#it was such a beautiful story told in absolute silence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hyunjincanraptoo · 1 month ago

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The secret ingredient is love- L.FX

Happy birthday, @jeonginsleftcheek!! We don't know each other for too long but I think you are one the sweetest people I have ever meet. I hope you have a great day, full of love and surrounded by good things. Ily 💜

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: smut, virginity loss, magic

Alexa, play Eternal Sunshine by ATEEZ

Felix stood at the long wooden table near the stone hearth oven, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands delicately shaping strawberry tarts as if each one were a small piece of his heart. He worked in silence, save for the hum under his breath, something warm and tender. His blond hair was tied back with a strip of linen, though a few locks had slipped loose and clung to the sweat on his temples.

Powdered sugar traced the curve of his cheekbone, unnoticed. Felix didn’t complain, not even once— he loved what he did. Creating pastries was like painting with sweetness, each dessert a work of art that would never be praised with words, only devoured behind silk curtains upstairs.

And he was good at it. Better than good. Every pie crust flaked like snow. Every tart bloomed like spring. He didn’t have to be told he had a gift— he knew it in his heart, like how you know when bread is done just by the golden color of the crust.

But that morning his hands moved distractedly. His eyes kept drifting to the window above the spice rack. Outside, the sun illuminated the garden vines, and a memory tugged at him— you.

He’d seen you once. It was midsummer and he was on his ten minute break, seated in the shade of the herb wall with a slice of leftover apple galette in hands. And there you were— stepping through the garden in a dress the color of pink rose petals. The sunlight clinged to your hair like you were a ray of sunshine yourself. You weren’t like princesses from fairytale stories— cold and untouchable. No, you had knelt by the edge of the koi lagoon and dipped your fingers into the water, smiling to yourself like no one was watching.

But he was. And his breath caught in his throat, then lingered there, ever since.

He hadn’t seen you again, not properly, not outside of brief glimpses when delivering dishes for the high table, where you looked so distant. Beautiful still, but behind a mask of etiquette and formality. You didn’t smile like you had in the garden, you looked bored, tired, maybe lonely.

That was when the daydreams started. Not the wild kind, just tiny ones. What it would be like to see you laugh again, to bring you something sweet and handmade, just out of the oven.

He pressed a strawberry into the center of the tart and exhaled, "She probably doesn’t even remember that day", he whispered.

The royal kitchen was a blur of motion—busier than ever, with the princess’s birthday ball just a week away. Felix's focus was absolute as he carefully slid a tray of those strawberry tarts on the cooling rack, watching the glaze melt. When he heard a voice from the corridor,

“Make way! Make way!”.

Felix turned just in time to see the head cook burst through the door, cheeks red, “The King and Her Highness are visiting. Now!”

A ripple of panic ran through the room. And then— silence. Because you had arrived.

You stepped into the kitchen with royal composure, your gown trailing behind like a shadow. The King followed at your side, but it was you the room watched. You are the one who brought a strange peace to the chaos. You were known for avoiding the spotlight, for skipping court banquets and walking barefoot in the gardens.

You looked around with clear eyes, your gaze scanning the faces of the cooks and servants with something more than just simple curiosity. It was something close to kindness. Felix swallowed hard. You were even more beautiful up close.

“We’d like to see what desserts are being considered for the ball”, your father announced, “Her Highness wants something special this year”

“I don’t want anything big”, you said quietly, fingers brushing the edge of a worktable, “I want something…authentic, genuine. Something that tastes like love and childhood memories”

The cooks scrambled to present their creations— towers of spun sugar, marzipan swans, even a cake shaped like a miniature palace. But you only looked politely and nodded.

Then you turned

“You”, you said.

Felix’s head snapped up, “M-me, Your Highness?”

You stepped forward, “What are you working on?”

He looked down at the tart, hands trembling slightly as he lifted one from the tray, “Strawberry. Simple”, he said, “With a hint of white chocolate. The crust is… hum, oat and almond”

You accepted it with careful hands.

Felix forgot how to breathe as you took a bite. Your lips pressed together, eyes closing gently. And then, you smiled.

It wasn’t the polite kind you gave at court. It was a real one, the one he’d seen in the garden that summer day, the one that had lived in his head ever since.

“This”, you said, “Is perfect”

The King tilted his head, “You’d like him to assist the royal baker?”

You shook your head, “No. I want him to design my birthday cake”

Gasps floated around the room.

Felix looked like he’d been struck by lightning

“I…. I’d be honored, Your Highness”

You met his eyes briefly and smiled again.

Then, with a sweep of silk, you turned and walked out leaving the smell of fresh bread behind.

And just like that, the room erupted back into motion. Felix touched his fingers to where your smile had landed in his chest in a stunned silence. The type only someone who’d just tasted the beginning of a dream could have.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

The chamber doors shut behind you with a quiet thud, muffling the noise of the palace.

Finally alone, you exhaled.

Your rooms were spacious— velvet curtains, a crystal chandelier, every corner screamed luxury— but none of it felt like yours. You crossed to the table near the window, fingers brushing over a silver plate where the crumbs of a strawberry tart still remained.

That boy— Felix, there was something about the way he looked at you. Like you weren’t a princess but you were a person.

You heard the knock before the doors creaked open again. Not a servant, not a guard— your father.

“May I?”, he asked, though he was already stepping inside.

You turned, “You don’t usually ask”

He raised an eyebrow, “And you don’t usually visit into kitchens”

You crossed your arms, “So we’re both surprising each other today”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he walked to the center of the room, his heavy robes sweeping behind him.

“The council has confirmed the guest list”, he said, “Every eligible noble family from here to the Eastern coast. The birthday ball will be…”

“A parade”, you said bitterly, “of men trying to impress me”

“Trying to marry you”, he corrected, “You’re turning twenty one. It’s time��

“Time for what? To be handed off like a peace treaty? To have my worth measured in land and bloodlines?”

He frowned, “This isn’t about worth. It’s about legacy. It’s your duty…”

“My duty”, you snapped, “has been decided by everyone but me since I was born”

Your father looked at you like he was trying to see past the crown on your head and into the storm behind your eyes.

“I know it’s not easy”, he said more soft, “But being royal means sacrifice”

You turned your gaze to the window, to the faint glow of the gardens below, “What if I don’t want to marry a stranger?”

“What if”, you added, your voice barely more than breath, “I want to choose someone who doesn’t have a title? Someone who sees me when I’m not wearing this dress or this crown?”

His silence said everything.

When he spoke again, it was colder, “You are not a common girl. You were born to lead. That comes with limits”

You turned to face him, “Maybe I don’t want to lead the way you did. Maybe I want something real. Not arranged”

He looked at you as if debating whether to argue further or not. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard, “You have until the end of the ball. Dance with them. Speak with them. If you find none to your liking, we’ll postpone the matter until the next season”

You blinked, “Is that all?”

He nodded, then turned and left, the doors closing behind him.

You stood there for a long time, the weight of compromise heavy on your chest. And still, beneath the ache of duty your mind drifted to the kitchen boy with flour on his cheeks and hands. The only one who had looked at you like you came straight out of a dream.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

Days later:

The kitchen had never been quieter. It was late, most of the staff had gone to sleep or drifted to their own corners but Felix remained.

He stood in front of the finished cake like it was a painting he couldn’t stop staring at. Four layers high, each tier had smooth buttercream, strawberry, white chocolate and almonds— just like the tart that made you smile.

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever made. And it would be eaten in a single night. It should have been enough, he should be proud.

But all he felt was small. He wouldn’t get to see you eat it.

“They say she’s meant to find a husband at the ball”, he muttered, flicking a bit of sugar dust from the marble counter, “Some prince. Or a duke”

He sighed, “I just wanted one night where I didn’t have flour on my face. One night where I didn’t feel like I was made of dreams no one cares about. One night where I could see her again. Not in the corner of the room. Not at the court… her true self”

He glanced toward the arched window, where the moonlight glowed gracefully

“She probably won’t even know I made it”, he whispered.

He turned back to the cake, dragging a finger gently through a swirl of cream on the bottom tier, “It’s stupid, anyway. She’s a princess. I make pastries”

He paused.

“I just wanted one night where I’m not covered in flour or forgotten in a pantry…”, he muttered, chin in his hands.

There was a long silence. Before he heard a:

POP!

A loud crack of glitter and light erupted from the flour sack behind him, sending a stack of pans clattering to the floor.

Felix screamed and spun around, clutching a soup scoop like a sword.

Hovering in the air above the storage room was a man wearing high heel boots, shimmering wings, and a sequin coat. He blew a final puff of glitter from his fingertips and struck a pose— like the painting of an extremely dramatic artist.

“Hi, sunshine!” Jisung popped into view, hanging upside down from the ceiling, sparkles dripping from his hair like confetti, “Your fairy godfathers are here!”

Felix screamed and fell off the stool

“Oh, for heaven’s sake… Jisung, that was not the entrance plan”, groaned Chan, stepping out from the broom closet with his usual calm. He was trailing smoke and holding a clipboard.

Felix said from the floor, “What is happening…?”

Another puff of sparkles, this time pink like cupcake frosting. Changbin appeared with a loud thud, standing in the middle of the room wearing a ballet tutu and glitter platform boots.

He blinked, looked down and then screamed.

“Are you kidding me?! Why am I in this thing again?!”

“Bro shut up”, Jisung said

“Enough!” Chan barked, slamming the clipboard shut, “We have exactly forty minutes until the ball starts and Felix still looks like undercooked dough”

“Hey! That's rude” Felix said, pouting

“Exactly” Han agreed. “Which is why we’re going to turn you into a masterpiece”

Felix lowered the scoop slowly, “You’re not joking….?”

“Do I look like someone who jokes?”, Han asked, trying to be serious, then immediately tripped over a bag of sugar

“Yes…”

Han stood up coughing, “Okay, that’s fair”

Chan sighed and turned to Felix, “Alright, listen up. These two might be clowns, but we’re here to help you. So let’s do this properly”

He cleared his throat, “I’m Chan, head fairy godfather and crisis manager”

Han puffed his chest, “I’m Jisung, fairy godfather of sparkles and drama, reporting for duty”

Changbin groaned, “Changbin. I lift, throw and distract guards. The tutu is a mistake”

“Now that intros are done”, Chan clapped, “Jisung, hair. Bin, glam. I’ll handle the outfit”

“Glam?! Do I look like I know what glam is?!”

“Yes”, Chan and Han said in unison.

Changbin sighed and snapped his fingers, sending a flush to Felix’s cheeks and lips, “Fine. But if you ever make me wear tulle again, I swear…”

Meanwhile, Han spun around Felix’s head like a hummingbird, brushing, fluffing, and perfuming his hair with a puff of rose mist, “You’re going to be stunning”

Chan took one step back and narrowed his eyes, “Okay. Let’s dress you like a royal fever dream”

With a triple snap of his fingers, Felix’s flour dusted clothes faded. A snowy white shirt and coat with silver embroidery across the neckline took its place. Tailored, also snow white tailored pants tucked into gleaming white boots. And a single shimmering glass earring, dangling.

Felix looked down at himself, eyes wide, “Is this…?”

“Do not question it” Chan muttered

“You look like a dream”, Changbin admitted, “It’s annoying”

“But how will I even get in?”, Felix asked, “I’m not on the guest list”

“You’re in the palace kitchen”, Chan replied, “You’re already inside. Just walk like you belong”

Han floated closer, suddenly gentler, “You made her the most beautiful cake she’ll ever see”

Chan smiled softly, “Now go remind her who baked it”

Changbin patted Felix’s shoulder, “And if you don’t kiss her tonight, we’ll make a scene”

Felix laughed, cheeks glowing, “Okay… okay. Let’s do this”

As he walked toward the grand hall, Han waved his hands dramatically, “Remember when the last bell rings at midnight, the magic fades. Clothes, glass earring, all of it”

Felix turned, nervous, “Wait, I don't think I can…”

“Go!” Chan shouted, and pushed him toward the ballroom.

Han sighed, “He’s gonna make her fall so hard”

Changbin yanked at his tutu, “I’m gonna set fire to this outfit”

Chan was already updating the clipboard, “Next godchild, no more shy bakers. Please”

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

The ballroom glittered like a jewel box cracked open.

Gold dripped from every chandelier, candles flickered in crystal candle holders, and gowns swirled across the polished floor. Laughter echoed, hollow. You sat on your throne at the top of the marble steps, spine straight, smile steady and fake.

Another suitor bowed before you.

Another name. Another title. Another empty compliment about your eyes, your smile, your beauty— like they were reciting verses from the same old book.

You wanted to scream, to run. You wanted to smear frosting on your cheek and eat cake with your fingers and not worry about what kingdom the boy next to you ruled.

“Her Highness must be overwhelmed”, the suitor murmured, gesturing to the crowded hall.

“Yes”, you said, “With joy”

He didn’t catch the sarcasm, most of them didn’t.

You stood up, politely excused yourself, and slipped away to the edge of the ballroom, pretending to admire the flowers near the window. The garden below glowed with torchlight. You closed your eyes, feeling a shift.

You turned and there he was— standing in the doorway at the other end of the ballroom.

You didn’t know who he was but you stared at him like you’d forgotten what breathing meant.

His hair fell on his shoulders in soft golden waves, glowing under the chandelier light. A single glass earring glinted from his ear, catching a flicker of candlelight and sending it spinning across the room like a star. His coat was snow white, embroidery in silver tracing the neckline, his boots polished like he’d walked out of a painting.

And his eyes— they weren’t hungry like the others. Not proud. Not greed. They were wide and warm like he was just as stunned to be there as you were to see him.

“He looks like an angel”

Your heart pulsed once, loud in your chest as he took a step in

Your hand curled around the edge of your skirts, grounding yourself.

“Who is that?”, someone whispered nearby.

You didn’t know, no one did. He didn’t wear an insignia. He didn’t bow like the rest. But the ballroom had noticed him.

And you couldn’t look away either.

As he stepped closer, unsure, you felt it again— Not fate. Something like silent relief. Like the first bite of something you didn’t know you’d been craving.

And for the first time that night, you smiled because he was walking toward you. Slowly, careful, like he had the whole time in the world.

