#and it's pride that keeps him from his mother

[formulafanfics13]

Little Wolff in the Paddock

Masterlist

Summary: The paddock is louder than she expected. Bigger too. But six-year-old Emilia Wolff is holding onto her mother’s hand and wearing her team pass with pride, ready to conquer her first-ever Formula 1 weekend. the rest of the grid? They’re not ready for her. Warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff, Toto and Susie being adorable parents, Lewis and George are honorary uncles, every driver falling in love with Emilia, a few jokes that go over her head, paddock chaos, protective Toto energy

Her paddock pass is laminated and sparkly. Her little white sneakers are brand new. And her Mercedes cap is almost too big, sitting low over her forehead so it brushes her lashes when she blinks. But Emilia Wolff is ready.

“I packed my notebook,” she tells Susie proudly, skipping beside her mother as they head toward the motorhome entrance. “And my coloured pens. And a banana.”

Susie smiles. “Perfect strategy.”

“Uncle Lewis said I should write down everything I learn. So I brought my special gold pen for important facts.”

Toto, walking beside them with a backpack slung over one shoulder and coffee in hand, chuckles. “Only gold for race-winning notes, right?”

Emilia beams. “Only gold for podiums, Daddy.”

She’s already met Lewis and George. Lewis picked her up in the hotel lobby yesterday and spun her around like a prince, told her she smelled like strawberries and power. George let her sit in his rental car and beep the horn until Toto took the keys away.

But today is different. Today is the paddock. Today she meets the others.

She holds Susie’s hand the whole time. Keeps glancing around like she’s expecting dragons and trapdoors. At one point she gasps and whispers, “That man has green hair,” and Susie gently steers her away from the VCARB hospitality unit.

Her first encounter is Carlos Sainz. He nearly trips over her.

“Oh! Lo siento-” he stops mid-step, crouches instantly. “Who do we have here?”

Emilia blinks up at him. “I’m Emilia. My daddy is Toto.”

Carlos gasps dramatically. “The big boss?”

She nods. “He does the serious voice.”

Carlos laughs. “He does. It scares me sometimes.”

“He scares George too,” she whispers, and Carlos laughs even harder.

Next is Charles, who gives her a flower from the Ferrari catering table and says she can be their good luck charm.

Then comes Lando, who teaches her a handshake he definitely just made up and insists she try a papaya for the first time.

Oscar waves from a distance, a little too afraid to approach without permission. “Can I say hi?” he mouths to Toto.

Toto shrugs. “She’s in charge.”

When she sees Alex, she gasps and says, “You have the same name as my iPad.”

He bursts out laughing and crouches. “That is such an honour.”

Then he lets her touch his hair. “It’s so soft!”

Toto watches from the sidelines, arms crossed but smiling. “I told you it wasn’t a wig,” he calls.

When she meets Fernando, she’s speechless. He kneels slowly. Offers his hand like he’s greeting a princess. “Emilia,” he says gravely. “It is my honour.”

She curtsies. Toto facepalms.

She’s doing laps by lunchtime. Not on track, but definitely in the paddock. Everyone knows her name now.

Lewis ties a little ribbon around her ponytail and calls her mini goat. George lets her press the buttons on his headset. Fred Vasseur tries to bribe her with chocolate to say Mercedes is her second favourite team.

She frowns. “My daddy’s team is the best.”

Christian Horner makes the mistake of calling her “little Toto.”

Emilia stares him down. “I’m not little. I’m exact.”

Christian walks away with his pride wounded and a juice box mysteriously missing from the Red Bull fridge.

By mid-afternoon, she’s curled in Susie’s lap in the motorhome, banana half-eaten, notebook full of scribbles.

On one page she’s drawn the paddock, a big square with cars, people, and a giant heart over the Mercedes garage.

On the other, in shaky gold pen, it says: I LOVE RACING AND BANANAS AND NOT SCARED OF MAX.

Toto snorts when he sees it. “She’s ready,” he tells Susie softly.

“For what?” Susie asks, brushing her daughter’s hair back.

“For world domination,” he says.

[amaris-whisperer]

Borrowed from the Future l Conrad Fisher x Reader

Pairing: Conrad Fisher x Reader Genre: Emotional slow-burn, angst, second chance romance Warnings: Past emotional betrayal, references to illness, tension, heavy longing Summary: Years ago, you were Conrad Fisher’s closest friend. Then he chose Belly and left you behind. Now you return to New York as a powerful woman, forced to face the boy who broke your heart because he’s your father’s doctor.

—

My office was carved from glass and silence. At the top of the high-rise, New York looked like it had surrendered to the clouds, buildings piercing through mist like dreams too sharp to touch. People often called it a view. I called it a shield.

Nothing could reach me up here.

Or so I thought, until I answered the call that shattered everything I had built to keep the past out.

My father had collapsed. Heart failure, they said. Stable, but fragile. The kind of fragile that claws at you when you are too far away, when the sound of the city suddenly feels like static instead of a heartbeat. I left meetings unfinished, emails unread. I packed the heels, the suits, the control, and flew down like the sky would break if I didn’t.

Mount Sinai was colder than I remembered hospitals being. My mother met me with a look I couldn’t translate. She had always been better at silence than I was. She held my hand too tightly in the elevator, like I was a little girl again. The one who used to drag Conrad Fisher across lawns by the wrist, declaring him her favorite person in the world.

I didn’t expect him to be standing in the room when the doors opened.

He had aged in the smallest ways. His jaw was sharper, his hair a little longer. But his eyes. God, those eyes. They still knew me. And they still made my heart catch like it had never learned to beat right without him.

He looked up from the chart and froze.

“Hi,” I said, because nothing else made it past the lump in my throat.

He blinked. “Hey.” —

My father was sleeping, soft beeps tracking the hours. My mother sat near the window, her hands wringing a tissue that had long since given up being useful. The nurse said he’d be okay, but fragile. He would need rest, care, and a cardiologist who knew what the hell they were doing.

That was Conrad.

Of course it was Conrad.

“I didn’t know,” I said later, outside in the hallway. My voice sounded foreign, too measured. “That it was you.”

“I didn’t either. Until this morning.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I got the file, and I saw your name. I thought—”

“That I’d never come back?”

His silence said more than his words ever could. —

We were a story that never got a final chapter. He had been my best friend, the one I trusted more than anyone, even when trusting felt like falling. I knew him in ways no one else did. I knew what made him laugh before he could smile. I knew the way he stared at the sky when he wanted to escape, and the way he avoided eye contact when he was about to lie.

He had lied to me the last time we saw each other.

He said I was the one person he could never hurt.

Then he chose her.

I left Cousins the next morning and never looked back. —

Days passed like a dream I kept trying to wake up from. I shuffled between the hospital and my father’s apartment, answering work calls with one hand and feeding him soup with the other. My mother watched me with quiet pride and exhaustion. Her world was shrinking to one room and one man, and I had to be everything else.

Conrad was careful. He kept it professional. He explained test results to me like I wasn’t the girl who used to quiz him on biology from a hammock, legs tangled, laughter spilling into the air like it would never leave.

One afternoon, he stayed a little longer. We sat in the hospital lounge, not speaking at first. I had undone the top button of my blouse, the day stretching behind me like a battlefield. He handed me a coffee, just the way I liked it. Two sugars, no cream. I didn’t ask how he remembered.

“I heard about your company,” he said finally.

“Is this the part where you say I’ve changed?” I asked without smiling.

“No. You were always this person. You just had to grow into her.”

The compliment landed too softly. It made my chest ache.

“You were always meant to fix things,” I said. “And you did.”

He looked at his hands. “I still think about that summer.”

“So do I.” —

The storm came later, as it always does when you ignore the clouds long enough. My father’s heart rate dropped. There was a code. I watched Conrad run down the hallway like he didn’t remember I existed, like all that mattered was keeping my father alive.

He did.

He saved him.

But something broke in me while I watched.

When it was over, and they wheeled my father back into his room, Conrad stepped outside and found me in the corridor, slumped on the floor, tears staining the silk of my dress.

“I need you to leave,” I whispered.

He crouched in front of me. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I can’t do this with you again. I barely survived it the first time.”

He reached for me, then stopped. “I was a coward.”

I laughed bitterly. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were just young.”

“I thought choosing her was what I was supposed to do. It felt easier. Safer.”

“And was it?” My voice was a knife, clean and sharp.

“No.” He exhaled slowly. “It was the biggest mistake of my life.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. “You don’t get to say that to me now.”

“I know.”

We didn’t speak again for three days.

—

My father got stronger. I started bringing work into his room. He joked that he hadn’t seen me sit still this long since high school. My mother hummed around the apartment like she was seventeen and in love all over again. She even started cooking again. The smell of garlic and warm bread filled the rooms where grief had started to settle.

And then, Conrad knocked.

He stood at the door with a bag of groceries. “I wanted to check in. As a friend. If that’s still allowed.”

My mother let him in before I could say no.

That night, we sat on the fire escape, like we used to. The city buzzed beneath us. He passed me a beer. I didn’t ask how he knew my favorite brand.

“I keep thinking,” he said, “that if I had asked you to stay, maybe you would have.”

I looked down at the traffic. “I would have said no.”

“Because of her?”

“Because of me,” I said. “Because I finally realized I deserved more than being someone’s almost.”

He nodded slowly. “You always did.” —

He started coming around more. To see my dad, to see my mom, to see me. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself the way he looked at me now was just guilt. But one night, as I walked him out, he brushed a strand of hair from my face and didn’t move away.

“I’ve never stopped caring about you,” he said.

“I’ve never stopped missing you,” I replied.

The silence between us cracked like glass.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance,” he whispered.

“You don’t,” I said, heart beating out of my chest.

“But I’m asking anyway.” —

The summer ended slowly, like a curtain falling on a show we weren’t ready to leave. My father recovered. My mother smiled again. I sat at my desk in my office in the sky, looking out at the world I had built.

And I thought of Conrad.

The boy who broke my heart.

The man who was trying to make it whole again.

I didn’t know what came next. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

But I remembered what he said once, years ago, on a beach we used to claim as ours.

“If the future’s already written, I hope it’s messy. I hope it’s full of mistakes. Because then maybe I still have a shot at writing you in.”

And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to let him.

[frostyharbor]

wolf summer: offering tags: fluff, hunting, animal death (in the context of hunting), 1.7k words

Over breakfast one morning in your mother’s kitchen, the topic of conversation somehow turns to proposals. They’re not talking about you and Simon, thankfully, but reminiscing on the past.

“Remember the one Uncle William brought home for Aunt L.?”

“Thing of beauty, that was; reddest coat I ever saw on a stag.”

From what Simon can follow, they’re talking about a hybrid tradition involving the successful hunting and killing of a red deer stag, to be presented to the hunter’s intended choice of mate.

He thinks it over for a few days, and, on the night before his leave ends, Simon approaches your mother over the matter.

He’s direct. “I’d like to hunt an offering for your daughter, if you would allow it.”

“My allowance has little to do with it.” Your mother sets her book aside to give Simon her full attention. “My daughter is an adult and capable of making her own choices.” She looks at him, not the warm, doting woman he’s grown accustomed to, but as a mother sizing up a suitor who’s essentially just asked for her daughter’s hand. “What do you know about stag hunting?”

Nothing. Simon imagines that most boys learn from their fathers, and his old man had never been interested in hunting anything bigger and stronger than him.

While he thinks of how to answer, your mother’s face softens. “It’s no matter; you’re good with a rifle, anyways, and there are guides who can accompany you. There’s a generous parcel of land in the Scottish Highlands allocated to hybrids for this purpose, and my sons know the terrain.”

The idea of needing aid wounds his pride. “Is it something I should do alone?”

She shakes her head. “Some males insist on it, but most bring a friend or two.” She reaches out to lightly tap his knee. “You can always ask for help, Simon.”

Your mother isn’t the pack’s matriarch for nothing, but it still chafes to feel so seen.

In the end, he asks your two oldest brothers to guide him, and is rewarded by the pride and excitement that lights up their faces.

The compound bow is the traditional hunting weapon of choice for wolf hybrids, but, as a human, Simon doesn’t qualify for the hybrid exception to the bowhunting ban.

“Don’t fret,” Jeremy assures him when Simon voices his concerns. Your oldest brother and well-versed in deer stalking, he’s proficient in hunting with both bow and rifle. “She’s over the moon for you; you could bring her a sparrow you killed with a rock and she’d be thrilled.”

He seems knowledgeable enough on the subject that Simon takes him at his word.

Jeremy’s also useful for other advice. 

“Lotsa blokes go for the biggest or showiest stag,” he tells Simon one evening at the shooting range, shaking his head and tutting. “But they forget they gotta carry it and present it. End up embarrassing themselves when they can’t lift it up. Wasteful, too.” He whistles when Simon hits the target dead center. “Most places make you turn over the venison and just let you keep the head, but—” he gestures to his ears, grinning, “—hybrid privileges. Remember, though, you just need enough to feed the pack.”

Simon is used to making snap judgments the moment he enters a room. When he had first met Jeremy and Bryce, your other brother who would be accompanying him, he had dismissed both.

Jeremy is lanky and awkward most of the time, all big, twitchy ears, too-long limbs, and a softening belly that’s grown over the years since Simon first met him. A tax attorney, he isn’t exactly what one might label as threatening. 

Bryce is a bit stouter, broader in the shoulder with surer feet and a straight back. But he’s gentle in nature; Simon would be willing to bet that, hunting aside, the most “violent” thing he’d ever done might be play wrestling with his nieces and nephews.

With rifles in their hands, however, both men become predators.

On a moody day in early September, the stalk begins on the hills above the glen. After parking their UTV below, Jeremy leads the trio up the slopes of the Highlands single-file. The men are quiet, contemplative. Heavy clouds in the distance threaten rain, but the wind blows them off course, leaving Simon’s path clear.

The first stag they scout is ruminating on the next hill, about eighty meters away. Simon is tempted immediately by the magnificent head of antlers—a twelve-pointer. 

His instincts tell him that you deserve the best, the biggest. But he remembers your brother’s advice. Practicality. Restraint.

Simon glances at the other two men out of the corner of his eye. Both look back with stoic expressions; they’ll help him if he moves to take the stag, but this is a decision he has to make.

After another moment of internal struggle, Simon exhales sharply through his nose and lowers his rifle. “Maybe the next one.”

Jeremy winks.

The stag Simon eventually takes is a young six-pointer with strong-looking antlers and bold, dark eyes. It paces over the hill, pawing the ground and occasionally dropping its head to graze. When it stands in one of the rays of afternoon sunlight that have broken through the clouds, its coat is a fiery red.

“A fine animal,” Bryce murmurs from where he’s looking through his field glasses, nodding approvingly. They flank him while Simon prepares, throwing his bag down in front of him to use as a rest for his rifle.

When the stag lowers its head again, Simon pulls the trigger, aiming for the spot just behind the front shoulder. The deer leaps in stunned shock when the bullet hits home, sprinting forward a few meters before falling to the earth. 

Simon and Jeremy approach the stag while Bryce goes to get the UTV. By the time they reach it, it’s already dead, and, seeing the great body splayed out across the grass, Simon feels a twinge of pity.

Jeremy inspects the wound and gives a pleased hum. “That was a clean kill.” There’s a clamor below as Bryce drives the UTV up the hill as far as it will go; it’ll be up to Simon to carry the stag down the steepest bits of the slope. 

Jeremy reaches out to shake his hand, pulling him in for a hug when Simon takes it, clapping him on the back in a brotherly manner.

“Well done, Simon.”

His voice is warm with pride, and Simon feels the answering sting of emotion well up behind his eyes. Lets his own arms go around the other man’s shoulders and squeeze back.

The drive back to the lodge your family had rented for the occasion goes quickly. 

Your pack is already gathered at the front of the building, flanking both sides of the driveway. At the foot of the porch steps, you stand alone, hands folded expectantly in front of you. 

Bryce parks the UTV, he and Jeremy climbing down to quietly join the others, leaving Simon to walk up the drive by himself. When he shoulders the stag from the back of the vehicle, he’s profoundly grateful that he didn’t try to take the bigger one—even this relatively youthful deer is massive.

As he walks towards you with careful, measured steps, he spots Johnny’s face in the crowd. Your mother had told Simon that both families were usually represented whenever an offering was made, and he had sulked over his own lack until Johnny had pestered a confession out him.

“Well, if you’re really going to Scotland for this thing, I’d think it would be obvious.” When Simon had continued to stare blankly at him, Johnny had rolled his eyes. “I’m talking about me, you bampot.”

Now, Johnny grins at him from where he stands with your siblings, flashing a cheesy thumbs up. Simon feels that burning in his eyes again and has to look away.

Reaching the foot of the steps, he kneels carefully and deposits the stag at your feet. Still kneeling, he looks up to where you smile down at him, waiting.

Keeping eye contact with you, he begins.

“My name is Simon Riley. I have set forth on my hunt and return to you now as the victor. I bring this offering, taken in honor and carried in strength.” He rests his hand lightly on the stag’s head. “This life given nourishes not only the beginning of our union, but the lifeblood of the pack that sustains us.”

From his knees, Simon offers his hand. You take it immediately, sliding your palm easily into his.

“With this gift, I ask for your favor and your trust—that I might stand beside you and be worthy of your name.”

Your hand tightens around his as you pull him up to his feet. Standing on the bottom step makes you as tall as he is, and you lean in to press your forehead against his, cradling his face in both hands. 

“I accept your offering, Simon Riley.”

When you kiss him, the pack breaks out in cheers and whistles, Johnny’s distinctive whooping audible over the din. Simon's smiling so hard when he pulls back that he feels like his face might split in two.

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, which he belatedly realizes is wet. But as your family closes in with their congratulations, no one seems to mind—many of them are misty-eyed as well, and your father openly weeps (though he makes a valiant effort to disguise it with your mother’s handkerchief). Even Johnny paws artlessly at his eyes from where he beams at Simon at the back of the pack.

Pulling you into his side, Simon turns to face the rest of your family. Everyone wants to give him a hug or shake his hand, or do both. His tolerance of it shifts to genuine acceptance as he gets caught up in their affection and joy, feeling lighter than he has in years.

When your mother approaches, she pulls you both into a long hug and kisses your cheek, then Simon’s. When she pulls back, she smiles as her eyes dart between you both.

“You look happy.”

“I am,” Simon replies softly, and your arms tighten where they're wrapped around his waist.

He's never meant anything more in his entire life.

( wolf summer )

***

notes: I am very normal about sibling bonding. I don't think Simon ever got much of that as a boy and I wanted to give him a relationship with people he might be able to look at as "older brothers". Also, I've tried to tag this appropriately not only in at the top but in the tags themselves, if there's a tag I need to add please just let me know.

[ccupcakqs]

— the court of glass 𐙚⋆˚

warnings: casual romantic tension, regal politics, sea mythology, mild language pairing: percy jackson x amphitrite daughter reader a/n: this is kinda short

series master list

the throne room of atlantis was always too cold for your liking.

your mother used to say it was built that way on purpose — to keep the sea from touching too much. “a little discomfort,” she’d whisper, tucking strands of wet hair behind your ears, “keeps the pride in check.”

the glass court hadn’t convened in six years. not since the summer your mother vanished from the throne, leaving her crown and you behind. today, you were stepping into her place.

pearled sandals clicked over the glass as you moved down the long path between council seats. below the floor, the ocean churned like an angry god. your reflection shimmered faintly in the water — not quite yours. not quite hers either.

you straightened your shoulders.

to your left sat lords of kelp-dragged bloodlines. to your right, daughters of shipwrecks and old magic. ahead, at the foot of the crescent dais, was the circle where you’d be seated. not alone, not quite.

percy jackson, of course, had been granted an observer’s place. which meant he now stood casually with one shoulder against a pillar, arms folded, expression unreadable.

he was dressed properly today — or as close as he got. his coat was sea-dark velvet trimmed with silver thread, but the buttons were misaligned, and the chain of his observer’s pin sat lopsided on his chest.

you couldn’t decide if it made him look princely or like he’d rolled out of bed and wandered into a coronation.

“you’re early,” you murmured, as you approached his side.

“you’re late,” he countered, eyes flicking to you, and then lower — over the formal draping of your robes, the carved circlet at your throat.

you raised a brow. “are you always this charming?”

he offered a smile, slow and crooked. “only around royalty.”

you didn’t return it. instead, you turned back toward the circle and let the sharp hush of the ocean remind you what mattered.

your seat in the glass court was flanked by two smaller thrones — one for the high steward, and one for the master of tides. the former, lord neryon, was already waiting, a long-faced man whose beard was braided with coral rings.

the latter was empty.

you sat without waiting for permission. no one dared question it.

“we’re missing a tidekeeper,” you said, letting your voice carry.

“he sent a message this morning,” lord neryon replied stiffly. “he regrets the delay.”

“does he?” you said lightly. “i don’t.”

a flicker of unease spread through the court, too subtle for most to catch. but percy was watching — he caught it.

“we begin,” neryon said, tapping his staff once to silence the chamber.

what followed was a blur of formality — pledges renewed, borders redrawn, debts recalled, threats veiled in honey and ink. you answered them all with the poise drilled into you by your tutors, and the steel tempered in you by your mother.

but it wasn’t until the topic of surface tension was raised — literally — that percy moved.

“we’ve seen tremors,” one of the merchant heirs was saying, gesturing to a map unfurled on the table. “cracks near the shell gates, fissures in the wards —”

“and strange readings from the thermals,” another added, “not natural. not random. and not ours.”

“do we suspect surface interference?” neryon asked.

before you could speak, percy shifted his weight.

“the surface wouldn’t dare,” he said lazily, but it rang through the hall like a thrown spear.

every head turned.

he straightened from the pillar, blue-green eyes glinting with something sharp. “not unless they’ve grown foolish.”

you narrowed your gaze. “you speak for them now?”

he tilted his head. “i speak for what i know.”

“and what do you know?” you asked.

he smiled. “enough to know the ocean has more enemies beneath it than above.”

the room went still. even the sea, beneath the glass, seemed to hush.

you stood slowly, descending the dais with careful steps. “if you know something,” you said, stopping in front of him, “say it.”

his voice dropped low. “not here.”

you led him from the court with the excuse of diplomacy, but everyone knew it wasn’t that. even the guards didn’t follow.

the halls beyond the glass chamber were lined with sea-roses and mirrors — relics from your mother’s time. you walked in silence for a while, until the noise of the court faded to nothing.

“you shouldn’t speak like that in council,” you said finally, not looking at him.

“you asked,” he said, tone light. “you didn’t specify how.”

“you’re not from here.”

“no,” he agreed. “but i was invited.”

you stopped at an archway carved into the shape of a whirlpool. “why did you come?”

he blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

you faced him. “you’re not part of any known delegation. you’re not a son of the sea courts. and yet, you’re here. in my city. why?”

he hesitated.

you watched him carefully, noting the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled loosely at his sides.

then he said, simply, “i wanted to see it for myself.”

“atlantis?” you asked.

