob continues to walk towards me. He accidentally hits his knee against the coffee table, an expression of anger suddenly covering his face. "What the fuck." He curses, stumbling away from the piece of furniture.

"Daddy said a bad word!" Asta giggles innocently.

My heart breaks at the sight of her watching her dad. This is not something I wanted them to ever see.

When Bob is drunk, he's unpredictable.

With his powers, I don't know how worse things can get.

It scares me.

I glance at Yelena, silently pleading for her to take care of the girls for me.

She sends me a stiff nod, clearly understanding what I'm asking.

"Bob," I begin quietly. "let's go to the room." I gently take his hand and turn to lead him down the hall. I don't want the girls to see any more of this.

"What? N-no." He shakes his head, his anger from hurting his leg changing back into his happy state. He pulls his hand away from mine. "I promised Asta I'd play B-barbies with her." He slurs.

"Yeah Barbies, mama! Play too!" Asta holds up a blonde doll in her left hand.

"No Bob." I say sternly. "We're going to the room."

Bob pulls his hand out of mine. "Fuck, Y/N. Stop trying to manage me." His tone is slightly frustrated. "I want to spend time with my kids."

"Bob, I don't think that's a good idea right now. The kids shouldn't see you like this." I try to remain calm. I don't want things to escalate with him. I don't want the kids exposed to that.

"Like what?" He snaps, obviously offended.

"Like you're on something." I reply quietly.

Bob's posture tenses. His eyes narrow in anger. "Are you saying I'm high?"

Immediately, I feel nervous.

"I'm saying we need to have this conversation in private. Not in front of the kids. We talked about this, remember? No fighting in front of the kids." I try to remind him.

He completely ignores my comment. "I can't believe you think I'm fucking high. I'm not high." He denies.

"Bob," Now my frustration and anger is beginning to build at his refusal to listen. "You're sweating a lot. You can barely stand up straight. You're slurring your words. Not to mention, you smell like a mini bar. You've been using. Stop trying to lie to me. I know what it looks like when you're on something."

Bob's scowl deepens. "I'm not lying to you!"

"Then why are you denying something so obvious? Is this why you lied about training with Bucky tonight? So I would leave the girls with Yelena while you went out and got fucked up? So you didn't have to worry about taking care of them?" I snap, my fear getting replaced with anger at how he's treating me like I'm a fucking idiot.

He lets out a sinister laugh. "Oh fuck you. So what, I wanted to go out by myself for once without having to worry about anyone else. I've been trapped in here for months, Y/N, taking care of the kids or training. I don't get a fucking second to myself anymore."

"That's part of having young kids, Bob. They need you 24/7. We're supposed to take care of them, put their needs above ours. That's what parents do. We sacrifice the things we want for the things they need." I huff in disbelief.

"Mama, why is daddy angry?" Astra's concerned voice sends a painful stab through my heart.

I swallow harshly, forcing a smile onto my face as I turn to look at her. "It's okay, baby. Daddy's just not feeling good right now. He's a little sick, but he's going to be okay. It's okay, baby."

"Y/N, should I take the girls-" Yelena is cut off by Bob who's angered even more by my words.

"I am not sick. Don't say shit like that to them. Why'd you have to come in here and fuck everything up? I am fine. I was just going to play with Asta." He spits.

"You are not fine. You need to sleep this off so we can talk in the morning. " I try to return back to calm.

"There's nothing to talk about. I wanted some time to myself. I got it. Now I'm back. Leave me the fuck alone." Bob's words are sharp. Each angry word breaks my heart a little more. "Stop acting like a bitch."

My eyes widen at his words. He's never called me a bitch before. Never. "Robert Reynolds, don't you dare talk to me like that in front of my kids! Who do you think you are?"

"My kids? Our kids. Don't act like they belong to you. I made them too. I take care of them. I play with them. I fucking house them. You wouldn't be living here without me." Bob snarls. His eyes, the same beautiful blue eyes that once looked at me with love and adoration, now look at me with something dark. Golden strands spin in his iris', sending a shiver of terror down my spine.

"Yelena, please get the girls out of here." I ask quietly, freezing in my spot.

Yelena doesn't respond. She immediately scoops up Liijia who's now fussy and on the verge of crying from all the tension in the room.

Asta is watching the both of us tensely, her once playful smile turned into a hesitant frown. Her arms are tightly clutching her favorite Barbie to her chest, seeking comfort from the toy.

It breaks my heart. I have never seen Bob this aggressive before. When he's relapsed in the past, sure, he's gotten a bit angry but he's usually just out of it. He never stays angry for long. This is way worse than before.

Yelena walks over to Asta quickly, sending the girl a small smile as she picks her up too. She holds the children on her hips, whispering reassuring words to them.

"No!" Bob shakes his head furiously. "I didn't say you could take my kids away." He glares at Yelena. "They're fine here."

"Bob, I don't want them to see us fight." I explain.

I know what watching my parents fight did to me. I don't want it to do the same to my girls. They deserve better.

"Stop talking and we won't fight anymore, how about that?" Bob says rudely. "You're the one causing problems."

"You came in high off your ass! I'm not letting you expose them to this shit anymore. They're children, Bob. They don't need to see this. You're scaring them. I don't want them to be scared of you. I know you'll regret this when you someday realize that they're terrified of you because of how you act when you're using. I'm trying to help you."

"You always make such a big deal out of nothing." He grumbles.

"This is a big deal! Bob, you're using again. Who knows what will happen when you combine drugs and alcohol with all the other shit that was put in you! Not only are you endangering yourself, you're endangering everyone else." I begin to pace angrily. "Think of the girls. They need you, sober you. What happens if you die? What if you hurt someone else and you're taken away and they never get to see you again. Do you really want that?"

"I always think of the girls. Don't talk to me like I'm some dead beat dad. I do everything for those girls and you know it! I spent months in that shithole lab, just so you and those girls could have a safe home and food."

Sometime during our argument, Yelena quietly slipped out of the room with the girls, much to my relief. Bob thankfully hasn't noticed.

"I'm not calling you a dead beat, Bob. I know you love the kids. I'm just saying, you made a reckless choice today. One that's impacting our kids in a bad way." I really need him to calm down. I wish he could see where I'm coming from.

"Why can't you just stay out of my business?" Bob turns to walk towards the elevator doors, pulling his keys out of his jean pockets. "It's not that hard."

He's trying to leave.

"Bob, stop. Don't go." I walk after him, panic clear in my tone. "It's not a good idea to drive right now. Please just come and-and get some rest. Sleep might help."

"Stop following me." He warns.

"Bob, please!"

He spins around, his body radiating danger. "I need you to leave me the fuck alone. I'm tired of your constant nagging and bitching. Stop trying to tell me how to be a dad. I know I'm a fuck up. I don't need you to keep pointing it out every time you tell me what I'm doing wrong!" His voice booms powerfully throughout the room.

I let out a humorless laugh in disbelief. "I can't fucking believe this." I shake my head. "I love you, Bob. I'm literally trying to help you. I don't want you getting hurt. I'm not trying to nag you. I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm trying to fucking prevent you from ruining your life!" I swallow harshly. I feel tears prick the back of my eyes. "And all you're doing is being a dick to me, treating me like I'm not your wife. Like I'm your enemy."