Your breath caught as he stepped beside you. Closer now, you could see the freckles on his cheekbones, like constellations. His lashes were long and his lips looked like they knew how to smile but hadn’t in a while.

“Hi”, he said, voice deep but not unkind.

Your heart thumped.

“Hi”, you said back.

He glanced around awkwardly, and then back at you., “You look… like this isn’t your favorite place to be”

That startled a laugh from you. A real one.

“You’re not wrong”, you said.

He smiled— relieved, shy, genuine. It hit you like the first sip of hot cocoa in a freezy night.

He held out a hand, “Would you… like to dance?”

You looked at his hand then your eyes flicked back up to his— nervous, waiting, hopeful.

You didn’t ask who he was. You didn’t need to cause he wasn’t a duke, or a prince, or a carefully arranged match. He was the only person in the room who hadn’t looked at you like a prize.

And this was enough for you.

“I would”, you said, slipping your hand into his.

His fingers curled gently around yours, trembling just a little.

The crowd parted for you both. Whispers trailed in your way, but you didn’t care about them. You only cared about him.

You stepped into the center of the ballroom, and as the music began again. You didn’t know how he moved so easily. Not gracefully like the noblemen trained to spin with calculation but naturally. He didn’t try to lead you, he just moved with you, like the two of you were one.

It made you feel free. Weightless.

His hand settled at your waist, his other holding yours so gently you thought he might let go at any moment. But he didn’t, he held you like something fragile, something not his to keep.

“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?” you teased

His brows furrowed, “Do what?”

“Charm a princess”

He smiled, “Is it that obvious?”

You shrugged “It’s my favorite part of the night so far”

He laughed under his breath, relieved again, like your approval was the only thing worth winning.

Around you, the ballroom kept spinning. Dresses twirled, champagne poured. But none of that belonged to this moment.

He did.

So when you leaned in and whispered, “Do you want to get out of here?”, he didn’t hesitate. He only nodded.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

The night air was cooler than expected against your bare shoulders. The garden was bathed in moonlight. You both slipped like thieves. You kicked off your heels beneath a rose bush, laughing when he did the same and nearly tripped over.

“I’m not used to shoes like this”

You looked him over, “Are you sure you’re not royalty? You’re dressed like one”

His smile faltered for half a second, “Let’s just say… I borrowed the look”

You turned toward the koi lagoon, the same one you used to visit alone when Felix saw you for the first time.

He followed. You sat on the edge of the stone, dipping your fingers into the cool water. He sat beside you, close but not too close.

“You’re not like them”, you said.

“Who?”

“The others. The ones inside. You’re not pretending”

He turned to you, expression soft, “Neither are you”

You tilted your head, “Am I that obvious?”

“No”, he said, “But I saw you. In the kitchen. That day by the garden window”

You froze.

He continued, “You were laughing at the lagoon”

Your chest ached in that way that feels like nostalgia

“You made the tart”, you whispered.

He nodded, “And the cake”

You turned toward him fully. The world faded again— it was just him.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

His voice was almost shy, “Because I liked how you looked at me when you didn’t know who I was”

You stared at him, “I liked you like this too”, you said.

And then his hand inched toward yours, not fully touching. Just waiting for permission.

You laced your fingers on his. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you. Like he was memorizing you one fingertip at a time.

You turned your head to look at him. He was already looking at you.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then away again, like he didn’t mean to. Like it embarrassed him

“You can kiss me”, you said softly.

His breath caught, “Can I?!”

You nodded, “If you want to”

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned in slowly, as if the moment between you might shatter if he moved too fast. His hand lifted to your cheek, trembling.

And finally— his lips met yours. Soft, just a brush.

Then deeper.

A sigh escaped you, and he swallowed it, pressing closer as your fingers curled in the fabric of his coat. He tasted sweet, something like a wish waiting to be granted.

You didn’t know how long it lasted.

You just knew it lasted long enough to forget where you were. Long enough to know you didn’t want it to end.

BONG. BONG. BONG.

You stopped. A bell from the tower— midnight.

He pulled back fast, breathless, wide eyed.

“No, no, no…”, he mumbled, already stumbling to his feet, “I have to go now…”

“What? Why?”, you stood too, reaching for him, “What’s happening?”

He looked at you like it was breaking him to leave.

“I’m sorry… I can’t explain… I…”, he stopped himself, looked at you, “Thank you. For dancing with me. For let me have you”

“Wait”, you whispered, “Tell me who you are… your name. Please”

But he was already backing away.

“I’m so sorry”, he whispered, bowing, “Your Highness”

Then he turned and ran.

Through the bushes, past the lagoon, toward the gates.

You chased after him but he was already a blur in the moonlight.

“This isn’t over yet, cake boy”

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

You went to the kitchen again today. Third time this week.

Fourth, if you count the “accidental” walk through the garden that conveniently ended at the back entrance where the staff gathers during breaks.

You told the steward you wanted to oversee the fruit for the upcoming seasonal feast. Told the maids you had a sudden craving for tartlets. Told your father you were simply curious about palace operations.

But the truth— you just wanted to see him.

The flour dusted boy with sleeves rolled to the elbows and a focus so intense you were scared to interrupt. You watched him from the door, heart hammering.

He looked the same. And still, different. Less golden, no silver stars on his coat, no glass earring glinting in his ear. Just soft, tired hands and that same kindness in his eyes when he laughed with another baker.

He hadn't spoken to you since the ball, hadn’t approached you. And you didn’t dare say anything, not yet. But every time you looked at him, your heart whispered ‘go’.

That day in the kitchen, you paused in front of the tarts. He was plating them— apple cinnamon strudels

You cleared your throat, his eyes met yours.

And there it was— that spark from the ballroom. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“Your Highness?”, he blinked, blinking twice like maybe this was a hallucination.

You narrowed your eyes and jabbed a finger toward the tray, “Is this what I requested?”

He paled, “I… I thought you wanted apple and cinnamon, so I made…”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand, “Walk with me. Now!”

He looked to the other staff members, confused, then nodded and quickly followed, pastries forgotten. You didn’t speak until you’d dragged him through two hallways and into a narrow passage where no one could see you.

He opened his mouth to speak but you turned around and kissed him. No warning, just your lips on his, fast and full of every unsaid thing.

He made a stunned sound on his throat and kissed you back instantly, hands finding your waist before he pulled away, eyes wild.

“You… you’re not mad?”, he asked, breathless and confused.

“Of course I’m not mad”, you said, “I love everything you bake”

He stared at you, “Then why…?”

“Because”, you whispered, taking his hand and pressing it to your chest, over your racing heart, “I needed an excuse to steal you for a minute. And I knew you’d only follow if you thought you messed something up”

He blinked, “Fuck…”

You smirked, “It’s called strategy”

His smile grew, full of disbelief and amusement. But before he could say anything else, you tugged a scrap of paper from your sleeve and slipped it into his palm.

“Come to my atelier tonight”, you said, “After the candles go out in the East Hall. I want to show you something”

“What is it?”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, “You’ll see”

Then you turned and walked away like you hadn’t just kissed the palace baker in a hallway you weren’t supposed to be in.

And behind you, Felix stood there with a hand pressed to his lips and the note pressed to his chest.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

The atelier was quiet when he arrived.

Felix crept through the hidden stairwell, heart pounding, every creak of the wood beneath his boots feeling too loud. You were already there.

By the arched window, the velvet curtains were open to reveal the sky— scattered with stars. You sat on the chaise lounge wrapped in a light night robe, feet bare, looking like a painting.

You smiled the moment you saw him, “You came”

He let out a shaky sigh, “Of course I came”

You motioned for him to sit beside you and he did.

“The stars are in alignment tonight” you pointed out to the night sky, “My mother used to say they’re the same ones from the night I was born”

He looked up

“She passed when I was thirteen”, you continued, “She used to bring me up here when court duties got too heavy. She said the sky doesn’t demand anything of you. It's just… what it’s”

Felix said nothing, just reached for your hand and held it gently.

You turned to him, “I want to tell you something”

He nodded

You leaned closer, voice quiet as you whispered like a secret against his skin.

“I want to marry you”

He pulled back, “W-what?!”

“I want you”, you said firmly, “Not some count from across the sea. Not a crown in exchange for my name. You”

He blinked, “But your father… he’ll never…”

“Then we run away”, you whispered, “Just you and me”

Felix stared, eyes wide in disbelief. Then he laughed— that bright, Felix laugh.

“You’re insane”

You grinned, “Tell me you don’t love it”

But instead, he kissed you again— achingly slow, emotionally charged. You melted into it, hands cupping his cheeks. He was trembling, just a little, just like you.

You took his hands, guided them to your waist, to your hips. Then looked into his eyes, cheeks burning.

“Touch me”, you whispered, “If you want to”

“I do” he said, almost instantly, “So much”

His hands roamed carefully— reverent, uncertain. Your robe slipped loose, revealing skin touched only by moonlight until now.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your chest, “It’s… my first time”

Felix lips brushed against your cheek before pulling back just enough to look at you properly. He held your face with gentle hands like you were something precious.

“Mine too”, he whispered.

And just like that, the atmosphere between you changed. No longer just tender kisses and nervous sighs— but something deep, real, terrifying in the most beautiful way.

You let out a breath that shook as it left your lungs, “Guess we’ll be clumsy together”

He smiled, nervous but glowing as usual

“Yeah”, he said, “Clumsy sounds perfect”

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your soul, but his hands trembled slightly when he reached for your bare waist. You chuckled, nerves threading on your voice, and he joined you with a breathless and shy giggle, especially when you kissed the side of his neck and he let out a sound he clearly wasn’t expecting.

Every touch meant something and when he finally settled between your thighs, he paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “Do you really want to do this?”

You nodded. And still, you said it. voice barely audible, “I want you”

The stretch made your breath catch. Discomfort grew in your belly— not unbearable, but new, strange. You clung to him as your body adjusted, every muscle learning his shape, the pressure, the ache that wasn’t pain but not quite pleasure yet.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, “Are you okay?”, he murmured.

You shook your head and tried to breathe through the heat of him sinking into your skin

“I’m. Keep going… please”, you whispered, threading your fingers in his golden locks

There was nothing perfect about it, just the sound of your breathing, the creak of the chaise lounge beneath you, the quiet murmurs of affection that filled the room like oxygen..

It was clumsy, overwhelming and beautiful.

He moved slowly, guided entirely by you. By the way your fingers gripped his back, by the lift of your hips, by every whisper that slipped from your lips. Each motion became more fluid, more urgent, your bodies learning each other’s language one heartbeat at a time.

When it started to feel good, it flooded through you so fast you almost gasped. Your back arched, his breath caught. And for a moment, it felt like there was no space between you at all, like you were just one.

He kissed you through every whimper, every moan, every tear that slipped from the corner of your eyes— not from pain, but from how intimate it felt.

When you finally fell together in a trembling, stuttering bliss— he held you. He didn’t let go.

Not when your hands shook against his back. Not when his face buried in the crook of your neck and he whispered your name like he was still dreaming. Not when the tears you didn’t mean to cry brushed against his shoulder.

In the warmth of his arms you felt the kind of love for the very first time.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

You told your father after breakfast. Still glowing, with your body sore in the sweetest way and your heart too full to keep secrets.

You walked straight into the throne room—head high, gown light like air around your ankles— and said it in front of his advisors.

“I want to marry Felix. The palace baker”

The silence that followed was heavy

Your father stood slowly from his throne. He didn’t yell, didn’t laugh, he simply looked at you with the kind of disappointment that wounds more fiercely than any dagger

“Absolutely not”

“What…?”

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked coldly, “A princess does not marry for love. She marries for legacy, alliance, power”

“I don’t care about power” you said, voice shaking, “I care about him”

“He is a baker, Yn!”

“He’s better than any of those lords who flatter me with their lies they call love”

“This conversation is over”

You stood taller, “No. It isn’t. I’m going to marry Felix or your lineage will die with me”

You turned and left before he could say another word.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

The moment you arrived at the kitchen pale, shaking, lips pressed tight, Felix knew something was wrong

“He said no”, you whispered, “He said you’re just a baker”

Felix felt the burn of shame crawl up his neck.

Of course he did. Of course a king wouldn’t give his daughter to someone who makes cake for a living.

You were crying, but not sad— angry.

“I don’t care what he says. I’ll leave the palace if I have to”

Felix took your hand and kissed your knuckles, “You won’t leave alone”

Still, something ached in his chest. That old feeling of being small.

So after he kissed you goodnight later that day, after you finally drifted into sleep in the little corner of the atelier, he snuck out and knocked on the broom closet door.

Twice. Desperate

“Please…”

It exploded in sparkles.

“What now…oh!”, Chan stood there in black a tank top and pajama pants, hair an absolute mess, “Felix?”

“I need help”

Jisung appeared behind him, brushing his teeth with a wand, “What kind of help?”

Felix stepped inside, “The kind that will change the fate of the kingdom”

A sleepy groan echoed from the corner, Changbin turned in his tiny fairy bunk bed, “If this is about love, I swear to God…”

“It’s. I want to marry her but the king said no”

Chan blinked, “So you want us to… what? Motivational speech?”

Jisung spit out his toothpaste, “Challenge him to a dance competition?”

Felix looked up, “I want you to help me prove I’m worthy of her”

Changbin sighed, stretching his wings, “Do you realize if this doesn’t work you either die or never see her again, right?”

“I do”

Chan cracked his knuckles.

“Alright then”, he said, “Let’s cause some problems”

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

The plan wasn’t fire or illusion. Chan had suggested sparklers in the royal fountain. Jisung wanted a musical number with enchanted spoons. Changbin offered to duel the king himself.

But Felix wanted something real. He wanted to be seen not as a servant, not as a mistake— but as a man who loved you.

So, the next morning, the doors to the dining hall opened just after sunrise. The king sat at the head of the table, surrounded by stewards and strategists already planning his daughter’s next suitor.

Then the scent hit them— vanilla, caramel, peaches. Followed by music

“Yo, DJ drop the beat!”

A voice shouted from somewhere above the chandelier.