“you,” he replied.

the sea surged behind your ribs. you barely showed it.

“what do you want from me?” you asked quietly.

he looked at you for a long time. then, with a soft shrug, he said, “i don’t know yet.”

you turned from him then, before the tide inside you could rise. “the next council meets at dusk,” you said. “don’t be late.”

you didn’t wait to hear his reply.

you didn’t go back to your chambers right away.

instead, you slipped down through the deeper corridors, past the spiral gates and kelp-shadowed hallways, until you reached the atrium of sea-glass and quiet ruin.

this part of the palace had been sealed off after she disappeared. no guards patrolled it now. no courtiers whispered here. it was only the hum of power still sleeping in the stone.

you stepped inside and closed the door behind you.

the chamber was circular, with a ceiling of curved glass and arching coral columns. the center held a pool — dark, still, not stirred in years.

you knelt beside it.

“mother,” you whispered, not expecting an answer.

her crown had never been found. just her circlet, left behind on the mirror altar. the rest — her trident, her cloak, her voice — had vanished with the tide.

a soft current curled around your ankles.

you bowed your head and let yourself grieve, briefly, in the space that still felt like her.

then came footsteps.

you turned quickly, rising to your feet, one hand drifting toward the knife at your side.

but it was him.

percy stood in the archway, expression unreadable.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you said.

he stepped forward anyway. “neither should you.”

you didn’t answer.

he crossed the room slowly, as if unsure whether he was allowed. he looked at the pool, then back at you. “this was hers?”

you nodded once.

he lowered himself beside it, not kneeling — just resting his hands on his knees, watching the way the light bent through the water.

“you miss her,” he said quietly.

you didn’t answer. he didn’t need you to.

after a long pause, you sat beside him. not close. not far either.

“why did you really come?” you asked, again.

he didn’t pretend not to understand. “i felt something shift. weeks ago. like the ocean held its breath.”

you blinked. “what kind of shift?”

he looked over at you. “a crown doesn’t stay empty forever. something always moves to claim it.”

you went still.

“you think someone’s trying to take my mother’s place?”

“i think someone already has,” he said softly. “or they’re trying to. someone deep. someone old.”

a silence stretched between you, tight and sharp.

then he asked, “do you dream of her?”

you looked up.

he met your gaze. “your mother.”

“��sometimes,” you admitted.

“does she say anything?”

you shook your head. “she just… looks at me. like she’s trying to remember who i am.”

percy was quiet for a long time.

then he said, almost too softly to hear, “i used to dream of my father, before i met him. he always felt like a storm. never a man.”

you tilted your head. “and now?”

“now he feels like both.”

a strange ache spread in your chest — familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

he looked back at the water. “your mother might not be gone,” he said. “just lost.”

you stared down into the pool again. your reflection shifted, flickered. for a moment, it wasn’t yours. not entirely.

“or taken,” you whispered.

later, you returned to the upper palace. the sea had cooled, and night had begun to fall over atlantis — the great glass dome overhead flickering with bioluminescence and faint stars beyond the current.

you stood on one of the coral balconies, watching the tide rise and fall against the reef below. the sea had moods, like people did. today, it felt like it was trying not to cry.

percy stepped onto the balcony behind you, barefoot and uninvited.

you didn’t ask him to leave.

“you never said thank you,” he said.

you glanced over your shoulder. “for what?”

“for not throwing me out of the court. or drowning me.”

“you haven’t done anything yet,” you said.

he grinned. “give me time.”

you looked at him for a beat, then back at the sea.

after a moment, he came to stand beside you, his arms resting on the edge of the coral railing.

“you know, for a city of royalty and rules, no one’s tried to stab me yet,” he said thoughtfully.

“yet,” you reminded him again.

he smiled.

you didn’t.

“your presence complicates things,” you said, not unkindly. “you carry your father’s name like a blade. people notice.”

“i didn’t come to start a war.”

“but one might start anyway.”

he was quiet for a beat. “would you fight me if it did?”

you turned to face him. “i don’t know you yet.”

he looked at you then — really looked. like he was trying to map something he couldn’t quite reach.

“then let me stay,” he said softly.

you hesitated.

“not for the court,” he added. “for you.”

you stared at him, heart slow and heavy.

then you said, “the tides shift quickly here.”

he nodded. “i’ll learn.”

you studied him a second longer.

then you looked away.

“…fine,” you murmured.

later that night, as the palace quieted and the deep coral bells marked the turning of the watch, you opened your mother’s old journals for the first time in months.

the ink was faded in places. water-warped in others.

but one entry stood out.

— the boy with storm-touched eyes carries something deeper than prophecy. i fear what the court would do if they saw what he truly is.

you stared at the words for a long, long time.

outside, the sea slept.

and somewhere down the hall, percy did too.

or maybe he dreamed of storms.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

@asteriathalassari @brekkielukiel @hppercyjacksonlover @wertyuizxcvbnm

[novaursa]

We Burn What We Love (4/?)

The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: In a kingdom of liars and traitors, only fire speaks the truth—and hers belongs to him.

- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Daemon Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (all warnings are up for this one)

- Tag(s): @avalyaaa

- Previous part: 3

- Next part: 5

The torches lining the dungeons burned lower in the morning than they did at night—less oil, less interest, less reason. The guards barely bothered to acknowledge the flicker of new feet on stone anymore. You had been there a day. One day. And already, the stink of mildew and rust had settled into your bones like another skin, familiar and unwelcome. The straw pallet they'd thrown at you was damp with condensation, and a rat had tried to crawl into the folds of your shift during the night. You hadn’t screamed. You’d simply watched it. It didn’t stay long. Even vermin knew better.

Your wrists ached. Not from chains—they hadn’t bound you since bringing you down—but from the violence before. Bruises bloomed down your arms, dark and blooming like bruised fruit, and your lower lip was still split from the blow one of the guards had landed in the scuffle. The blood had dried. The pride had not.

You sat against the back wall, legs pulled beneath you, one eye half-lidded in mock rest while the other watched the torchlight shift down the corridor. Waiting. You always waited now. That was the lesson of the dungeon. Time moved for the others. You simply endured it.

And then you heard the footsteps.

Sharper than the guards. Lighter than Harrold’s iron gait. Slower than Rhaenyra’s purposeful glide.

You knew before you saw him.

The guards didn’t bother announcing him. They opened the door and let him step in alone—Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, heir to one of the most powerful and wealth-soaked houses in the realm, and still somehow the most pathetic man to ever wear doublet and pride in the same breath. He looked uncomfortable down here, and the dungeon didn’t try to hide it from him. The stink clung to his hair. The shadows swallowed the gold embroidery of his sleeves. His boots splashed lightly through the puddled filth near the door, and his expression twisted like he’d stepped in shit.

“Seven fucking hells,” he muttered, pulling a perfumed cloth from his sleeve and pressing it to his nose. “It reeks down here.”

You didn’t rise. You didn’t smile. You only looked at him.

“You reek everywhere,” you said.

Jason lowered the cloth slowly. His jaw twitched. He was trying to keep his composure—trying to channel whatever “lordly” airs he thought he still possessed in your presence—but you could see the sweat on his brow, the twitch at the edge of his right eye, the way his knuckles clenched too tightly at his sides. He wasn’t here for diplomacy.

He stepped closer to the bars. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You tilted your head, blinking slowly. “Sitting.”

“Don’t be clever.”

“Then don’t be boring.”

Jason slammed his hand against the bars. The metal rang with the impact, sudden and ugly, echoing down the corridor. One of the rats squealed in protest and vanished into the cracks behind you. You didn’t flinch.

“You think this is a joke?” he hissed. “You think the court is amused? You think the West is amused? You defiled a Sept. You fucked your father on the altar of the Mother in front of half the city. You tried to flee in the night like criminals, and now you sit here like it means nothing.”

You rose then. Slowly. Every joint stiff, every movement deliberate. You took your time. You walked toward the bars with bare feet silent on stone, and you stopped just close enough that he had to look up slightly to meet your eyes. When you spoke, your voice was calm. Flat.

“You came to marry me, Jason. To bind your name to mine. So here I am. Uncrowned. Unchained. Unrepentant. Ask your questions.”

He stared at you, disbelief writ into every line of his face. “Are you mad?”

You smiled faintly. “Isn’t that what they’re saying?”

“They’re saying worse. The Faith wants you excommunicated. The court wants you buried. The Rock is being flooded with letters from the Hightowers, the Tyrells, even House Redwyne—demanding answers, demanding your execution, demanding I rescind my offer before my name is dragged through the same filth as yours.”

You shrugged. “Then do it.”

Jason blinked. “Do… what?”

“Withdraw your suit. Save your name. Scurry home to the Rock and fuck your cousin in peace like every good lion does. If you’re so afraid of being stained by my ruin, leave.”

Jason hesitated.

And that—more than anything—made you grin.

“You won’t,” you said softly. “You can’t. Because even now—even when they’re calling me whore, heretic, mad—there is more power in me than in your entire legacy of sheep-fucking hillmen.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

You took another step forward, close enough that the bars pressed between you. Your voice dropped.

“You came down here because you wanted to see what broke me. To see if I was begging for mercy. To see if I’d cry or flinch or offer some whimper of guilt. But I’m not broken, Jason. I’m carved. I chose this. I chose him.”

Jason’s voice was hoarse when it came. “He’s your father.”

��And you’re a fool,” you said. “If you think blood is a chain to a dragon.”

He stared at you for a long time.

When he finally turned to go, his voice was quieter.

“We will marry.”

You watched his back retreat into the shadows.

The scrape of Jason’s boots on the stone floor echoed in uneven rhythm as he walked away, but his spine had stiffened, his hands now clenched at his sides not just from disgust—but humiliation. You’d gutted him without drawing a blade, flayed the ego right out of him with nothing but truth, and he knew it. You saw it in the way he didn’t glance back. In the way his steps sped up slightly, like he meant to outrun the stench of his own uselessness. And then, from the darker end of the corridor—farther down where the cells sank deeper, colder, where the real rot of the Red Keep lingered—came the voice.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the golden lion himself, gracing us worms with his perfume and pride. Did she not kiss you the way you hoped, Lord Lannister? Or did she simply call you the coward you are?”

Daemon’s voice slithered out of the dark like smoke through a keyhole—low, amused, laced with venom. It carried through the tunnel not like sound, but like sin, curling between the bars, between the walls, and settling in the back of Jason’s throat like bile.

Jason stopped.

He exhaled through his nose, slowly, trying to ignore it. Trying to remind himself that he had every reason to walk on. Every reason to ignore the dog in his cage. He was Lord of Casterly Rock, a future husband to Targaryen princess, a man who had come to assess damage—not get dragged into a verbal brawl with a prince in chains.

But pride is a brittle thing.

And Daemon knew exactly where to strike.

“Was she too much for you, lion? Or not enough? You smell like a whorehouse that’s been closed for drought. She told me once that your kiss must taste like dust and cowardice—though to be fair, she’s never kissed you, has she?”

Jason turned abruptly.

He moved back toward the voice, toward the blackened cells on the left wall—slow at first, then faster, until his boot splashed in a half-dried puddle that reeked of piss and lye. The torch sconce at the curve of the corridor was nearly out, the flame hissing faintly with every flicker. He reached the end of the row and stopped before the cell at the corner, the one with rusted bars and a bent hinge and something worse than darkness behind it. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

Daemon was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, one knee raised, one arm resting lazily across it. His shirt was half-open, stained and torn, revealing the streaks of bruises along his ribs, but there was no weakness in the set of his shoulders, no humility in the angle of his gaze. His silver hair hung loose around his face, damp and wild. His eyes burned through the gloom like a wolf in a den. And his smile—Gods, that smile—was made for blood.

Jason tried to sneer. “You’re pathetic.”

Daemon tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “And yet, you came. Like a moth to the flame. Or a boy to the dragon’s teeth.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

Daemon rose to his feet, slow and unhurried, until he stood level with the bars. The torchlight caught his face fully now—sharp lines, split lip, a smear of dried blood at his jaw—but his eyes were bright. Alive. Alive in a way Jason had never seen in a man who’d been stripped of everything.

“No?” Daemon asked. “You should be. Because I’ve already fucked the girl you’ll never touch, and she begged me to make it hurt. Because I know the shape of her moans better than you’ll ever know her name. Because while you prattle about duty and dowries, she carves dragons into her skin and dreams of fire. And because even now—especially now—if I so much as whispered her name, she’d slit your throat for a chance to crawl back to me.”

Jason’s face reddened.

He took a step forward—too close to the bars now—and pointed a trembling finger. “You raped her. That’s what they say. The Faith says—”

“The Faith says a lot of things,” Daemon cut him off with a growl. “They said my brother is a good king. They said your ancestors were brave. They said the gods care. But tell me, Lord Lannister—if it was rape, why did she come here in the dead of night? Why did she fight king’s guards to stay with me? Why did she bleed for me at the altar like a bride on her wedding night?”

Jason’s hand balled into a fist. “You’re filth.”

Daemon’s grin widened. “I’m her filth.”

Jason surged forward, grabbed the bars—shook them. “You think this makes you a man? That rutting your own daughter makes you strong?”

Daemon’s smile dropped. The silence was sudden. Unnatural.

When he finally spoke, his voice was different—quieter, flatter, but no less lethal.

“I think it makes me honest.”

Jason’s breath caught.

Daemon stepped forward, so close now that only inches separated their faces. His fingers curled around the bars slowly, the iron groaning beneath the pressure.

“You wear a lion on your chest, but you’re nothing but velvet and piss. I saw it the moment you bowed to her in the council chamber. Your eyes said please, your mouth said duty, but your cock was limp. She could’ve told you to kneel, and you’d have licked the floor to taste her name. But she chose me. She always will.”

Jason wrenched himself back, breath ragged. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his ears.

“You’ll die in here,” he spat.

Daemon chuckled. “Then start digging, boy. But when the dragons rise, I promise—your name will be the first thing we burn.”

Jason didn’t reply.

He turned, fists clenched, boots echoing too loud as he fled back toward the stair.

And behind him, Daemon’s laughter followed—low, cold, and endless.

The dining solar was quiet, oppressively so, broken only by the soft clatter of cutlery and the occasional, shrill cry of a child. The morning sun filtered through the high glass windows in pale streaks, too soft to warm the chill that hung in the air like damp linen. A fire crackled in the hearth, perfunctory and half-hearted, casting little light on the somber gathering at the long, narrow table. The plates were gilded, the cups polished, the food delicately arranged—sweetbreads in saffron, duck with oranges, poached pears dusted with cinnamon—and yet none of it mattered. No one touched the pears. The duck grew cold. There was a sickness in the air that no spice could mask.

At the head of the table sat King Viserys, hunched and grey-faced, more specter than sovereign. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembled faintly when he lifted his goblet. He hadn’t said a word since the bread was broken. A platter of honeyed ham sat before him untouched, the juices congealing in pools at the base of the dish. Across from him, Queen Alicent sipped watered wine with the false serenity of a woman trying not to scream. Her green sleeves were immaculate. Her hair was pinned high and tight. Her face, however, was drawn. The kind of drawn that came from nights spent praying to gods who never answered. She cradled baby Helaena in one arm, the infant swaddled in a cream wrap that bore the scent of milk and lavender oil. Beside her, a harried wet-nurse attempted to wrangle the two-year-old Prince Aegon, who had already kicked over a bowl of stewed apples and was now banging a wooden spoon against the edge of the table, shrieking intermittently as if to summon some kind of court of chaos.

And then there was Rhaenyra.

She sat rigidly on the left side of the table, a knife clenched in her right hand so tightly the knuckles had gone white. Her plate remained full. Her wine had not been touched. Her expression was as dark and sullen as stormclouds over Blackwater Bay. Her mouth was pressed into a hard, unyielding line, and her gaze fixed squarely on her father—who refused to meet it.

“You have them caged like animals,” she said at last, voice sharp, controlled. “Like traitors.”

Viserys didn’t look up. He moved a piece of bread around his plate with the edge of his knife, as if waiting for it to say something. “They are not caged. They are… confined.”

“Confined,” Rhaenyra repeated bitterly. “Daemon, a prince of the realm. And Y/N, dragon’s daughter. Your own kin. Locked beneath your feet like common thieves. And you sit here, pretending the world hasn’t turned to rot.”

Aegon shrieked again and flung his spoon. It hit the wet-nurse’s shoulder with a wet thunk. She winced but said nothing, merely picked it up and handed it back to him with a trembling smile.

Viserys sighed. “We are not discussing this over breakfast.”

Rhaenyra slammed her palm flat against the table. “We are discussing it now.”

A moment of stunned silence followed—Alicent stiffened, the wet-nurse froze, Aegon blinked in temporary confusion. Helaena stirred in her swaddling, emitting a soft coo.

Viserys finally looked up. His gaze was weary, bloodshot, tinged with something between anger and heartbreak. “You want me to pretend it didn’t happen?” he asked. “That my brother didn’t drag a royal daughter into the Sept and rut her atop the altar? That the gods were not mocked? That the Faith is not calling for heads while every lord in the realm sharpens their knives?”

“She is not just a royal daughter,” Rhaenyra hissed. “She is your kin. My blood. And she chose Daemon. Do you truly think she was dragged there like some confused little girl?”

Alicent shifted Helaena against her shoulder. The baby gave a sleepy gurgle. “What she chose,” Alicent said coolly, “was blasphemy. And war. You speak of her like she’s a martyr. But what she is… is a warning.”

“To whom?” Rhaenyra snapped. “To every girl with dragon’s blood who dares speak for herself?”

“To every girl who forgets the realm has eyes,” Alicent said, voice like glass. “And a long memory.”

“You forget yourself,” Rhaenyra said, eyes narrowing.

“I married your father for duty,” Alicent replied evenly. “I learned early what it means to serve a realm that doesn't care for choice. Perhaps your cousin thought herself above such duties, but the court remembers. The Faith remembers. And now—so must you.”

Rhaenyra turned her glare back to Viserys. “And what of you? What penance will you make for doing nothing while Otto maneuvers and Alicent whispers poison into every cup?”

Viserys’s hands trembled again. He set the goblet down harder than intended, and wine sloshed over the rim.

“I am king,” he rasped, voice hoarse with too much wine and not enough sleep. “And I am tired. Tired of your quarrels, tired of your grief, tired of being asked to choose between family and realm when neither has given me peace. I do not want this war between you. I do not want more fire. I want my fucking house to stand.”

Rhaenyra stared at him for a long moment. Her jaw clenched. Then, quieter: “And you think putting dragons in chains will save it?”

“They broke the Sept,” Viserys said. “They broke the court. They’ve made us a joke in the eyes of the Seven.”

“You made us a joke,” Rhaenyra bit out, “when you let the wolves in.”

That was enough to make Alicent rise. She handed Helaena off to the wet-nurse and took two steps forward, her voice deceptively calm.

“And what of you, Princess?” she asked. “Still unwed. Still roaming the halls with ink-stained fingers and no name beside yours. Do you think you’ll be spared from duty forever? Or do you need to be reminded that your time is near?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a fact,” Alicent said. “The same fate you mock your cousin for is your own. If you do not choose a husband soon, one will be chosen for you. Like her.”

The words landed like a slap. And for once, Rhaenyra did not have a retort ready. She looked at her father, searching his face for a contradiction, a flicker of defiance, of defense—but he only closed his eyes. He had nothing left.

Rhaenyra stood.

She didn’t bow. Didn’t ask permission. She turned, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor, and left the room in silence.

Behind her, Aegon began to shriek again, this time for no reason at all.

The Dragonpit had always smelled of old fire—soot soaked into stone, the faint metallic stink of scorched chain and blood. But today, the scent was sharper. Acrid. Charged. Like the air before a storm when the gods take in breath and wait for something to fall. Rhaenyra Targaryen descended the curved stone steps with her cloak whipping behind her, bootsteps echoing in the vast, domed chamber that housed monsters the world had forgotten how to revere. She hadn’t saddled Syrax in days. Not since the last hunt, not since her cousin’s arrest, not since the court turned from whispers to howls. She needed air. She needed wind. She needed to burn the taste of that breakfast from her mouth before it choked her.

Dragonkeepers bowed in silence as she passed, their bronze armor streaked with ash and grease, faces tight. They knew better than to speak when she was in this mood. But further in—near the far end of the pit—shouts echoed, steel clanged, chains groaned. The noise bled into the stone like pain made sound.

She stopped short as she turned the corner into the main cavern.

Syrax waited near the middle, agitated but calm enough, her golden wings folded tight against her flanks, tail twitching like a whip. She rumbled once in greeting, and Rhaenyra’s lips twitched, if only faintly. But beyond her, in the dimness near the rear alcove where the eldest dragons were housed, chaos reigned.

Vaerelys was thrashing.

The she-dragon—massive, black as midnight oil and laced with veins of starlight—was clawing at the stone with such force that sparks skittered from her talons. Her jaws were open, smoke billowing in thick, coiling plumes from flared nostrils, and her wings kept slamming into the pillars with dull, sickening thuds. A dozen dragonkeepers surrounded her, ropes in hand, iron poles braced against the floor. The chains fixed to her neck and hind legs had been reinforced twice since the night her rider was taken, but even now, they rattled and screamed under the strain of her fury.

“She hasn’t calmed,” one of the keepers muttered under his breath as Rhaenyra approached. “Not once. Not for food. Not for flame. Not even for song.”

Another keeper, older and more scarred, glanced back at Rhaenyra with sweat slicking his forehead. “We tried binding her wings tighter,” he said. “It only made her scream louder. Caraxes won’t stop howling either. Every time we pull the chains—”

As if on cue, a terrible shriek split the air. Not Vaerelys. From the deeper tunnel. From the far dark recess where the Blood Wyrm lay.

Caraxes.

His cry was pure rage—long and low and wretched, enough to send a shiver through the floor. He had felt it. Felt them pulling on her. Heard her roar. The dragons were mourning each other in a tongue older than men.

Rhaenyra stepped past the men without asking. She approached Vaerelys with slow, deliberate movements, her hand open at her side, eyes steady. “What have you done to her?” she snapped. “She’s might be injured—”

“She fights,” the keeper said. “Every hour. She hasn’t rested. She keeps clawing the rock, turning toward the west gate. Toward the Keep.”

“She knows,” Rhaenyra said. Her voice was cold and low, but there was a pulse beneath it—an ache that licked the edges of her ribs like fire. “She knows Y/N is not coming.”

Vaerelys hissed, jerking her neck against the collar of her chain so violently the iron ring groaned. Sparks flew as her wingtip scraped the stone again. Another bellow followed from deeper below—Caraxes, furious again, his voice cracking like a whip.

The younger keeper flinched. “We fear they’ll break the chains if this keeps on. If they ever both take flight again—”

“They will,” Rhaenyra said. “And no chain in this pit will stop it.”