His jaw tightens. "Have you ever considered that I don't want your help? I don't need you to fix me. I don't need your fucking pity, your pathetic sermons, your desperate clinging!"

"You think I’m clinging?" I spit back, voice raw with shock and betrayal. "This is the first time in months. You promised me you were done with this! You swore you were clean! You think I wanted to come home to this tonight? To find you stumbling in like a stranger?"

He barks out a cold, humorless laugh. "Oh, there it is. The performance. You love it, don't you? The heartbroken, betrayed wife act. 'Poor me, I'm married to a monster!' You think you're so fucking noble. You're just a self-righteous bitch playing the victim!"

"Don't call me that!" I snap, my whole body shaking. "I believed in you! I trusted you when no one else did. I stood by you when you crawled out of that hole! I was here when you thought you didn't deserve to breathe, and you throw it all away for one night? One high?"

"One night?" He roars, stepping closer. "You think it's that simple? You think this just goes away because you want it to? You think your love can patch over the cosmic hell inside my head? You don't know shit about what I carry inside me!"

"I know more than you think!" I yell back, throat burning. "I know that you're stronger than this, or at least, I thought you were. I thought you were fighting for us! For the girls! I thought you were fighting for yourself!"

"Fighting?!" He laughs again, sharp and splintering. "You think this is a fucking fairy tale? You think love is some magic cure? You don't fix me, you chain me! You suffocate me with your constant worry and your pathetic 'support'!"

"Stop it!" I scream, tears spilling down my cheeks. "Stop blaming me for your choices! You did this! You chose this!"

"Shut up!" He bellows, voice echoing off the walls. "You think you're so much better than me? You think you're pure? You think you're some saint? You're just as broken as I am, you just hide it better!"

His voice shudders the air, the lights overhead flickering violently. A deep, electric hum builds in the walls, rattling the floor beneath my feet.

Suddenly, a golden glow bleeds from his skin, his hair lifting slightly as if charged with static. His eyes blaze molten bright, black veins spiraling under the surface. He starts to rise, feet floating inches from the ground, and the entire room seems to vibrate with some unseen force. Slowly, black begins to crawl up his body, consuming the man I love.

My breath catches painfully in my chest. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I can't. Painful memories of my childhood begin to flood my mind. The fear I felt from my angry parents floods my mind, sending panic through me. My knees buckle and I drop to the floor, curling into myself, my arms flying up to shield my head.

"Please!" I sob, my voice barely more than a strangled whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for some sort of impact. "Please don't hurt me! Please, please, please...Bob, please don't hurt me! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, Bob. I'll be good, Bob. I'll be good." I plead the same way I once did to my parents.

Years of working through my trauma is immediately disregarded. The anxiety and memories I worked so hard to get rid of comes flooding back to me, hitting me like a freight train. The fear my parents abuse caused that Bob told me I'd never feel again, envelops me, like a tight hug from an unwanted visitor.

He freezes mid-air, eyes snapping to me, and for a moment, they're wild, blind with rage. But then he sees it.

The way I've collapsed in on myself. The terror in my eyes. The way my hands shake over my head, exactly like his mother's did when she pleaded with his father to stop.

Recognition strikes him like a bullet. The glow sputters out, and he crashes back to the ground, stumbling. The lights flicker one last time and steady, the room echoing with an awful, heavy silence.

Bob steps forward, hands raised, eyes wild. "Wait-please, baby, I…I didn't mean-"

I flinch violently, a tiny jerk backward that makes something deep in him fracture. He stops dead, staring at me like he's seeing a ghost.

"Fuck," He whispers, voice cracking. "I…what did I do…?"

I can't stop shaking. My voice is a hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…I didn't mean to…I shouldn't have-"

"Stop," He says sharply, his voice desperate. "Please don't apologize. This isn't you. This is on me. All of it." He stares down at his hands like they belong to someone else.

At that moment, the elevator doors slam open. Ava storms in first, eyes blazing, her phasing aura crackling faintly at her edges. John and Bucky follow fast, all taut muscle and sharp focus. Alexei brings up the rear, eyes already narrowed, jaw clenched.

Ava drops beside me without hesitation, her voice low and fierce. "I got you. We're gonna get you out of here. You're okay." She eases an arm around my shoulders, her grip solid and protective.

I can't process anything. The world is a fog of noise and color. My fingers twist into her sleeve like a lifeline.

Behind us, Bob stumbles forward, one hand out. "Wait-please, don’t take her away. Just…let me explain. I didn't-"

Bucky moves instantly, stepping in front of Bob with a sharp, defensive shift. "Back up. Now." His voice is calm but ice-cold.

Bob freezes, hands trembling. "Please…just make sure she's okay. And the girls. Please." His voice drops, hoarse and strangled. "They're all that matters."

John steps closer, jaw tight. "You need to stop talking and listen. You scared the shit out of her. You almost lost everything tonight. You get that?"

Alexei steps up beside Bucky, towering over Bob. "We're going to help you," He says, voice low but firm. "But right now, she comes first. You don't get to be near her."

Bob looks around wildly, as if searching for a way to fix what he's done. His voice breaks. "Tell her…tell her I'm sorry. I never wanted this. I just…I fucked up. I don't know what I was thinking." He wipes at his face, smearing sweat and tears. "Fuck…I'm the worst father…I don't deserve them. I don't deserve her."

John's eyes narrow, his voice sharp but grounded. "Then start acting like it. You want to fix this? You get help. We'll make sure she's safe. You focus on what comes next."

Ava shifts, bracing me as she helps me stand. "Hey, eyes on me," She whispers, gently guiding me. "We're gonna walk away from this, okay? One step at a time."

My head lolls against her shoulder, my ears ringing. The voices behind me blur together, but I can still hear Bob's raw, shaking words echoing through the room:

"Please…take care of them…please, I don't know who I am anymore…"

Alexei's voice cuts in, heavy with authority but strangely soft beneath it. "We will. You need to face yourself now. No more running."

Ava leads me away, my mind stuck in that echo: please don't hurt me. Words I'm sure are replaying in Bob's mind as well.

Bob's last words reach me as we disappear down the hall. "I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry…"

I can't tell if they're for me or for himself.

-----

I felt numb for days.

I was in disbelief. I couldn't believe the fight had really happened. That Bob had been seconds away from possibly hurting me. He's never hurt me.

It was hard to accept that the man I love, the man who once made me feel safe and loved, now terrified me. His once shy charming image is now forever tainted with the memories of his toxic intoxicated behavior.

The day after the argument the team had a meeting with Bob. Since we lived with the team in the tower, this problem involved everyone.

I couldn't bring myself to attend, to face him. Not when the thought of talking to him brought so much anxiety. Instead I stayed in my room with the girls, trying my best to be as normal as possible. I knew they could sense something was different. It hurt my heart for them. They deserved to have a mom and dad who could give them their all. They deserved to have stable parents.