There was a sudden crash as Jisung rappelled from the ceiling via enchanted ribbon, nearly knocking over a decorative vase. He landed in a heroic pose, sparkles exploding behind him like pyrotechnics, “This is for you, Your Highness”

Felix blinked from behind the door, “Oh no”

“Oh, yes”, Chan said, stepping forward in a golden glitter outfit and pointy matching shoes. He clicked his tongue, and with a wave of his hand, the enchanted spoons floated in, forming a synchronized dance line.

Changbin kicked open the side doors still in his pink tutu , “Let’s go!”

The enchanted spoons twirled in formation.

Jisung pulled a kazoo from his sleeve and played the most emotional opening note ever performed on a kazoo in a royal facility

“This is a love song”, he sang, very dramatically

“About cakes and kisses. Singing screw the system!”

Chan joined in like he was born for Broadway, “You can’t stop true love with a title or a crown”

Changbin stepped forward, flexing his biceps, “If you deny them I’ll fight you right now”

Felix quietly begged, “Please don’t fight the king”

“But I won’t if you clasp!”, Changbin yelled, pointing at the king, who looked confused and probably two seconds from fainting.

He blinked. Then clapped, once.

Jisung threw confetti,“Yay, love conquers all, baby!”

Then the godfathers prepared for the grand finale, “Love is sweet! Love is allowed! Love is a cake and we sang it so loud!”

The spoons threw glitter in the air. And at the end of it all, they struck a final, ridiculous pose.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Felix’s cheeks burned, “I’m gonna be banished”

Chan looked behind, sending the signal and Felix stepped through, revealing the most beautiful creation the palace had ever seen.

A cake. More like an edible sculpture.

Each tier told a story. Felix stood beside it in silence, fingers curled at his side, lips parted slightly.

The first tier was a garden.

Not just flowers, a blooming circle of sugar roses, their petals so delicate they seemed real. It was where he first saw you, hidden in the garden, laughing with your shoes off.

The second tier was quieter.

Sky blue fondant, brushed with edible paint, formed a still lake beneath a hand painted crescent moon. Silver stars dotted the sky, the ones you pointed to at the ball, when your fingers slipped into his and pulled him away from the crowd, from the chandeliers, into the garden. It was your first kiss— hidden beneath the stars. That moment when the world stood still.

The topmost layer was delicate. A sculpture of you— your silhouette, hand sculpted from spun sugar, reaching out toward the sky. It was the atelier, that night when the two of you sat on the chaise longue staring at the stars and then laid together for the first time.

It was everything. Every moment that changed him, every second that made you his.

Felix stopped at the king’s table. He bowed low— not like a servant but like someone offering everything he had in life.

Then he finally spoke, “I fell in love with your daughter the day she smiled at a koi fish in that garden”

The king raised his hand but Felix didn’t stop.

“I thought I’d be content just seeing her smile from across the hall. But she walked into my world like it was already hers. She kissed me, she trusted me., she brought me to the stars”

He paused, and looked up, eyes shining, “I don’t have lands. I don’t have a title. But I would give her my hands, my name, and every day I have left”

The king said nothing.

So Felix took one final step.

“She showed me grace, compassion, maturity and courage… what real royalty should looks like”, he said, “She accepted me for who I am not for what I have and if didn’t… then maybe you’ve forgotten what a real king should be”

For a breathless second, it felt like too much. like Felix had gone too far.

Then, your voice echoed through the room

“I agree”

Everyone turned.

You walked down the stairs in a simple dress, barefoot, with no crown— just you.

And when you reached Felix, you took his hand and smiled like nothing else mattered.

Your father stared. Then stood slowly and stopped just in front of Felix.

He looked at the cake,at your hands intertwined and said

“How did you get the sugar roses that delicate?”

Felix blinked, “Your Highness…?”

The king sighed, “My wife used to decorate like that. You studied her old books?”

“Yes”, Felix confessed, “She’s the reason I bake”

.The king looked at you. At Felix. At the story written in sugar and cream.

Then he stepped aside.

“Then make sure you never give her a reason to regret seeing you”

Felix didn’t breathe for a moment. Then you both laughed— nervous, overjoyed, shaking.

Felix pulled you close, arms tight, heart racing. And when he kissed you in front of the whole court and it tasted like love.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep, @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin , @yxna-bliss

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unholysails · 7 months ago

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yknow i dont think ill ever recover from the implications of 'a stitch in time'.

garak sat down in the ruins of his home planet after nearly a decade of exile, finally free of the expectations and threats of punishment or death from all the people he loved. he had his freedom and his home, things he only ever dreamed of having his entire life.

he's there at last, and what does he do? he writes the most stunningly beautiful love letter to a man who seemingly already let him go years prior. you can feel the way he absolutely aches for julian. the yearning is so transparent, so brazen. every person he writes about having had affection for has at least some small resemblance to his dear doctor.

within the letter is every ugly truth, every thing he's ever tried to hide from julian. thoughts and feelings and regrets he's held onto in silence for decades just bleed onto every page, laid bare for the eyes of one man on a distant space station who may decide to not even read it. he will, of course, but a pragmatist like garak isn't about to pretend its not possible. this letter is a plea and a goodbye. it is a continuation of the never ending sacrifice. it is the story of one mans repetitive sacrifice of everything he is for the benefit of others that would knowingly harm him. the one time he refuses to sacrifice his needs, he is brutally punished and cast out to a frigid prison.

this letter was his way of letting go of julian, while still asking him for something. he gave julian everything he ever claimed to want from him. the truth, simple and brutal as it was. told him who he was, why he was. unwavering bravery and vulnerability, a cleansing to wash clean the new man now trying to grow.

all his cards on the table, surrendering everything he'd ever been, with the unspoken but shockingly clear promise of becoming better. 'i am an unfinished man, doctor'. dont give up on me just yet.

julian will either take that invitation, or he wont. either way, garak will finally have the closure, the knowledge he did all he could to fight for the only man that cared about him during the worst years of his life. he will come, or he wont. there is no room for ambiguity, and thus the ball's in bashir's court, as his doctor would probably say.

#garashir #star trek #ds9 #elim garak #enterprisedeeznuts #i just cant get over it tbh #i think about it constantly #i really believe julian would read it and run to cardassia #i really think julian would go #starfleet be damned #damn it

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spikedfearn · 27 days ago

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We're Fated to Pretend

Episode I

James Cook x fem!reader

summary: after years of silence and heartache, James Cook crashes back into your life in the most unexpected way—wearing a mask, saving you from danger, and kissing you upside-down in the pouring rain. The once-reckless boy your father used to arrest is now the vigilante your father’s sworn to catch. As suspicion brews and memories resurface, you’re left reeling from the kiss you can’t forget and the gut-wrenching realization that Cook and the infamous cheeky neighborhood hero known as Spider-Man are one in the same.

wc: 7.7k

a/n: I’ve always had a soft spot for Spider-Man, something about the angst, the humor, the mask, the heart. Then the Spidey!Cook brain worms burrowed themselves into my noggin and refused to let go!! But it wasn’t until Moga @somnolenthour sent me their absolutely beautiful Spidey!Cook fanart that truly inspired me to write it. Big thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard as always, for being the best beta reader and moral support a girl could ask for. I’ll definitely be writing more of this AU, but instead of a traditional multi-chapter fic, it’ll unfold in a more episodic format—each part will work as its own little story with loosely connected threads. Think filthy, romantic chaos of the week. No smut this time around but I hope you still enjoy swinging through Episode I 🕷💋

warnings: Spider-Man AU, morally gray vigilante Cook, forbidden romance, reformed delinquent Cook (but like...barely), mentions of past character death (Effy), guilt kink adjacent energy, girl dinner (Cook edition), explicit language, heavy sexual tension, implied masturbation, public teasing, rough kissing, thigh touching under the dinner table, secret identity shenanigans, emotionally devastating forehead kisses, dangerous levels of longing, eventual smut

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Episode I: I'm Feeling Rough, I'm Feeling Raw (I'm in the Prime of My Life)

You’d always liked New York at night.

Something about the way the city blurred and shimmered after dark felt strangely intimate, like you were in on some secret. Rain slicked the pavement into watery mirrors, reflecting neon signs in hazy blues and reds. Your sneakers splashed through shallow puddles, soaking the hems of your jeans as you tugged your jacket closer around your shoulders.

You knew better than to take a shortcut down a back alley after sunset—especially being the daughter of the NYPD’s Police Chief—but you were tired, frustrated, and honestly, a little defiant tonight. The meeting at home had drained your patience. Spider-Man was all anyone could talk about anymore. It consumed your father’s every waking moment, the obsession to hunt him down, coloring every dinner conversation, every tense silence.

“You don’t know who that man is,” your dad had snapped, eyes darkening beneath his furrowed brow. His coffee had sat untouched, paperwork sprawling across your kitchen table like evidence in some twisted crime documentary.

Neither do you, you'd thought bitterly.

You shook your head to clear it, stepping quicker now, your footsteps echoing faintly off graffitied brick walls. Queens felt alive around you, humming with electricity. Maybe it was the storm rolling in, crackling distant thunder and promising rain, or maybe it was the low shiver of anticipation you’d felt ever since Spider-Man had first appeared—clad in white and blue, a flash of scarlet jacket tossed over his shoulders, always disappearing before anyone got a clear look at him.

Maybe it was because deep down, a tiny, reckless part of you hoped you'd catch a glimpse of him tonight.

Your pulse fluttered at the thought. Ridiculous, you told yourself, as your shoes splashed through another puddle, the alley narrowing ahead. He wasn’t a hero—not according to your dad, anyway. Spider-Man was dangerous, unpredictable, a masked vigilante with no respect for the law.

But wasn’t that exactly why you felt so inexplicably drawn to him?

You rounded the next corner, lost in your thoughts, and collided with something off in the air—an immediate, instinctual chill prickling the back of your neck.

Your steps slowed.

Under the flickering orange glow of a dying streetlamp stood a man. Hood pulled up, face shadowed, but his body was unmistakably solid—tall, broad, blocking the narrow passage like a wall you hadn’t seen coming. He stood too still. Too quiet. Like he’d been waiting.

Your heart jerked violently in your chest.

His head tilted slightly, like he’d just noticed you—but something about the way he moved said he’d been tracking you for longer than that. Your stomach churned. You froze mid-step, shoes scraping against wet concrete, every survival instinct lighting up all at once.

The man stepped forward slowly.

You saw the flash before you even saw the blade—just a quick, metallic glint in his hand as it caught the stuttering light. Long. Shiny. Too deliberate to be anything but a threat.

“Well now,” he said, voice syrupy and cruel. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing.”

Your lungs refused to work. You backed up a half-step, heart thudding so loud you could hear it in your ears. The walls of the alley felt like they were closing in, trapping you.

“You alone, baby girl?” he cooed mockingly, tone dipped in something sickly sweet and rotten beneath. “Didn’t nobody teach you it’s dangerous out here at night?”

Your lips parted, but your voice didn’t come. Your hands were trembling, damp with sweat. You clutched your bag tighter, pulse hammering in your throat, in your wrists, behind your eyes.

Think. Think. Do something. Yell. Run. Fucking move.

But your legs didn’t listen.

The man’s smile widened. Not kind. Not amused. It was the grin of someone who enjoyed fear, who’d seen it before and liked how it looked stretched across someone’s face. His blade caught the dim light again as he lifted it higher—slow, deliberate, meant for show.

He took another step forward. And then another. You backed up, heel slipping slightly on the slick pavement. Cold rain kissed the back of your neck. The alley had gone silent but for the tap-tap-tap of water hitting rusted metal and your own ragged breathing.

“You’ve got real bad luck tonight,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, meaner now. “Could scream. But no one’s gonna hear you.”

He was close now. Too close.

You finally found your voice—but it was just a whisper. “Don’t—please—”

“Oh, I love when they beg,” he purred, stepping into the halo of broken light. His face finally came into view—eyes gleaming under the hood, cheeks rough with stubble, lips curled into something dark and twisted. The knife twitched in his hand, fingers tightening like he was ready.

Your body locked up, adrenaline surging too fast, too hot. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All you could see was him—and the long blade meant for you.

Then—

A sound.

Sharp. Fast. A whoosh, like wind cutting through silk.

Something moved above you, high and fast and wrong, too fast to be natural. The air shifted. Something heavy slammed down from above—so fast you didn’t even see the impact, only felt it in your bones. The man was ripped from his stance, crashing hard into the opposite wall with a grunt, limbs pinned suddenly by thick bands of—what the hell?

Webbing.

He thrashed, cursing as his knife clattered to the ground and skidded toward your feet.

Your breath punched out of your lungs as you stumbled back, hands flying to your mouth. Your eyes shot upward, heart in your throat.

A figure dropped from above.

Upside down.

The first thing you honed in on was the suit: white, skintight, sculpted to every cut and curve of his body, shot through with vivid blue stitching, red jacket flaring dramatically like a flame in the rain, one leg bent around the fire escape railing, his body swaying slightly in the heavy silence.

The mask tilted toward you, sleek, angular, the eyes sharply expressive even without moving. They narrowed as they studied you, and through the distorted crackle of a voice modulator, you heard it.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He tilted his head, the motion lazy, and the modulated voice crackled low across the distance between you.

“Fucking hell, mate.” He nodded toward the assailant still writhing on the wall. “You really thought that’d go your way, did ya?”

He clicked his tongue and reached down—still hanging—shooting another web with a flick of his wrist, sealing the man’s mouth shut. The sound was disturbingly satisfying.

Then he turned fully to face you, like you were the only thing left in the alley worth his attention. And suddenly, you were the one pinned in place—by the weight of that stare, the electric crackle of something deeper than adrenaline rolling through your blood.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected Spider-Man to look like up close. Some faceless blur of justice, maybe. A stoic, noble figure in head-to-toe black.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Even with his voice distorted through the modulator, it was unmistakably British—smug, slow, with that cocky rhythm you hadn’t heard in years but would recognize in your sleep.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he said, the pet name dragging rough across the air like sandpaper over skin. “Can’t decide if I wanna web this cunt to a wall or take you home and make you scream louder than he did.”

You inhaled sharply. That voice—that fucking voice. Heat surged up your neck, your lips parting in disbelief as your heart stammered against your ribs.

He swayed gently, like he had all the time in the world to watch you spiral.