Syrax let out a low whine behind her, sensing her rider’s anger, feathers bristling down her neck. Rhaenyra exhaled, turned, and walked to her dragon without another word. She laid a hand against Syrax’s flank, warm and pulsing with barely-contained power, and rested her forehead against her scales. “Take me from this place,” she murmured in High Valyrian. “Take me up. I can’t breathe down here.”

Syrax bent low. The saddle was already in place, rigged hastily by handlers who knew she might come. Rhaenyra mounted in one smooth motion, her legs wrapping around the beast’s muscled sides, her fingers curling into the reins like she meant to strangle the wind.

She gave a single word: Sōvēs.

Fly.

The doors above opened slowly, and Syrax launched into the air with a blast of wind and smoke, her wings unfurling into the sky like banners of war. The city fell beneath them in slow retreat. The Red Keep, the Sept, the courtyards where the court whispered and plotted. All of it vanished in the roar of air past her ears. She didn’t think. Didn’t look down. She pressed herself against the neck of her dragon and let the cold cut her open, let the clouds swallow her grief.

But behind her—down in the pit—Vaerelys screamed once more, loud enough to rattle the bones of the hill. And Caraxes answered, his wail laced with a sorrow that cracked the air.

They knew what had been taken.

And they would not forget.

Another week passed in the dark like a wound that would not close.

Time no longer moved as it should. The stone walls had long since stopped being walls. They became breath. They became pressure. They became the only constant thing. You had begun to speak to the rats. Not out of madness, but clarity—because they were honest. Because they didn’t lie or bow or pretend to care about gods and kings. They only ate what was given and gnawed what was denied. They knew the dungeon for what it was.

The straw mattress had molded at one edge. The pail in the corner stank of blood and piss and decey. The torchlight outside your cell guttered low, indifferent to your name, your blood, your house. No one had come for days. No food yesterday. No questions. No news.

So when the clatter of boots began, distant and deliberate, your spine straightened without thought. Not from hope—no, that had long since withered—but from reflex. Instinct. The sound of guards never meant mercy.

Criston Cole led them.

He wore his white cloak like armor, pristine and pressed, as though the filth of the Keep couldn’t touch him. His jaw was set, his lips tight. Two other guards followed, and behind them a septa with pale hands and a bundle of cloth held tight to her chest.

“Princess,” Cole said flatly.

You said nothing at first. Just leaned back against the wall and blinked slowly, as though waking from a long, dry sleep. “If you’ve come to ask me where my uncle hid the last of his cock, I suggest you check the throne room. I hear it’s full of flaccid relics.”

Cole didn’t flinch. “Your wedding preparations begin now.”

Your gaze sharpened. Slowly, like a sword drawn from an old sheath.

“It’s not due for another fortnight,” you said, voice cool and even. “Viserys gave me until the festival of the Maiden.”

“The date has changed,” Cole said. “The High Septon insisted. The wedding is to be held in three days’ time. You are to be bathed, dressed, and blessed before sundown.”

You let the words hang there, heavy and absurd.

“The Faith is hurrying a wedding for a defiled princess,” you said softly. “Truly, the gods must be desperate.”

Cole gestured to the guards. One of them moved to unlock your cell.

You didn’t move.

“The chains are a poor fit,” you said. “And the smell will ruin the silk. Should I wear a veil or a noose?”

Cole’s tone hardened. “Get up, Princess. Do not make this harder than it must be.”

You laughed. Once. Harsh and short. “You came here thinking it couldn’t get worse?”

The cell door opened with a groan. The septa stepped forward, hesitant, her eyes downcast. “Princess, the bath is drawn. A fresh shift has been brought. The Queen asked that you be made ready with dignity.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes boring into hers. “The Queen wouldn’t know dignity if it wept into her lap.”

Cole stepped forward then, close enough that you could smell the mint on his breath and the false steel in his jaw. “Enough.”

And then—before he could speak again—a voice thundered from deeper down the corridor.

“Touch her, and I’ll flay you like a sow.”

The voice was raw, hoarse from days without water, but unmistakable. Daemon.

Criston didn’t turn. But the guards flinched.

Another roar followed—closer this time. “Ser Criston! Come closer. I want to see how much of your face I can remember when I tear it off.”

You stepped out of your cell, slow and deliberate. “He knows,” you said, gaze still locked on Cole. “He always knows when they come to move me.”

From the shadows deeper in the pit, Daemon’s chains scraped across stone.

“You cowardly little cunt,” Daemon growled. “You wear a white cloak but you piss on it every time you open your mouth. You think this wedding will bind her? That a lion can tame a dragon? I’ll spill your guts before the bells finish tolling.”

Cole’s eye twitched, but he said nothing. Just gestured toward the stair. The guards surrounded you, a half-circle of polished spears and perfumed disgust.

As they led you down the corridor, Daemon’s voice chased you.

“I will burn your sept to the ground,” he roared. “I will feed Jason his own heart and fuck the ashes of your ceremony while the court chokes on its incense—”

A guard slammed his sword on the bars.

“Enough!” Cole barked.

Daemon only laughed, dark and wild and echoing.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t speak.

But your hands were steady.

Because you knew the storm wasn’t over.

It was only moving aboveground.

The chamber smelled of rosewater and ash.

Steam curled through the air like smoke on a battlefield, softening the edges of the high windows and leaving sweat on the cheeks of the girls who stood frozen by the hearth. The fire had been stoked high—too high for comfort—and the bath had been filled with near-scalding water that shimmered with crushed petals and floating herbs. The linens had been changed. The silks laid out. Everything was immaculate. Everything reeked of apology.

But no one would meet your eyes.

Not Lysa, not Merra, not the tall girl with the limp who’d once braided your hair and whispered gossip about knights with warm hands and slow smiles. They stood still as statues now, heads bowed, cheeks pale, their hands folding and unfolding nervously in their laps. It was clear they’d been ordered to remain silent, to speak only if spoken to. To dress you like a doll. To cleanse you like a corpse.

You said nothing at first. You peeled the shift from your body slowly, deliberately, as they watched from the corners of their eyes. The cloth stuck slightly where dried blood had sealed a scab along your ribs, and when it pulled free, you made no sound. You simply let it fall to the floor in a damp heap and stepped forward, bare, unshivering, and tired of pretending that shame was something you owed anyone.

And then the door opened.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

You heard the change in air before the click of her heels on stone. The silence stretched and stiffened as Queen Alicent stepped into the room like a sword drawn from its sheath—measured, gleaming, and made for judgment. She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t have to. The servants all dropped their gazes lower, as if the very presence of the Queen might strip them of sin if they stared at the floor hard enough.

You, however, didn’t flinch.

You remained by the edge of the bath, your body bare, back to her, skin kissed red by the heat of the chamber. And as Alicent’s footsteps halted behind you, there was a pause—a moment of still, seething quiet.

“…Turn around,” she said.

You didn’t.

Alicent’s voice sharpened. “Turn around.”

So you did.

And her breath caught.

Not from modesty. Not from the nakedness. But from the marks.

The bruises were not fresh. A week old, some more. But they had not faded—not the vivid, sprawling shadow along your collarbone, not the matching imprints on your hips, not the teeth-mark still faint along the curve of your left breast. And there was no mistaking their origin. Not from a fall. Not from guards. Not from chains or riot or scuffle.

No. These were from him.

From Daemon.

Alicent’s mouth twisted. Not in disgust. In rage.

“You little bitch,” she breathed, stepping forward so fast the servants backed into the walls.

You raised a brow, indifferent. “Your Grace.”

“You let him out.”

There it was. The knife through the veil. The knowledge that had clearly festered since the moment the cell door was found forced open, since the guards told tales of broken keys and empty corridors. But now, with the evidence laid bare across your skin, there was no longer room for doubt.

Alicent’s eyes locked on yours. “He touched you in the dark like an animal, and you let him out like a loyal dog—after all he’s done, after what the court saw, after what you did in the Sept.”

You tilted your head. “Are you here to scold me or admire the bruises?”

She slapped you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t courtly. It was a full-blooded crack across the side of your face, palm open, ring grazing just enough to draw blood where it caught the corner of your lip. The heat bloomed across your cheek instantly, but you didn’t stagger. You only tasted copper and smiled.

“I suppose I should thank you,” you said calmly. “No one else has touched me in days.”

Alicent trembled with fury. “You mock this court. You mock the gods. And now you’ll stand before the High Septon in three days with that filth still burned into your skin. Do you think they won’t see it? Do you think they won’t know?”

“Let them,” you said. “Let the court see what dragons do when caged. Let them try to wash it away. Let them clothe me in white and whisper prayers to the Seven. My skin will still remember him.”

The Queen took a step back, as if scorched.

“You are sick,” she hissed.

“No,” you said. “I’m awake.”

And that—more than the bruises, more than the defiance—made her step falter.

She looked at you like she was seeing something ancient in your bones. Something that would not bend. Something that would not break, no matter how many rings she put on your finger or chains around your ankles.

Without another word, Alicent turned and swept from the room, her skirts dragging fury in her wake.

The door slammed behind her.

The servants remained frozen.

And you stepped into the bath at last, letting the scalding heat rise to your shoulders, letting the rosewater stain the bruises without pain, letting the silence settle over you like armor.

Three days.

Let them come.

The torches in the lower levels burned dimmer than usual, left to gutter low on purpose. Down here, light was not offered—only rationed, like kindness in a dying house. The cells were damp and cold, and the stench of piss and mold soaked into every breath, though Daemon Targaryen no longer noticed. He’d been here long enough to let the filth become part of him. His hair was unkempt, falling in silver tangles across his face; his knuckles were split from striking stone in idle rage. But his eyes—his eyes burned with a steady, feral light. Not mad, not broken—waiting.

He had stopped speaking three days ago. Stopped pacing two nights after that. The chains they’d affixed to his cell wall weren’t necessary anymore—he didn’t fight, didn’t lunge, didn’t roar. He sat, half-crouched in the corner like a wolf in the snow. Not sleeping. Not docile. Merely coiled.

So when Ser Harwin Strong appeared at the far end of the corridor, lantern in hand, the guards barely looked up. They’d seen him before—Lord Breakbones, Captain of the City Watch, in and out under orders from both Queen and King alike. He was a familiar shadow in these corridors. And the Gold Cloaks had long memories. They remembered who raised their swords. They remembered who had once commanded them without needing to shout. So no one stopped him.

Harwin walked with purpose, boots echoing dully on the stone, torch held low. He stopped before Daemon’s cell and lifted the lantern slightly.

Daemon didn’t look at him at first. He didn’t move at all.

“Doing my rounds,” Harwin said quietly. “Can’t have the rats chewing on the king’s brother without someone checking.”

Daemon’s head tilted, slow and smooth. “You’re not a rat,” he rasped. “You’re House Strong.”

Harwin gave a half-smile. “My father says that often. Usually after the council meetings.”

Daemon stood.

Not with a lurch, but a kind of glide, like old blood returning to the body. He stepped forward, into the faint glow of the lantern, revealing a gaunt face, eyes shadowed by bruised hollows and stubble darkening his jaw. He looked every inch the man they wanted the court to believe was defeated.

He wasn’t.

“What news,” he said flatly. Not a question. A demand.

Harwin exhaled, flicking his gaze once behind him to ensure the corridor was empty. Then he leaned closer to the bars. “They’ve moved the wedding. It’s happening in two days. A private ceremony. At the Sept.”

Daemon’s jaw flexed.

“She’s being made ready,” Harwin continued, low. “Kept under constant watch. Your daughter hasn’t spoken since they bathed her yesterday. The Queen found the bruises.” He paused. “She knew what they were. What they meant.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And the King?”

“Says little. Drinks more. Leaves decisions to the Queen and the Septon.” Harwin dropped his voice further. “The Red Keep is a split board, Daemon. The Lords know something is off, but they dare not speak it aloud. The Faith has been promised full rites. The wedding will be clean. And quiet.”

Daemon laughed—dry and mirthless. “Clean. They think a dress and a prayer will wash her?”

Harwin met his gaze. “They’re counting on silence. On fear. They think she’ll fold.”

“She won’t,” Daemon said, voice like gravel. “She never did.”

A moment passed. Then:

“She snuck to me while I was in chains, Harwin. Took me into her like a queen claiming her sword. She didn’t flinch when we killed the guards. She only looked at me. She bled for me.”

Harwin held his gaze. “And what do you want me to do?”

“Open the doors,” Daemon said. “Tomorrow. I’ll do the rest.”

“That’s treason.”

“That’s justice.”

Harwin didn’t blink. “You’ll die.”

Daemon’s lips curled. “Not before I kill a lion.”

Harwin took a breath and stepped back. “I can’t break you out. But I can delay the handfasting rites. I can get a message to Rhaenyra.”

Daemon’s grin sharpened. “Tell her to fly. Tell her to ready Syrax.”

Harwin nodded once. “You’ll have your chance. But gods help us all if you miss.”

Daemon stepped back into the dark, voice soft and lethal.

“I won’t.”

Harwin turned, the flame of his lantern bobbing as he made his way back up the stairs.

And in the dark behind him, the Rogue Prince smiled—for the first time in days.

The wedding day dawned not with bells, but with silence.

The kind of silence that sits thick in the throat, heavy and wrong—like mourning dressed in silk. The sky beyond the high tower windows was pale and still, dusted with high clouds that refused to move. King's Landing held its breath. There would be no procession through the streets, no brazen fanfare of drums or trumpets. Just whispered steps, veiled faces, and the sanctified dread of a rushed ceremony under the guise of divine approval.

Your chambers had been scrubbed until the stone shone. The hearth roared hotter than needed, fed not for warmth but to drive away the ghosts that lingered too long near your bed. Servants flitted around you like bees in a hive, their hands quick and their mouths closed. They did not speak unless addressed. They did not offer congratulations. They knew better.

The shift they had placed you in was thin and scented with rose oil. Your skin still stung from the scrubbing, red and raw where they had tried to scour away any evidence of what had come before. But the marks refused to vanish. Some bruises had faded to a sickly yellow; others remained dark, stubborn along the line of your ribs, at the base of your throat, where his teeth had left their mark like a sigil. One near your collarbone was shaped almost like a thumbprint—his. You touched it absently as you sat before the mirror, and watched the girl reflected there—a ghost in silk.

Then the door opened.

Queen Alicent swept in like a blade wrapped in lace, trailed by two of her own handmaids, both of whom carried bundles of fine cloth and boxes of ivory combs. She wore hunter green trimmed with gold, her bodice stiff with embroidery, a perfect miniature of the Faith’s own piety. Her face was painted soft, but her mouth was set like iron.

She did not greet you. She simply motioned, and one of the girls unfurled the wedding gown.

It was white.

Not the pale cream of a northern frost or the ivory of mourning lace—but pure, untouched white, the color of surrender and expectation. It gleamed like polished bone. High-necked. Modest sleeves. No dragon sigils. No trace of Valyrian fire. The veil alone could have choked a maiden.

You stared at it without blinking. Then you said, cool and clear, “I wanted it to be black.”

Alicent gave a faint smile. Not kind. Not even particularly cruel. Just dismissive.

“That would not be appropriate,” she said.

“For a Targaryen wedding?” you asked. “Or a punishment?”

She walked to your side and plucked a stray curl from your shoulder, inspecting it like one might a feather pulled from a dead bird. “You disgraced yourself in the eyes of the court, the gods, and your family. If you are to be wed under the Seven’s gaze, you will do so with the dignity befitting a princess—not a dragon cultist whore.”

You turned your head slowly to meet her gaze in the mirror. “You think a gown can hide what I am?”

“No,” she said smoothly. “But paint can.”

She snapped her fingers.

The servants moved immediately, lifting brushes and compacts, powders and salves. One girl held a jar of thick cream, pale and cold, meant to mask bruises with layers of artifice. Another dabbed at your lips with a red balm, staining them like ripened fruit. They dabbed your throat, your wrists, the curve of your shoulders—smoothing over darkness, blotting out evidence.

Alicent watched in silence, arms folded. When they reached your collarbone, one of the girls hesitated—her hand hovering over the thumb-shaped bruise, unsure if it could be covered. You looked down at it, then at the Queen.

“It’s stubborn,” you murmured.

“So are you,” Alicent replied. “But even stone can be buried.”

You exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring, but let them finish.

They braided your hair in the Old Way, as tradition demanded, but they laced it with pale ribbons instead of black or red. When the veil was brought, you pushed it away.

“I’ll not wear it over my face,” you said.

“That was not a suggestion,” the Queen said sharply.

“Then I decline your orders.”

A pause stretched between you. The servants froze again. For a breath, you thought she might strike you a second time. Instead, Alicent leaned in, her voice low and clipped.

“You will walk into that Sept. You will kneel. You will speak your vows. And you will become the wife of Jason Lannister, as decreed. If you so much as breathe out of place, I will have your father’s head on a spike and yours thrown to the dungeons beneath the Dragonpit. Do I make myself clear?”

You smiled faintly, voice a whisper. “You can gild the cage, my Queen. But I am still the dragon inside it.”

She straightened, lips pursed. “Not for long.”

And with that, she turned and swept from the room, the sound of her departure like silk torn in half.

You remained seated, painted, bruised, and bright.

And you waited.

Because dragons do not weep when dressed for slaughter.

They wait for fire.

[yanderes-galore]

Saw your newest post about the outlast prime assests, here's an idea. How about the yandere prime assests with a reagent who dresses with matching clothes when they due trails?

Like with Coyle they wear the police cadet outfit, Mother Gooseberry with the jean romper the children mannequins wear, or Franco with the Miss Malony outfit from the lupara catalouge?

It's all on wiki if that helps too

I'll make some mini HCs with them again! Otto and Arora were left out as they weren't mentioned but I will probably do something for them eventually (Most likely platonic due to the idea a friend mentioned to me?) This is semi-serious but I hope you enjoy! Franco's leans female oriented due to his nature and the outfit.

Yandere! Prime Assets with Darling matching clothes with their theme

(Coyle, Gooseberry, Franco - Mini HCs)

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling (With feminine mentions in Franco's part), Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Delusional behavior, Violence, Mommy kink mention? (Again... Gooseberry kinda and Franco), Blood, DID mention (Gooseberry), Franco is still a freak, Swearing (Franco), Forced companionship/relationship.

Leland Coyle (Romantic/Platonic)

"Oh so you think you can just waltz in here like you own the place, huh? Justice is mine to serve... But if you prove to me you're serious, I may just take you as mine, darlin'...."

I feel like Coyle would temporarily be confused if not threatened when you suddenly strut into his trial with a cadet outfit on.

That's if he first met you though... If he already knew you and has you as his favorite Reagent?

"Well, Darlin'... I didn't expect this. You finally accepting me taking you under my wing, huh? You better be serious when wearing an outfit like this...."

Since you're already his favorite agent... He takes you wearing the cadet uniform as flattery.

Considering his delusions about justice... He may like the idea of "showing you the ropes".

Honestly, you wearing a uniform like that just makes him feel like you're his.

You wearing something like this could make him react, surprisingly, platonic for once.

Imagine Coyle acting like some twisted mentor to you, since in his eyes you're a fellow cop.

Yeah, he knows them guys upstairs want him to chase you still, but he wants some time with you.

Imagine Coyle dragging you around like some rookie on a mission through either the Police Station or Courthouse level.

His grip on you is tight as he rambles about his view on justice.

You reluctantly go along with it because it's better than the night stick frying your skin....

Coyle is... oddly affectionate when he believes you to be a fellow cop.

You're a rookie and he needs to mentor you... and you look attractive to him too....

So, naturally, you gotta stick with a superior officer like him, right?

The trial ends up rather delayed if you're alone since Coyle keeps acting like you're both on patrol for criminals.

If you're in a group though?

It doesn't really break his delusions... He doesn't associate those Reagents with you.

If anything he may think you were transporting "criminals" for him to deal with and lost track of them once the trial began.

That's fine... That just means he'll bond with you through executing them.

Can't let them mess with his case, right?

The good news is in a group things actually get done... The bad news is you're always near Coyle.

Coyle is still naturally possessive, too.

On your "patrols" he has an arm around your waist, occasionally even toying with the collar of your outfit.

He'll still crudely compliment you, but his intentions with those words remain dubious.

He's still sleazy... That hasn't changed.

He's just less... rough? Violent?

Coyle feels a lot of pride in you wearing the cadet outfit.

He has someone to teach... and it means you're truly his.

You two are a force to be reckoned with in his eyes...

Now no one except him will touch you with that outfit on, he damn well knows those other assets and Reagents will know you're his little rookie now.

"Their blood will soil your uniform... But that's just justice, ain't it? Wear it like a damn badge of honor!"

Mother Gooseberry/Phyllis Futterman (Platonic)

"Oh! My child, dolled up all for me? Look, daddy! They're well behaved for mother~"

You wearing the child-like romper outfit that many of the mannequins wear just feeds into her delusions.

She's a delusional woman who sees many of the Reagents as misbehaving children.

Working with children was how she was raised, especially when she became a TV show host.

So while you're a fully grown adult... She still sees you as a child under her care.

The outfit does nothing to help you.

Now you're really fueling her delusions....

You're running around the Orphanage, Fun Park, or Toy Factory to try and do your objectives...

Only to hear a voice coo towards you at a distance.

"My gosling is all dressed up for mama... You are quite the well behaved child, aren't you? Does my little lamb wish to play?"

She views you doing objectives less like misbehaving and more like... a game.

After all, if you dressed up for her like a good child... You can't be bad, can you?

Again, similar to Coyle, she's just going to view other Reagents as "bad influences that must be punished".

Despite not being a real target to her... You still feel unable to relax around her.

Part of your plan was definitely to feed into her delusions to avoid danger... but you still end up getting hurt.

Mentally... physically... But you should be used to it in this place, right?

Her switches in demeanor are never easy to get used to.

She's overwhelmingly sweet with you... pinching your cheeks while checking over your outfit to make sure it's on right...

Then she gets aggressive with that Futterman puppet, making you watch as she digs that dreaded drill into some other poor soul's flesh, Reagent or Ex-Pop....

The puppet also spouts waves of insults at you, but you usually pay "him" no mind as Phyllis reprimands her "father" each time.

"Phyllis, you dumb sow... They're clearly going to use you like those other shumucks!"

"Daddy! Don't be mean! My gosling is just... misguided... But mother will fix that... Mother always does...."

She no doubt drags you away mid-trial, both covered in blood from your fellow Reagents or those Ex-Pops who threatened to take you away....

She'll find you a nice bed to lay in within the Orphanage... or even a seat by the carousel in the Fun Park or table to sit on in the Toy Factory... just to check you over.

She loves to coddle you, after all....

"Oh, my poor dear... Your outfit is all bloody... Here, let mother clean you up...."

She loves you in your outfit... Even trying in vain to clean off the blood she got on it... Only to put more on?

Afterwards she often sits with you to hold you in her arms, singing songs to you....

She's so happy you thought of her....

To her that means you love her!

That's fantastic news! She loves you too...!

You in that cute little outfit just makes her feel like she needs to take care of you....

So prepared to be dragged through her trial environments, the puppet on her arm rambling as she holds you with the other...