After the meeting, Yelena told me what the plan was. Bob was going back to rehab. He was going to be attending anger management a domestic abuse classes. He would also be getting therapy. He would be staying as long as he needed to.

Bob was broken. He didn't argue, he agreed to it all. He wanted to change. He needed to change. He knew it.

The day he left for rehab I didn't say goodbye. I wasn't ready. There were too many complex feelings suffocating me that I knew would just get worse if I saw him in person.

We arranged a meeting for him the girls, who hadn't seen him in a few days, to say goodbye. They met in a room with a two way mirror so I could watch from a distance. Bucky stood watch-just in case, although I knew he wouldn't need to step in. Bob would never hurt the girls.

The room feels too big. Too empty.

Bob stands there, shoulders hunched forward, hands wringing like he doesn't know what to do with them. His hair is a mess, eyes red and swollen, face pale and hollow. He looks like he hasn't slept in days, like he's been drowning inside his own head since that night. His skin shines with a clammy sweat, tremors working through his arms and fingers, withdrawal digging its claws into him.

When the door opens, he turns so fast it's almost desperate.

Asta walks in first, her small hand locked in a death grip around Yelena's fingers. She's dragging her favorite Barbie by the hair, her wide eyes wary and full of confusion. Liilja is perched on Yelena's hip, big baby eyes darting around curiously, thumb halfway to her mouth.

Bob drops to his knees immediately, hands spread open in front of him like he's pleading for forgiveness. His voice catches before it even leaves his throat.

"Asta… Liilja…" He rasps, almost like a prayer, his voice shaking so hard it nearly disappears.

Asta hesitates. She stares at him with wide, searching eyes, the same eyes that watched him scream and break that night.

"Daddy… you mad at us?" She asks, her voice small and trembling.

Bob shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "No-no, no, no. Never at you. Never, princess. Daddy was…Daddy was mad at himself. Daddy made a big mistake. I scared you. And I'm so, so sorry. I'm so sorry, my love."

Liilja starts to fuss, reaching out for him instinctively. Yelena glances at Asta, hesitates, then gently sets Liilja down. The baby immediately toddles forward, stumbling into his arms.

Bob gathers her up so gently, as if she's something very fragile. He presses his face into her soft hair, inhaling deeply like he's trying to memorize her scent.

Asta inches closer, her lower lip trembling. "Daddy…you go bye-bye now?"

Bob lifts his head, his face crumpling. Tears streak down over stubble he hasn't bothered to shave. "Yeah, baby. Daddy has to go away for a little while. To get better. So I can be the daddy you need. The one who makes pancake towers and builds forts and reads all the stories you want. You deserve that daddy. You deserve the best."

Asta hesitates, then suddenly drops her Barbie and runs forward, throwing herself at him. He pulls her into his other arm immediately, holding them both in a tight, desperate hug.

"I love you…I love you more than anything in this world," He sobs, voice raw beyond recognition. "You're my light. You're the best thing I've ever done. You're the best parts of me. I promise I'll come back better. I promise."

Asta's tiny fingers curl into the back of his shirt, her shoulders shaking as she cries into his neck. "You promise, daddy?"

Bob pulls back just enough to look into her eyes. "I promise, princess. I swear to you. Cross my heart."

Liilja babbles something soft, patting at his tear-streaked cheeks. Bob kisses her forehead again and again, whispering, "My sweet baby…my girl…Dada loves you so much…more than all the stars in the sky…"

From behind the two-way mirror, I watch through eyes blurred with tears. My hand presses against the cold glass, useless, as if I could stop time and pull them all into one safe, unbroken moment.

I remember him like this: the father who would carry Asta on his shoulders for hours just to make her laugh so hard she'd snort; the man who'd sleep on the floor next to Liilja's crib because she wouldn't settle without his voice humming in the dark. The man who built forts so high they almost touched the ceiling, who'd cry quietly when he thought no one saw him, overwhelmed by love for the little lives he helped create.

That man is still there, I can see it, tangled behind the pain and the demons and the guilt.

Bob finally pulls them in tighter once more, trembling so badly his fingers can barely hold. "Be good for Mama, okay? Take care of each other. Help her. She needs you both so much. Can you do that for me?"

Asta nods through her sobs, sniffling, "Okay, daddy…"

Liilja squirms and starts to cry, reaching for his face, her little fists curling and uncurling as her sobs build.

Bob presses one last kiss to Asta's forehead, then Liilja's, lingering there like he might never get to again.

"I love you more than anything. Always. Always," He whispers, his voice splintering on every word.

When Yelena finally steps forward to take them, Asta clings with a frantic strength, her cries sharp and desperate. "No! No! Want daddy! Please!"

Liilja joins in, shrieking her small, broken "Dada!" cries, her arms reaching for him even as she's pulled away.

Bob looks like he's being torn limb from limb, his arms frozen mid-air as if they're trying to grab them back but he can't move.

As the girls are carried toward the door, Asta's small hand stretches toward him, shaking, her voice high and cracking. "Daddy!"

His mouth moves around a broken whisper. "I love you. I love you."

Then they're gone. The door closes. Silence crashes down like a wave.

Bob stays kneeling, shaking violently, hands hanging uselessly at his sides. Slowly, he lifts his head and turns toward the two-way mirror. His eyes meet mine, as though he can see me, even if he can't. It's like he can sense I'm here.

His lips part, letting out a small whisper. "I'm so sorry."

He doesn't look away. He just stares, his face a storm of grief and love and self-loathing.

Bucky steps further into the room quietly, his expression heavy. He hovers a hand above Bob's trembling shoulder.

"Come on, Bob," Bucky says softly but firmly. "Time to go."

Bob doesn't resist. He lets Bucky guide him up, though his eyes never leave the mirror-never leave you.

I'm left alone behind the glass, my hand still pressed flat, my heart torn between love and terror, wondering if I had made the right decision not to say goodbye.

As he's led away, his head finally drops forward, shoulders caving in like he can't hold himself upright anymore.

------

It's been weeks since that night. Weeks since the girls sobbed for their father, since I watched Bob disappear behind that door.

The girls ask about him every day. Asta draws pictures of him, Liilja toddles around the apartment, babbling "Dada" like he might appear from behind every corner.

I don't know if I'm ready. My heart is still raw, still afraid. But I know they need this. They need him. And deep down…I think I do too.

I hold their hands tightly as we walk down the long hallway. My palms feel clammy, and my pulse thrums loud enough that I'm sure they can hear it. Asta skips nervously beside me, her other hand clutching her Barbie, while Liilja hums and swings her little feet.

A staff member leads us to a small visiting room. There's a low table with toys scattered across it and a soft rug in the corner. A couch sits against the wall, and when I step inside, I see him.

Bob.

He's sitting there, perched on the edge of the couch, hands twisting in his lap. He looks anxious. His hair is longer, messier. His face is thinner, eyes sunken but clearer. When he sees us, he jumps to his feet so fast it's almost clumsy.

His blue eyes flick to mine instantly, and I see it, the excitement, the terror, the endless guilt.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. My breath catches. I can feel the girls vibrating with energy beside me, like coiled springs.