You knew that mouth. You knew the way he carried himself, the slight slouch, the cocky slowness in the way he spoke like he was undressing you between syllables. Even distorted, you knew.

And for a moment, all you could do was stare.

Rain began to fall in earnest now, fat droplets splattering your shoulders and trickling down your temple. The air grew heavy with ozone, the alley filling with steam where warm streetlamps hit cold stone. You didn’t blink. You barely breathed. You just looked at him, and he looked right back like he already knew what you were thinking.

Your hands ached from how tightly they were clenched at your sides.

The rain traced the curve of your cheekbone, slid along your jaw. It matted your hair to your face, soaked the thin fabric of your shirt, made the air feel thick and charged between you.

Spider-Man remained upside-down, unmoving. Waiting.

And you—god help you—you stepped closer.

You didn’t understand what was happening. Not really. All you knew was your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest if you didn’t do something. If you didn’t close the gap between you and whatever this wild, electric, inexplicable thing was.

Your fingers lifted, slow and shaking.

You reached for his mask.

And he let you.

You curled your hand around the fabric and gently pulled it down, just enough to reveal the lower half of his face.

The grin hit you first—lazy, crooked, utterly unrepentant.

Your breath caught in your throat. You swallowed. Once.

And then—still trembling, soaked to the bone—you leaned forward and kissed him.

You kissed him like it was inevitable.

Like the second your fingers touched that fabric, the second your eyes landed on that crooked mouth, something inside you had already given up.

The taste of him hit you instantly—rainwater and heat and something dizzyingly sinful—his lips parting the moment yours met his, as though he'd been waiting for it. His breath came hot against your tongue, a low groan rumbling from his chest like he felt it just as deep, just as desperate.

And he kissed you back.

Not sweetly. Not carefully. Not like a hero.

No—he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been starved. Like he had something to prove. Like he owned your mouth, and this was him staking his claim.

Your hands curled into the damp fabric of his jacket as his tongue slid against yours, filthy and slow, his mouth moving with that signature kind of arrogance you’d only ever known one person to possess. His lips tilted into a smirk mid-kiss—smug, bastard—and when he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, you let out a noise that was embarrassingly soft.

And he heard it.

He hummed against your mouth, pleased.

Your lungs burned. Your knees wobbled. Your entire body was singing, high and electric, caught between what the fuck is happening and don’t ever stop. The rain poured around you like static, cool and slick against your overheated skin, but it barely registered. You could only feel him—his breath, his mouth, his voice.

That voice.

Even without the distortion, it would’ve sent a thrill through you.

But the second he broke the kiss—slowly, purposefully, tongue teasing your top lip as he pulled back—and murmured:

“Didn’t think you had it in you, sweetheart…”

It hit you like a brick to the chest.

That accent. That mouth. That voice wrapped in sandpaper and honey. You knew it. You knew it.

Your breath hitched, heart flipping violently in your chest. You were staring at the lower half of his face, lips still glistening from the kiss, water dripping from his chin, and suddenly all the puzzle pieces rearranged themselves.

Cook.

It was James fucking Cook.

You’d know that voice anywhere—half-growled, half-mocked, always two seconds from saying something filthy enough to slap him for.

You stumbled back a half-step, blinking like you’d just woken up inside a hallucination.

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Cook—Spider-Man—smirked wider at the look on your face. The kind of look he used to live for. That dumb, reckless grin you hadn’t seen in years, the one he used to wear right before doing something illegal or inappropriate or insanely hot, and usually all three at once.

He leaned forward a little, upside-down still, rain dripping off his nose as he let the moment marinate—let you stare at him, recognize him, melt from it.

His voice was lower now, distorted but dragging like velvet:

“But fuck me…” He licked his bottom lip, slow. “Do it again, and I’ll let you sit on my face right here in this alley.”

You stood there—soaked, trembling, lips swollen and breath ragged—with heat pooling low in your belly like someone had struck a match. Every nerve ending on fire. Every thought scrambled.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

You just…stared. At him. At Cook. At Spider-Man.

What the fuck?

He tilted his head like he was reading your mind, and that grin widened, devilish and unrepentant.

And then—snap—he shot a web to the fire escape above and yanked himself up in one clean pull, disappearing into the shadows like he hadn’t just rocked your entire fucking world upside down. Like he hadn’t just kissed you like he owned you.

You stood there long after he was gone.

Rain fell.

The alley blurred.

Your lips tingled.

Your legs felt like jelly.

And somewhere in the back of your mind—beneath the static of adrenaline, the thrum of desire, the wild crash of your pulse—you knew:

You were in so much fucking trouble.

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Your body had collapsed, sure—muscles aching, clothes peeled off and tossed somewhere near the foot of your bed, skin still chilled from the rain. You’d laid in the dark with your damp hair spread across the pillow, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

But your mind? It wouldn’t shut up.

Every time your eyes drifted closed, you saw him. That mask. That mouth. The fucking grin. The way he kissed you like he’d been starving for it. The way he sounded—cocky and low and rough, even behind the modulator. That wasn’t some stranger in a suit.

That was Cook.

James fucking Cook.

It had to be. There was no denying it anymore.

You’d gone years without seeing him—maybe a glimpse here, a passing name mentioned in the background of a party or arrest report—but he’d vanished after Effy died. Went underground. You thought he’d left the city altogether.

But now?

He was swinging through Queens like it was his playground, sticking assholes to alley walls, and kissing you so hard your legs still shook from it.

And you hadn’t even told anyone.

Because how the hell do you say Spider-Man made out with me upside down in the rain and I think it was the guy my dad used to arrest for truancy, drunk and disorderly, and defacing public property back when I was in braces?

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

So you went downstairs.

You walked into the kitchen like you hadn’t just kissed a masked menace with the filthiest mouth in New York. You buttered toast. You poured coffee. You said good morning to your dad and tried not to flinch when he muttered:

“Spider-Man was spotted again last night. Midtown.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug. Heat pricked at your cheeks.

“Really?” you managed, keeping your tone breezy. “He save another cat or something?”

Your dad glanced up from his tablet, tired eyes narrowing. “No. Assault and attempted robbery. Girl got away thanks to him.”

Your stomach twisted. You were the girl. That was the alley.

“Good for her,” you said, sipping too fast, burning your tongue.

“Good for him, you mean,” your dad snapped, and now the sharp edge was back in his voice. “That guy needs to be brought in before he starts thinking he’s above the law.”

“He’s helping people.”

“He’s not a cop.”

You raised a brow. “Neither are firefighters. You gonna arrest them too?”

He stared at you. You stared right back.

The tension crackled thick between you.

“Just be careful out there,” he muttered finally. “It’s not safe at night. Especially alone.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded like a good daughter and bit into your toast to keep from saying I was alone last night. And he found me before you ever would’ve.

Later that afternoon, you tried to focus. You read.

That was the goal, anyway—curling up on the living room couch with a blanket and a worn paperback, eyes scanning pages you weren’t absorbing. You read the same sentence over and over, but your mind drifted. Paragraphs blurred. Your thumb stopped turning the page.

Tried not to think about the kiss.

Tried not to think about the tongue, or the grin, or the voice.

Tried not to think about Effy.

She’d been everything. The kind of girl people wrote songs about—sharp, tragic, unknowable. She and Cook had been doomed from the start, and when she died, he shattered. You saw the way he changed. The wildness, the recklessness, the way he burned through the city like he wanted it to kill him.

And now he was this?

Spider-Man?

The guilt curled hot in your chest, but so did the hunger. He’d kissed you like he wanted to swallow you whole. You hadn’t wanted him to stop.

You still didn’t.

You thought about texting him—except, of course, you couldn’t. You didn’t have his number. You didn’t even know for sure if it was him.

But you did.

And just as that thought was sinking in, a knock echoed from the front door.

You froze.

Your dad yelled from the other room: “Can you get that?”

You padded barefoot down the hall, nerves twisting low in your stomach. You cracked the door open, heart in your throat.

There he was.

Standing on your porch like he owned the place. No mask. Just that stupid red jacket, hair rain-tousled, smirk already pulling at his mouth.

James. Fucking. Cook.

Your mouth went dry.

“Alright, sweetheart?” he said, like this was normal, like he hadn’t kissed you last night like he needed it to breathe. “Heard there was a good girl who lives here.”

You blinked. “What…What are you doing here?”

He held something up between two fingers.

Your wallet.

You stared at it.

“You dropped it,” he said, tone light. “In that alley. S’pose I could’ve mailed it, but—well. That’d ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”

Your heart thumped. “You were there?”

His brow quirked. “Was I?”

Your stomach twisted. “Cook—”

He stepped closer, lowering his hand and twirling the wallet between his fingers. “Didn’t say I was, babe. Maybe I just heard about it. Could be coincidence. Could be luck. Could be—what’s the word your dad likes—vigilante bullshit, yeah?”

You swallowed hard.

“Give me one good reason I should let you in,” you said, voice quieter now.

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Because I still owe you a proper kiss. One where I’m not upside down.”

And just like that, you opened the door.

He stepped inside like it was his house.

Like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb on your brain with that voice in the alley last night—like he hadn’t kissed you so hard it still ached in your mouth.

Your fingers were trembling around the wallet as you shut the door behind him. The latch clicked too loud in the silence.

Rain drummed steadily outside, soft and hypnotic against the windows. The smell of it—wet pavement, diesel, something earthy and sharp—drifted in with him. But beneath that was him—Cook—warm skin and smoke and the faded cologne he used to wear in high school that still smelled like recklessness.

He wandered casually down the hallway, ignoring the way you hovered by the door like your legs might give out. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jacket. His walk was slow, deliberate. He moved like he was thinking three steps ahead—like every footfall was a challenge.

You followed.

Your bare feet were silent on the hardwood, but your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears. Your hoodie clung to your spine with heat. Every breath felt tight in your chest.

He stepped into the kitchen and leaned back against the counter like he’d done it a hundred times. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, painting him in pale yellow and shadow.

And god—he looked good.

Hair still damp from the rain, curling slightly around his ears. Cheeks flushed from the cold, a bruise yellowing just beneath the waterline of his left eye. That stupid red jacket unzipped just enough to show the black shirt clinging to his chest, damp and sheer in places, revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, tongue flicking briefly against his bottom lip like he could taste the air.

He caught you staring and grinned.

“Nice place,” he said, glancing around with mock politeness. “Bit tame, though. Could use some bloodstains or bondage gear or somethin’. Spice it up.”

You stared at him, jaw tight. “Are you seriously making jokes right now?”

He raised both brows. “Would you rather I cry?”

“I’d rather you tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”

Cook’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened.

“Already told you. Returned somethin’ that belonged to you.” He nodded to the wallet in your hand. “What, you want me to say I just missed your pretty face? Would that make it easier for you to breathe around me, sweetheart?”

Your heart clenched. “Don’t call me that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for a beat.

“Why not? Liked it last night.”

Your breath hitched.

He pushed off the counter and stepped toward you.

Slow. Deliberate. That casual swagger in his gait that made every movement look like foreplay. You backed up instinctively until your spine hit the fridge door with a soft thunk.

He stopped a few inches in front of you, gaze flicking down your body with zero subtlety.

“You always answer the door lookin’ like this?” he asked, voice quieter now, more intimate. “Or just for me?”

You glanced down. Hoodie, no bra, bare legs, still damp hair from the shower you took trying to forget him.

You flushed. “It’s my house. Didn’t know I was entertaining guests.”

He hummed. “Didn’t know I was a guest.”

And there it was again—that double edge. The way he said everything with a wink and a knife behind his teeth. The way he looked at you like he knew exactly how wet you were just from being near him.

You turned your face away, trying to hide the flush rising up your neck.

“You didn’t deny it,” you murmured.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t confirm it either.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He leaned closer, voice so low it slid under your skin and made your thighs press together.

“Then why’d you let me kiss you?”

You looked up at him sharply.

His pupils were blown, barely any blue left around the edges. His lips were slightly parted, wet and pink and maddeningly close. His breath smelled like spearmint and something darker—like heat, like sin, like him.

You hated how your body responded to him. How your skin came alive under his gaze. How your nipples hardened beneath your hoodie, how your thighs ached, how your mouth actually remembered the taste of his tongue.

“Because I was in shock,” you said, but your voice cracked in the middle.

He smiled slowly. “That why you kissed me back?”

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t need you to.

Cook took one step closer, his knee brushing against yours, the heat of his body blooming against you like static. His fingers brushed your wrist—light, teasing, tracing your pulse like he knew it was hammering for him.

“Want me to leave?” he asked softly.

You blinked. “What?”

His mouth curved. “Say the word. I’ll go. Never happened. I’ll walk outta here, and you can tell yourself you imagined the whole fuckin’ thing.”

He was so close. The air between you crackled. Every nerve ending screamed.

Your lips parted. You meant to say yes. You meant to tell him to get the fuck out, that he was dangerous, that you knew what kind of chaos clung to him like a second skin.

But what came out was:

“…No.”

And his grin sharpened.

“Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretched taut between you—fragile, dangerous, breakable.

Your heartbeat was a runaway drum, thudding in your throat, your wrists, the hollow of your chest. Cook’s eyes traced every flinch of your expression, every betraying breath, like he was mapping your weaknesses.

And you were letting him.

He hadn’t moved away. His chest still brushed yours with every slow, even breath, heat bleeding through his damp shirt into your skin. His gaze never left your face, lingering on your mouth like it was something he wanted to devour. You could feel your lips parting involuntarily beneath the weight of his stare, helpless to hide your vulnerability.

He’d always known how to disarm you, ever since you were teenagers. But now, he was wielding that talent like a weapon, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“You’re a problem, Cook,” you whispered finally, voice barely audible, thick with reluctance and want.

He leaned in, his mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, breath hot against your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But I reckon I’m your favorite one.”

Your breath caught audibly and you felt his lips curve into a smile against your throat. He lingered there, just long enough to make you dizzy, inhaling like he could breathe you in.

“I shouldn’t do this,” you managed weakly, voice cracking around the edges. It was half a plea, half a confession.

He chuckled softly, breath ghosting over your pulse. “You already did.”

His mouth moved upward, tracing your jawline slowly, deliberately, until his lips hovered a breath from yours. You stared into eyes so deeply blue they seemed bottomless, your own gaze cloudy with helpless desire.