It's time to play games with mother now... Just mother goose and her gosling....

"I know you want to play with your friends... But they're not good for you, child... Play with mother, mother will make sure you have fun... just... stay with mother...."

Franco "Il Bambino" Barbi (Romantic)

"Ohhh, momma... As if you couldn't get more attractive, doll...."

As expected, due to the nature of the outfit, Franco thinks you look amazing in it.

You've always been the Reagent he's had a thing for, but now? Wearing that feminine outfit that hugs your body so well?

"You wear this just for me? You must really want me... baby likes what he sees, sweetness...."

You can expect Franco to be following you around like a lost puppy when you wear that outfit.

The guy in his freaky mind wants a mother figure.

I'm pretty sure as long as you're wearing that outfit he'd probably not care what gender you are under it.

As long as it satiates his twisted little cravings and desires... He'll practically be pawing at you.

He's not as delusional as the others, if at all, but he'll ignore everything that's happening around him for you.

Although... Do expect if you wear this outfit that he might target you.

You'll be trying to do objectives only for him to sneak up behind you, grabbing you and throwing you onto the ground.

"You trying to tease me, dollface? You wearing this new outfit just for little ol' me? I think you're TRYING to get my attention, know that?"

You suppose you were... You wanted to wear an outfit that would match his theme... and what do you get for it?

A grown man acting like an affectionate baby as he crawls into your lap, gripping onto the fabric of your outfit tightly.

"Well then mommy, baby's waiting for you to give him attention."

Again, regardless of gender he'd probably call you this if you wore this outfit.

Which then forces you to coddle him....

Hopefully you have other Reagents with you because then you can keep him distracted until someone comes to help.

Or if you're lucky... Franco will just follow you around like a lost child while you do objectives.

Sure, he's meant to hunt you down... show you Lupara until you're not moving...

But he likes this Reagent too much for that... He loves to play with you...

Yet ultimately he'd rather cling to you in hopes he'll get some of that sweet affection... or maybe even a taste of you.

It's expected of a freak like him... He may not be as delusional as the others but he's STILL messed up in the head.

You can actually placate him rather well if you coddle him, give him just enough attention... then run.

He's frustrated every time... yet accepts this as your little game between each other.

"You fucking tease... Wearing that outfit then running from me... You're going to drive a man mad...."

Wearing this outfit is just going to make Franco crave you more.

He wants to be in your lap... to tug on your outfit... he wants a lot more than just your attention....

So... You've only made him worse compared to the other Assets.

Expect to be dragged into playing "mommy" with him more than usual... Baby has his disturbing needs.

Although... I imagine he's also rather soft with you like this.

He's for once not as murderous as he usually is unless you're interrupted.

Yet even then you can calm him from his fit by soothing him, maybe forcing yourself to kiss his forehead through the mask as you hold him.

He gets rather docile fast at your affection.

If you're up for playing house with him, maybe wear this outfit to give your fellow Reagents an upper hand...

Other than that, maybe it's best to wear something else if you don't want his attention...

"Pay attention to me right now, doll... I ain't letting you leave until you do!"

[soullesscoffee]

cosmic feelings ᯓ✧

chapter one: thaw

rating: teen

pairing: johnny storm x oc

word count: 5036

warnings: spoilers for fantastic four: first steps, character angst, domesticity, johnny being johnny, slow burn, amatuer first pov bc i'm so quirky and different.

chapter summary: as the team gathers for their usual sunday dinner, winifred finds herself caught between routine and revelation. a long-awaited announcement from sue and reed shifts the atmosphere, stirring emotions she thought she’d buried. old names soften, new warmth blooms, and for just a moment, she allows herself to thaw.

a/n: thank you all so much for waiting and anticipating this first chapter. i hope you love winifred as much as i did, making her up and embedding her in this world. she feels like a part of me. please reblog and share so i can have the pressure to keep updating. thank you all again! the lovely dividers are done by @saradika-graphics !!

My mother always said I was nosy since I could open my eyes. Many would look at that as a backhanded compliment, an insult maybe, but those little ‘pet names’ led me to being a journalist—one of the best in Manhattan. And, somehow, one of the first to go to space. 

That day still plays in my dreams.

I can’t remember much from the hours before launch, only fragments of prepping for a month of filming in space. I remember packing supplies—making sure there was more than enough. The case felt tenfold heavier as the Excelsior towered over me, its full, musty body of fuel making my head spin. But the fresh bitterness of the metal grounded me. My eyes could only admire the ship’s colors—chromatic silver, blinding the sunlight in every direction.

I had placed my case there before anyone else woke up, while idle bodies moved around the masterpiece for last-minute checks. 

I remember returning to the chambers where the astronauts and I had slept, trained, calculated, lived—for the countdown to the mission. The mission is to be the first humans on the moon.

I kept only one of the 35mm cameras out, set aside to document the excitement. I remember the peace of being the only one awake. I recall being nervous.

Maybe excited.

That didn’t last long.

Yet one memory always replays in my sleep.

I remember asking the astronauts to line up for one last group photo before the launch.

“Come on, everybody—squeeze in!”

Ben stood furthest to the left. Ben Grimm—one of the best pilots in the United States—always wore a stoic smolder in photos. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if that was just his resting expression or if he truly wasn’t capable of acting natural in front of a lens.

Next to him was Jonathan Storm, one of the youngest pilots in NASA. He always had a knowing smirk whenever I lifted my camera—blue eyes sparkling with mischief, confidence. In that moment, though, he wore the proudest smile I’d ever seen, spread across his handsome features.

Beside him stood his older sister, Susan Storm. A former genetics researcher, now one of the first women to go to space. Same blue eyes as her brother, which shone with warmth and confidence in this mission, in her family. By her side was the mind behind the entire mission—Reed Richards. Pride poorly hid the anxiety in his eyes as he held his wife close. As if the whole world rested on those shoulders. Which, in some twisted way, it did.

They all held their heads high, arms wrapped around each other, their proudest grins on full display as I pressed the shutter. The flash made them blink in surprise, followed by soft chuckles and mumbled comments.

“Perfect!” I exclaimed, a bit too excitedly—trying to mask my own nerves.

I didn’t even notice my hand flipping the lever near the shutter, or how my heart raced as the seconds ticked by.

“You too, Blanche—come in here. You’re part of this journey too. Don’t get camera-shy on us now.”

Ben had called out my last name a little louder to pull me out of my trance. The astronauts shuffled aside to make space. I’ll never forget the way they looked at me—warm smirks, reassuring nods, wordless invitations to join something bigger than myself.

I still don’t know how my legs moved. I just remember wedging myself between Sue and Reed, their arms curling around me—an embrace that anchored me in the moment. Just enough to help me stay still. To smile.

I don’t remember when I handed the camera off to one of the engineering assistants, but I remember staring into that abyssal lens.

“Everybody say space exploration!” Reed called out, pulling me closer with a burst of enthusiasm.

The gesture was unexpected. And warm.

I laughed, the sound breaking through the thrum in my chest.

“SPACE EXPLORATION!”

We all yelled toward the camera. Then came the flash.

The one I still see before I wake.

The final, normal clicking of the shutter.

The last normal photo of all of us.

Then I see them on the television screen—the Fantastic Four.

Standing tall on The Ted Gilbert Show as the in-studio audience cheers them on.

It’s been four years since the cosmic accident.

Since the failure of the Excelsior and our mission.

Yet that failure is what jolted them forward—turned them into a cosmic, universe-saving team. The most beloved family in the world.

Everyone was slightly different now.

We all carried ourselves differently.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, when HERBIE’s chime echoed from the kitchen, signaling the team was on their way home. I peeled myself off the blue velvet couch with a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding.

The last few notes of the show’s montage played—grateful voices thanking the Fantastic Four—before I leaned forward and twisted the television knob off with a click.

“I got the table, Herb,” I called out.

HERBIE responded with an excited whirl, followed by a flick of the wooden spoon that sent a splash of pasta sauce flying across the counter. A devastated noise escaped from the robot.

I pressed my lips into a thin line, trying to stifle the chuckle bubbling up.

I set the table for family dinner. It was a routine we all followed—a ritual, every Sunday at 8 p.m. sharp.

Somehow, I’d been pulled into it too.

Five years with the team probably qualifies me as part of the family.

Especially when your DNA’s been rewritten by the stars.

I shivered at the thought. Not because I was cold—at least, not in the usual sense.

If someone brushed past me, they’d think I was either severely anemic... or a walking corpse.

That’s why I always wore layers.

Whether it was meetings with Sue at the Future Foundation or just running errands, the gloves and coats weren’t for style—they were for survival.

The table was nearly ready when the familiar whir of the elevator caught my ear.

They stepped out in uniform—TV-ready, still aglow with cosmic purpose.

“Hey, I caught the tail end of it. You all looked amazing,” I chime, a proud smile spreading across my cheeks.

My bare hand brushes against one of the glasses I’d filled earlier, and it instantly chills. Frost creeps along the surface, the water inside as crisp as if it had just come from the fridge.

My eyes flick up from the glass to Sue and Reed, both of them smiling—breathless chuckles slipping past their lips. Reed looked especially proud of whatever it was he'd just said.

Ben and Johnny had made a beeline for the kitchen, per usual. Ben was always the head chef; poor HERBIE was just the sous chef.

“I had to look good for my girl. I had them do my hair just the way you like it,” Johnny quips from the kitchen.

I glance over my shoulder to catch him tearing into the bread and shoveling it into his mouth, a proud smirk dancing on his mischievous features.

That moment doesn’t last long—Ben starts bickering at him about washing his hands and how eating the bread would ruin his appetite.

I offer no response besides a dramatic roll of my eyes and a playful, cold turn of my shoulder as I follow Sue and Reed, ready to fill them in on the news I’d been holding onto.

This was the game Johnny had thrown himself into since the moment I met him—and somehow, I kept getting wrapped up in it. Determined not to let him win with his relentless wooing, I’d become a silent witness to his antics more times than I could count.

“I reviewed a few of the attendees for the next Future Foundation gathering, even sent another letter to Latveria—” I begin, keeping pace behind Reed and Sue as we reach the base of the spiral staircase.

But Sue turns around, cutting me off gently.

“Winnie, we’ve had this conversation. No work talk on Sundays after five. You need to take a break—just like the rest of us. We’ll talk about it tomorrow morning, I promise.”

I press my lips into a tight smile. She’s right. I do overwork. I always have. That’s what made me good at what I used to do. It’s what made me want to go to space in the first place.

“You’re right. You know how I get,” I say with a breathless chuckle through my nose.

My eyes briefly catch Reed’s worried glance in my direction—but I pretend not to notice. My gloved hand grips the railing as they continue up the stairs without me.

I turn around and head back toward the kitchen, my footsteps a little heavier now.

Ben was tasting the sauce HERBIE had cooked up. I leaned on the counter, watching the three in the kitchen, the corner of my mouth curling in faint amusement.

I didn’t even notice myself zoning out—eyes stuck on Johnny as he idly dipped two fingers into the sauce and dragged them slowly into his mouth, all while keeping his eyes on me.

Ben’s fist slamming against the counter jolts me from the trance. My body jumps in surprise as I realize I’d been staring at Johnny like an idiot.

My amused smirk is instantly replaced with wide eyes and a warm flush creeping up my neck.

Johnny, unfazed, shoots me a knowing wink before turning his attention back to HERBIE and Ben.

“Yeah, no. It’s not quite done,” Johnny says sassily to Ben as he turns over his shoulder to grab a beer from the fridge for the rock-made man.

He hands the bottle to me instead—another routine we’d fallen into.

I deglove my hand and press my bare palm against the amber glass. Frost creeps up from the base to the rim, chilling it perfectly.

I set the bottle down beside the cutting board, next to the pile of smashed garlic. Ben, who had kindly snapped me out of my earlier stupor, gives me a simple nod of thanks before turning his attention back to the food.

“How come you don’t do nice things like that for me, Winnie?” I hear Johnny call out from behind a mouthful of bread.

I raise a brow at his accusation, already testing where this is going. “I do a lot of nice things for you, Johnny,” I reply, pulling my glove back over my hand.

“Yeah, right. All you do is reject my love and compliments on a daily basis. Why won’t you let me warm up that cold heart of yours, Ice Princess?” he teases, grinning between bites.

I tilt my head slightly at his words, doing my best to keep the smirk at bay. “Oh? Then I guess you don’t want those exclusive records I had imported—the ones conveniently sitting on your bed. I can just return them.”

I shrug, casual as ever, as if the thought of returning them hadn’t cost me a pretty penny.

Johnny freezes, eyes going wide. “You found them?” he asks, voice cracking with disbelief.

I only shrug again, cheeks burning as I try—and fail—to hide the smug smirk blooming on my lips.

He corner-checks around the island with a hop of his hip into a stool, watching me closely. My eyes widen—I have no idea what he’s about to do.

And then I’m in his arms, lifted a few inches off the ground in a warm, sudden hug. The heat of his body sends goosebumps rising on my skin, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention.

Instinctively, I loop an arm around his neck, the smirk breaking free from its prison. “You are the best, Winifred!” he beams.

I roll my eyes, still grinning as he sets me down. “Yeah, yeah. Remember that next time before you badmouth me.”

I swat playfully at his arm—warm as always.

“You are the woman of my dreams!” Johnny chirps as he skips off toward the staircase, disappearing in search of his records.

I sigh, a crooked grin tugging at my lips as I prop myself onto a stool. I turn back to Ben, who’s already watching me—his rock-carved features softened into a knowing look.

What exactly did he know... I wasn’t sure.

“What?” I ask, my grin fading into some twisted expression even I can’t explain. I tug at my sweater, suddenly feeling a little too exposed.

Ben only shakes his head, the gentle crumble of his rocky form mixing with a low chuckle. “Nothing... nothing.”

We sit in silence.

And that’s something I’ve always appreciated about Ben—he never felt the need to fill silence just to fill it. He could enjoy someone’s presence without a word. My eyes drift back to his hands as he stirs the pasta sauce, adding a few more things without needing to say what.

The aroma nearly makes my stomach announce its complaints to all of New York.

“How’s the writing been going?” Ben asks, slicing through the silence with gentle curiosity.

I meet his gaze—those soft blue eyes tucked beneath the heavy brow. I hesitate, but the look in his eyes reads me too well. My shoulders rise instinctively, like hackles on a dog’s back.

“Not a single word,” I admit, folding my arms, elbows on the counter as I lean forward, defeated.

Ben sighs. It’s not disappointment I hear in it... but it still feels like it. The pressure in my neck and shoulders tightens, making my heart feel heavy.

“I know it’s been hard. Ever since... all of this.” He gestures vaguely to himself with one massive hand—rock and humanity in one gesture.

And somehow, that only makes the cold in my chest ache more.

“I know you can write something great again. Something you care about.” He pauses. “You’ve been with us for five years. An assistant for four. I think it’s time you take the reins back, Winn.”

He’s trying to help. I know that. Trying to offer the spark, the inspiration I’ve lost—but all it feeds is guilt.

I haven’t touched a typewriter since the accident. My camera collection? Packed away in the storage unit at the Baxter Building, collecting dust. Just like the old developed photos. Just like that part of me.

I look away from Ben’s gaze—it’s too warm, too kind. It makes me rub my chilled arms.

“I’m just... busy,” I lie. “I’ve been running point with Sue on Future Foundation events. Then there’s the FF press, the branding stuff. I just don’t think I have the time.”

But I could. I do have the time.

I just care more about them. More about their futures than mine. And over time, I’ve slowly become okay with that.

Ben moves closer, placing his heavy hand on my shoulder. For someone made of rock, his touch is always the gentlest.

His thumb rubs slow circles into my shoulder blade. Comforting.

“I know it’s not the time you’re worried about.” The words land in my chest like a weight. I nearly lose my breath.

“It’s who you’ve become…”

His thumb keeps moving in slow, steady strokes. “You’re still you, Winn. Not just your powers. Not just this family. Not just the Fantastic Four.” He waits, lets the silence hold it all together. “You’re still you. You’ve got to make time to find that again.”

I lower my head a little more. The heat rising in my throat warns me that tears are closer than I want them to be.

I just shrug—cold shoulders drawn up, hiding.

Ben gently drops his hand to the middle of my back. “Don’t make me talk to Sue about taking you off some of those projects,” he lightly threatens in a protective tone. “We couldn’t have survived any of this without you. Now... It’s our turn to help you.”

He pats my back a few times and turns to HERBIE with instructions, but I don’t hear a word.

His final words echo in my mind, louder than anything else.

I sit alone in the kitchen. Shoulders hunched to my ears, head hanging low. A shiver ripples down my spine.

And just like that, the warmth of Johnny’s embrace fades, replaced once more by the cold I can feel in my bones.

I had taken out the tiramisu from the fridge that I had gone to a go-to bakery in Yancy for. It is one of my favorites, and with the emotional whiplash of this evening, I need a slice.

As I slice the cake into even parts, I feel sudden warmth glide across my lower back. It caused my back to go rigid and the same hairs to stand at attention. I instantly knew who it was.

Johnny has slid past to pluck an open box of Lucky Charms off the counter near me.

I watch him grab the box, giving him a look of warning, but he only smirks at me as he walks to the table, plopping down to shove a mouthful of dry cereal in his mouth.

Before I could even chime in that he would ruin his appetite, Ben had beaten me to it.

That warmth still lingered on my lower back. It was comforting. Addicting, nearly. Ever since I gained these abilities, I have always been drawn to warm things instinctively. I wasn’t cold per se, but I could feel it deep within.

However, deep in my mind, there was something that gnashed its cold fangs at me to keep away from the warmth. Warning me I don’t deserve it.

I gave HERBIE a nod as it had hit 8 p.m. on the dot, and the robot rang the dinner bell. I made my way over to the table with the tiramisu in hand, setting it next to the masterpiece of pasta that Ben had hijacked from the robot.

Everything smelled so delicious.

I lean over to place the cake down, and as I lift myself back up, I steal the box away from Johnny with a skillful snatch. His blue eyes look up at me with shock and feigned hurt.

“Don’t ruin your appetite,” I warn him, tucking the box under my arm as I sit in the empty chair next to him, pushing the box to the opposite end of me—far away from the blonde. I blocked out his protest about how hungry he was.

“They’re never late for Sunday dinner,” Ben noted as he looked around the main floor of the penthouse.

I follow his gaze, realizing who he meant. Sue and Reed were late.

I hesitantly speak up, “Should we continue without them?” I could wait, but I know how Johnny gets when he isn’t constantly eating something.

We all untuck the napkin sets from the plates that I had neatly set up before, unfolding them to our laps. It was the echo of footsteps and murmurs that came from the conversation area that piqued my interest.

Sue and Reed are walking together, side by side. Something was different from before.

There was a shift. The way they carried themselves was timid. That’s the one skill I didn’t lose as a journalist—the ability to read others.

“You’re late,” Johnny speaks blandly, almost annoyed at their tardiness.

I jerk my elbow into his rib in an attempt to ease him.

The couple freezes only a few feet from the table, their expressions both taken aback by the observation. I feel my brows knit together at their reaction. How could those words make them jump like that?

If it were possible, smoke would be coming from my ears.

My eyes scan Sue—her blinking expression and far stance are stiff.

“Wha… Uh—what do you mean?”

The puzzle in my brain seemed to click the pieces together at the mention of being late. Who else would freak out about the word late other than women? The implications made my heart race.

There was no way… was there?

Reed and Sue barely talked about trying anymore after a couple of years. So there was no possible way. Yet why was my cold heart seemingly beating so hard?

“What do you mean, what I mean? You’re late for dinner,” Johnny retorts back, putting his napkin in his lap.

I glance over to Ben, trying to clock if he possibly knew. Ben always knew before anyone else. It made me wonder how his brain worked half the time.

Yet seeing his hard eyes soften at the way he watched Sue sit down next to him caused my heart to lurch, my stomach to do flips, and my nerves to shoot goosebumps down my arms.

Sue is pregnant.

That was all my mind could think of as Reed and Sue bickered over how they were late searching for the aloe iodine.

I lean back in my chair, a gloved hand gently caressing my lips to hide my growing smile.

My eyes flicker to Reed, who had met my knowing eyes. When our eyes matched, I could see the failure at hiding something almost everyone knew at the table. The worry that etched into his forehead. The downturn of his lips. The way his fingertips tapped at the table. He knew I knew with just one look.

I glance at Johnny, who was seemingly focused on serving himself a helping of the pasta. I couldn’t help the eye roll that I sent in his direction, which caused him to pause and glance back at his sister and brother-in-law.

“Why’re you being weird?” Johnny interrogates his sister, picking up his glass of water.

“We’re not being weird,” Sue and Reed both say in unison, their exchanged glances only making my smirk widen underneath my fingertips.

“You’re doing that weird thing with your face,” Johnny clocks, sipping his water.

Sue stole a glance my way but instantly looked away when she clocked my expression, then turned to Ben—also looking away from him.

“You’re pregnant?” Ben flat-out questioned the blonde woman at the table.

My head whipped to Sue, watching her flabbergasted expression. That expression didn’t last long, as it melted into a warm smile. She shot up from her chair, pointing at Ben.

“Yeah,” she grins. “How did you know?” she questions Ben with the biggest smile I’ve seen on her face since her wedding.

I watch the two embrace, Ben lifting her slightly as they mumble amongst one another.

I looked at Johnny, who seemed to still be confused at the moment, and what was going on. He turns his head to me. I only give him a congratulatory smile and stand up from my chair.

I make my way around the table, holding my arms open for Reed. I embrace him as warmly as I can. He leans down to accept the embrace.

“Congratulations. This is amazing,” I excitedly whisper to him, rubbing his back between his shoulders.

I pull away and keep my hands on his arms, squeezing them.

“Smile, Reed. It looks like you’re going to pass out or have a panic attack,” I tease him gently, giving one of his arms a rub.

“It’s still brewing,” Reed teases back warmly and shifts his body so I can move past to give Sue an embrace.

I close my arms around her neck, holding her close. At that moment, I saw my vision blur, and tears began to well in my eyes.

I lean back, caressing her face.

“Congratulations! I’m so happy for you two. Three!” I correct myself with a tight chuckle.

The moment Sue sees my lower lip tremble involuntarily, I can see the shine of tears beginning to form in her eyes, too.

“No, don’t do it, Winnie,” Sue laughs lightly, but we both sniffle in each other's arms synchronously.

I involuntarily sniffle to keep the welling tears at bay. I pull aside toward Ben, instantly wrapping my arm around his as I glance over to Johnny, who still seems to be processing the celebration.

“Wait, really?” he asks so seriously it nearly shocks me.

Sue confirms his questions, and Johnny’s concerned, etched expression turns into full-blown glee. A bold laugh that would warm anyone’s heart leaves his chest. His eyes light up excitedly, and his hands slam on the table.

“What?!” he exclaims, shooting up from his chair and instantly connecting himself to his sister.

“You are going to be the best mom!” he bolsters as he embraces his sister, picking her up. The tears begin to blur my vision again at Sue’s proud expression as she embraces her brother.