Then Asta squeals, "Daddy!"

Liilja shrieks, "Dada!"

They sprint toward him. Bob bends down, arms open wide, and they crash into his chest with such force he stumbles backward, laughing and crying at the same time. "Hi, my babies."

He scoops them up, hugging them so tightly his knuckles go white. His voice cracks as he says their names over and over, kissing their heads, their hair, their cheeks.

I hover by the door, my heart in my throat. Part of me wants to run forward, to join them, another part wants to run out the door and never look back.

Finally, Bob looks at me over their shoulders. His eyes are red already. He straightens up slowly, setting the girls back on their feet.

"Hi," He says softly, his voice almost shy.

"Hi," I manage. My voice comes out harder than I mean it to.

He rubs his hands on his pants like he doesn't know what to do with them. There's an awkward, almost teenage uncertainty in his movements, just like when we first met.

"How… how are you?" He asks carefully.

I swallow, shifting my weight. "I'm fine." It's half true at best, but it's all I can manage.

He nods slowly, glancing down at the girls as they play with the toys scattered across the table. "They look good," He murmurs. "Happy."

"They miss you," I say, softer now. My eyes flick toward Asta, who is now showing Liilja how to stack blocks. "They talk about you every day."

A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. It's small, hesitant, but it's there. "I miss them more than they'll ever know," He says. His eyes slide back to mine. "I…I miss you too."

My chest tightens and I swallow harshly. I don't reply. I can't yet.

The girls run back over, chattering excitedly about the toys. Bob kneels again, reaching into a small tote bag beside him.

"I…I got something for you both," He says. His hands still tremble a little as he pulls out two small stuffed bears, one pink and one blue.

Asta lets out a delighted squeal, grabbing hers and hugging it to her chest immediately. Liilja giggles and starts chewing on one of the bear's ears, drool pooling instantly.

"Thank you, Papa!" Asta shouts, beaming up at him like he's the sun.

Bob laughs, his voice rough, tears shining in his eyes. He looks like he might collapse from joy and heartbreak all at once.

Then he hesitates, looking up at me again. His hand dips back into the bag, and he pulls out something wrapped carefully in paper.

"I…I also have something for you," He says. His voice is almost a whisper now, full of hesitant vulnerability.

I take a step forward, my breath stuttering. I reach out slowly and peel back the paper.

Inside is a small painting. The brush strokes are soft and a little clumsy, but I know it instantly-the restaurant where we first met. The warm glow of the windows, the curve of the little neon sign, the tiny sidewalk tables.

My fingers go numb. I didn't even think he remembered.

Bob's eyes are glued to my face, watching every micro-expression. "Of course I remember," He says quietly, almost like he's reading my mind. "That's where I fell in love with you."

I stare at him, the painting trembling in my hands. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs, so loud I think the whole room can hear it.

For a long second, there's nothing but the girls giggling and the blood roaring in my ears.

Then, finally, I look up at him.

And I know we can't keep avoiding it forever.

We sit down on the little couch, our girls nearby playing with their new bears on the rug.

Bob sits on the very edge of the cushion, his hands clasped so tightly between his knees that his knuckles are white. His eyes flicker to me, then away, like he's afraid to look too long.

I take a slow breath, steadying my voice. "I…I think we need to talk about what happened."

His head drops instantly. "Yeah," He rasps.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, my voice shaking despite how hard I try to hold it steady. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to use? Or that you needed space?"

Bob's shoulders curl inward, his fingers twitching. He swallows so hard it looks like it hurts.

"I didn't want to worry you," He says finally, voice hoarse. "You're already…you do so much. You keep the girls going, you keep us going. You've worked so hard on yourself. I didn't want to drag you into… into my darkness. I didn’t want to damage you."

His mouth twists into a sad, broken little smile. "Funny, huh? I didn't want to hurt you…and that's exactly what I did."

I flinch at the raw honesty in his voice.

He scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "I've been…obsessing over it for months. Ever since the Void took over New York. I felt so fucking guilty. All that damage…all those people…that was me. Even if it wasn't me, it was still me. I couldn't shut it off in my head."

He pauses, glancing at the girls. His lips tremble.

"And…I felt guilty about Malaysia. About missing all that time with them. I see other dads online, posting videos when their kid walks for the first time, or when they say their first word. I wasn't there. I missed Asta's first steps. I missed Liilja's first birthday. I felt like a fraud, like I didn't qualify. Like a bad dad."

I swallow hard, the ache deep in my chest.

"And… the Void," He continues, voice dropping to almost a whisper. "I kept worrying it would come out again. That it would hurt you. Hurt them. I didn't feel good enough. I didn't feel safe. I didn't feel like me. I wanted to ask for space, but…I felt selfish. You never get time alone either. I thought if I just…numbed it for a night, I could fake it. Play it off. Like no one would know. That things could go back to normal the next day and it wouldn't be a problem."

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I breathe in slowly, my voice thin but clear. "You should have told me, Bob. You're important. How you're feeling is important. I would have listened. I would have given you space, if that's what you needed. Gladly. You don't have to juggle this alone. I'm here. I love you. I chose you."

He lifts his head finally, eyes bright with tears.

I look at the floor for a second, gathering my courage. "But…I can't lie and say that I can just jump back into how we were before. I'm…I'm still scared. Of what happened. Of what you might do if things got that bad again."

His face crumples, and I watch it hit him like a physical blow. He nods, head bobbing desperately.

"I know," He chokes out. "I know I have to earn that trust back. I don't expect you to forgive me overnight. I don't even expect you to forgive me at all right now. I'm willing to work for it. However long it takes. However you need me to. If…if you still want me."

He wipes at his tears again, voice breaking. "Your comfort is my priority. You. The girls. I would do anything to make it right."

His eyes fall shut, shaking. "When I saw you that night…cowering like that…it was like I was looking at my mom. The way she used to look at my dad. That's my worst fucking nightmare. All I kept thinking was how I'm turning out exactly like my dad, that I'm destroying you. I never wanted that for you. You deserve so much better. And I'm so sorry."

I stare at him, my own tears finally spilling over. I wipe them quickly and force a small, shaky smile. "Thank you. For apologizing. For saying all of this. Thank you for your honesty."

He looks up at me, terrified, as if he's waiting for me to vanish.

"Of course I still want you," I say softly. "I married you for a reason. I'm not going to just abandon you. We're not over. But…this will take time. And work. From both of us. And if this is going to work, you can't treat me like that again."

His whole body deflates with relief, a tremor running through him so hard his hands shake on his knees. "Yes, I will. I'll never talk to you like that again. Never." His eyes flood again, but this time there's something softer under it-hope.

I lean back a little, wiping my cheeks again. The girls are still giggling on the rug, oblivious to the heavy grown-up words floating above them. Bob glances at them and then at me, his mouth twitching into a fragile, grateful smile.

He sniffles, then drops to the floor and joins them. He makes silly bear noises, and Asta laughs so hard she falls onto her back. Liilja crawls into his lap, holding her bear up to his face.

For a moment, it almost feels normal. Almost.

When it's time to leave, the girls cling to him again, whining, "Noooo!" and "Daddy, come home!"