He cupped your chin, tipping your head back, thumb brushing the soft line of your lower lip. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice velvet-rough, dripping with sin. “Already fallin’ apart and I’ve barely even touched you.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, embarrassment and need tangling tight in your chest. “Fuck off.”

Cook laughed softly. “You kiss me with that mouth?”

“You kissed me,” you reminded him stubbornly.

He leaned closer, mouth teasing yours. “And you fuckin’ loved it.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny it—but his lips crushed yours before the words ever had a chance.

This kiss wasn’t like last night’s wild, frantic encounter in the rain. This was deeper, slower, deliberate—a kiss that savored every second, every taste, every surrendering breath. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing your mouth open gently, and when you relented, he slipped inside with a filthy, possessive groan.

His hand slid to cradle your neck, thumb stroking your jaw, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your own hands, traitorous and trembling, curled into his damp jacket, clutching him closer, needing him nearer.

God, he tasted exactly like he did last night: like mint and nicotine and whiskey-soaked recklessness. He kissed you like he was imprinting himself onto your soul, erasing anyone else who’d ever been there. His tongue moved slowly against yours, filthy and indulgent, every stroke a taunt, a dare, a promise.

You whimpered against his mouth, and the sound shattered something fragile between you both.

His other hand slid down your side, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard, lean line of his body pressed into yours, and suddenly you could feel exactly how much he wanted you—how hard and thick he was beneath the thin fabric of his jeans.

Your knees nearly buckled.

Cook broke away just enough to press his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. His voice was dark, low, wrecked with barely restrained desire.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped softly, sounding genuinely undone for once. “Dreamed about havin’ you like this, you know. Thought about it every fuckin’ night since—”

He stopped himself abruptly, jaw tight. His eyes darkened, something heavy and aching surfacing behind the lust.

“Since Effy?” you whispered carefully.

He flinched slightly, then sighed, brushing a tender thumb along your cheekbone. “Thought after her—thought there was nothin’ left, yeah? But then you—fuck—you just…happened.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. You cupped his face, eyes searching his carefully guarded expression. “Cook…”

He shook his head, leaning into your touch briefly, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Don’t ruin it, babe. Don’t think. Just…just fuckin’ kiss me.”

And you did.

You surged forward, lips crashing desperately against his, your arms circling his neck to anchor yourself. He responded immediately, scooping you up effortlessly and placing you on the kitchen counter, never breaking the kiss, deepening it instead, devouring you thoroughly.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him into you with a gasp as he ground forward against the heat pooling between your thighs. Your fingers twisted in his hair, tugging, needing more, needing everything he could give you.

Cook’s mouth slipped from yours to trace scorching kisses down your throat, biting gently at the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath your skin.

“I want you,” he growled softly, voice muffled against your skin. “Fuck, I want every bit of you, sweetheart. Your mouth. Your skin. Your cunt. Want to ruin you so badly you’ll never fuckin’ forget.”

You shuddered, head tipping back, offering more of yourself willingly. “Then do it,” you whispered recklessly, hips rolling against him involuntarily. “Please.”

He groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you—wild-eyed, flushed, chest heaving with unsteady breaths. His fingers traced down your hoodie, teasing the bare skin beneath, lingering just under the hem. His voice was hoarse, edged in desperation.

“You sure about this, babe?” he asked, eyes blazing into yours, searching. “Cause once I start, I ain’t gonna stop.”

Your heart hammered hard. Every inch of your skin burned, needy and aching. You knew he was dangerous—knew that getting involved with Cook was like holding a lit match too close to gasoline. But at that moment, you didn’t care.

You wanted him anyway.

“Cook,” you whispered, sliding your hands into his jacket, nails grazing his chest, feeling him shudder beneath your touch. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

He didn’t let you finish the threat.

He kissed you again, savage and deep, biting your lip hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue. His fingers finally slid beneath your hoodie, dragging slowly upward, tracing every rib, every curve, every sensitive inch of bare skin, and—

“Hey, honey, did someone come to the door?”

Your father’s voice echoed from upstairs, shattering the moment like glass. Cook froze instantly, lips still pressed to yours, both of you holding your breath, hearts thundering in the sudden silence.

His eyes met yours—wide, reckless, almost amused despite the interruption.

“Fuck,” you whispered breathlessly.

Cook smirked, pressing a final heated kiss to your swollen lips before stepping back just enough for you to slide down shakily from the counter. He adjusted his jacket lazily, looking entirely too smug given the situation.

“Better behave, sweetheart,” he drawled quietly, voice rich with dark amusement. “Daddy’s home.”

You flushed deeply, shooting him a glare as you straightened your clothes. He laughed softly, eyes sparkling wickedly.

And just like that, the spell between you broke—but you knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Because the way Cook looked at you—raw, possessive, hungry—promised this was only the beginning of something dangerous and all-consuming.

Something neither of you could walk away from.

Your father’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, steady, oblivious to the firestorm still raging in your veins.

You jerked your hoodie straight, cheeks blazing hot, and shot Cook a panicked glare. His smirk only widened, eyes dark with amusement and something more dangerous—hunger. The bastard had the nerve to casually lean back against the counter, posture relaxed, unbothered, as though your father’s sudden arrival wasn’t about to shatter the room apart.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, air tight with tension. You sucked in a shaky breath, heart hammering painfully in your chest.

Your father rounded the corner, brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes landed on Cook. Surprise flickered briefly across his face, quickly replaced by wary suspicion.

“James Cook,” he said slowly, voice edged with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Cook grinned easily, all cocky charm and lazy confidence. “Evening, Chief,” he drawled smoothly. “Just returning something your daughter dropped last night. She invited me in for a bit.”

You shot Cook a sharp glare, skin prickling with heat. He met your gaze head-on, eyes glittering with silent laughter, utterly unapologetic.

Your dad glanced at you, brows raised questioningly. “What’d you drop?”

“Wallet,” you mumbled quickly, holding it up as proof, praying your voice didn’t betray how badly your nerves were shredded.

Your father nodded slowly, still clearly suspicious but not openly hostile. Yet.

“Right,” he said, tone carefully neutral. He studied Cook with narrowed eyes, scanning him head to toe like he was cataloging every possible threat. “Been a while, Cook. Haven’t seen your name on my desk in a few years. Keeping yourself out of trouble?”

Cook chuckled softly, tipping his chin up defiantly, arms folded casually across his chest. “Doing my best, sir,” he said, managing to sound both respectful and mocking at the same time. “Turns out even I can learn to behave.”

Your dad snorted, unconvinced. “Yeah, well. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He turned his attention back to you, frowning thoughtfully. “Dinner’s almost ready. You staying, Cook?”

Your eyes snapped up sharply, heart stuttering.

“No,” you blurted immediately, panic tightening your throat. “He’s just—”

Cook cut you off smoothly, voice dripping honeyed politeness. “I’d love to, Chief. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your jaw clenched, panic clawing up your chest. Your father merely nodded, already distracted, clearly oblivious to the storm brewing in your eyes.

“Good. Set another plate, honey,” he said to you, turning back toward the stairs. “I’ll be down in ten.”

You glared murderously at Cook as soon as your dad was out of earshot. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Cook grinned wolfishly, stepping close enough to lower his voice. “Eating dinner with your family. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Why?”

His smile softened slightly, thumb brushing against your lower lip before you could jerk away. “Because it drives you fucking crazy.”

You flushed deeply, shoving his hand away, hissing quietly, “Behave yourself.”

He laughed, soft and rich and darkly amused. “You don’t really want me to.”

He was right—and that scared you more than anything.

Dinner was excruciating.

The table was set, plates gleaming under the soft glow of overhead lights. The scent of roast chicken and garlic potatoes filled the dining room, warm and comforting, sharply contrasted by the tense, crackling air that surrounded you. You sat stiffly across from Cook, your father at the head of the table, oblivious to the charged atmosphere simmering just beneath the surface.

Every breath felt labored. Your thighs pressed tightly together beneath the table, heart skittering every time Cook’s eyes flicked your way, knowing and smug and so maddeningly patient.

He made polite small talk with your dad, his answers respectful, thoughtful, utterly convincing—if you didn’t know better, you’d almost believe he was genuinely reformed.

But beneath the table, hidden from your father’s view, Cook was anything but polite.

His knee nudged yours lightly, deliberately, a silent taunt. You clenched your jaw, ignoring the flutter in your belly. His leg pressed closer, warm, solid muscle against your thigh, and you shifted nervously, breath hitching in your throat.

You shot him a warning glare. He stared back with open, wicked amusement, sipping his water calmly.

“—And we still can’t pin him down,” your father was saying, oblivious to your internal crisis. “Spider-Man. Half the force thinks he’s a hero. The other half thinks he’s a menace.”

Cook raised his brows, feigning innocent curiosity. “And what do you think, Chief?”

Your father snorted softly, shaking his head. “He’s dangerous. Reckless. You don’t fight crime with masks and theatrics. It doesn’t work. He’ll end up getting someone hurt—someone innocent.”

Cook’s eyes flashed briefly, lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Sounds personal.”

“It is,” your dad said firmly. “I’ve seen too many vigilantes end up dead—or worse, getting others killed.”

A charged silence hung in the air. You glanced up sharply, breath held, heart pounding, sensing Cook tense subtly beside you. His knee pressed harder against your thigh, fingers gripping his fork a fraction too tightly.

“You disagree?” your dad asked Cook, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Cook paused, then smiled faintly, leaning back casually. “Not my place, sir. Just sounds like a bloke who wants to help.”

Your father shook his head, scoffing quietly. “You’re naive if you believe that.”

Cook didn’t answer. Instead, beneath the table, his hand found your thigh, fingertips tracing lightly, dangerously, up along bare skin. Your breath caught sharply, eyes flying wide, fingers tightening around your knife.

You shot him a panicked glare, mouth silently shaping a desperate, furious “stop.”

He ignored you, gaze fixed calmly on your father as though nothing unusual was happening—as though he wasn’t sliding his hand higher, teasing the soft skin of your inner thigh, thumb circling lightly, making your pulse spike dangerously.

You swallowed hard, struggling to keep your breathing even, panic and arousal twisting violently together. Your cheeks burned, chest heaving slightly, but you couldn’t move—not without alerting your father.

Cook’s hand slid higher, bold and shameless, thumb grazing dangerously close to the soaked fabric of your underwear. You bit your lip so hard it hurt, body trembling slightly, unable to think or speak or breathe.

Your dad was talking again, oblivious, voice muffled by the blood roaring in your ears. Cook’s thumb brushed deliberately across the damp cotton between your thighs, gentle pressure enough to make your breath hitch audibly.

You shot up abruptly, chair scraping loudly across the hardwood floor.

“Sorry,” you gasped, voice shaking badly. “I—I need some air.”

You stumbled away from the table without waiting for a response, legs trembling beneath you, heart racing violently. You barely made it to the kitchen before Cook was suddenly behind you, hands steadying your waist, turning you gently to face him.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, voice soothing despite the filthy smirk on his lips. “Just breathe.”

You stared at him helplessly, heart pounding in your throat, anger and desire swirling chaotically within you.

“You’re an asshole,” you whispered breathlessly.

He smiled softly, leaning in until his lips brushed yours in a featherlight caress.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, thumb tracing your bottom lip slowly. “But you fucking love it.”

You wanted to deny it, but instead, you surged forward—deja vu—kissing him desperately, hands fisting in his jacket, unable to help yourself. He growled softly against your mouth, deepening the kiss, pinning you against the kitchen counter with his hips, grinding slowly against you until your mind went blissfully blank.

You knew he was trouble. You knew he was dangerous. You knew this could destroy you.

And yet, as Cook kissed you like you were oxygen, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

Not even a little.

The world returned slowly, in scattered fragments—your senses coming back online, grounding you piece by trembling piece.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, echoing through the hazy, half-lit kitchen. Cook’s breathing was rough, uneven, matching your own shaky rhythm. His forehead pressed against yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as your heart soared recklessly.

You forced your eyes open, blinking slowly at him through heavy, dazed lashes. He looked back at you, eyes darkened to deep oceanic blue, glazed with lust but softened by something deeper—something tender, unguarded, and achingly raw.

“I have to go,” he whispered reluctantly, voice thick and rasping with regret. His thumb traced your jaw gently, lingering on the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. You shivered involuntarily, heat flooding your cheeks, but nodded wordlessly.

“Yeah,” you murmured softly. “You should.”

But neither of you moved.

He sighed quietly, pressing one final, lingering kiss to your forehead, lips warm and comforting. “Better do it before I lose the nerve,” he murmured.

You laughed weakly. “Cook? Losing his nerve? Impossible.”

He smiled faintly, sadness ghosting at the edges. “Only when it comes to you.”

His hand found yours, warm fingers entwining gently, and he tugged softly, guiding you back toward the dining room. The table was empty now, dishes cleared, your father already disappearing upstairs, leaving you both blessedly alone again.

Cook released your hand reluctantly, taking a small step away as your father’s footsteps echoed briefly from the second floor.

Your dad appeared briefly at the top of the staircase, glancing down at you both, completely oblivious to the charged air still humming between you.

“You heading out, Cook?” your dad asked gruffly, exhaustion softening the edges of his usual authoritative tone.

Cook nodded, polite and respectful, a perfect actor once again. “Yeah, Chief. Thanks for dinner.”

Your dad inclined his head slightly, expression neutral. “Keep yourself out of trouble, kid.”

Cook’s mouth curved faintly into something bittersweet. “Trying my best, sir.”

Your father disappeared back upstairs without another word, footsteps retreating quietly, leaving you both standing alone in the hallway.

Silence descended, tense and heavy, the air thick with unspoken words and tangled emotions.

Cook glanced down at you, lips quirking into a faint, uncertain smile. You reached impulsively for his hand, fingers curling gently around his own, tugging softly toward the front door. “Come on,” you murmured, voice barely audible. “I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded wordlessly, following your lead onto the porch.

Outside, the storm had softened to gentle rain, the world painted silver and shadowy blue beneath the muted glow of streetlights. The air smelled fresh and crisp, laced with the scent of wet pavement and rain-slicked leaves. Water dripped rhythmically from the porch roof, tapping softly against the wooden steps.