Johnny instantly turns to Reed after putting his sister down.

“You are going to be the best dad!” he slaps his hands on Reed’s chest. “Just kidding, you are out of your depth.”

I can see Reed’s proud expression shoot to a concerned one that’s mixed with annoyance at Johnny’s words. I couldn’t help the chortle that left my nose at the interaction.

Johnny shifts close to me, embracing me and Ben. I give his chest a gentle swat for treating poor Reed like that, yet I know it’s all out of brotherly love.

“And we are going to be the best uncles ever.”

I shoot Johnny a sharp side-eye, jabbing his side with my elbow, causing him to let out an involuntary noise.

“And aunt.”

I hesitate a moment before reaching my gloved hand up to the middle of his shoulder blades, giving his warm skin a gentle rub as his proud expression turns near blank as he blinks. He was still processing it—I can tell. The way his lips pressed into a thin line and his brows creased in near worry.

“Okay, let’s eat.”

I watch him closely as he disconnects himself from us and sits down at the table. My smile fades for a moment before Sue turns back to me, taking my gloved hands in hers. I tense at the contact but do my best to tear my attention away from Johnny.

“I can’t believe this, Sue!” I gasp, doing my best not to show my emotions. I focus on my lower lip—not trembling. Good.

“There’s so much to do. Oh! I’ve got to draft an announcement. Make sure all of the sponsors know about the great news. Goodness! I also got a tiramisu—let me call the owner, I know her number. You can’t have raw eggs.”

The words shoot out of my mouth faster than I can catch them. My worries and excitement are spinning with so many possibilities.

Sue squeezes my hands. “Let’s focus on dinner, okay?”

Her warm laughter rings in my chest. The sound makes my frozen heart nearly vibrate with newly found fondness. As if my love for this family couldn’t get any stronger—here I was, about to be a first-time aunt.

I take my seat back down next to Johnny.

Throughout the whole dinner, I kept stealing glances from my peripheral. I notice he can barely touch his food—only taking small bites or sipping his water. That wasn’t like him.

As dinner wraps up and the others leave the table to celebrate with their slices of cake and a show, I can’t help but turn toward Johnny.

My hand instinctively goes to his shoulder, squeezing ever so gently.

“Hey… You okay?” I ask softly, coaxing him back to reality.

His gaze seems far away.

When he finally snaps back at my second squeeze, his blue eyes connect to mine. And there it is—the emotion he’s been brewing.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just… just processing it,” he croaks.

I felt my concern soften the tension in my features.

“Oh, Johnny,” I whisper, rubbing the back of his shoulder with my hand, offering my warmest smile.

“You’re going to be the best uncle ever. Just like you said.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “It’s okay to be scared. Excited. Hell, even worried. We’re all in this together.”

He tears his gaze from me and dips his head, nodding. He plants his hand on my knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.

The affection causes the breath in my chest to freeze.

“Yeah, I know. I just… I know how hard they’ve been trying. With how many times they've been disappointed… and for it to be so real now… I just can’t believe it.” His voice cracks slightly at the end. “I’m gonna be an uncle,” he laughs softly.

Tears are gathering on his waterline as he says it. His free hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his eyelids harshly with his fingertips.

I can’t help the chortle that escapes me, even as my lower lip trembles in empathy. I hear myself sniffle before I can control my next action—pulling him into a half-embrace.

“The damn best one there is, too,” I whisper, bringing my cold hand to the nape of his neck and giving it a gentle squeeze. I perch my chin on his shoulder.

“Thanks, Princess,” he murmurs into my hair, using his arm to wrap around me and hold me close to his warm body.

I knew he needed this hug. I just don’t think he knew how much I needed this embrace as well.

I softly smile. “I’ve upgraded from Ice Princess to Princess? Wow. Look at you—already maturing into an uncle,” I tease, carefully leaning back but keeping my grip on the back of his neck.

Johnny tilts his head back with a snicker, leaving his handsome, lopsided grin.

“Don’t act like you’re not obsessed with me now that I’ve upgraded you.”

I roll my eyes and push him away playfully in hopes of hiding the new color creeping up my neck. I reach for the tiramisu, scooping Johnny a slice and placing it on the smaller plate beside his untouched dinner.

“This uncle thing’s already making me wiser… scary, right?”

I can’t help the laughter that bursts from my chest at his sudden revelry. His eyes crinkle with amusement at finding his 

I nod my head. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that!” I laugh.

Leaning back in my chair, I watch Johnny with a new warmth in my gaze—one granted by his embrace.

I watch him devour the tiramisu I placed on his plate.

There he was. Back to Johnny.

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

arthur morgan is so eldest daughter coded GOD

[magnusmodig]

||. was browsing through tags of a comic thor post and found this beauty in someone's tags:

i love the acknowledgement of odin as a godking above father & how that’s hurt thor not just loki

obviously, I won't name the person's reblog on this blog but it's something I've always felt is largely true about the mcu odinfam situation, particularly where the father and the boys are involved.

Odin's parenting style (being strict, and the all-father above just a father), hurt Thor just as much as Loki. They were both hurt by their parents and especially in vying for their father's approval. (aka: his affections, because really any child desperate for their parent's attention, approval, pride is really just craving unconditional love.) People seem hard pressed to believe that this sort of pain was exclusive to Loki... which I fundamentally don't understand. (Need I remind everyone that Odin didn't just say "you're unworthy to call yourself a king and a hero bc you're being selfish in your ambitions"... which is true. He also got a good, walloping "you are unworthy of the loved ones you have betrayed" TO HIS FACE before being stripped of his powers and banished to some backwater planet for an indefinite amount of time...)

The reality of the situation is Loki always had Frigga to lean on, confide in, and be in his corner. Even if it was off-screen, truth is that he told Frigga what he learned about being a Frost Giant the first chance he got. He confided in her his worry for Odin's health ("i never get used to seeing him like this"). She actively expresses support and validation in front of him in a way that Loki at least positively acknowledges even if he doesn't always receive the words, and while I don't believe Thor wouldn't have gained the same solace from his mother, I am of the opinion - based on (this deleted scene from "THOR") in particular - that she would give support in the same way she would with Loki ... and it never landed with Thor. Because Thor is not Loki. And Frigga doesn't always know how to speak to Thor so Thor can hear her.

So, really at the end of the day, whether it was true or not, Thor only had himself to emotionally rely on. Coupled then with being primarily under the express tutelage of an extraordinarily strict father who was priming Thor to uphold his own legacy, (apparently not be anything like Hela despite the two kids being polar opposites) and 'never seek out war but must always be ready for it' and then you get a sentiment that ultimately can be summarized in Thor's words at the end of Dark World when he comments his reason for surrendering his birthright of his own volition: "I would rather be a good man than a great king." (which, sidebar, but I am entirely convinced is Thor commenting on his father's way of ruling, his father's way of parenting, his father's way of being. And quite frankly, no, I don't think the real Odin would ever let Thor give up his birthright to go live on Earth when Odin is old, dying, and the whole of Asgard is primed and ready to follow Thor as their new All-Father.)

alt., in the words of comic!thor his (extremely mixed) opinion of Odin:

"A hard god, my father, but one who would move heaven and earth for his children. And did , quite literally, on many occasions. From Odin, I learned command. I learned the ways of the worlds and the godly arts of war."

[christopher-bryant]

Conditional love vs unconditional love

#Something something about Annabeth expecting help from her mother because she was always the perfect kid but getting sent to her own death and Percy expecting nothing because he doesn't believe in his dad and despite everything being saved from death by him

[sinkuna]

୨୧ ― The playground falls silent when Sukuna's shadow darkens the entrance.

Six foot four of raw muscle and barely contained violence, his black fitted shirt strained against broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles told stories of shattered jaws and walls alike. The tattoos that snake up his arms and across his face, ancient markings that ward away anyone foolish enough to cross him. Three prison stints. Fourteen confirmed hospitalizations of those who dared cross his path. And whispers… dark, unsettling rumors, of bodies that were never found.

But, cradled against his chest -those same hands that have crushed windpipes- holds his little girl, five years old with eyes just like his. She clutches her plastic watering can painted with daisies, her other hand firmly gripping Sukuna’s shirt like she’s taming a beast. 

"Down Papa! My flowers are thirsty!!" she demands, completely unfazed by her father whose mere presence makes grown men piss themselves…

"Tch. Such a brat, just like your mother." Sukuna growls, the same tone that makes  other parents clutch their kids a little tighter when he walks by, but the girl laughs and squeals with delight as he swings her around and sets her down.

The other parents keep their distance, their fear of Sukuna quite palpable, fueled by the whispers that cling to his name like a curse. But they watch- oh how they watch. Their eyes following him, as if expecting him to do something to prove the rumors true. Sukuna notices, a cruel smile splitting his face, revealing teeth, "What're you looking at?" he snarls at a gawking teenager, who stumbles backward in terror.

Their fear amuses him, but their opinions? Worthless.

He doesn’t care what they think, doesn’t care what they say.

He isn’t here for them anyway. He’s here for one reason, to make sure no one’s foolish enough to lay a hand on his little girl. If anyone dares, if anyone is stupid enough to try, they’ll see it firsthand. They’ll realize the stories don’t even scratch the surface. He’ll show them exactly why they should fear him- why calling him a monster is an insult to what he truly is.

"Papa! Look!" his little girl holds up a tiny daisy, "This one's for you! It's a gift, from me to you." She smiles at him, her eyes sparkling and full of love, as if he doesn’t scare the shit out of everyone else.

His face, usually frozen in a permanent scowl, softens imperceptibly, "Put it back in the ground, kid. Flowers need to grow..."

"Nooo," she pouts, "Mama gave me more seeds to plant and this one told me it wants to be with you!" She reaches up, impossibly small hand extended.

"Stubborn little-," he mutters as he crouches down, allowing her to tuck the flower behind his ear.

"See, now you're pretty just like the garden and mama!" She beams at him, her arms spread wide in a dramatic gesture of pride.

For a split second his eyes widen, surprised at the words coming out of her mouth. Pretty? Him? "I'm not pretty…" he growls, but doesn't remove the flower.

"You are to me," she says softly before wrapping her little arms around his neck, squeezing him tight and kissing him on his tatted cheek, "I love you, Papa."

Sukuna feels his heart skip a beat, then two, his throat tightening as the words leave his little brats lips. He can't bring himself to say it back- not here… He can't form the words he desperately wants to say…

Instead, his rough hands wrap around her, one hand on the back of her head, the other pressing her into his shoulder, "Yeah yeah…" His grip is gentle, almost tentative, like she might disappear if he squeezes too hard, "Me too…"

He feels her lips curl into a smile against him, and it's the only answer he needs. She understands, just like you do, the way he shows his love instead of saying it.

"C'mon," he ruffles her hair, "your mother will have my ass if I don't get us home." He takes her hand, fingers engulfing hers.

"Don't worry, Papa, the flowers will protect us!!"

As they walk home, her tiny hand disappearing in his massive one, Sukuna still wears the bloom behind his ear. A passing man stares a bit too long for Sukuna’s liking and receives a glare promising slow, creative violence if he doesn't look away immediately.

But his daughter just swings their joined hands, chattering about which seeds she'll plant next, completely unafraid of the monster whose reputation makes hardened criminals wake in cold sweats.

She is his one weakness, though he'd gut anyone who suggested it.

And he is her guardian- her hero, and she reminds him daily.

The fearsome Sukuna, brought to his knees by a little girl who talks to flowers.

Prt. 2 │⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

[lay-z]

The first real vacation with your dear husband and your one year old daughter turns out to be quite dangerous for you—because everything he does makes your hormone levels boil and your libido sing, and it's too soon to think about another baby.

Innit?

Simon is nothing but saccharine cute and attentive; putting sunscreen on your daughter's chubby limbs before telling (not asking), telling you to turn around so he can put sunscreen on your back next.

The slight dominance with his gruff voice—something he sometimes can't turn off even away from work—paired with the obvious care and worry in his tone, make your toes curl into the hot sand and a giddy smile spread on your lips as you're facing away from him.

Simon takes the baby for walks at the shore whenever she gets fussy, wanting you to have a moment of peace as you read your novel in your beach lounger. He comes back with snacks and drinks every time, flashing you a proud smile when he can show off your sleeping babe in the baby carrier, strapped to his bare chest (and no, he doesn’t mind that the straps will have him end up with tanning lines).

Each day, he carves up a large watermelon at the beach and feeds both you and his daughter while you take pictures and videos of the precious moments when the baby pulls an adorable face, and he reaches over to wipe the juice off your chin before licking it off his thumb so your expensive swimsuit doesn't get stains on it.

Pride and contentment both ooze off him when he takes you out to the resort restaurants every night, pushing the stroller one-handed with broad, straightened shoulders while holding your hand with the other, gently swinging your entwined hands playfully.

His tawny eyes sparkle with raw adoration and love whenever your gazes lock over the dinner table as you feed your daughter new foods and fruits to try.

The looks he shoots you cause your stomach to churn with butterflies, bringing you back to a time with lots of firsts—first date, first kiss, first whispered I love You's.

At night, he never leaves your side and insists to put your daughter to sleep in her crib how you've created her—together.

And when it's finally time to flip the light off and slip under the white linen sheets while the AC hums in the background, you're so riled up with lust and love for your husband that you can barely keep yourself together.

As always, Simon is faster, though.

And he pulls you over to his side of the mattress beneath the sheets with practiced ease and a sigh of relief until your back molds itself perfectly to his bare chest while he runs his rough palm along the curve of your waist, old callouses caused by hard work catching on the fabric of the short, silky negligeé dress.

Goosebumps spread all over your skin at the contact; nipples perking, breath hitching, blood simmering with arousal as his warm breath puffs over your exposed neck.

"My gorgeous wife," he coos, fingers toying with the delicate hem of your dress while your thighs squeeze together as you turn your face away, hiding your coy smile into the plush pillow.

"Mother of my beautiful daughter," he adds, his voice now rougher as he shifts behind you, slowly dragging the skirt up your body as the sheets rustle gently. "Fuck, I need you, love."

You let out the sweetest and giddiest giggle, and Simon's chest vibrates with a low, matching chuckle.

"Stop—" you whine, squeaking when he squeezes your plump ass cheek.

"Christ. Can't never lemme be sexy and seductive f'you, eh?" He gropes you again, pinches your sensitive nipple through the silk, and you press your face into the pillow to muffle your laughter as you try to squirm away. "Simon!"

He merely snorts as you try to get out of his grip, and the tussle turns into playfighting—turns into tender lovemaking.

And so what if neither of you remembers to use protection.

[windyremedy]

your boyfriend held off on letting you meet his parents for awhile now. for reasons you don’t actually know, you thought maybe they were really protective or perhaps even strict with who he dates but turns out it was anything but that.

“pssst— it’s okay you can tell me.” she whispered, slightly nudging you.

“I’m right here hag.” bakugou would deadpan at his mother, barely able to keep it together.

sitting on the couch in between the two practical clones when you first saw them together. you let out a nervous laugh before turning to your most likely and probably definitely future mother in law.

“no mrs. bakugou he didn’t kidnap me, pay me or hypnotize me to be his girlfriend.”

her eyes wavered as she looked at you skeptically before turning her head to the side.

“if you say so— well then come here dear you can see all his baby pictures. just a fair warning this means you have to marry him.”

“mitsuki.”

“MOM!”

“oh what— we all know it!!” she yelled, ready to defend her soon to be very factual statement in the future.

“don’t scare her off.” his dad mumbled in gentle admonition, patting her back to ease her from the initial outburst.

“please masaru if she was even the slightest bit afraid she would have already come running at the sight of katsuki.”

at that his father held a look agreeing that she wasn’t wrong. suddenly she turned to you once more holding your hands this time.

“he’s loud and makes ugly, borderline scary faces at times but he means well sweetheart.”

“oh I know mrs bakugou but—“

“call me mitsuki dear!”

“ah! yes mrs mitsuki err mitsuki— ehm I was saying on the contrary he’s very handsome and really gentle.”

from the raised brow and slight frown it was clear from her expression that she was unconvinced.

“mmmm— well I get his majestic appearance, after all he got most of his features from me.”

you could see masaru nod along.

“but gentle? hmmm, probably from you masaru.” she nodded, slapping his knee.

“though are you certain? I’ve never seen him be quiet ever in his life, it was always boom boom boom.”

glancing at your boyfriend he seemed to have reached his patience, looking like he was ready to go toe to toe like he always does before you interrupted.

“yes he’s very sweet and thoughtful. I love him for any and every part of him, especially his unwavering passion.”

a pregnant pause took place before—

“actually katsuki you need our permission this time if you do ask her now.”

“WHAT!!!”

“well she’s basically my daughter now!! how kind and patient she must be to put up with you.”

“I’m literally your son.”

smiling even wider with pride and relief she uttered words he guessed was nice to hear.

“and as your parents we’re glad to see you find someone as great as you.”

@windyremedy

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

summary: Your thesis said, “analyze male behavior.” Joel said, “come sit on it.”

a/n: this is the 2nd part, which can't be read alone. i mean, you can read it without going through the first part (read it here), but you won't understand shit

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. porn actor joel miller/javier peña. dirty talk. car sex. fingering. oral sex f! receiving.

wc: 6.5k

Out of shame, you avoid Joel the following week.

You dodge aisles when you see him at the supermarket, time your exits minute by minute to avoid running into him, and lock yourself in your bedroom like an emo teenager when your parents invite him over for dinner.

Because now, whenever you see him, all you can remember is his voice saying obscenities, his hands on women’s skin — and some men’s too. You remember yourself, in the privacy of your room, doing what you swore you would never do.

You even look up if there’s such a thing as a permanent fertile period, because none of this feels normal.

And of course, Joel confronts you about it.

On your father’s birthday night, he invites a few close friends over for a small cocktail party, followed by dinner. When you walk down the stairs, Joel is there, sitting in the living room armchair with a glass of whiskey in his right hand.

He’s listening to something your father is saying but glances at you. You immediately turn your back and head into the kitchen to see if your mother needs help.

Yesterday, you found a movie where Joel played a DEA agent rescuing a drug lord’s wife. He said so many filthy things to her while fucking her inside a police car that the words stuck in your head like Play-Doh in hair.

And maybe the area between your legs feels a little more sensitive too, which only makes you feel worse.

After the cocktail and dinner, spent tensely avoiding Joel’s gaze, you slip out into the backyard with a glass of wine in one hand and your Kindle in the other.

Inside, the party goes on, your father having opened another bottle of whiskey, and you can hear them from here. You need to stay out of your bedroom to keep yourself from typing "Javier Peña" into that damn search bar again, so for the next few minutes, you sip your wine and read.

“Finally, a place where you can’t hide behind the toilet paper aisle.”

Joel sits down on the chair next to you, holding his own whiskey glass. You lose your words because, yes, you actually did hide in the personal hygiene aisle yesterday when you saw him.

You play dumb.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. You went all puritanical after you found out what you found out.”

“I told you it’s weird.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t need your approval. My life and career are my own. I said I would help you with your thesis, and I will, but if you keep running from me, someone’s going to think there’s something wrong between us.”

You take another sip of wine in silence, staring at the lawn like it’s salvation. Joel’s gaze burns into the side of your face before he asks:

“Have you watched any more?”

“For the thesis.” A lie.

“May I ask which one?”

“The DEA one.”

“Hmm.”

He finds your eyes as he sips his whiskey. He’s sitting with his legs spread, making his jeans stretch tight over his groin and thick thighs. And you know exactly what’s under those jeans.

You can’t resist your curiosity:

“Do you miss acting?”

“My ego does,” he says, like he’s thought about it a thousand times. “Not gonna lie, there’s a certain masculine pride in being a porn actor. It’s easier for men. But personally? No. Especially because of Sarah.”

“She knows?”

He shakes his head.

“She does. I told her when she turned fifteen because I’d rather she hear it from me than stumble across it online.”

“How did she react?”

“Well, I guess.”

You shake your head and cover your face with your free hand, groaning a little.

“I can’t stop wondering if my mom knows about you.”

“I hate to break it to you—”

You cut him off. “Shhh.”

His laugh is low but genuine. Your eyes meet again, and this time, you could swear his gaze dips a little lower, to the neckline of your dress, where a bit of flushed skin is showing thanks to the wine.

But he disguises it and gestures toward your Kindle:

“What are you reading?”

“Some articles to help with my research.”

“Have my films led you to any conclusions?”

“Um, definitely,” you say, staring at the lawn. “You cussed a lot. And you seem very interested in my opinion of your movies.”

“I'm curious.”

You internally roll your eyes. Men.

“You want a performance review? Aren’t the comments on XVideos enough?”

“I want yours.”

You ignore him, because your evaluation of his performance was made perfectly clear when you got yourself off twice in a row thinking about his voice.

Instead, you ask:

“Did the DEA girl really come? Because it looked real.”

Joel stays quiet for a while. When you glance at him, you notice a small smirk playing on his lips as he taps his fingers against his glass. His whiskey’s almost gone.

“Do you really want to get into that?”

“Why not?”

A few more seconds of silence. Then he seems to say "fuck it" internally and answers:

“I liked making the other actresses come. Some directors didn’t like it because it took longer, and ‘who cares if they actually orgasm if they can fake it,’” he says, making air quotes. “But I liked it. Not all of them, of course, and sometimes they’d tell me they were fine without it, but it was a preference of mine.”

“And the DEA girl?” you press.

“Was that your favorite?”

You shake your head.

“Which one was?”

You shake your head again, indicating you won’t tell him.

“The DEA girl was my ex-girlfriend,” he says.

“So it was real.”

Joel shrugs, and that's all the answer you need. The porch light behind you highlights his graying beard and the glint of whiskey on his lips. Your throat goes dry.

“How did you get into the industry?”

Joel clicks his tongue.

“Very personal question.”

“Okay, what made you leave?”

He glances at your wine glass and ignores the question, asking another instead:

“What wine is that?”

You consider not answering out of petty revenge, but your parents raised you better.

“Barefoot. I know it’s cheap, but I like it,” you swirl the red wine in your glass. “Even though I know I’ll wake up with a headache tomorrow.”

Joel rolls his eyes and stands, leaving his whiskey glass behind.

“Come on, bring your glass. I’ll give you some real wine.”

He starts walking toward the gate between your houses, and you have no choice but to follow, leaving your Kindle and the party behind. Joel’s broad shoulders guide you around the side of his house and into the kitchen.

It’s silent and dark, except for a single hallway light. Quietly, because Sarah is probably asleep, you pass through the kitchen and head to a door leading to the garage, where the lighting is dim at best. His truck takes up almost all the space.

Unsure of what to do, you hover at the door, watching as he enters a small room off the garage. It’s a little wine cellar, concrete walls lined with slanted mahogany shelves.

Joel comes back out with a bottle in hand. You recognize the label and freeze.

“You’re not about to open a Rockford Flaxman.”