I gather up our things, my heart a strange mess of relief and longing and sadness.

As we start to head toward the door, Bob stands awkwardly, like he wants to say or do something but isn't sure if he should.

I pause. Then I take a tiny step forward and wrap my arms around him, gentle and hesitant.

He freezes for a second, and then melts into it, folding into me like he's been holding his breath for weeks. But he doesn't cling, doesn't ask for more. He follows my pace, careful and respectful.

When I finally step back, he nods, swallowing hard.

I leave feeling…not fixed. But a little steadier. A little stronger.

I know this won't be easy. We still have a long way to go. But for the first time in a long while, I believe we might make it.

[rinis-rift]

1- Haunting the Horizon.

A God’s Last Warning

The Masterlist! | YOKAI FILES | prev. | next

ꕥ Yokai is from Japanese folklore, so what is one doing, wandering around the streets of Korea? Grabbing attention from the other beasts who dwell in their own underworld as well as their hunters? And when the dust settles, who will have the pleasure to have their blessing?

wc: 1.1k

Yokai!Male! Reader x Saja boys + Huntr/x

Extra: I'm gonna try to fit the prologue in 2 chaps, and because this is kind of short, i think the next one will be hella long...

Look, you know that you’ve been reprimanded by the Gods for interfering with humans on the surface world more than once, the usually jolly fat man berated you for hours on end each time. 

Yelling and teaching something about how it's taboo to try to communicate with the humans, and something about how Yokai can’t do anything more than coexist and indirectly interact with the humans above.

Your main director who was in charge of your types of Yokai was a happy guy to everyone, it was common knowledge that Daikokuten was like that. At first, when you were younger, he’d just give you a pat on the back and a thoughtful lecture on why what you did was bad. As you got older, he’d give you a slap on the wrist then let you go, now you were at the age where there was no excuse for what you’re doing.

And you didn’t break any of those rules!

…

Ok, maybe you’ve bent the boundaries you could cross a little too much… too often. But in your defense, all you did was try to appear in your haunting form during the day in front of a poor dad that genuinely thought you were an intruder..! As well as try to arrange the chopsticks to form a sentence that the kids of the house spilled tears over. (You only wrote “How do your eyes produce tears?”, you were so confused from their reaction, but wrote it down nonetheless.) 

But it seems like this time, your bosses had enough of you. Even the other Yokai, they’d tease and jab at your mountains of notebooks, filled with enthusiastic observations of the human world. They called you ‘A joke’ and ‘an idiot’ for even trying to communicate and learn more. Always telling you it was a waste.

They’d say you’re a “human-wannabe”, and you know what, that doesn’t hurt as much as they think. You were fine with being a Yokai, never got any discomfort from the fact that you were one, you were just curious about the people upstairs…

It’s just that they’ve existed with your species for generations upon generations- theorized to have existed before the Yokais! Well, at least that’s your theory. Who wouldn’t pique interest at the history of the beings that are like an upstairs neighbor. When they’re making a loud mess, you can’t help but wonder what's going on up there.

The fellow Yokai’s jabs hurt at first, especially when you were nothing but a mere child, clutching the paper you stole from a family's Shoji door, on the other hand were crumpled candy wrappers from the candies that people left out for you. Tears brimming your eyes as they fell down your ceramic cheeks.

You’d always run back to your little hut alone, your hair messy from the wind, your kimono wrinkled with your frustration, your hands and cheeks were cold, devoid of happiness and acceptance. It always ended like that for you as a kid.

Each time you asked for acceptance and not alienation from your peers, you always got weird looks and discouraging words. Your idea of fun was so different from the other beings your age, the older ones would belittle you and tell you backhanded compliments that you caught onto too quickly.

They rejected you when you were nothing but a new doll, and they continued to ignore you when you got older. 

But after a while you ignored their ignorance, you grew up. It was all the same things, said over and over again. Your skin toughened up when it came to your Yokai environment, if only they saw what you saw, maybe then they’d understand. You always saw it as: Their brains aren’t as big as mine. Of course, you’d never tell them that.

But to the others, you’re already exceptionally rare as it is, a male Zashiki Warashi? There’s only a pinchful of those every generation! So to see that you’d waste your talent, time, and good looks on the simpleminded humans? It was laughable to the rest, but you always defended your interests and hobbies, but it always resulted with you being outnumbered..

But it seems like this was the final straw for the fat jolly man..

This time you had gotten in trouble for unlocking a form that no other Zashiki Warashi has transformed into before. A human form. Or at the very least, a form that could blend in with the human crowd. And the Gods found out faster than you anticipated, you swore you’d get at least three days of exploration! They found out that night.

Regardless of what you thought, you received another yelling session from your boss, the loved and revered Daikokuten, a name prayed to in almost all homes for the chance of fortune and to avoid disaster. But this time, he seemed more enraged than before, he was waving his mallet with much more ferocity, you even had to step back because he swung it directly at you.

“You insolent child! It’s been years and you still don’t know when to stop, don’t you?! You go as far as test your ghostly body to see if it’ll be anything more? Now you’ve done it! You’ve mutilated your body into something disgusting, repulsive, corrupted- and for what?! To play with humans?!” His voice boomed off the walls, and for the first time in a long time, you felt genuine fear.

You’ve forgotten that as much as you were pushing his good graces, he was still a God, and a powerful one at that. Your eyes widened, your porcelain body shuddered as the ground shook beneath your feet. Your cheeks burned at the shame he made you feel. His words cut deep. To say you mutilated your body. It wasn’t mutilation.

You chanted that in your head, you couldn’t even look him in the eye. Your previous pride and excitement at your discovery was washed away, overwhelmed with mortification, you felt your hollow body grow cold. You then noticed that despite your ears ringing, the yelling had stopped. You look up.

You don’t know what you were expecting, but the heavy God sat there, on his hay barrels, catching his breath from yelling. He raised his magic wooden hammer, you felt your doll eyes strain from how wide you were opening them.

“I have had enough of entertaining your fantasies. Maybe a change of location and a burning of your journals ought to do it. Come back when you’ve learned your lesson.” Something heavy inside you dropped to your stomach.

The mallet in his wrist swung with such animosity and force you haven’t seen before, he hit the hay barrel on his left, and suddenly, light consumed you.

taglist: @tofumiarchives @kaikaikarasu @amery-benson-cvii@the-drowning-dreamer

@simp4myself

[miryum]

A Lovely Person (Azriel x Reader)

Based off of the prompt: someone losing their memories and instantly clinging to someone. Problem is, it’s the wrong person. It’s actually their enemy

Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst with a happy ending, Madja calling you dear, insecurities, missing memories, mentions of blood and sprained ankle, Az’s horrible brothers (in a memory), scars, reader and Az being really mean to each other sometimes

Word Count: 3.8k

“No, wait… please… stay.”

“What?”

Azriel didn’t know what to do. It had been three days since Cassian had found you in the forest, unconscious. An open wound had dripped blood into the grass. You were a valued member of the Inner Circle, so it was ludicrous that someone would willingly target you. They had to know the consequences Rhys would rain down. When Mor had finally deduced it was only a matter of a sprained ankle that had led to a fall onto a rock, the Circle had breathed a sigh of relief. That breath was quickly stolen, however, when you woke up and had almost no memory of anything.