You both lingered at the edge of the porch, standing close but not quite touching, shoulders brushing lightly in quiet, electric contact.

Finally, you gathered the courage to ask the question burning in your chest. Your voice was quiet, hesitant, slightly unsteady. “Cook?”

He glanced at you, expression suddenly serious, eyes watchful. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard, pulse quickening. “Why now? Why did you decide to come back, after all this time?”

He sighed, looking away briefly, tension rippling across his jaw. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, wrestling silently with himself.

Finally, he turned fully toward you, voice low, rich with quiet vulnerability. “I don’t fucking know,” he admitted softly. “Been running for years, trying to forget—Effy, this city, you. Thought if I stayed away long enough, it’d stop hurting. But it didn’t. Just kept getting worse. Kept fucking haunting me.”

Your heart ached at the quiet anguish threaded through his words. You reached out instinctively, fingers brushing gently against his arm, offering silent comfort. “Cook—”

He shook his head slowly, pressing on, eyes burning into yours. “Then I heard about what happened last night. That mugger—he almost—” He swallowed roughly, voice thick with suppressed emotion. “Couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you, and me not being there.”

He stepped closer, hand cupping your cheek tenderly, thumb tracing softly across your lips. “I just needed to see you again. Had to make sure you were alright. Thought I could handle it, thought I’d be fine just looking. But the second I saw you…” He laughed softly, bitterly. “I fucking knew I was done for.”

Your breath caught sharply, eyes stinging suddenly. You leaned helplessly into his touch, whispering shakily, “Why didn’t you say anything before? Why hide?”

He smiled sadly. “Didn’t want to hurt you, love. Thought you’d be better off without my chaos. Without my bullshit.”

You shook your head fiercely. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me.”

He chuckled softly, stepping even closer, voice barely audible. “I know. Learned that the hard way.”

You stare at him, heart hammering painfully, words caught somewhere in your throat. The rain fell softly around you, droplets sliding gently down your cheeks, tracing cool paths against heated skin.

He leaned in slowly, eyes searching yours. “Can I kiss you one last time tonight?” he whispered softly, almost pleading.

You nodded wordlessly, breath trembling.

His lips brushed yours, gentle this time—achingly slow, heartbreakingly sweet. He kissed you like he was savoring every second, every sensation, memorizing the shape of your mouth and the taste of your breath. The world faded away, leaving only the soft sound of rain, the warmth of his touch, and the quiet tenderness of his kiss.

When he finally pulled away, both of you breathless and trembling, he pressed his forehead gently against yours, eyes closed, voice breaking quietly in the fragile space between you.

“You know,�� he murmured softly, almost shyly, “sometimes I wonder what might’ve happened if I'd stayed. If things had been different. If I’d been brave enough to admit how I felt about you sooner. Might’ve had something real. Something good.”

Your heart fluttered helplessly at his quiet confession. “Maybe we still can.”

His eyes opened, startled and soft. He smiled faintly, thumb tracing your cheekbone tenderly. “You deserve better than me.”

“I want you anyway,” you whispered fiercely.

He laughed softly, pulling you into a tight, protective embrace, mouth pressing gently against your temple. “Fuck, you’re stubborn.”

“You like it,” you murmured, smiling into his shoulder.

He squeezed you gently, breathing in deep, savoring your warmth. “Yeah. Reckon I love it, actually.”

You pulled back slightly, heart skipping wildly at his quiet admission. “Cook—”

“Shh,” he interrupted softly, pressing a gentle finger to your lips. “Don’t ruin it. Let me pretend just a bit longer.”

You fell quiet, nodding gently, chest aching sweetly with emotion.

He stepped back slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing softly from your cheek. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmured tenderly.

You smiled gently, whispering, “Goodnight, Cook.”

He walked slowly down the porch steps, pausing briefly at the bottom, glancing back at you, expression softening into something so openly affectionate it stole your breath.

Then, quietly, voice carrying just above the gentle rainfall, he said:

“Always been you, love. From day fucking one.”

And with that, he disappeared into the rainy night, leaving you standing breathless and trembling, chest bursting with warmth, hope, and sweet, aching longing.

You stood quietly on the porch for a long moment, face tilted toward the rain, smiling helplessly into the darkness.

Because despite everything—despite the danger, the chaos, the impossibility—you knew exactly what you wanted.

And tonight, finally, you admitted it fully to yourself:

You wanted James Cook.

Danger, chaos, heartbreak and all.

Forever.

#spider-man more like spider-MANHANDLE ME #with great power comes great irresponsibility #he saves you AND wants to make you cum? a hero of the people #james cook #james cook x reader #james cook x you #skins uk #cook skins #james cook skins #jack o'connell

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band--psycho · 2 months ago

Text

141 x Reader - Them Paying For Your Nails

Thank you for the request @barbersjoy for this request, I really liked doing this type of a request, so please feel free to send anymore like this in! 💛

I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

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These are only my opinions on what the guys would be like, so please no hate!!

Kyle Garrick

He would 100% have an input on your nails, he’d be happy to scroll through Pinterest with you for hours if need be. Searching for the perfect design that you loved.

He wouldn’t care how much they cost either.

“What about this design?” Kyle suggested, leaning over to you slightly so he could show you the nail design he had on his phone.

There was no denying that you absolutely loved them; they were exactly what you’d been looking for…but you also knew that getting a nail set like that wouldn’t exactly be cheap.

“You don’t like them?” He asked, noticing how your smile faltered the longer you looked at the picture.

“I love them, but they’ll be so expensive Kyle,” you answered softly, continuing to scroll through your own phone for inspiration.

“I’ll pay for them,” Kyle said with a smile on his face.

You opened your mouth in an attempt to protest his offer, not because you weren’t grateful but because you felt bad letting him spend that much money on your nails.

But before you could even get a word out, his finger was on your lips, silencing you, “No arguments.”

You knew better than to try and argue with him after that, so the next day you came out of the salon; with not only a brand new set of stunning nails, but also a very proud looking Kyle.

~~~~~~~~

Johnny McTavish

Johnny would happily help you pick a colour for the base of your nail set when you undoubtedly became indecisive of what to choose from; and he’d leave the rest for you to decide unless you were stuck on what to choose from.

It reminded him of when his sisters used to ask for his opinion on such things.

When it comes to paying for them, he would have no problem with agreeing to it.

He loved spoiling you, with whatever you wanted, so if you wanted your nails done he’d happily pay for them.

But I don’t think Johnny would realise how expensive it would be, his sisters never really told him that, think the poor guy could pass out from the shock when he finds out.

“They look beautiful, Bon,” Johnny beamed, mirroring the smile that was on your face.

God how he loved it when you smiled.

“Let’s see if you still think they’re beautiful when you find out how much they cost,” you said softly, you’d already warned him that they weren’t going to be cheap, yet the Scotsman still insisted on paying for them.

A moment you were certain he was regretting as the nail artist told him the price, the colour draining a little from his face.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he muttered, his eyes wide as he looked at the price on the screen, then at you, before looking back at the screen.

“Ye gonna have to persuade Price to give me a raise,” he continued with a soft chuckle, the colour now returning to his face as reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet.

As shocked as he was by the price, it was worth every single penny, because the smile that was on your lips was priceless to him.

~~~~~~~~

Simon Riley

Simon, I don’t think would really be bothered by the colour or design you had on your nails as long as it made you happy.

Much like the other two, he would love spoiling you but unlike Johnny, he knew how expensive the types of nail sets you liked could be.

Would he still pay for it? Of course.

I also imagine him watching what the nail artist was doing, meticulously so.

He would observe every detail, perhaps taking notes on how to do what the nail artist was doing.

“What are you doing?” You questioned, unsure of why Simon was sitting on the chair next to you, with his pocket notebook in hand.

“Taking notes,” he answered simply, as though what he was doing was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why?” You questioned again, making a small frustrated sign slip passed Simon’s lips at your interruption.

“So I can do them for you next time,” was all he said, turning his attention back to quickly writing notes in his notebook.