“I am,” he says, brushing past you just enough to close the door behind you, locking the two of you in the garage. His scent hits you, and you fight the urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Just closing the door so Sarah doesn’t wake up. Hand me your glass.”

“Joel, that bottle’s expensive.”

“Hand me your glass,” he repeats.

You give it to him. Joel pulls a corkscrew from a drawer you hadn’t noticed and pops the bottle open effortlessly. He fills your glass halfway and, as he hands it back to you, asks:

“Mind if we share the glass?”

You shake your head.

From another drawer, he grabs his truck keys, disables the alarm, and turns on a tiny, terrible-quality radio. Duran Duran starts playing.

Joel gestures toward the truck:

“Come on. We can sit inside.”

Heart pounding a little faster, palms sweating, you climb into the passenger side. You settle into the leather seat and finally take a sip of the good wine.

It tastes fruity and oaky, almost sweet on your tongue. You let out a long, contented hum.

“Really good,” you say after swallowing. “Best way to end the night.”

His fingers brush yours as he takes the glass. You watch him savor a sip before handing it back.

He speaks as he does:

“I left the industry because the doubts about real consent started eating at me,” he says, answering the question you asked earlier. Joel leans back in the seat, legs spread, head resting against the headrest, eyes closed. “And I’m not just talking about explicit consent. I mean about the people who were there because they had no other choice.”

“I can’t imagine anyone doing porn unless they had to,” you murmur.

“I get it, but some people genuinely like it,” he meets your gaze as you sip more wine. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.”

“Maybe for men...”

“It’s more common among men, true.”

You offer him the glass. He drinks and gives it back.

“The agency that managed my films didn’t like it when I started giving interviews about that stuff. They gave me fewer scenes or scripts I’d never agree to do, and I had to start turning them down. When they began sabotaging me, I left.”

“Scripts you wouldn’t accept?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you accept the short answer. “No other agency made you an offer?”

“They did, but when I left, I didn’t want to go back.”

“And yet, you defend the industry.”

“I don’t defend the industry—I defend the work I did, because I know how it was done. I don’t like when you generalize.”

“You know that sounds like ‘not all men,’ right? Of course not everyone was bad, but the industry itself is terrible. So when I criticize it, it’s the majority I’m talking about. And you were exploited too.”

He exhales deeply. There’s more you want to say, but you sense it’s a sensitive topic, so you change the subject:

“Can I ask what you do now?”

“I invest,” he says simply. “I made a lot of money back then and wasn’t stupid enough to blow it on parties and drugs. I invested in public and private construction companies, and now they pay me back.”

“Didn’t expect that.”

Joel gives you a look.

“Male privilege. I got into a lot of good deals just because I was Javier Peña.”

“That wouldn’t happen to an actress,” you guess, and he nods. “So now you just live off your investments.”

“Pretty much.”

The wine in your glass runs out. Joel notices, grabs the bottle, and this time drinks straight from it. You mimic him, putting the glass in the back seat.

“How was it, being an actor?”

“Fun. Lots of parties, admiration, glamor, L.A., and sex all the time,” he says. “The downside was the strict diet, weekly waxing, and almost daily health tests. I probably have a permanent hole in my vein.”

“Did you only date people in the industry?”

“Not a rule, but it was easier, so mostly.”

“Sarah’s mom—”

“No, she wasn’t in it. She was a friend.”

You figure she’s not around anymore, considering you’ve never heard Sarah mention her.

“If someone offered you two million dollars today,” you start, trying to lighten the mood, and his face softens, “for a solo film. Just you, just masturbation. Would you do it?”

“No, because of Sarah. Okay, my old films are still out there, but they existed before she was born. It’s different.” Another sip of wine. Joel continues: “I don’t think I’d even know how to behave in front of a camera anymore.”

“That’s not the spirit of the Longest Cumshot Award winner.”

Joel’s eyes widen in shock, and you burst out laughing at yourself, raising both of your hands.

“I didn’t look it up, I swear. It’s just one of the first pictures that comes up when you search your name.”

“Tell me your favorite film,” he insists.

You think about refusing again, but the wine is warming your face and your throat, and the atmosphere is too cozy.

“The title is ridiculous,” you start, and he grunts for you to hurry up. “Something like ‘Lust Lives Next Door.’”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Where he’s the neighbor?”

Keeping a neutral expression, you sip more wine, feeling his gaze fixed on you.

“Why?” Joel asks.

“It felt so real. You looked so...”

You lose the words. He prompts you:

“So...?”

“I don’t know. You looked like you really wanted her. Sure, you always looked like that—you were an actor—but with her, it was different. At least to me.”

Joel studies you a moment longer. Then asks, seriously:

“Did you touch yourself watching it?”

Your cheeks burn.

“It’s normal,” you defend. “Inevitable.”

“Only with that one?”

“Joel.”

He exhales long and slow.

“If you’re uncomfortable, we’ll stop. I’ll walk you home.”

You open your mouth to joke about how ridiculous it is for him to walk you home when you’re literally neighbors, but the seriousness of his question leaves you speechless.

“I’m not a porn actress. I’m not used to this,” you murmur.

“Then just nod,” he suggests seriously. Your silence is taken as agreement.

He asks:

“Did you touch yourself to any other of my films?”

A pause, then...

You nod.

He breathes deeply.

“Did you watch my films only because of the thesis?”

You shake your head no.

“Do you imagine me doing those things to you?”

You feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. One step back, and you’ll be safe, intact but with a pounding heart. One step forward, and you’ll fall, jump, dive into whatever awaits below.

The blood in your ears almost drowns out the start of “Glory Box” by Portishead playing from that shitty little radio.

You take a step forward.

You nod.

Before he can ask anything else, you’re the one who speaks:

“Do you want to see?” you ask, fueled by all the liquid courage from the wine. You clarify, “How I touched myself.”

The answer comes immediately:

“Of course I do.”

You glance at the garage door, then at him, hardly believing you’re about to do this. Before shyness can take over, you close the passenger door, slip off your sandals, and adjust yourself on the seat so your back rests against the door and your legs stretch across the console. You place your feet in Joel’s lap, and you can’t help but notice the hard bulge pressing against his jeans—you have to fight the urge to abandon everything and just beg him to take you to his room and do whatever he wants with you.

Okay. You take a slow, steadying breath to calm your racing heart. Joel’s hand settles around your ankle, his thumb brushing the bone there, and that small point of contact anchors you.

The dress you’re wearing is short, so it only takes a small tug for the fabric to bunch around your waist. With bare legs, goosebumped skin, and heavy breaths, you hand him the wine bottle.

Joel accepts it without taking his eyes off you.

“I’m not as confident as your porn actresses,” you say, but to your own ears your voice sounds pathetically breathless.

His touch trails up to your shin and back down, his hand wrapping around your left foot. He says:

“If you knew how many times I imagined myself between your legs, you wouldn’t feel insecure right now.”

Your breasts ache against the thin fabric of your dress as you spread your legs. You slide your hand into your panties, and Joel doesn’t look directly at it—he watches your face instead. He studies your reaction when your lips part at the feeling of your fingers touching the sensitive, wet spot between your thighs.

The knowledge that he’s wanted this just as badly as you makes you bolder.

You tilt your head back, resting it against the car window, and look at the ceiling while you speed up your fingers. Everything feels so sensitive that you have to bite your lower lip to keep any sound from escaping.

“Fuck...” Joel murmurs, his touch sliding up your thigh. “I can hear how wet you are.”

“Give me your hand.”

Joel takes one last sip of wine and sets the bottle on the ground outside the truck before offering his hand to you. You barely manage to meet his eyes as you pull your panties aside and guide his rough fingers between your legs.

His fingers glide easily over your clit, so wet that it’s almost slippery, and the feeling is so good—his fingers are larger, different textured than your own—and he lets you use them like a toy.

Joel’s gaze finally drops to where your bodies meet. With his free hand, he palms himself through his jeans, starting to rub.

It’s too much for your mind to process.

You squeeze your eyes shut again, using both your hands to guide his and spreading your legs wider. You have to breathe through parted lips to stop yourself from moaning as he rubs that almost painfully sensitive spot over and over.

“Does it feel good using my fingers like that?” he asks, voice hoarse. You nod. “Then let me fuck you with them.”

You whisper your agreement, guiding his fingers lower after making sure they’re slick enough. You press down gently, and his middle finger sinks inside you with a wet sound.

“Joel…”

“Hearing you moan like that and it’s not even my cock yet,” he mutters, fucking you slowly with his middle finger. “Let me add another one.”

You nod. He adds another finger, and you barely manage to hold in the moan, especially when he starts moving them in a slow, delicious rhythm, dragging the strokes out rather than speeding up.

It all happens so fast. One second Joel is pulling you lower, sliding your ass almost onto the console, and the next, he’s bending down and putting his mouth on you—his tongue tracing a quick, hot path from your entrance to your clit.

You clap a hand over your mouth and grab his hair with the other, the graying strands slipping through your fingers. The position can’t be comfortable for him, half off the driver’s seat and bent over you, but he doesn’t seem to care. His lips close over your clit, sucking and licking, while his fingers keep fucking you. His beard scrapes the sensitive skin of your thighs and the slick heat between your legs—and somehow, that only makes you hotter.

You tug his hair harder, pulling him closer into you, and you swear he’s smiling against you, his mouth opening over your clit.

The third finger teases your entrance, and just that promise is enough—you come with a muffled gasp, both hands buried in Joel’s hair as you ride his face. His beard will definitely leave marks on your skin.

Joel waits patiently until your body stops pulsing around his fingers, even though his occasional licks don’t exactly help. Then he pulls his mouth away and sits back in the driver’s seat, wiping his beard with his hand to clear the mess you left behind.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he grabs you with one hand and, steadying your hips with both, pulls you straight onto his lap.

“Hi,” you whisper, still breathless.

“Hi,” he says back.

“You kiss?”

“What?” He smiles, brushing a lock of hair off your forehead. “You asking if I know how to kiss?”

“I’m asking if you have any rules against it, because I really, really want to kiss you.”

“You do?” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, the crease between his brows soft and nearly invisible. “I’m all yours.”

With that permission, you wrap your arms around his neck and move closer, trying to control your ragged breathing. You keep your eyes locked on his as you kiss his bottom lip, then his top, tracing them with the tip of your tongue, pressing your thumbs under his jaw to coax his mouth open.

You run your tongue across the opening, and Joel fists your hair at the nape of your neck, finally taking the lead and kissing you back.

You’re consumed by the taste of expensive wine, a kiss you’d only ever imagined through a computer screen—and you realize the actresses hadn’t been faking their moans, because when Joel sucks your tongue into his mouth for the first time, the sensation ripples right through the core of you, and you whimper softly into his mouth.

“Take off your panties,” he murmurs against your lips as he trails kisses along your chin, your jaw, and down your neck. You move with him, adapting to the pace and hunger of his kisses.

As he reaches your collarbones, Joel tugs the thin straps of your dress down and pushes the fabric until it bunches at your waist. Your breasts are exposed to the cool garage air—and to his hungry mouth.

“Joel…”

His tongue laps at your nipple, and he grows impatient. He slides a hand between your thighs and yanks your panties down with little care. You hear the lace tear but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when seconds later Joel is maneuvering you onto your knees so he can pull the ruined panties off completely.

Then he balls the fabric in his left hand and brings it to his nose.

It should feel ridiculous—like some cheap porno move—but it doesn’t.

He isn’t doing it for show.

He’s doing it because—

Joel grabs your hair again, keeping you firmly in place, and lifts the panties to your own nose. His mouth hovers at your ear as he says:

“See?” Joel’s lips skim down your neck. You catch the unmistakable scent of your own arousal, and your cheeks burn. “You’ve been dripping wet since the moment you walked into this garage.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, pressing his arm to press the panties harder against your nose. You inhale loud enough for him to hear and murmur, “I’ve been wet since the moment you sat next to me in the backyard.”

Joel looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stuffs the panties into the front pocket of his worn jeans before unbuttoning and pushing them down along with his boxers.

You probably stare at his cock like an idiot, because seeing it on a screen was one thing, but seeing it now—right in front of you, the subtle changes from age only making it better—hits you hard.

“You’re smiling. What, is my dick funny?” Joel asks.

You shake your head.

“Your dick is practically a shrine to me.”

Joel rolls his eyes, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“I’m real fucking close to come just looking at you,” he mutters, and you feel a flicker of disappointment, but it seems to be true, especially given how hard he is.

Joel shifts you into place on his lap, adjusting you like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans back against the seat, partially reclining, and grips his cock with one hand.

“Come here,” he says lowly, pulling you by your thighs. When his thick cock nestles between your legs, you realize what he wants.

You brace yourself on his shoulders, biting your lip to keep any sounds from escaping as you lift onto your knees just enough to start sliding yourself against him.

The slickness between your legs makes it easy—wet and slippery—and Joel groans, tipping his head back against the seat.

God.

He looks huge beneath you, between your thighs, in the way his hands grip your hips and travel along your waist and back up. The rigid heat of him rubs directly over your clit with every glide, and you wrap your hand around the base of his cock to press him even harder against you as you move.

Joel’s hands grip your hips so hard you wonder if you’ll have bruises tomorrow. He glances down between you, where your wetness has coated him, and mutters a filthy curse between his clenched teeth.

“These tits…” he growls, lowering his mouth back to your breasts, drawing you even closer. “Can you come like this?”

You nod, tugging his curls at the nape of his neck, moving faster when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, leaving a trail of wet heat on your skin.

“Turn around,” Joel orders, licking the corner of your mouth. “I want to come on your ass.”

You obey instantly.

He helps you twist around so your knees stay on the seat but your back is pressed against his chest.

Joel runs his cock through your soaked folds, nudging your clit with the head.

He gathers your hair in one hand, pulling it aside so he can kiss the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

“Rub yourself on it,” he says, voice rough. Your only support is the steering wheel in front of you, which you cling to as you rock your hips back and forth, grinding down along his shaft.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me doing exactly what I tell you,” he mutters against your ear.

“I like when you tell me what to do,” you whisper, barely able to form the words with the way that familiar tension is building fast in your stomach.

“Yeah, baby, I can tell by how soaked you are.”

You don’t answer, focusing only on your own pleasure now, shifting so the thick length of him is perfectly aligned against your clit.

Your leg trembles, your mind blanking with the focus on your orgasm, and you have to bite down on your sweaty arm to keep from crying out his name.

“Feels good?” you ask, panting.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” Joel rasps, his hand tightening around your throat just enough to tilt your face toward his so he can kiss your jaw, your cheek. The slick sounds of your bodies are filthy, but it only pushes you closer. “Been holding back this whole time not to fucking come inside that sweet pussy.”

And that’s all it takes.

You come with a silent scream, clinging to the steering wheel, shuddering against him as your orgasm rips through you.

“Get up,” Joel says urgently, and, trembling, you lift yourself on wobbly knees.

He pushes your dress up your back, squeezes your ass—and you know exactly what he wants.

You brace yourself against the steering wheel, arching your back for him, and Joel lets out a rough, desperate sound.

Between heavy breaths, you hear the slick noises of him jerking himself off, and it only takes a few seconds before you feel it—hot spurts of cum hitting your ass, dripping down the backs of your thighs.

After what feels like forever, Joel slaps your ass gently and wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you against his chest.

You let yourself collapse into him, feeling his heart pounding just as hard as yours.

You stay there for a moment, quiet, your lips dry when you finally whisper:

“Good wine.”

He laughs.

“Knew you’d like it.”

You close your eyes, tangling your fingers with his over your waist.

When you wake up the next morning, it’s to persistent knocking on the door.

Startled, heart racing, you open your eyes. At first, you don’t recognize the room you’re in, but then you feel Joel’s arm draped over your hips and everything from last night comes rushing back.

You two had cleaned up the garage as best you could, wiped down the seats of his truck, and then gone upstairs to his bedroom to shower together. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave, and he asked you to stay, so you texted your parents saying Joel needed you to sleep over (not a lie) because of Sarah, since he had to rush out for an emergency (a complete lie).

“Dad,” Sarah knocks again, and you have to replay last night’s events to make sure Joel actually locked the door before you both passed out. “Daaaad.”

He opens his eyes, still half-asleep, and pulls you closer against him. Sarah knocks again, and Joel grunts softly before calling out:

“Is the house on fire?”

She laughs.

“No, but you must be sick if you’re not up yet. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just got in late last night.”

Quietly, you trace your fingers over his beard. He meets your gaze and catches your hand, kissing your knuckles before hugging you closer, and you’re reminded that you’re both still naked under the covers—every inch of his warm body pressed against yours.

“Hangover?” Sarah asks.

“Sort of.”

“I left you breakfast. The school bus is about to get here.”

You watch his expression soften.

“Thanks, baby girl. Have a good day. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Dad.”

You hear her footsteps fading down the stairs, and you smile at Joel.

“That was so sweet,” you murmur sincerely. “You call her ‘baby girl’.”

“She used to hate it when she was younger, but she gave up fighting me on it,” he says, his voice raspy from sleep, making something in your stomach flip. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper back.

Joel brushes his thumb over your cheek and temple, then asks:

“Do you regret it?” You frown, not understanding right away. He clarifies: “Last night.”

“Of course not. Are you crazy?”

“You fucked a porn actor,” he says conspiratorially.

“An ex–porn actor,” you correct. “And we haven’t even fucked yet. Why would I regret that?”

Joel shrugs.

“Aren’t you the one who hates them?”

“Joooel,” you groan, flopping onto your back. “We already talked about this. I hate the industry. I could never hate you.”

“If you say so.”

You turn your face toward him when you feel his hand sliding over your stomach, your hip, your breast…

“Well, now I have a very subjective perspective for my thesis,” you tease.

Joel smiles, raising an eyebrow.

“Imagine explaining that when someone asks how you gathered your results—you’ll have to say Javier Peña showed you personally.”

You barely manage to suppress the shiver that runs down your spine.

“Our little adventure would make a good movie,” you say, but instantly regret it, shaking your head. “Forget it. Just the thought of any image of me out there makes me sick.”

Joel stays silent, but there’s a stupid little smile on his lips as he props himself up on his elbow, lying sideways. His other hand, which was resting on your belly, slides lower. Past your hip, past your thigh, and back up again.

“What’s with that smirk?” you ask.

He licks his bottom lip.

“Remember when you asked me what my favorite kind of movie was?”

That’s the sentence that leads, twenty minutes later, to you lying on your side, your back pressed against Joel’s chest, the morning light streaming through the thick curtains.

He holds you firmly as you reach between your legs, guiding his cock inside you. You almost melt in his arms, feeling the thick veins pulse against your fingers.

“A little more,” Joel murmurs into your ear, sliding an arm under your thigh and adjusting your position to help you take him. You reach behind you, grabbing his hip. Inch by inch, he fills you.

You look down between your legs, watching the way you stretch around him, and it feels like the bed is dissolving under the weight of it.

“Joel.”

“I’m right here, baby,” he says. You see him licking three fingers before reaching down to your clit, just as he starts moving his hips.

The next few days in Lake Placid pass exactly like that.

Some nights, you sneak across your backyard to Joel’s house, and he usually meets you halfway, catching you on the stairs with a kiss before carrying you to bed.

Other times, he sneaks into your house and fucks you on your bedroom floor, because your bed makes too much noise.

You keep working on your thesis and stop watching Javier Peña’s old movies. You don’t need them anymore—not when Joel Miller is texting you saying he needs you in his bed.

On your last few days at home, your parents throw a barbecue. Among the guests are Joel and Sarah.

It’s Joel who finds you in the kitchen as you’re finishing seasoning the potato salad.

He leans against the counter across from you, holding a can of beer. You glance up from the potatoes to meet his gaze, and flashes of last night hit you—when you two had sex in a ridiculous roadside motel because Sarah was having a sleepover with her friends at home.

“And when you go back to New York?” he asks, and you immediately understand what he means.

You shrug.

“I’m not going to pressure you into a long-distance relationship. We don’t have a relationship anyway. And I don’t want a long-distance thing.”

“But I want you.”

You stab a piece of potato with your fork and bring it to his mouth. He accepts it, chewing slowly while waiting for your answer.

“I want you too,” you confess. “But I know you have other priorities.”

“So do you.”

You nod. “So do I.”

Somehow, it feels like a goodbye.

Two months later, back in New York, you type the final period on the last sentence of your thesis.

You stretch your arms over your head like you just won a marathon and then slowly slide to the floor, lying flat on your back like a starfish.

Your spine cracks, your wrists protest after three straight hours of typing, but you can’t wipe the huge, satisfied smile off your face—you’re free.

You grab your phone and text your friends:

“Thesis done. Beer to celebrate?”

You end up doing a full bar crawl, treating it like a birthday or something equally ridiculous.

All it takes is a low-cut top showing off your cleavage, a sweet voice, and the line “Do I get a prize for finishing my thesis?” to score free drinks all night.

You flirt with a few guys, but none of them make you want to drag them home. None of them have a Texas drawl, a graying beard, and the smirk of a retired porn star.

Actually…

You open your chat with Joel.

The last message from him, sent yesterday, is a photo of the same wine bottle you two opened that night in the garage. You had texted back “wish I was there,” and he’d replied with a kiss emoji.

He’d mentioned he was attending some adult film award ceremony as a presenter or something, but he didn’t say where.

He must have been busy all day.

Tonight, you type:

“went out drinking with some friends to celebrate finishing my thesis and can’t stop thinking about you. swear if you were here, i’d be blowing you under one of the bar tables.”

You put your phone away.

You down a tequila shot and laugh when your friend toasts to the end of grad school.

At three in the morning, you still haven’t gotten a reply from Joel.

You call an Uber after making sure your friends are safe, pulling your leather jacket tight around your body. The ride sobers you up just enough to make you crave a whole bottle of water.

That’s exactly what you do when you get home.

You peel off your pleated skirt and jacket, leaving yourself in just a wool turtleneck sweater, and you’re about to jump into the shower when your intercom buzzes.

You glance at the microwave clock: 3:54 AM.

You answer.

“Hello?”

“Delivery from Javier Peña.”

You gasp and immediately buzz him in.

Your heart is already racing as you open your apartment door, standing half-hidden behind it since you’re not wearing any pants.

You practically bounce with anticipation at the same time you convince yourself you’re not dreaming.

When Joel appears at the top of the stairs, it’s like all the blood in your body rushes to your head. He’s wearing glasses and has that stupid, cocky smile, dressed in a black T-shirt with two simple words printed across the front: adult content.

“I can’t believe you’re actually wearing that shirt.”

“The name of the studio that sponsored the awards ceremony,” he says, stopping in front of you.

He smells so good it makes you a little self-conscious about the sweat clinging to your neck from the night out.

“Heard someone finished their thesis,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Figured I should congratulate you properly.”

[neellscapsule]

a place where you aren't you

summary | when a fight breaks because of a broken rule, damian says something that he will regret later . . . or not that later, actually.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x batmom!reader

warnings / tags | ANGSTY, this is hurt/little comfort, at least in this part. this involves travelling to another universe, kinda based on the wizards of waverly place movie. au!reader is not the nicest but

word count | 4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is NOT part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this is an alternative universe that still has kent!batmom!reader.