Azriel had never been fond of you. You were too hot-headed, too stubborn, too much like him. He wasn’t used to someone putting their foot down. Especially not when it came from a much younger and smaller fae like you. It was appalling and frankly, he found it incredibly rude.

So when you had woken up and immediately attached yourself to Azriel, claiming trust in him, he was not the only one to be surprised.

“Please, stay,” you begged again, voice hoarse from your place on your bed. Was it really your bed, though? You had no recollection of sleeping on it. It was odd the things you decided to remember; you could vaguely place names to faces and you knew everything about yourself — favourite food, book, song, how old you were, where you grew up, your family — but you could hardly fathom the corridors of the Town House.

Azriel’s stare flicked to Cassian, who shrugged. Very helpful. “Yes,” the Illyrian finally agreed, taking a step back into the room. Cass had willed Azriel to visit you on the preface that you were as close as family. What neither of them expected was this.

Your shoulders visibly relaxed as he moved closer to you. “Az-Azriel, right?” you asked, swallowing thickly. Your mouth felt dry and pasty and you reached over, trying to grasp at the pitcher of water that Madja had added some healing powder to. The man nodded and hurried to take the pitcher. You watched, seemingly fascinated, as he poured the water into a glass for you to drink. Even after a day of consciousness on your part, the potions and pills Madja had given you hadn’t worn off. You still felt a little fuzzy and out of it, the pills diminishing not only the throbbing in your ankle, but the logic in your brain.

“Yes, I’m Azriel,” he muttered awkwardly. Azriel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stepped back. After you greedily drank the water, both hands circling the glass, he cleared his throat to get your attention. “So you truly don’t remember anything?”

You were sick of being asked that question, but something within you felt the secure and trust that came from a dear friend as you looked up at Azriel. “No,” you whispered out, shaking your head. “Well, some things. I know almost everything about myself, but nothing about anyone else. Have- how much do I know about you? How much am I missing?” Guilt settled in your stomach like an anvil. You wanted to tell him that you could rattle off everything you had ever learned about him, but anywhere you looked in your empty mind, you couldn’t conjure anything.

Meanwhile, Azriel stared down at you with his own commiseration. How could he tell you that the last interaction you two had was when he berated you for an argument you stirred up with one of Keir’s men? He couldn’t tell you that he had called you immature and brash. You had then shouted that Azriel was an old, circumspect male who thought he was too good to listen to your ideas. And then, after you stormed out of the room, how could Azriel tell you that Cassian burst out laughing and Rhys smothered his smirk as Azriel fumed. But the thing he really didn’t want to tell you is how, moments later, his shadows anxiously reported back that you were in your room, trying to hold back tears. “You’re not missing much,” he finally admitted lamely. “We haven’t had too many life-changing conversations…”

“Oh.” You sounded almost disappointed and for some reason, Azriel wanted to remedy that. You looked so meek, so unlike yourself, that he would readily take back the sassy woman he knew.

“Um, I recently found a bakery,” he heard himself say. “It’s owned by this old couple. They’re very nice. It’s quite good. The pastries, I mean.”

A smile cracked your face for the first time since you had woken. “That sounds lovely,” you commented.

“It is.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, “I’ll take you there sometime.”

Your eyes went back to the glass in your hand and — was that a blush? Azriel frowned and tried to get a better look at your face, but couldn’t. Were you blushing over him? What parallel universe had he stumbled into? “I can’t wait,” you replied.

The next few days brought no signs of improvement to your condition. Your head wound and ankle had healed, but everyone was still treating you like glass. It felt unnatural, like you knew you were something more, but couldn’t put your finger on it.

Another thing that had changed was the attention you gave to Azriel.

The entire Night Court could see it; it wasn’t a secret, but it did come as a shock. Azriel found himself looking over his shoulder, just to see you, trailing a few steps behind. You followed him around like one of his own shadows. You were always looking around in a mixture of confusion and awe, like you were seeing the Court for the first time — which, he guessed you were.

His shadows had become more protective of you, which Azriel found odd, though he supposed if any of his family members had been injured, his shadows would be equally concerned. But it was you. The person who hated his guts.

Eventually, he stood inside Rhys’ study, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know what to do with her!” he exclaimed. He felt free to speak in such a way, knowing you were taking a nap in your room. Earlier that day, he had walked out in the gardens to give you (who still followed him everywhere after four days) some fresh air. Afterwards, you had reached out to him and touched his forearm, telling him quietly that you needed a rest. His arm was still tingling from where you had touched him.

“What do you mean?” Rhys asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“It is quite unusual,” Cassian grinned. “Though terribly amusing. Seems like you have a new admirer, Az.”

Azriel shook his head vehemently. “We detest each other. But she’s been a completely different person ever since the accident! It’s concerning, Rhys. Tell me there’s something else we haven’t tried to retrieve her memories.”

“Why are you in such a rush?” Cass asked, fishing for the answer he already knew. “You said it yourself: you two get along much better now.”

“Cassian, it’s not fair to her. This isn’t who she is,” Azriel argued.

Rhys raised his head from where it was propped on his fist. “Do you not enjoy her company?”

“I—“ Azriel cut himself off before something detrimental could be said. His jaw set and his brothers could see him reverting back to the Shadowsinger. “Rhysand. Just tell me Madja is still working on this.”

“She is,” the High Lord confirmed. “And we’ll keep you updated. We mean not to have you act as Y/n’s babysitter, brother, but she seems to enjoy your company, as of now. I would suggest you capitalise it.”

Cassian couldn’t keep the smirk off his lips. “She’s quite a lovely person if you don’t argue with her every second of each day.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” the Illyrian growled before stalking out of the room.

Once again, you were trailing behind Azriel. In the busy market, he found himself continuously looking over his shoulder to make sure you were still with him. Azriel didn’t know why he cared so much. Let her get lost in the market, he thought bitterly. I’m not her babysitter like Rhys wants me to be. However, after he had travelled a block without realising you had paused to peruse some books displayed outside a store, he made sure to keep a close eye on you. He, with his imposing wings and constant glare, easily cleared a path. Other fae parted for him, making ample space for you to look around while still staying close.

After the second time when something else caught your eye, Azriel had taken your arm and looped it through his. You didn’t stray from him after that and were unusually quiet.

As was Azriel, but that was because his mind was running rampant. Before the incident, you had never touched him. In fact, you had scorned the idea. “And why would I want to touch a decrepit male?” you had said. But now, your arm was resting on his and your fingers were brushing along the scars on his hands.

How had he spent centuries not knowing your touch? How had he survived? His neurons felt as if they were all on fire and he swallowed thickly, though his throat suddenly felt tight.

“Where did you get these?” Your voice snapped him out of his conundrum. He looked down to see you staring up at him, absolute pain in your eyes. A flood of anxiety rushed through him for a moment, fearing you were hurt, but then he realised you were referring to the burn scars on his hands.