You couldn’t help a smile from growing on your lips, nor could you stop the heat from rising to your cheeks at his words.

~~~~~~~~

John Price

John would probably not be super phased about what colour or design you got on your nails, although he did prefer more simplistic styles, as long as it made you happy, then he was happy.

But he would probably have a limit on how much he’d pay for them unless you really loved them.

“Hmmm, I don’t know sweetheart,” John began, raising his hand to his bearded chin, pondering the amount of the money this was going to cost him.

To be clear, the money was not the sole reason for his reservations on your design. The main reason was because John knew you. Knew how often you changed your mind on nail designs. You could love it one minute, get them done and then absolutely hate them a few days later.

He just wanted you to be sure that this was the design that you wanted.

He looked over at you, sighing at the sight in front of them.

He knew what you were doing, the pouty bottom lip and puppy dog eyes, something that was like kryptonite to John.

“Sure these are what you want?” He asked, lifting his hand to your cheek.

“I’m sure,” you nodded with a smile.

“Okay,” was all John said, reaching inside his jacket before placing his wallet in your hand.

He knew that you were still probably going to change your mind, but regardless of this, he couldn’t say no to you.

Tagging:

@xacatalepsyx @mermaniaa @fangirlfandomss @book-dragon03 @dulcecreatura @sunrise-willarive @amniotic115 @imdeadontheinside786 @asterionex @pinkyyoshi @yaradigital @euriiverse @eternallyvenus @mrstelford @littlejoyfulthings @s-void @rivwritesiguess

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howlett-dekarios · 6 months ago

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𝙸'𝚖 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜.

▏Worst!Logan Howlett x Reader

▏Summary: Your past boyfriends planted in your brain the idiotic vision of how exactly you're supposed to care about your appearance and how you need to be clean shaved all the time. Logan proves you how a real man should treat his woman.

▏Warnings: just pure fluff | suggestive themes | MDNI

▏Word count: 1,5k

▏A/n: Let's be honest: Logan lived for over 200 years, he can't give a fuck about a little hair on his lover.

You love your late night movie marathons with Logan. These small moments are basically the only ones which aren’t including Wade. At first you two agreed on your friend being the part of it but after he got together with Ness again, you have more time to enjoy yourselves. Talk about nothing while TV is just background noise.

Never before you’ve been feeling so safe. A simple knowledge of Logan being nearby, scent of cigars and his cologne calming your nerves after an exhausting day at work.

The first time you saw this guy you were so sure about him not liking you. His routine reduced to sitting on the couch in complete silence, nodding at you from time to time as a way of showing you his acknowledgement of you living here too.

Of course Wade told you his story. Why he has to stay here, not paying rent which by this point is only secured because of you working your ass off to provide for four people. But with every day Logan showed more and more interest. Not just in you but in trying to be better. Helping with cleaning the dishes or doing groceries. Cooking dinner when you’ve been too tired to even think about eating anything. And soon enough, after one of your girls nights out and him picking you up from bar, he ended up in your bed.

You were so sure that it would only complicate your relationship. Mess the somehow warm bond formed on mutual respect. But you couldn’t have been more wrong. He admitted that from the beginning he has perceived you as the beautiful and kind woman, having absolutely no idea why the hell you’ve still lived with Wade. That he feared about scaring you away by how broken man he was.

And here you are now, laying on his chest slowly falling asleep with a bowl of popcorn on your chest. If that is what home feels like, then you don’t want to ever be anywhere else.

“You with me, love?” You can feel his lovely smirk even though you can’t see it.

“W-what?” His voice woke you up, getting you out of your own head. Looking at the TV you saw a completely different movie playing and you smiled to yourself. Nothing new for you to zone out like this. “Sorry, been somewhere else.”

“I can tell.” His low chuckle was the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

“So, what are we watching now?”

“Dunno, wasn’t paying attention.” It made both of you laugh. For Logan the film was just a background noise, the most perfect and memorable image staged in front of his face. His whole world held tight. His big hand slowly started to move towards your bare leg under the blanket, which immediately tensed you up, moving it further from his grip, wrapping it tightly with the warm covering. “What’s wrong?” His voice grew more stern. It’s not like Logan demands from you to let him touch you, but the fact of how abruptly you retreated,.. he is worried. Maybe he did something wrong.

“Nothing, Lo.” You tried to smile and leave the topic but he didn’t let you.

“Don’t lie to me, princess. What have I done?”

“Nothing!” You assured him, your words honest enough to make him believe you. Something was still off though and Logan made a point of finding out what it is. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You are tense.” A simple observation. He doesn’t need to have heightened senses to know it. How your body is ready to move away. Logan brought your legs closer, trying to caress them once again, but without any luck. “Darling, what’s wrong.” His voice was demanding but still gentle.

“It’s just… I haven’t shaved.” You admitted, embarrassed, trying to somehow hide from him.

In your previous relationships, your exes expected you to be smooth and always shaved. Telling you how it was for the sake of hygiene and woman taking care of herself. Not wanting to be intimate or even touch you because of how disgusted they were by the small light hairs on your body. It root so deeply inside you that even while being single you’ve been getting rid of all your body hair, spending horrendous money on razors and waxing strips.

But because of you having cold, you haven’t been able to go to shop for new ones. You didn’t want to ask Logan to buy you them, feeling ashamed of yourself for not having stocked some. It shouldn’t be his concern nor responsibility to spend money because of your stupidity.

“Come again?” Logan prayed that he just misheard what you’ve just said.

“I haven’t shaved.” You said a bit louder, defeated by the fact he found out. “I know it’s gross and I promise I will-“

But he didn’t let you finish. Switching your places so now he is the one on top of you, looking almost mad.

“Listen to me very carefully, princess.” He caressed your hair gently, putting the string behind your ear. “I do not fucking care.”

Why would he? It’s such a ridiculous thing that absolutely doesn’t change anything. He could imagine why or rather how planted thai bullshit in your head. Some young assholes that dicks weren’t even able to make you cum. But if you really thought that some hair would scare him away, make him not want to touch you, to devour you? Then you really don’t know him well enough.

“You think I don’t wanna do this?” The blanket was thrown away, Logan slowly taking your sweats off, leaving you just in panties. Well now it was clear to him why you so suddenly decided to sleep in them the last few days. His lips gently pressed pecks on your calves and thighs.

“Logan!”

“Shh, darling, now I’m the one who’s speaking.” He wasn’t satisfied until your bare skin was cared with enough time and attention. “Fuck, you’re so perfect. My beautiful little miracle.” His palm caressed your cheek, while he kissed your lips lightly, the gesture full of admiration which made you blush.

“But… I don’t understand.” You’re so confused. This is the opposite of what you’ve been used to in your past relationships. “Boys don’t like… don’t want-“

He shut you with another kiss, other hand firmly holding your thigh.

“Yeah, exactly, baby. These idiots were boys who didn't know how to treat a goddess. I’m the man, sweetheart. I adore you. Every single part of your body. I can’t care less about you being shaved or not. I would love to have those legs around my head any second of the day, you understand?” His eyes were expecting any sort of answer but you were too stunned to ever say anything, so you just nod. “You’re a woman not a child and you don’t need to shave for me, princess. You expect me to be clean shaved?” Your head shook instantly. You loved his hair chest and how soft it was when your face was cuddled into him every morning. “Exactly. If you want to shave because you’re feeling better like that then it’s all fine, but don’t you dare assume that I’m thinking any less of you because you’re not, we clear?”

“I… yes.” You honestly feel like crying. That’s one of the reasons why you loved Logan so bad. How he accepts you in every form, leaving you a choice to decide about yourself.

“Good. I think I need to prove it to you, though.” He teased your inner thigh with his big fingers, leavening a trail of kisses down your neck. “Just so you get it in your little head how this works me up.”

“Lo…” You whined, his touch making you squirm. "I can't-"

“None of this, darling. Too late.”

Week later you wake up, feeling aroused. A nice little thought comes to your mind and you quickly get your hips on both sides of Logan, sitting on his legs and wanting to wake him up with the nice sight. When he fully hardened and you were ready to blow him, his arm stopped you from taking his member in your mouth. You look up confused why the hell you are denied your sweet pleasure.

“Fuck, I’m not shaved, princess.” His voice still rough from sleep, but his eyes are fully focused on you, smart smile undeniable. Teasing you by reminding you about your past stupid insecurity that he already had got rid off.

“Oh shut up, idiot.” You blush a bit, can’t stop yourself from chuckling at that. With a simple shake of head you got back to the work, this time nothing stops your movement.

#worst wolverine #wolverine x you #wolverine x reader #deadpool and wolverine #worst logan #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett #wolverine fluff #logan howlett fluff #worst logan x reader

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storiesoflilies · 22 days ago

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writing prompt. sfw, slight angst. reader is a cursed spirit!

there is a forgotten wedding dress.

it looks like a corpse draped across the pew, with long sleeves of torn and yellowing lace. the trail is crumpled, wrinkled like the face of a centenarian who has seen and heard far too much of life. the church itself is only half-ruined, not broken enough beyond hope, but still bruised. it looked like the place someone was trying so desperately to maintain, but was still powerless against the slow decay of time.

nanami steps through the doorway without a sound.

there is something beautiful about it – its silence. nanami is used to silence. it greets him before the sunrise, kisses his lids and lobes to gently rouse him from his salt-kissed dreams. he wears it like a pea coat full of worn and patched up holes from those who have broken it.

but this is different.

it is an old thing. it holds him in a bated breath, the place between absolute and shattered silence. the sort that stretches on and on forever into the horizon, waiting for something that will never come.

he doesn’t reach for his weapon, there is no need.

the midriff of the dress rises and falls like the crooked, rattly breath of a smoker. nanami approaches slowly, carefully, his shoes echoing against the rotting wood floor. he might have once knelt on one knee in a place just like this, in another life, but he is just an observer here now. the altar is littered with dried, crushed rose petals and vine leaves that also cling to the walls like a web.

there is a woman sitting at the front aisle.

a curse, an apparition. she is – was – young, perhaps around the same age as he is. she looked real and solid, maybe even human, and nanami might have believed that she was, except for the bouquet of red spider lilies that were cast on the floor beside her.

and the fact that they are bleeding.

the smell of iron gets stronger as he approaches. the woman has baby’s-breath and pearls pinned into her hair, and a handkerchief pressed close to her breast. he stops a little behind her, and she turns to look at him with eyes made from obsidian.

nanami swallows.

she looked more like a guest than a bride.

“he’s late.”

she says this without malice. false like plastic, whole in its hope. sharp like grief and ready to bite. nanami does not reply, he doesn’t need to, and she does not speak again. he moves towards the dress, and the air shifts. it becomes something colder, a hint of soft lavender linen playing tricks on his nose.

he doesn’t touch it.

she looks at him expectantly, like she wants him to.

“i made it myself,” she says.

“it’s wonderful,” nanami replies, and he truly means it.

she looks away, bashful, a stem falling to the ground from her hair. he watches it fall, hears that little sound it makes against the wood. a sigh caught in a silent hurricane.

“we were going to be married in the summer,” she murmurs. “on the first sunday of july.”

there is a pause.

“but then the accident happened.”

nanami already knows this story. it was already told to him without words. the battering of hail against a cheap umbrella, in a crushed soda can littering a bedroom floor. every tattered pair of boots left waiting at the door. in the light flickering above his old desk that nobody ever bothered to fix. in the mornings he put on his tie thinking about the end that wouldn’t come. a tragedy so intimate to him that he felt it squeezing through his veins and arteries and into his heart.

the quiet duty of continuing on.

nanami does not say anything reassuring out of obligation. he doesn’t tell her that the man surely must have loved her, because she already knows that.

the woman’s mouth twitches.

her hands tremble, and nanami thinks of butterfly wings. she folds them neatly onto her lap. one of her nails is cracked, a hairline thing. she doesn’t bleed, or seem to notice it.

“why doesn’t he come?”

nanami purses his lips, thinks of an answer.

“some people don’t get to come back, no matter how much you want them to.”

there is a flash of warm brown behind the woman’s eyes, and her face becomes somewhat like the shape of–

his hand instinctively reaches for his blade.

“then, what’s the point of waiting?”

her face returns to normal. the pearls are beginning to spill from her hair and scatter across the floor, clattering like loose teeth. nanami releases a tight breath. his hands slide into his pockets, and he takes a seat a little ways from her.

“it’s the only part of it that’s real.”

“it,” she laughs, a dry and calloused thing. “grief.”

it’s not a question. he wouldn’t question her intelligence, it would be an insult to her otherwise. he closes his eyes, lets the smell of rotten wood and dust and vomit fill his nose. lets the memories of days gone by come flooding in, just for a second. that’s all nanami allows himself. anything more is an indulgence, a mistake he cannot afford. too much feeling is a luxury he could not partake in either, and the same could be said for his dreams.

in the darkness behind his lids, her voice whispers to him. “i keep thinking that if i wait just a little longer, he’ll be here. but i’m just so tired now.”

nanami’s throat tightens. he is not immune to feeling, even if he limits it within himself. he knows that people, even her, need to be told things in a certain way to understand it. gently and plainly, with no room for interpretation.

“you’ve waited long enough, rest.”

maybe that was something the both of them needed. permission to be, to do. the fear of letting go of grief stems from it being let loose into the world, and that hollowness that remains. the question of what now? nanami wonders just how long she has been waiting for. he thinks of how long he has lived for, how long he spent hunched over a desk, and how many moments he has spent alone. he told her to rest, and he will keep going, and that is just the way things are.

when he opens his eyes again, she is gone.

only the bouquet and dress remain, abandoned, left waiting for hands that will never hold them again. the flower petals curl in on themselves, wilting, little babies crying in their cots. nanami stands, pats away the dust from his trousers, sneezing a little, and walks out of the church without looking back.

nanami does not report the curse.

it was only a false alarm, nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. no residual cursed energy to detect.

only an old dress and some memories.

you can buy be a chai latte or commission me here -> ko-fi page.

#eeeeep my first time writing a Nanami piece!!!#nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #jjk angst #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento x reader #nanami #jjk nanami #jjk oneshot #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n

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mapis-putellas · 2 years ago

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Five times you find an excuse to carry Natasha and the one time she asks

Paring: Natasha x you

Words: 4756

Warnings: some swearing i think

You tenderly grip the side of Natasha's thigh to keep it still as you graze the disinfectant wipe over the shallow cut placed just above her knee, your thumb absentmindedly grazing soft circles across the warm skin.

She was sat on the closed toilet seat clad in nothing but her sports bra and underwear, her hand clinging to both your index and middle finger as her eyes watch your every move.

Scrapes and bruises littered seemingly every inch of her pale skin, marring the already scarred, yet still beautiful canvas that sat before you. Some were sunken in and white, old from years of healing. Some were newer, still pink and raised. Each and every one told a different story. Some of which you knew, but most of which you didn't and probably never would.

You didn't necessarily mind honestly. Because all that you cared about right now was the fact she was letting you take care of her. That she'd allowed you to tenderly undress her without a single word of complaint. You had her trust, and if that's was all she was ever willing to give, it would forever be enough.

Not a single word had been spoken between you since she'd gotten home from her latest mission with Steve just twenty short minutes ago, and you weren't in a hurry to break whatever comfortable silence had settled upon you and you knew Natasha wasn't either.

You give the flesh of her thigh a comforting squeeze when a small, pained hitch of breath emits from the back of her throat at the sting the wipe against her skin, giving the damp skin a soft kiss before covering it with a large bandaid.

You then look up at her from your spot knelt between her legs, content to find her green irises already staring right back at you. They looked exhausted. She looked exhausted, and all you wanted to do was scoop her up into your arms and take her to bed.

The sudden shine of her eyes is what halts you in your tracks.

It was oh so rare to see Natasha cry. To witness her completely drop her walls and allow you to see the true pain she always seems to mask without an issue. It was a sight that has your own throat constricting and without a word, you place your hands underneath her armpits and coax her off of the closed toilet seat and onto your lap.

She straddles you, legs tight around your hips as arms rise to settle around your neck. Your own arms settle around her shaking frame, one hand cupping the back of her head as the other traces soothing circles over the bare expanse of skin.

"I've got you, baby." You finally speak, nuzzling your nose into her neck and taking in soothing scent of slight sweat and vanilla. Your lips press a soft kiss to the skin as you pull away just slightly, tightening your hold around Natasha to reassure her you wouldn't be letting go until she requested it.

She was trembling in your arms, tears hot against your neck, yet her sobs of grief don't make a single sound. Natasha had always been a silent cryer. No matter the circumstance; no matter the situation, it was quiet. All of the time. And you absolutely hated it.

She deserved to feel her grief just as loud and freely as everyone else, yet she fails to agree. She'd never outrightly told you so, but the look in her face as you'd spoken those words had been enough. And so you simply hold her. Love her. Cherish her, hoping that one day she'd realise she deserves the entire world.

Natasha soon stills in your embrace, those once barely audible hitching breaths easing into just quiet sniffles. With a soft kiss to her shoulder to let her know you had her, you place a hand beneath of each of her thighs and haul yourself to your feet.

It was an easy feet considering her slight frame, but that doesn't stop the quiet squeak of surprise that escapes her lips as you bounce her up in your arms slightly to get a better grip, forearms slipping beneath her behind as opposed to her thighs as you carry her through to your shared bedroom.

"I've got you, baby."