THE SHOUTS STARTS BEFORE THE REST OF THE LEAGUE EVEN REALIZES WHAT'S HAPPENING.

You barely hear Bruce’s voice trying to get your attention. You're already too focused, heart in your throat, stepping down from the League's console platform to where Damian is standing near the Watchtower's central table — fists clenched, scowl etched so deep into his face it might never leave.

He doesn’t care that you're in the middle of a Justice League debriefing. Doesn’t care that Diana’s eyebrows rise or that Clark shifts with a subtle, disapproving frown. Doesn’t even care that the entire League is there, along with every single one of his older siblings behind him. Dick’s mouth is open mid-protest, Jason is already tense, Cass half-turned to intercept, and Tim’s arms are crossed so tight they look like armor.

You stand there with your arms folded across your chest, your voice deadly calm even as the room tenses around you. “I told you not to patrol, Damian. You had school. A test. And instead of being in bed by ten, you were jumping rooftops with Jason like the rules don’t apply to you.”

Damian’s lips curl back with a snarl. “Because they shouldn’t apply to me.”

Your voice stays level, but the edge in it cuts sharper than any blade he’s trained with. “You’re eleven, Damian. The rules exist to keep you safe.”

“I don’t need safety! I need to do my job!”

“You need to pass your classes,” you shoot back, eyes narrowing. 

“I wasn’t doing anything I haven’t done before,” he snapped. “Crime doesn’t take a day off just because I have some asinine history test.”

“That asinine history test is what keeps you in school. And school is what keeps you safe, keeps you building a future that’s bigger than rooftops and batarangs,” you shot back, your heart twisting with each syllable. “You need to grow up with a life beyond the cowl. You’re grounded. No patrol until further notice.”

“No!” he barks, and his voice cracks under the weight of his fury. “You can’t do that! You’re not even my real mother!”

Silence.

It sucks the air out of the Watchtower in an instant. Everyone freezes.

You blink once. Then again. Damian’s chest is heaving, his fists still balled at his sides. You don’t even realize you're shaking until Bruce’s hand tries to find your arm, grounding you, anchoring you — but you're too stiff to feel it. Too stunned to move. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t stop there. Damian’s face was red, blotchy. Not from guilt—yet. From anger. Frustration. That cold pride that always came before regret.

“I wish my father never even met you. I wish none of this ever happened. I wish you weren't in the family!”

And that’s when it happens.

You don’t see the stone until it’s too late — the golden shimmer of an ancient relic set on the table by Diana after a mission in Themyscira. The Wish Stone. It glows suddenly, pulsing between you and Damian, fed by fury and heartbreak and the purity of a child’s wish spoken from the gut.

“No—!” Diana lunges toward it.

“Everyone back!” Bruce barks.

But it’s already flashing — golden light bursting from its core, humming with raw, ancient energy. The blast swallows the room, and the last thing you see is the way all five of them — Damian, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Cass — are pulled toward the light, their bodies lifted from the ground like marionettes.

“Kids!” you scream, reaching for them, too late.

Then everything goes dark.

It felt like falling through a web, then crashing out of it mid-air.

The five of them—Damian, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Cass—landed roughly on a rooftop, not Gotham, not their Gotham. The city was brighter. Cleaner. Quieter. The moon didn’t look like it was straining to light an alley. The skyline was littered with lights and towers they didn’t recognize. The sounds were wrong. The air smelled too... sweet.

Jason groaned, rolling onto his back.

“Okay, what the actual hell was that?”

Dick coughs and sputters as he hits the ground, rolling onto his side, arm buckling under him. “Everyone in one piece?”

Tim winces, curled on his stomach. “Define piece.”

Cass lands in a crouch, her feet silent even in this chaos. The middle one stumbles to his feet beside her. Damian, for all his temper, is suddenly very, very quiet.

“…Where the hell are we?” Jason mutters, dragging himself upright and squinting at the sky — too darkly cleaned, too low, as if dusk had frozen in place above them.

“Not the Watchtower,” Tim says grimly. “It was the Wish Stone. I think Damian just screwed the timeline.”

“Don’t say my name like that,” Damian muttered.

“You don’t deserve your name right now,” Dick snaps. He looks furious. Dusty, scraped, bleeding just a bit from his elbow. “Do you even realize what you just did? What you said to her?”

Damian’s lip curled. “She’s—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Dick warned.

Cass’s eyes flick back and forth between them, calculating the tension, bracing her stance. Jason rises behind them, hand on his holster but not drawing.

Damian squares his jaw.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You wished her away!” Dick shouts.

And just like that, it explodes again.

Tim is the one who tries to stop it, but he’s not quick enough.

Jason blocks Dick’s second hit before it lands, and then it’s a mess of grunts and swears and pushed shoulders. Damian twists free, launching at Jason instead, because he knows he can’t hit Dick and win. Cass barely manages to knock Damian’s feet out before he takes someone’s jaw off.

“Stop it!” Tim snaps, grabbing Damian by the back of his collar and yanking him away. “We’re not solving anything like this!”

Jason spits blood on the rooftop.

“Tell that to mini-Demon. He’s the one who just exiled us to Happy Gotham.”

“Stop calling it that!” Damian shouts.

“Don’t like the name?” Jason says, his grin sharp and mean. “You’re the one who cast the damn spell, kid. You selfish little—”

“Stop,” Tim said quickly, shoving between them. “Fighting’s not going to help. We need to figure out where we are.”

Damian’s eyes glittered with frustrated heat. But he backed away. His mouth tightened. He looked smaller now. Quieter. As if the words he’d thrown in anger were already curdling inside him.

They were just beginning to realize what those words had done.

They walked the rooftops in tense, quiet formation. This Gotham was bright. Sleek. Even sterile. They passed a Wayne Enterprises building that was glass and white chrome—not black steel. The Wayne Tower crest looked different.

“Look at this place,” Jason said under his breath. “Feels like Gotham after a bleach bath.”

“Or a parallel dimension,” Tim muttered. “If the Wish Stone was charged when Damian made a wish…”

“…Then this is a world where Bruce and Y/N never got together,” Dick said softly, voice tight. “Where she’s not our mom.”

Damian flinched at the phrase.

Cassandra, walking beside him, said nothing—but reached out and took his hand. Her grip was soft, grounding. She didn’t speak often. She didn’t need to.

“Something’s off,” Tim added, scanning a tech pad he’d managed to snag. “There’s no record of Nightwing. Or Red Hood. Or Orphan. Or Robin. Or any of us. Batman’s still active, but... alone.”

Jason’s brows lifted. “Like no sidekicks alone?”

“None. No Oracle. No Batgirl. No signals. No family. Just... Batman.”

“Sounds lonely,” Dick muttered.

Jason let out a breath. “Sounds wrong.”

“Who’s Batman, then?” Damian asked. “If it’s not Father—”

“No. It’s still Bruce,” Tim confirmed, voice low. “But... Bruce is different here.”

Something moved in the distance.

A shadow across the clouds.

The air shifted.

Cassandra tensed first. “We’re being watched.”

And then they weren’t alone.

Out of the darkness, with almost no sound, a figure dropped from the sky, landing on a nearby ledge with ease and heavy boots. He wore the cowl, yes. The armor, yes. But his jaw was tighter. His posture was different—hollow, somehow. Unweighted. And when he looked down at the five of them, crouched and ready for battle, there was no flicker of recognition.

Not even in his eyes.

This was not their father’s Batman.

“Stand down,” he ordered.

They didn’t.

Behind him, Wonder Woman landed with a soft metallic thud.

“Batman,” she said gently. “Look at their suits. Their faces.”

“I am,” he replied. “But I don’t know them.”

“Bruce?” Dick stepped forward cautiously. “It’s me.”

“Who are you?” Batman demanded, voice low. “You’re wearing my symbol. But you are not from here. The detector caught up immediately.”

Jason snorted. “No kidding.”

“You’re trespassing on a League-class perimeter zone,” he said. “I won’t ask again. Identify yourselves.”

Tim held up his hands. “My name is Tim Drake. That’s Dick Grayson. Jason Todd. Cassandra Cain. Damian Wayne.”

There was a pause.

Wonder Woman turned her head slowly. “Wayne?” she repeated. “As in Bruce Wayne?”

Tim nodded. “Yes. He’s our father. At least… in our world.”

Batman said nothing.

“Okay,” Jason muttered. “Yeah. This is officially too weird. He should’ve flinched at that. Or said something. Or punched something.”

Damian stepped forward now, quietly, slowly. His eyes never left the man behind the mask. “You’re not him,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

“I am Bruce Wayne,” the man answered. “But I don’t have children. I’ve never had children. And I work alone.”

None of them spoke.

Tim’s breath hitched. “You’ve never… adopted anyone?”

“No.” Cold. Flat. Unfeeling.

“Never trained sidekicks?”

Batman’s lip curled. “I don’t do sidekicks.”

A silence followed that. A silence that said everything.

Jason let out a long breath, stepping back. “Yeah. Cool. Okay. That’s—normal. Totally normal. We just got dropped into a world where you’re a jackass who’s never loved anyone. Awesome.”

“Jason—” Dick began.

“No. Screw that. The Demon Spawn made a wish, and the damn stone turned it into this.”

Damian’s face twisted. “I didn’t mean—”

“You said you wished they never got together,” Jason growled, stepping forward again. “You said she wasn’t your mother. You wanted to know what that felt like? Now you do.”

The smallest Wayne backed up a step. Cass touched his shoulder gently.

“Stop it,” she said, voice quiet but commanding.

They all fell silent again.

Batman and Wonder Woman exchanged glances, low-voiced conversation murmuring between them—protocols, League containment, off-world interference.

Tim looked at the skyline again. The lights. The moon. This wrong Gotham.

“. . . We need to find the stone,” he said quietly. “We need to find her.”

“She’s not here,” Damian muttered.

And yet—

“Do you, at least, know Y/N?” Cassandra asked, eyebrows twitching.

“Y/N Kent?” Diana asked, tilting her head. “Yeah. She’s a vigilante.”

Every one of the kids froze.

“…What?”

The silence rang too loud. No one could even breathe for a second.

“She works in the city,” Diana added, confused by the sudden tension. “Spider-something. Funny one. Red suit. You don’t know her?”

They were all staring now. Every one of them. Dick’s mouth hung open. Jason had stopped breathing. Tim’s eyebrows slowly rose higher and higher, disbelief pulling taut across his face. Cass didn’t even blink. And Damian—

Damian looked like someone had just kicked him in the chest.

Bruce glanced up at Diana. “She’s registered,” he said. “Class-B ranking. Operates alone. Annoying. Unpredictable.”

“Very effective,” Diana added quickly.

Jason laughed. A short, stunned sound that wasn’t funny at all. “Okay. Okay. That’s—no. That’s not right. She’s not a vigilante.”

“Y/N Kent?” Diana repeated.

“She’s not a vigilante,” Dick said firmly. “She’s our—” He stopped himself.

None of them said the word. Not one of them could.

“She’s Clark Kent’s sister,” Tim tried, forcing logic. “You must know that. Smallville. Raised on a farm. She’s—she’s normal.”

Diana shrugged, now visibly more confused than ever. “I know she’s Clark’s sister, yes. They’re close. I see her often.”

“You see her?” Cass asked sharply.

“She’s in and out of the Watchtower all the time,” Diana said. “Why are you all acting like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Jason stepped away, muttering, “Because maybe we have.”

Tim looked like someone had dumped a bucket of freezing water over him. “In our world, she’s—she’s a civilian. She’s our mom.”

Diana blinked. “I… see.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Damian said, voice cold, too sharp for an eleven-year-old. “You said she’s a vigilante. What does she do?”

Diana looked between them, uneasy. “She’s an original. Joined the League’s reserve some months after we started. Works solo most of the time. Enhanced reflexes. Arachnid-based powers. Some tech. She uses a red suit, wisecracks a lot, very fast on rooftops. Goes by Spiderdevil.”

“Spiderdevil,” Cass echoed faintly, eyes distant.

Bruce, ever the commander, stepped forward. “You’ll come with us,” he said. “We’ll take you to the Watchtower. Maybe we can trace what happened with the artifact.”

He said it like a command. He didn’t ask.

But for once, none of them protested.

Because the Watchtower—even here, even now—was the one thing that felt solid.

It was space. It was neutral. It was familiar. If anything could help them orient themselves, it would be there.

They followed.

The ride was long and too short at once.

Tim gripped the straps beside his seat like they might steady his thoughts. Jason sat slumped, foot tapping furiously. Cass kept watching Damian, her gaze more like a shadow than a stare. Dick sat rigid, eyes on the stars, jaw tight.

And Damian—

Damian hadn’t said a word since Diana uttered your name. Even as the shuttle docked and the pressure equalized and the bay doors opened with a soft hiss, he stayed quiet. Tense.

The Watchtower was exactly the same. Almost.

That made it worse.

The halls gleamed the same way. The lights flickered just faintly. The hum of distant energy pulses in the walls, the barely-audible gravity calibrations—it was all identical. It looked like home.

But it wasn’t.

The main meeting room, the center of the tower, was still lined with holographic displays and long conference tables. But there were fewer chairs. Fewer signs of habitation. No second mugs left on the console by mistake. No Dick’s hoodie slung over the back of a seat. No post-it notes from you stuck to monitors with reminders to “eat something, Bats.”

Diana gestured toward the central terminal. “We’ll run a system scan,” she said. “If the stone reacted to an emotional command—”

“It did,” Tim interrupted. “It was activated by a verbal wish. Damian made it.”

“And I said I didn’t mean it,” Damian snapped.

“That doesn’t undo the damage.”

Diana raised a hand. “Enough. We’ll find a solution. I’ve already sent out a system-wide ping to cross-reference all interdimensional anomalies.”

She moved to a side console, fingers flying over the panel. “I also pinged all Class-B city-level vigilantes. Including Kent. She should be inbound.”

No one moved.

“…You called her?” Dick asked, voice tight.

“She’s a registered hero,” Diana said, as if that were the obvious part. “We need all eyes on this.”

The doors slid open with a whoosh.

None of them breathed.

You walked in like gravity didn’t apply to you. Well, in fairness, it didn’t always—especially not when your boots clung to glass and your gloves shot webbing thick enough to hold a car. But up here? You just had your red jacket zipped up halfway, goggles perched high on your forehead like a headband, and that half-eaten churro still in your hand.

“Yo!” you called, chewing as you walked. “Sorry, sorry, traffic on the magline was a mess. Something exploded in Metropolis and the tunnels are all gummed up. I brought snacks though—kind of. I ate most of them.”

You waved the stick of your mostly-devoured churro like it was a staff of authority. The grin you wore was crooked and full of easy charm, dimpled, unapologetic. The goggles glittered when the lights hit them just right.

Five pairs of eyes locked onto you.

“…Why are you all looking at me like that?” you asked, mouth full.

You didn’t recognize them.

You glanced at Diana. “Okay, seriously, what’s going on? Did I forget a meeting? Is this a multiversal invasion? It’s a multiversal invasion, isn’t it?”

You pointed at Cass. “She looks like me when I had braces. Is she me from a different timeline? Are any of them me? Because I feel like I missed the memo.”

“No,” Diana said, giving you a look.

You tilted your head. “Are they alternate Earth refugees? Because if I have to clean up that protocol paperwork again, I swear—”

“They’re from another timeline,” Bruce interrupted.

You stopped mid-step. The churro hung forgotten in your hand.

Bruce Wayne. Still wearing that cowl. Still standing exactly how he always did—broad, unyielding, every inch the soldier of shadow. You never liked him much. Always too serious. Too rigid. Still, you respected him.

You lowered your voice, then. “Oh. Got it. You want me to leave?”

“No,” Diana said. “We need your help.”

“My help?” Your eyebrows shot up. “What kind of messed-up timeline needs my help? Don’t you have like—twelve Batmen or something?”

“They know you,” Diana said.

You blinked. Slowly. “I mean, yeah. Most people do.”

“No,” Dick said, stepping forward now.

Your gaze flicked to him.

His eyes. His posture. The way he said your name when his mouth finally remembered how.

“Y/N.”

You faltered.

He said it like a prayer. Like something lost. Like something he wasn’t supposed to be able to say anymore. You studied him—older than the other teens, strong build, but kind eyes. Familiar eyes. Your heart twisted, a weird feeling you couldn’t place.

You looked at the others.

The smallest one—the one with the green eyes and trembling hands—looked like he was trying not to speak at all. Guilt spilled out of his expression like ink.

You licked your lips, voice gentler now. “Have we met before?”

None of them answered.

You laughed softly, trying to cut the tension. “Okay. That’s cryptic. Definitely not creepy at all.”

Diana turned to Bruce. “We need to figure this out. Fast.”

“We will,” he said without missing a beat. “They’re not lying.”

You looked back at them. And for a second—just a second—you felt something in your chest. A flicker. Like déjà vu. Like falling through a web of someone else’s memories.  Your gaze caught on the trembling one again. The youngest. His shoulders were stiff but his hands were shaking.

He looked like a boy who’d seen a ghost and realized it didn’t recognize him.

But still. Nothing clicked. You didn’t know them. Not a single feature sparked recognition. Not a single thing on their faces made your heart beat with love, or even the tiniest flicker of affection.

You shifted your stance, uncomfortable in your own skin for once. You didn’t like that. You usually wore discomfort like armor, like silk. But this—this was something else.

You turned away slowly, the moment breaking like glass under a boot.

Then the Watchtower’s alert system pinged. “Additional League members arriving in Docking Bay 2,” the AI chimed.

You perked up, almost visibly. “Oh, thank God. Maybe one of them knows what the hell is going on.”

And sure enough, in came the cavalry.

Clark was first—because of course he was. Always first. Hair windswept, cape just a little too dramatic. He looked at you with a flash of confusion—one brow raised as if to say, “Why are you fidgeting?”—and then at the cluster of younger strangers with a slow, calculating gaze.

You immediately stepped toward him, the way you always did when the meetings got too stiff or the company too Gotham.

“Clark,” you said, not bothering to hide the relief in your tone. “Good. I was starting to feel like I’d wandered into someone else’s therapy session.”

Hal followed close behind, green glow still dimming from his ring. “What’d we miss?”

“Oh,” you said, flopping against Clark’s arm like a lazy cat, “just parallel universe trauma. You know. Tuesday things.”

Barry gave a low whistle as he caught sight of the five strangers. “Damn. That’s… a lot of Bat.”

“Five of them,” Hal muttered. “What’s Gotham breeding over there?”

“Bats,” you deadpanned. “They multiply when you turn off the lights.”

The joke didn’t land. None of them laughed. Not even a twitch of the lip.

You blinked. 

“Tough crowd.”

“Y/N,” Clark murmured, more seriously now, “maybe… tone it down a bit.”

“Tone down what?” you said, pushing off his arm. “They’re strangers. From another dimension. I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to act around a bunch of Batman-themed mourners who keep looking at me like I died ten years ago.”

Behind you, Jason shifted, jaw clenched so hard it clicked. Cass’s fingers curled into her sleeves.

Bruce said nothing.

And you hated that. Hated the silence more than the confusion. Because silence meant there was weight. Meaning. Things left unsaid that clearly had teeth.

You turned your attention elsewhere. Specifically: the thin thread of webbing you began to twist out of your palm like a nervous tic. A thin glimmer of white thread pulsed from beneath your skin, crawling from your veins and spiraling between your fingers.

You knew people hated when you did this in meetings.

You did it anyway.

The sensation grounded you—always had. Ever since the mutation took root. The webbing wasn’t tech, not really. Organic in origin, but enhanced later with Clark’s help, once he realized your little gifts weren’t going away. It spilled like silk and solidified with a thought. Responsive. Yours.

You flicked a wrist and let a loose strand form between your fingers, lazily twirling it in your grip. A second strand connected to your other hand. You made a slingshot. A hammock. A net so small it could only catch flies. You grinned.

Barry leaned in. “Y/N…”

“I know,” you said, not looking up. “I know. Just... itchy.”

Hal raised an eyebrow. “Itchy?”

“Shut it,” you muttered.

Clark stepped forward, trying to bridge the gap. “We need to understand what caused the shift. If it was a wish stone—”

“It was,” Tim interrupted, his voice shaky but controlled. “The real one. The one locked in the Themysciran vault.”

Diana’s expression grew dark. “That stone should not be functional.”

“Well, it is,” Jason snapped. “It reacted when—” He stopped, glaring down at Damian, then away. “When someone said something they didn’t mean.”

Diana took over then, walking through the entire chain of events once again, voice composed but serious. She didn’t leave out a single detail, from the children’s claims of who you were in their world to the truth of Damian’s wish—though she left his name out of that part, letting the guilt speak for itself.

“Wait, wait, hold up,” Barry said, raising his hand halfway. “She’s their mom? Like… full mom?”

“No,” Tim said, voice thin. “Not biologically. But she’s—she’s the only one that ever felt like one.”

Something inside you jerked, like a string being yanked tight from the inside.

Barry blinked. “I thought you were allergic to commitment.”

“I am.”

You tilted your head to the side slowly, blinking down at your hand. You flexed your fingers absently. You didn’t want to look at them anymore. It hurt in a place you didn’t know you had.

Your friend glanced between you and the group. “That’s wild. I mean—Y/N’s great. She’s a menace, but she’s great.”

“Thanks, Barry,” you muttered. “I think.”

Hal threw you a wink. “Don’t worry. You’re still our favorite spider freak.”

“‘Freak’ is such a strong word,” you said, clicking your tongue as you shot a single, thin line of web straight into his mouth. He yelped, swatting at his face as Barry burst out laughing.

Bruce, behind you, groaned audibly. “Must you do this now?”

“Yes,” you replied brightly. “Because you’re annoying, and I’m nervous.”

You didn’t like Batman. Or rather, you didn’t like working with him. He was cold. Stiff. All gravel voice and rules. You respected him in the way you respected black holes—dangerous, efficient, completely devoid of warmth. He didn’t care for your improvisational style, and you didn’t care for his brooding self-righteousness. A mutual understanding of irritation.

One of the Batkids flinched when he saw it. Tim. The motion was small, involuntary. But his eyes widened the second he realized it was coming from inside your skin.

That wasn’t what their mother had.

They didn’t say anything about it.

Clark hovered nearby, always protective, always watching your shoulders. You appreciated it more than you said. Even now, the way his hand hovered near your arm when you stopped spinning webs was enough to keep you steady.

You swallowed hard, pushing an imaginary mask over your facade, jumping to the side to see the console more closer, leg moving up and down.

“Alright. Somebody tell me what we’re doing. Are we fixing the wish? Calling Zatanna? Reversing quantum fallout? Because if I sit here another ten minutes watching you all argue while these poor kids look like they’re one emotional breeze away from crumbling, I might actually lose it.”