Oh.

“Uh, I… I don’t know if you want to know,” he said. Azriel forced himself to look away from the brutal reminders of his past. The scars didn't remind him only of his so-called “brothers” and the agonising fire, but now they also reminded him of how you had never cared to ask before. In the past, he had figured it was because he was simply unlovable. But now, with you looking so concerned up at him, looking as if you wanted to take away all of his scars and pain, he didn’t know what to think.

Azriel had to remind himself that this wasn’t you. You were the brash woman that frustrated him. You were the stubborn woman that made him want to rip his hair out. You weren’t this kind, empathetic soul. It confused him to no end.

Cassian’s words replayed in his head: “She’s quite a lovely person if you don’t argue with her every second of each day.” But Azriel couldn’t afford to dwell on all the times he saw you joking around with Feyre or sparring with Cassian — either verbally or physically — your laughter worming its way into Azriel’s head as he passed by. He shouldn’t think of all the times when your words made him shrink back into that little boy, so afraid and alone in that cage his father tossed him into. Because if he thought of those things, he would remember the way he lashed out back at you, often escalating things. If he thought of those things, he would remember how his shadows trailed sadly after you, reporting back insecurities and despair, when all they wanted was to hear your laughter again.

Shit. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Why did it have to be him that you clung to as Madja worked to repair your memories? What would life be like after you could remember everything? Would you shrink back away from him? Would you curse him out? How could he live without knowing your touch again?

That thought brought him back to the present and to how the pads of your fingers were gently tracing over his scars. That brought a whole new whirlwind of emotions crashing into him, but he focused on elaborating his response. “It’s- it’s just not a particularly heroic story,” he muttered as he led you through the market. “Quite depressing, in fact.”

Your brows came together and you asked slowly, “did I know about it before?”

“Um, no,” he admitted. “But like I said earlier, we… we weren’t really close before.”

“Are we closer now?”

You smiled up at him and Azriel almost had a panic attack, but he managed to nod. “Yes. Yes, we’re closer now, I suppose.”

“That’s good,” you commented, completely free and unaware of the mental strife going on in Azriel’s mind.

He cleared his throat and then directed you to your destination. “This is what I wanted to show you. It’s the bakery I told you about.” He saw your eyes light up and while he wanted so desperately to focus on the warmth filling his chest, he couldn’t help but dread: what would happen when you got your memories back?

Madja, being the excellent practitioner she was, managed to take only a few more days before finding the cure for short-term amnesia in one of the old dusty books in the library. After Cassian collected the plant that held the secrets, she had quickly mixed it up into a little brew.

You were utterly relieved when you heard the news, a weight finally being lifted off of you. Agitation had plagued you ever since you had woken up surrounded by people you didn’t know. They had all called you their friend, but could you be sure? Now, with your memories certain to come back, you could breathe again. Knowing something had been missing, just out of your reach, was the most frustrating thing you could remember – not that you could remember much, however. You couldn’t wait to return to your routine and your normal life, whatever that used to be.

Azriel, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if he wanted to return to normal life. But he always felt immense guilt threaten to crush him whenever he thought that. How could he be so selfish? How could he wish to take all those old memories and lock them up in a tiny box where no one would find them anymore, just for the chance to spend more time with you?

You really were a lovely person when he didn’t argue with you.

That thought only brought a whole new slew of questions. Was it his fault for arguing with you constantly? Was he the problem? Even if you didn’t get your memories back, would you eventually see him for the problem he was and begin to pull away?

Throughout the days before Madja’s discovery, Azriel’s brothers could see the way his mind chewed away at him, conjuring new problems and hardships with every turn. Rhys could hardly even decipher all the chaos swirling in Azriel’s head, but one look at the way his shadows clung to him was all the High Lord needed to see. Cassian tried to reassure Azriel that everything would be okay, but when that didn’t work, he turned to sparring, which ended up with a bloody nose for the general.

Finally, Madja found you in the library one day, reading a book with wide eyes. Azriel sat next to you on the couch, tension seeping along his back because the way you sat had your toes just touching his thigh. By the Cauldron, even that little touch rendered him useless. Yet he couldn’t look away from your face. You were rereading one of your favourite books (not that you knew that of course), but if you had known you had the chance to read it for the first time again and didn’t take it, you would’ve punctured Azriel with a spear when you got your memories back.

Your eyes were blown wide, almost to the climax of the story, and you held the book close to you like you wanted it to swallow you whole. Azriel couldn't help but think that maybe the expression on your face was worth all the arguments you had ever had with him.

“Y/n,” Madja’s voice interrupted your reverie. She had a proud smile on her older face. “We did it.”

It took only a second for you to understand what she meant and you jumped up, hurrying towards her and taking the little bottle in your hands. It looked so small and you wondered if that little brew could really cure all the irritation and troubles you had gone through.

You turned around to share your excitement with Azriel, but you couldn’t find him. He had slipped away into his shadows. “Where did he go?”

Madja pressed her lips together, looking disappointed. “Perhaps it’s time you had a talk with him.” Seeing your confusion, she added, “things haven't always been this peaceful, dear.”

The Shadowsinger ended up in Rhys’ office. Rhysand looked up from his paperwork, unsurprised that his brother was in a panic. “Madja figured it out, yes?” he asked. Azriel nodded, posture stiffening. He didn’t know why he had run to Rhys in his moment of indecision, but perhaps it had something to do with him needing guidance from his older brother.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “Rhys, I feel so selfish. It’s unfair and downright cruel for me to wish she never got her memories back.”

“Then perhaps you should tell her that.”

Az continued as if he hadn’t heard his High Lord. “I never expected to enjoy her company. She was just so… brash and rude and unforgiving. And it’s not that I want for her to completely change for me,” he said, “but I rather liked taking her to the market. We had a… a nice conversation over some baked goods.” His voice trailed off and he wasn’t looking at Rhysand anymore. Azriel’s lips twitched up into a rare smile and his gaze softened. Rhys doubted that the Shadowsinger even knew he was doing it.

It was rare for Azriel to smile, yes, but even then it was rarer to see genuine affection and care in his eyes. They all knew that Azriel would protect his family fiercely, but he hardly let any emotion ever show. The fact that it was happening as he thought of you… well, that certainly intrigued Rhysand. “Perhaps you should tell her that,” he repeated.

Before Azriel could reply, you knocked on the door. “Hey, Azriel,” you greeted quietly. “Uh, can we talk?” The little vial that would restore everything was still in your hand. You hadn’t drank it yet.

He nodded and followed you out. Rhysand sat back in his chair. “Yes, you’re welcome for all the help,” he said to the empty room.

It wasn’t long until Azriel stopped you in the hall. His shadows kept going, slipping along the ground to wind gently around your ankles. One slinked up to your hand.

A muscle in the Shadowsinger’s jaw clenched and you looked up at him, worried. “I miss you,” he said suddenly. Your brows raised, but he simply continued on. “I don’t know how to act around you now. I had figured you out, but now it’s all falling apart. I knew how to act around you with the arguments and the bitterness. But now it’s all so different now and I’m not used to it. I don’t know how to— how to love you.” He bowed his head and muttered, “I’m sorry.” Even though you couldn’t remember, you felt it odd to see the imposing Illyrian nervous.

But something inside you felt a little giddy that it was you who made him feel that way. You took a breath and told him, “Madja told me about how we used to be… mean to each other. Now it makes sense why you were so surprised when I asked you to stay.” You continued, “I need my memories back, obviously, and they would’ve probably come back with time. But I’ve found that I really like you— spending time with you, I mean. So maybe we could put all the bad memories behind us?”

“I’d like that, yeah,” he agreed. He didn’t notice his shadows twine themselves around and up your legs, almost in a caress. He didn’t notice, but you certainly did.

���Um, is this normal?” you asked, smiling down at the shadows. One eagerly shot up to your hand when you acknowledged them. It formed itself into a little blob, snuggling down into your palm. You couldn’t help but laugh, eyes lighting up.

Azriel cleared his throat and the shadow seemed to turn to look at him. “No, this is not normal,” he grumbled as the shadow turned back away from him defiantly and scooted up your arm and curled on your shoulder. “They usually listen to me.”

You laughed again and Azriel’s gaze flicked from his disobedient shadow to the way your eyes crinkled and the curve of your lips. He couldn’t look away. A consuming warm feeling grew in his chest and he knew then and there that everything would be okay.

The moment you had gotten your memories back, the bond had snapped for him. But not for you. It was torture, knowing you were just out of reach, but still acclimating to everything rushing back. It took a couple of days for you to get everything straightened out, reworking your mind to think straight again. It took a week for you to approach Azriel and quietly thank him for all that he did. It was incredibly embarrassing for you, as you could remember all the past arguments, but also how you had clung to him like a child. Meanwhile, Azriel was sweating because his mate was right there in front of him and he couldn’t sweep you into his arms, proclaiming his love.

He had been waiting centuries for a mate and had given up on the notion of love. Why would the Cauldron be kind enough to grant him one? Initially, he had thought it a joke. This couldn’t be what a bond feels like. Especially not with the woman he used to despise. But he didn’t despise you anymore, no. Quite the opposite, in fact. And the bond was just proof of that.

He had to wait a month for the bond to snap for you. But he didn’t mind waiting, certainly not when he could now hug you fiercely. Not when he could lay his head on your chest and feel your fingers brush through his hair. Not when he could enter the bakery owned by the old couple and they would already have your favourite sweet treats ready for him. Not when he could kiss you whenever he wished just because he felt like it. And certainly not when you continued to put him in his place, mate or not.

You truly were a lovely — no, an enchanting person, whether he argued with you or not. Cassian would never let him live it down.

Taglist: @goldenbrokenheart @ashduv

[heist-family-content]

This is long enough to be a fic, but oh weeeeell.

As with many other Wayne family traditions, it all started because Bruce was sleep deprived and a little delirious. He had just adopted Dick not even a year ago, but they had their routines. On patrol, Bruce could tell when the boy was lagging behind just a little bit more than usual and sitting down, bereft of cartwheels, on every rooftop. He recognised the signs that Dick would not, in fact, be walking back to the Batcave after this and he would need to be carried.

So Bruce took his sleepy little robin home in his arms, helped him change out of his costume, and tucked him into bed. But Jesus, Bruce was sleepy, too. He'd been up for maybe four days, and all he could really process was that Dick looked so peaceful and happy, worming into three layers of thick blanket after a long night, and he pressed the softest, sleepiest goodnight kiss into his son's head before dragging himself to bed.

Every night after that, Dick simply would not go to sleep without a goodnight kiss. The boy would be half unconscious, for christs sake, but his little hands could grip Bruce's sleeve like a vice. Bruce pretended to think it was a little ridiculous, but what was he going to do? Watch Dick lose vital rest so he could save his grumpy reputation? To this day, sometimes Dick will shamble into the batcave, half dead to the world, and sleepily whine until he gets a kiss and a pat on the head.

Jason has ridiculed them about this endlessly, but the joke is on him, because all robins forever are doomed to love Mom Bruce Kisses.

Kid Jason had been different. He didn't want a kiss every night before bed- that was for babies! But one day, Jason shuffled into the living room and flopped down on the couch so hard that Alfred raised a brow. Bruce, sitting next to him, stared pointedly until Jason huffed.

"I had a bad day," he said. Bruce nodded and was about to ask Alfred to bring in some ice cream, but Jason stopped him.

"No, it's fine, I'm fine. I just..." He huffed again, not having the words to say exactly what he needed. Bruce watched his son evenly, but his heart ached to soothe him, and not quite having any better ideas, he pressed the lightest kiss on Jason's cheek and smoothed back his messy hair. "It's okay to have bad days," he hummed gently. Jason didn't say anything at first, but he eventually lay his head down on Bruce's knee and took a nap, so Bruce assumed Jason didn't hate it. So "goodnight kisses" are Dick's thing and "bad day" kisses are Jason's thing. Noted.

And then came Tim. Tim, who was always working himself so hard, who stayed up almost as late as Bruce and functioned almost as well without sleep, so that Bruce could barely tell how little rest his boy was getting. Tim, who was always worried that he wasn't doing enough, that his intel wasn't good enough, that he wasn't earning Bruce's love, trust, and respect.

Bruce was really hard pressed to figure out what Tim needed. He was beginning to learn that all children really were fundamentally different, and in the early days, he was worried as hell. He had pushed Jason and lost him. What could he do to keep Tim from being pushed? From being hurt or worse?

One night, he found himself standing beside Tim, who was working tirelessly at the Bat Computer. Tim was explaining something, but Bruce was just staring at him. Tim looked up at him and instantly began to feel nervous. Was he in trouble? Had he done something wrong? Why was Bruce staring so angrily at him-

Tim blinked as Bruce gave his hair a quick kiss. "Good job," Bruce hums simply, focus returning to the computer screen. "I'm proud of you."

So Tim gets "good job" kisses, now. Alfred might have to start making a chart.

Damian doesn't necessarily like kisses, at least, that's how he acts. But Bruce notices the silent, stoic anxiety that radiates off of Damian when his father or one of his siblings gets badly hurt. Even if Alfred gets a papercut, Damian insists that he must inspect it for himself, and while he remains stern and blunt, he fusses over how "unacceptable" it is. In general, Damian refuses to be consoled or coddled, but Bruce notices.

And then Bruce almost died after being blindsided by a joint Bane-Deathstroke ambush, and Damian literally wouldn't leave his bedside unless it was to wreak vengeance. He pestered Alfred every ten minutes about changing bandages and wouldn't eat anything unless Dick coaxed him into it. Bruce allowed it because Damian does what he wants, and he couldn't pretend to not appreciate it.

Eventually, Bruce could sit up without wincing. He looked down at his youngest son, who had fallen asleep on the edge of Bruce's bed. Bruce gently woke him up for school, but Damian waved him away. Bruce huffed, a mix of reluctance and deep affection in his chest. He gently pulled the covers over the boy and gave his little hand a small kiss. The "it's going to be okay" kiss is the only one Damian will accept without complaint.