[coquettefrancaise]

your hands are cold

from Pride and Prejudice (2005)

pair: Azriel x Reader ~ 4.8k

warnings: mysogony (not from az), risque thoughts from reader, sharing a bed ooooh, shadow violence, protective azriel

summary: Azriel would give you the shirt off his back if he knew you were cold and he's trying so so hard to make you see that

Illyrian's lived in the snowy mountains of the Night Court. Thick blankets of snow fell year-round, the sun scarcely offering a reprieve from the constant bite of wind. By the time the children were old enough to run and wield a stick the boys were thrust into training and the girls into house/camp work. Everyone grew to adapt to it, their bodies functioning at an unnaturally high temperature.

Although Azriel, Rhys, and Cassian had lived away from Illyria and the camps for multiple centuries now, they still grew overly warm during the earlier seasons. Both a curse and a blessing.

So why the hel didn't anyone tell you to bring a thicker coat?

Being the night court's newly appointed emissary, you were tasked to go to Illyria to comb over some of the issues stirring up. Specifically concerning the female's training. Surprise surprise.

Thankfully, Azriel had offered to come with. Rhys had given him a smirk, looking between the two of you but Azriel winnowed you before you could decipher what that look meant.

You now stood outside the training ring with him as Devlon and two of his croonies made up some half-assed excuses as to why they weren't prioritizing the females training.

"-we have two new mother's in the area who need the extra support." Devlon ranted, clearly exasperated that his high lord was continuing to harp on this matter.

You looked up to Azriel who was watching the pathetic male with a clenched jaw. He loosened it to say, "Have the father's help then. If they can't care for their own children then they should keep it in their pants."

You refrained from giggling but remained indifferent. Some of the people you worked with were open to your messages while others were... Devlon. And Beron, you supposed. You had to tread lightly because one misstep and they would prod at the weakness until you couldn't handle it. 

"All of our males are needed in training to ensure that they stay in shape. Those females shouldn't have spread their legs so fast." Devlon drawled.

"Surely Rhys would be willing to reenact the castration laws." You said without thinking, glaring at him. "You wouldn't mind being first on the list, would you?"

Devlon only ignored you.

Even with the ire coursing through your veins, you shivered. You were supposed to have been here for an hour max. Get in, yell at them, get out. Unsurprisingly, there was more to fix than you had assumed.

Azriel side-eyed you as you shook from the cold and held out his hand to Devlon. "Coat."

Devlon paused, glaring at the shadowsinger's scarred hand as if it held the plague. "What?"

"Give me your coat. Now."

The words sent an entirely different kind of chill through you. One that made your eyes widen at the hostile calm with which he said it. Sure, you'd heard that tone once or twice, but it never failed to impel you to stand straighter even if it wasn’t aimed for you. 

Devlon scoffed. "I'm not giving you my coat. Who do—"

Shadows crept up around Azriel's feet, climbing his tall, hard body until they amassed near the siphons at his hands, contrasting starkly with the pure white snow that fell around him. With the tendrils of darkness poised to strike, paired with the unforgiving look on Azriel's face, he made a hauntingly beautiful picture. Feyre would be distraught she hadn't been here to capture it.

Not a second further, Devlon took his coat off and placed it in the shadowsinger's waiting palm. His own hand trembling, you noted with smugness.

Azriel stayed silent as he flicked it once. Twice. Until he was certain it was free of any contamination, and then turned to you, a far softer expression pulling at his achingly handsome features. He then stepped forward and brought the coat around your shoulders, encircling you in his arms to fasten the buttons.

Time stopped and you took the chance to study him. The mussed locks of hair from running his hands through it every time Devlon opened his mouth. The smooth planes of his tanned skin. His enviably dark, long lashes framing those all-seeing hazel eyes. And his mouth... if you were a poet you would write odes about it. Both admiring and wicked.

You blushed.

"Is this alright?" he asked softly.

You slowly nodded, words stuck in your throat due to his close proximity.

His fingers brushed against your throat softly and he pulled away, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

When the argument started back up again, you found that while your upper body was warming up, your legs and feet were still at the mercy of the breeze.

Azriel looked to you again and released a heavy sigh. "We'll send healers to perform check-ups on the babes and new mothers. The other females will train as normal. And you will speak to the court's emissary with respect." He told Devlon, voice final.

"I have no idea why he has a weak female performing court check-ups." Devlon bit out, no doubt angry at having been pressed into submission and having his coat stolen.

One second you could see clearly, and the next your vision was clouded by swarming darkness. Instinctively, your hand shot out to find Azriel, fear twisting your stomach at the thought of being attacked or—

You barely had time to call out for him when the darkness vacuumed back to its origin—Azriel.

He now stood a breadth away from Devlon, shadows morphed into the shape of a hand held at the camp leader's throat.

There was no curiosity lingering in your mind as to why he was often referred to as the Angel of Death. His body was tense and forbidding, as if he had been carved from stone. Broad, claw-tipped wings spread in threat, consuming the space around him. The largest you'd witnessed.

"It'd be a shame if your windpipe was broken," his voice was colder than the wind that had picked up, "I'd think twice if you were to make another smart remark about our high lord's emissary."

They stared at each other and then Devlon's shoulder sank in defeat. The ghost hand dissipated at his throat, revealing finger-like bruising. You could only imagine the true harm his shadows could inflict if given free rein.

Devlon's eyes snapped from Azriel to you, chin dipping nearly imperceptibly before walking away, back tense as if he were preparing for an attack.

You waited until he was out of sight to speak. “Thanks for the coat?”

Azriel rolled his shoulders, eyes on the space above your head. “Sorry that it belongs to that dense misogynist; I rarely find the need to carry one around.”

You laughed, hoping to dispel the tension clinging to the air, and clutched the coat tighter to warm your hands up. “It’s summertime; how is it still snowing out here?”

“The elevation of the mountains results in colder weather year-round, no matter the season. This is considered warm.” He jerked his chin in the direction of a group of shirtless Illyrian’s training. “Cassian used to tan on days like this when we were younger.”

“Is that what he’s been doing the past week? I wandered up to the roof yesterday and caught him rubbing some oil into his legs. I never want to see him in shorts those small again.” You widened your eyes in horror. 

"Count yourself lucky. I've seen the bastard’s ass more than I have his face."

"Some would say that you should count yourself lucky then."

Azriel scoffed, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asked. 

You really weren’t. Not when he was watching you with such tenderness. A cold gust of wind blew past, making your teeth chatter. Azriel didn’t waste any time in scooping you into his arms. 

“Wait,” your breath hitched, “what about Devlon’s coat?”

“We’ll burn it when we get back to The House.” 

Just as he was about to lift off, thunder cracked, causing you to peer up at the malicious looking grey clouds rolling in. Odd, considering just this morning, when you first arrived, the day had been clear and sunny.

Azriel let loose a long breath, eyes switching from you to the sky until he put you on your feet. "We'll have to wait it out."

"You've traveled in far worse conditions," you reminded, although you'd much rather stay put too.

"I'd never risk your life." He stated, voice gruff.

You had to ignore the butterflies that erupted in your stomach. This was not the place nor time to feel flattered by Azriel's protectiveness. He was this way with all of his friends and family, after all.

"Where will we stay? I guess Devlon would let us-"

Azriel snorted. "If I spend one more minute with that shithead I might strangle him to death. Fortunately, Rhys' mom has a cabin here that we can stay in."

As if to hurry you both, the heavens opened up and peltered you with a cold sleet. You were almost instantly drenched. Azriel wasted no time in putting an arm around your back, wing stretched overhead to offer reprieve, and urged you forward through the slick mud.

Finally, you arrived at the cabin, a, small yet homey, two story house with an already roaring fire and steaming kettle on the stove. The shadows doing, you assumed. You turned to Azriel who retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and filled them with tea.

You could picture Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys as young, growing boys wandering in and out of that kitchen, hungry after long days of training. And you spotted notches in the wooden cupboards and dining furniture where playful fights or inaccurately aimed daggers managed to land.

He made his way to you, setting the mugs on the mantel, cringing as you shivered hard. "Do you mind?" he motioned to the coat you still clutched tightly at. "It will only make you colder."

You shook your head, teeth chattering, and reached to take it off when you were stopped by Azriel's hands. He peeled it off of your shoulders and down your arms and chucked it in the fire without blinking.

You couldn't help but laugh at his obvious distaste of the clothing and it's owner.

"Warm up and drink the tea; I'm going to search for some clothes that are, hopefully, untouched by mothballs."

Who would have blamed you for admiring the way his leathers fit to his bunching muscles as he made his way up the stairs?

A small part of you hoped that he wouldn't be able to find anything. From the stories you'd heard from the inner circle about missions that have gone awry in the cold, one of the ways they managed to stay warm was to share body heat.

The image of Azriel aiding you taking off your wet clothes before doing it to himself, flashed in your mind.

Ugh. You rolled your shoulders, turning towards the fire to soothe the ice settling in your bones. Yes, Azriel had been incredibly kind today by offering to join you and giving you a jacket, but that was just it. Kindness.

When you had first met Azriel, like most everyone, you fell for his devilishly handsome features and cool nature. It didn't help that he was unfathomably loyal and strong. Or tall and athletic. Or a good male with good intentions overall.

"It's just a stupid crush," you muttered to yourself as you put your palms out towards the fireplace.

"Hm?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin as Azriel returned to your side on silent steps. A shadow skittered over your shoulder, tickling your neck as if to laugh at you.

"We should really put a bell on you,"

"I'd prefer my enemies to not know when I'm near." Azriel held out clothes to you. "They're old but should suffice. If you'd prefer to wash-"

"That would be wonderful." The idea of a warm bath caused you to sigh with longing.

Azriel clicked his tongue, amusement lighting his eyes. "I shouldn't have even asked, huh? Come," he jerked his head to the direction of the stairs, "let's get you cleaned up."

Electricity zapped through your body at the image of sitting between Azriel's legs in the bathtub as he used a washcloth to soothe your goose-bumped riddled skin. Would he press his lips to each knob of your spine while he massaged shampoo into your hair and-

"Coming?"

Your eyes snapped to Azriel, the fog of your imagination dissipating, making you feel ridiculous. Your cheeks pinked and you nodded, following him.

The bathtub wasn't big enough to comfortably sit two people. Much less if that second person happened to be an Illyrian male.

Azriel put the dry clothes on the counter. "Do you need any help navigating things?"

"I am confident in my ability to bathe myself, thank you for your concern." You teased.

"Don't need me to get your back or anything?" he shot back, looking a lot less tense than he had when you were speaking with Devlon. In fact, he looked a lot lighter than when he was even around the inner circle.

"I think I have it all under control. Thank you again, Azriel."

Before heading out, he lingered at the doorway, looking as if he had something to say but decided not to. He then left you to your own devices, saying something about cooking something up. You stripped out of your drenched clothes and turned on the faucet, shivering when you first dipped into the water. It felt like a warm hug.

The only thing that would make it better would be if you were nestled against Azriel's tattooed chest.

No no no.

You shouldn't be feeding into your delusions. Especially while the person you were daydreaming about was the only other person in the house with you. It would only make things terribly awkward. And you didn't want to ruin anything with Azriel. Not when you were just becoming close friends.

You had been emissary to the night court for a couple of years now and while you had gotten along quickly with everyone, it had taken a while for Azriel to even speak with you one-on-one. He wasn't easily trusting, which you completely understood. But lately things had been warming up. He would make you breakfast when you were the only two up, hand-deliver the books Nesta let you borrow, even nudge your leg under the table when Cassian was making a fool of himself.

Not to mention the fact that he brought you to this camp despite it being a solo mission.

You pushed it all from your mind, not wanting to overthink things, and finished your bath.

The sweater and sweat pants Azriel supplied you with smelled faintly of him. You wondered if they had been his when he lived in this gods-awful camp.

Having found no brush or comb, you settled with running your fingers through your damp hair, wandering down to the kitchen to find Azriel at the stove, preparing what smelled like chile. He tilted his head up to look at you and fire settled low in your belly as his pupils seemed to take over his irises'.

You swallowed thickly, feeling somewhat self-conscious wearing his clothes that hung off your frame. You tugged on one of the sleeves as it slipped down your shoulder. "Hopefully there's warm water left."

The pot hissed with bubbles, shadows whisking the soup ladle out of the oblivious shadowsinger's hand to continue stirring, as Azriel scanned you from head to toe.

Judging by the amusement dancing in his eyes, you probably looked like a drowned rat. You itched to turn back into the bathroom and check yourself in the mirror.

He stepped into your space, "They're not too big?"

The clothes. You shook your head, pointing to the rolled up pant legs. "Needed some adjusting but they shouldn't cause too many problems."

"Certainly wouldn't want them to fall off," he mumbled, more to himself, the insinuation in his voice not helping in tamping down your growing feelings.

"Do I look silly or something? Why are you watching me strangely?"

"Not at all. I just thought you look... adorable." He smiled crookedly.

You realized now you had never seen a genuine smile—one that wasn't produced from dark humor—grace his face. Red splashed over your cheeks and you hurried to say, "You should probably wash up yourself. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold or anything."

After a moment of consideration all traces of pleasure were wiped from his face. You nearly swayed at the whiplash of his emotions. "There's some soup and I discovered one of Cassian's hidden stashes of wine,"

"Perfect," you offered an awkward smile.

While he bathed, you wiped down two bowls and wine glasses of grimy dust before filling them with soup and wine. You then stood by the sink, watching out the window into the night.

The storm had grown, howling winds causing the structure of the house to groan as rain continued its rhythmic drumming on the roof. A flash of lightning lit up the sky every few minutes with the accompanied roll of thunder.

Your heart raced double its time from the inane fear of how destructive nature could be.

You drained the wine in one swallow.

"Not fond of storms?"

"Shit!" you whipped around to find a fresh-faced Azriel rubbing a towel through his dark, wet hair. "When we return home I'm finding that bell."

His eyes squinted in amusement, tossing the towel onto the back of a kitchen chair. "If it helps soothe your worries, Illyria has endured worse weather than this."

"Are you sure this cabin is sound enough to withstand this weather? Considering how old it is?"

A black eyebrow rose, "Is that a jab at my age?"

Apologies began tumbling out of your mouth. Azriel only waved off the words. "Sit and let's eat. The storm will hopefully clear by tomorrow morning and we can be on our way back to Valeris."

"Were you able to reach Rhys?"

"He told us to stay put," he shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, "and that if anything is to happen to you, I will be the one to blame."

"I'm flattered he finds me so valuable."

Hazel eyes met yours for a heartbeat as he said, "You are very valuable."

Oh Cauldron. If he continued saying things like that, you wouldn't be able to keep your growing feelings from showing on your face.

You cleared your throat instead, "How much trouble do you think we'll be in because of that incinerated coat?"

The rest of the dinner was spent bonding over your hatred of Devlon. You weren't sure how Azriel survived being under the insufferable male for so long. Or all the males here, if you were honest. It helped you to understand why he was so hesitant to claim them as his people.

"How long has this cabin been unoccupied?" you inquired, taking another bite of the chile.

Azriel leaned back in his chair, considering your question. He'd been, surprisingly, open tonight. There seemed to be no trace of the ever-reserved male you encountered more often than naught. "The inner circle prefers to handle the camps during the day so we rarely find the need to stay here. Devlon uses it sometimes for meetings."

"Did each of you boys get your own rooms?"

"Boys?" a corner of his mouth kicked up, "You say that as if we're not all centuries older than you."

You stifled a chuckle, "Considering how often you three wrestle over ridiculous things like who gets the last slice of dessert, I think it's fitting."

His biceps flexed as he stretched them above his head. You felt dizzy with awe. "Whatever," he retorted playfully, "but, to answer your question, we shared the same room until it became too much of a hazard."

"Hazard?"

A faint blush crept over his tan cheeks. "When we became more interested in females than pulling pranks on one another."

Oh. You blushed in response and took a drink from your glass to hide your embarrassment.

Azriel huffed a laugh, obviously recognizing your regret of asking the question. In a considerate manner, he said, "Remember how I told you about Cassian tanning?"

"Oh gods, I won't be able to unable to get the image you offered out of my head."

"Then you'll be affronted to know that I found the oil he used."

A laugh spewed from your mouth. Azriel smiled softly at your unexpected outburst. The conversation was built on from there and your stomach hurt from how hard he managed to make you laugh.

As soon as you scraped the last bean out of your bowl, Azriel took it from you and washed it in the sink. Huh. A male who cooks and cleans? You couldn't believe your eyes. And you had to ignore the space in your heart that warmed.

Your attention was drawn to the shifting muscles in his forearms as he scrubbed the dishes. To the dark tattoos swirling around his powerful arms, practically calling you to trace them with your fingers.

"—sleep?"

You shook your head as you realized you hadn't heard him. "Sorry, what?"

A shadow tugged on your hair teasingly and he repeated, "Obviously you're tired since you can't even think straight. Let's go sleep."

He led you upstairs once more and into what you assumed was the master bedroom, with a large four poster bed, a vanity, armoire, and lace curtains that hung over the window. It looked as if it belonged to a... female.

"Was this—"

Azriel nodded, eyes softening as he took in the homemade quilt, "This was Rhys' mother's room. After difficult training or frightening storms, she would let us all fit in the bed with her as she told us stories of fearless Illyrians."

"You used to be scared of storms?"

You couldn't imagine the spymaster being afraid of anything. Even as a child.

"I was scared of many things,"

That was all he offered before attempting to stoke the fireplace and ensuring the room was warm enough. You hesitated before asking, "Is this where I'll be staying tonight?"

"We'll both be staying in here."

Your world flipped upside down.

"You're serious?"

Hazel eyes snapped to you with amusement. "The only fireplace working is the one in the living room; these logs are too wet. Not to mention the magic of this cabin isn't as strong without Rhys here."

It looked as if your idea of sharing body heat was coming to fruition. This would quite possibly be the best night of your life, so you needed to savor it as much as you could until everything went back to normal the next morning.

Your fingers shook as you pulled back the covers and slipped in. Oh gods. This was much more nerve-wracking than you'd anticipated. Yes, you seemed to get along great and you felt comfortable around him, but he was still handsome as sin and effortlessly attractive.

After Azriel was certain no logs were salvageable, he stood from his crouched position, spread his mighty wings once in to prepare for a cramped bed, then tucked them in tightly. Your eyes tracked the movement, the sconce lamps revealing the red tint running through the membranous tissue.

He walked to his side of the bed and laid down, a weary sigh leaving his lips. "The temperature will drop the later it gets, so it'd be wise if we slept closer. I don't bite."

Despite that last teasing remark, you couldn't help but feel nervous. Who wouldn't? You were only sharing a bed with one of the greatest warriors to ever live. And he was acting like it was a regular occurrence.

You tested the waters and inched close enough that your hips touched. You swallowed thickly.

He fluffed his pillow, and even yours, before resting his head and asking, "Comfy?"

Not trusting your words, you nodded, and the room was engulfed in darkness. There was nothing besides the staccato beat of rain hitting the roof and the buzzing along your skin where you were touching Azriel.

You counted sheep in your mind to calm down enough to sleep, fighting off the overbearing thoughts of the male beside you.

A peal of thunder caused you to start.

A heavy hand closed over yours, the ridges and callouses of unhealed burns pressing into your own unmarked skin. You caught your breath. "I won't let anything harm you," came Azriel's deep assurance, instantly calming your racing mind.

Two blinks later and you were sound asleep.

It was so gods-damned hot.

Having Azriel sleep beside you was like having your own personal Illyrian heater. Sweat beaded at your temple and your body felt like it was being roasted over a fire.

Obviously this sleeping-together thing would have worked a lot better if you didn't have access to the indoors or multiple blankets. The fact that you were so inclined to move away made you frown. You enjoyed sleeping so close to Azriel; he was safe, and strong... but he was going to burn you alive.

Slowly, you inched away from Azriel, closer to the edge of the bed, and pulled off the quilt, sighing at the instant relief of cool air sliding across your heated skin. You could finally—

The windows blew open, a gust of frigid wind bursting through the room. You began shivering and grabbed the corner of the quilt when a heavy arm was thrown over your stomach, tugging you into a hard body.

"Where were you going?" Azriel rasped into your ear.

This time you trembled for a different reason. "Wh-what?"

His thumb stroked over your hip, "You were trying to leave."

"It was hot," you whispered, afraid that if you spoke any louder, he would realize what he was doing and let go of you.

"Don't go."

Hel, you wouldn't move again if a thousand Illyrians dragged you out of his protective embrace.

"Are the windows broken?" you asked.

What had caused them to slam open like that? Was this cabin deteriorating quicker than Azriel had let on? Would it hold on through the night?

You turned your head to the side to assess the damage just as the windows pulled together again. The latch clicking into place.

Squinting your eyes, you managed to spot two slithering shadows gliding along the windowsill.

"Azriel," his name came out suspiciously. Did he send his shadows to open the windows?

He hummed, the vibration of his chest reverberating through your own. "You're always so antsy around me," he admitted, "getting nervous when I start to get comfortable and changing the subject."

What else did you expect from the spymaster of the night court? Obviously he would be able to read a person's behavior.

"I didn't want to scare you off." Came your timid reply.

Azriel huffed a laugh. "Why would I be scared of the attention of a beautiful female?"

A pink flush spread across your cheeks, hidden in the dark of the room. You were never getting over this. Oh, how you wished you had your journal.

"I like you," he continued, "and I know you like me. But this game of cat and mouse has me growing anxious. I would rather like to smile at you without you diverting your eyes."

"I don't think you're scary."

"I know." He said in a cock-sure way.

You scoffed, amused. "For the record, I wasn't escaping because I was scared this time, but because your body runs at two hundred degrees."

"That's why I opened those damn windows." So that the cold would send you rushing back into his arms, you slowly realized.

You were at a loss for words.

"Say something," he asked, an imperceptible plea in his voice.

What were you supposed to say? I think you're beautiful and want to get to know you? You decided to play it safe with, "This is nice." There. That was enough to keep your heart at ease, and not make you sound desperate.

"I like you too," he tightened his hold on you, languidly nosing along your scalp, as if he were smelling you, "And I always want you here."

"In this cabin?"

In the span of two seconds, he had you on your back, limbs trapped under his own. From the scarce lighting of the cloud-covered moon, you could make out the slants and slopes of his face, the soft glimmer in those all-seeing eyes. "In my arms."

In all your day-dreaming, nothing ever compared to hearing him say those words than in real life. When his thumb brushed along your fluttering pulse, and his warm breath fanned against your face.

You swallowed thickly, "Is this a dream?"

His lips met yours, achingly slow, and oh so beautifully.

Once. Twice. He kissed you. The simple action conveying all that words could not. That he truly did like you. That you shouldn't be afraid. That he was falling with you. Falling so so so fast.

author's note: RELEASE ME! guys. i have been trapped in the writer's block hell. i'm home. if there are any mistakes or loopholes, no there aren't. i hope you all love it, pretties. (I haven't forgotten about the beautiful readers who sent me requests🥰)