"Babe, can you help?!"

At the sound of your girlfriends voice, your eyes instinctively flicker away from the tv and towards the kitchen doorway. You don't wait for her to ask again as you pause the show you were both currently binging before rising to your feet, shuffling through to the kitchen where you were greeted with the sight of Natasha trying, yet failing to reach something on the top shelf of the cupboard.

She was clad in nothing but one of your oversized shirts and underwear, her typical attire after a long day at work.

She jumps, and you couldn't help but snort in amusement when she doesn't even come close to reaching the desired item. She glances back at the sound of your stifled laugh, an unamused look appearing on her face in the form of a pout. Without a word, you walk towards her and cup her cheeks before pressing your lips against the warm skin of her forehead. She all but melts into your touch, and you allow your lips to linger just a few seconds longer than normal because of that.

As you pull away and Natasha falls against your chest, you look up to see the item she'd been attempting to grab was a bag of popcorn. You knew you could easily reach up and grab it for her. After all, you weren't exactly small. But a part of you wanted Natasha to be able to grab it herself. She was miss independent. Always had been and you knew she'd appreciate it if you didn't treat her like she was incapable.

With that in mind, you give her body one last squeeze before bending down and wrapping your arms underneath her backside.

Natasha glances down at you with an adorably confused expression on her face, and you press an affectionate kiss to her clothed chest before standing up straight and bringing her with you. She lets out a undignified yelp at the unexpected action, her arms all but clinging to your head as it settles in between her breasts.

Keeping your arms hooked tightly beneath her butt, you bounce her up slightly wanting her to be able to reach her popcorn without fearing she'd fall.

"What are you doing?" She laughs as she looks down at you. You were greeted with an adorably tiny double chin, and you couldn't help but nuzzle your nose against the soft flesh before gesturing with your head towards the popcorn.

"Grab your popcorn baby." You coax, and Natasha rolls her eyes fondly as she releases you with one arm and successfully grabs her snack. Once it was in her grasp, you don't put her down. You simply allow her to slide down your body so her legs were hooked around your waist. Your arms remain beneath her ass, and you give it a playful squeeze earning yourself a quiet squeak of surprise.

"Snuggle time?" You ask, and Natasha sends you a playful glare before nodding her head and allowing you to carry her back through to the living room.

"Nat? Are you coming to bed baby? It's late and-" the remainder of your words get stuck in your throat when you fully take in the sight that greets you. There your girlfriend was, sprawled out on the gym floor, still clad in her workout gear, fast asleep. She was curled up on her side, hands tucked beneath her chin with legs curled up against her chest.

Slipping into the large room through the small gap you'd created, you kneel down next to her and rest a gentle hand on her bare side. She doesn't make a peep at the touch, telling you that she must be exhausted because Natasha was notoriously known for being one of the lightest sleepers ever.

"Oh baby..." you trial off, unsure as to why she'd allowed herself to fall asleep here when there was a perfectly good bed available just upstairs. It was past eleven at night now, way too late for her to still be working out but getting that into her head was proving to be exceedingly difficult.

You contemplate your next actions for a few silent moments as you stare down at your sleeping girlfriend, not wanting to wake her but unsure if you were able to carry her such a far distance to your shared room. It wasn't that she heavy. In fact, when she was awake you could carry her miles because at least then she was holding up some of her own weight. But she was asleep now, and you knew she'd be a complete dead weight.

Knowing you had no other choice, you carefully manoeuvre her onto her back and situate yourself between her legs before leaning down and placing your chest against her own. Her arms seem to instinctively rise to cling to your shirt, and you couldn't help but smile at the action as you hook one arm beneath her back, placing the hand of the other against the back of her head before easing her into a sitting position.

She was now straddling your lap, head heavy against your shoulder as her hands dangle limply over your shoulders. You take a few moments to prepare yourself before hooking an arm beneath her backside and rising to your knees. Two arms would probably be easier, but you needed that to keep her chest flush against your own so she didn't fall backwards.

With a quiet grunt, you lift one leg so your foot was planted firmly on the padded floor before using all the strength in you to rise fully to your feet. You manage the task with no more than a small wobble, and you silently congratulate yourself as you gently bounce Natasha up into your arms so she'd be more supported.

"What?" You hear her grunt in confusion as her legs instinctively tighten around your waist, and you shush her quietly as you rest a tender hand on the back of her head.

"It's just me, pumpkin. Go back to sleep." You murmur into her ear as you muzzle your nose into her neck, and Natasha let's out a heavy sigh before once again falling limp against you.

Once you were sure she wouldn't wake again, you bring both arms back beneath her behind and begin making your way out of the gym and towards the elevator. You silently curse Tony for making the compound so freaking big as the sliding doors open, arms already aching as you step inside and use your elbow to press the button to the floor your shared room was on.

Natasha, just like you'd suspected, was now a dead weight in your arms, legs limp around your waist and head heavy against your shoulder. You could feel the soft breaths of her quiet exhales against your neck as she sleeps peacefully against you, and you allow yourself to take comfort in the feeling as the doors slide open allowing you to stop out.

The journey to your room was thankfully quick, and you gently bounce Natasha up again so she was at less of a risk of falling when you release her momentarily with one of your arms to type in the code. Soon, you were inside your room, and you let out a quiet sigh of relief as you place one of your knees against the mattress before cupping the back of her head and easing her down onto the bed.

Knowing your next task -stripping her of her tight work out gear and into some comfy pyjamas- would be exceedingly more difficult than the last, you decide to take a few moments and climb into bed next next to her. She seems to instinctively sense your presence, curling up against your chest and throwing one of her legs over your waist, her hand slipping underneath your shirt to rest against the bare skin of your back.

You immediately return the embrace, the hand of the arm acting as her pillow grazing gentle patters against her back whilst your other hand trials affectionately just beneath the waistband of her yoga pants.

With the knowledge that you wouldn't be moving for the remainder of the night, you place a tender kiss to her forehead and murmur a quiet I love you against her hairline before allowing your own eyes to flicker closed too.

When you hear Natasha sigh for the third time in just a few minutes, you force yourself to look away from your book and stare at her with a single eyebrow raised. You were both lounged on the couch, Natasha at one end with her blanket and laptop, and you on the other with your book. You'd both just eaten dinner -Mac and cheese courtesy of Yelena, and you had both taken it upon yourselves to have a few minutes of personal time before you inevitably ended up snuggled together.

When you receive no response to your silent question, you bookmark your place in your book before setting it down onto the coffee table.

"What's wrong miss pouty pants?" You tease affectionately as you poke her with your foot, and the red head sends you an unimpressed glare before seemingly reluctantly bringing her attention back to her laptop. Her hands were frozen on the keyboard, and you could see by the reflection in her glasses that was was working on what appears to be yet another mission report.

Understand her frustration, -because this was the fifth document today, you rise to your knees and shuffle over to her, wedging yourself in between her body and the back of the couch.

Your cheek settles on her shoulder, and though she hesitates, you do eventually feel her cheek come to rest atop of your head. You smile at the action as your arm settles around her waist, fingers creeping beneath her shirt to rest against bare skin.

"When do these need to be in?" You question quietly, and you feel her stomach rise and fall as she takes a deep breath.

"Tuesday." She responds, and you hum in acknowledgement as you reach forward to save the document before closing the laptop.

"What? No! What are you-" she attempts to grab the computer as you reach over to set it on the coffee table next to your book.

"Baby, it's only Friday. You have time." You attempt to assure her as you grab her hand, but Natasha simply shoves you away from her and attempts to make a grab for her computer. Her fingers skim it before you decide enough was enough. Without a word, you rise from the couch, grab Natasha by the underarms and haul her up with you.

She lets out an undignified yelp her chest collides with your own, "What the heck are-"

"No more computers for Natasha today," you interrupt her as you bounce her up in your arms, your arms beneath her backside to keep her supported as you carry her out of the room and up the stairs. She squirms relentlessly throughout the entire journey making it much harder and longer than it needed to be, but you eventually make it upstairs without dropping her on her ass.

"I will kick your ass," she warns in an almost silent growl as you kick your bedroom door open. "Put me down, right no-ahhh!" you toss her onto your shared bed. She glares at you as you climb in next to her, placing a hand on either side of her head.

"What in the actual fu-mhhhfff."

You smirk against her lips when you feel her kiss back without hesitation, knowing you had her right where you wanted her.

Though the sight in front of you was becoming rather amusing, you knew for a fact that if you didn't put a stop to it now, Natasha would hand Tony's ass to him served on a silver platter.

You see, she was sick. And not just a little sick, but a full on fever and flu that had left her so congested she sounded like a duck when she talks. She needed to be in bed. You knew that also, but convincing her was a quiet the fucking task.

You'd attempted to get her into bed, but she'd simply pushed you into it instead, muttering -if you like the bed so damn much, you get in it- underneath her breath before storming out of the room.

Ten minutes later, you were in the meeting room, and the first five minutes had been fine. Natasha had seemingly been able to get herself under control and not a single peep was made. That had changed rather abruptly when Yelena had teasingly poked her sisters red nose, and Natasha, with a sharp glare towards the blonde, had sneezed four times in a row earning herself a look of disgust from Tony.

"Listen red, you're gross and contagious. You're going to make everyone else gross and contagious if you don't get out of here." Tony attempts to be nice about it as he shields himself with a piece of paper, but the damage had already been done if the look of pure anger on Natasha's face was anything to go by.

"You're a man. That automatically makes you gross and contagious. No one likes you and your stupid tin suit so shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you." She growls, and Tony winces as he sends you a helpless look.

You shrug a little helplessly yourself, not knowing what to do without angering the red head further. As they continue to bicker, you feel a poke to your arm. You look over and see Yelena staring at you with a smirk. It was clear to see she was amused also, but there was a hint of concern in her eyes that wasn't hard for you to miss.

"How much do you like your face?" She asks, and you frown in confusion as you glance between the red head and her sister.

"Quite a lot." You admit, and Yelena clicks her tongue in thought for a second before turning back to you.

"I won't be able to carry her myself, but we have more of a chance if it's two against one." She murmurs, and you hum in thought as you watch Natasha take yet another step towards a terrified Tony.

You knew this may be your only option to get her out of here. After all, it was becoming increasingly obvious that she wouldn't willingly leave herself and there was no way you could talk her out of whatever this was when the threat -Tony- was still within close proximity. You couldn't exactly ask him to leave either, because this was his building.

"Okay. I got her arms. You get her legs." You tell her as you shrug off your jacket, and Yelena nods as she rises to feet and shakes out her arms as it preparing for battle. You snort slightly at the sight, but do the same knowing that by the time you're done, you may no longer be alive.

Yes, Natasha was small, but she was still a former assassin, probably stronger than you and Yelena put together. This was not going to be fun for any of you.

With Yelena close behind, you make your way over to Natasha, stopping just a few feet away. Tony see's you and his eyes light up, proving as a temporary distraction for Natasha who looks confused at the abrupt change of emotion.

Without warning, you lurch forward and grab the red head by the waist, trapping her arms beneath your own as you lift her from her feet. An undignified yelp was your response, and Yelena was quick to step in and grab her flailing legs, wrapping her arms around her calves and effectively pinning them against her own chest.

When it becomes clear she was trapped, Natasha squirming ups a tenfold and you grunt slightly as you begin carrying her out of the room. "What the fuck? Let me go! Stop fucking manhandling me you fucking assholes!"

"Thank you Y/n and mini Romanoff. Bye red!" You hear Tony call, any both you and Yelena share a smirk as you successfully manage to carry the unhappy Russian into the hallway.

"No sex for a week! A month! Yelena I'm stealing your vest and setting it on fire! This is not fair! Let me go!"

Yelena looks mildly disgusted at Natasha's words towards you, but when she hears the threat towards her vest, she looks as though she may cry. When she meets your eyes, you shake your head, silently letting her know Natasha didn't mean it, and whilst she seems doubtful, she does nod her own head in understanding.

Soon, you were in the elevator, a much needed break for your arms and legs because this was way worse than any workout you'd ever done.

"Nat, you're sick," you start as you tighten grip around her. By now, she was becoming increasingly close to getting herself out of your grip, and that would not be good for either of you. "You know what Tony's like with germs. And you need to be in bed. Preferably with some medicine and soup. Doesn't she lena?"

Before Yelena could get a word in edgeways, Natasha throws her head back, and it collides painfully with your nose. You immediately see stars at the action, your eyes burning with the familiar sensation of tears that immediately escape and fall down your cheeks.

Fucking hell that hurt. What was her head made of? Cement?!

Natasha, thankfully, seems unaware of what she'd done, but Yelena see's it and cackles. The elevator doors open, and without a word, you yank Natasha's legs out of her grip, set her down onto the floor, press a kiss to her head to let her know it wasn't her you were mad at before storming off.

"Y/n, no! I'm sorry." You hear Yelena cry. "Don't leave me here with her!!!"

It was your turn to laugh. Serves her fucking right.

A week later, you still had two black eyes.

When the clock strikes one AM and there was still no sign of Natasha, you let out a quiet sigh and kick off the blankets before climbing out of bed. You shiver slightly at the coldness that greets you, pulling on the closest hoodie you could find. It just so happened to be one of the many oversized ones that Natasha's owns.

It falls to your mid thigh and just about covers your ass. You smile in amusement the sight, knowing that this very hoodie all but buries Natasha and falls to her knees.

With a fond eye roll at your tiny girlfriend, you leave the room with the intention of figuring out just where she'd disappeared off too. Instinct tells you she was in the very place you'd left her after heading to bed yourself about four hours ago, and when you reach her office, you figure yourself to be correct.

There Natasha was, still sat at her desk, glasses perched on her nose as her tired eyes flicker over her computer screen. Next to her sat at least three empty cups of coffee, and you sigh at the sight, knowing she'd done everything in her power to keep herself awake despite being exhausted.

Pushing the door open further, you step inside and lightly clear your throat to let your presence be known. Natasha looks up at the sound, her lips quirking up into a small smile at the sight of you in her clothes. It didn't happen often due to your size difference, but either way she absolutely adored it.

"Hi baby." she greets tiredly, and you hum as you step closer and perch yourself at the end of her desk. Her hand immediately settles on your thigh, and you set your own on top of it, trailing the pad of your thumb over the soft skin.

"Hi you. How are you getting on?" You decide not to bombard her with the why aren't you in bed question just yet, knowing it wouldn't do either of you any good.

Natasha sighs as she uses her free hand to pull off her glasses, setting them down next to her still open laptop, "Good. Nearly done actually." She tells you somewhat proudly, and you couldn't help but smile as you gently reach forward to cup her cheek before pressing your lips in a tender kiss against the spot between her eyebrows. Her eyes flutter closed at the gentle affection, allowing you to linger for a little while longer than normal.

"It's late pumpkin." Is all you say as you reluctantly pull away, gentle fingers tucking her hair behind her ear, and Natasha sighs quietly as she nods her head. Her eyes flicker between you and her computer, and you sense that maybe there was something she wants to say but can't quite bring herself to do so. Not wanting to push her, or able to read her mind much to your dismay, you simply perch yourself on her lap and wrap an arm around her shoulder.

Knowing this wasn't something you did frequently nor often, Natasha was quick to wrap her arms around your waist and tuck her head just beneath your chin. In response, you cup the back of her head with your free hand, nuzzling your nose against her hair and taking in the comforting smell of vanilla.

About fifteen minutes pass before you feel her breathing deepen signalling she was growing dangerously close to falling asleep, and knowing her bed would be much more comfortable than her chair, you kiss her head before pulling yourself away from her and rising to your feet.

Natasha looks up at you with an unhappy frown as she grabs the material of your hoodie and tugs in a futile attempt at pulling you back down to her lap.

"No baby," you shake your head as you pry her hands off of you, "let's go to bed, okay?" You attempt to coax, and Natasha let's out a rather quiet, unhappy whine as she attempts to reach for you again.

"Nat, baby, bed. Your chair won't be comfortable." You strive to persuade, bending down and cupping her face in your hands. Tired eyes blink back up at you for just a moment before she pouts and holds out her arms, and you go to take her hands, assuming she wanted your help standing up.

Natasha, however, frowns and shakes her head, only furthering your confusion.

"What is it, my love?"

You watch as hesitation peeks in through the sleepiness lingering in her eyes for just a moment before she swallows heavily and once again holds out her arms. Her lips part, a barely audible question slipping through.

"Carry me?"

It was said so quietly, so nervously it was obvious she was scared that you'd say no. Of course you'd never. Not once has she ever asked you to carry her before. Each and every time you'd done so, you'd been the one to initiate it and not a single complaint had ever slipped from her lips.

It leaves you to believe that maybe, just maybe, there had been many times she'd wanted to ask, but was simply just too scared. Heart melting, you place your hands underneath her armpits and tug her to feet.

"Of course I'll carry you baby. You never have to ask." You murmur, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before bending down slightly and wrapping your arms beneath her behind. You stand, bringing her with you, and almost immediately her legs hook tightly around her waist, arms loose around your neck as her small hands tangle through the baby hair at the nape of your neck.

Keeping one of your arms beneath her for support, you rest the other across her back and begin to carry her out of the room.

"I love you." You hear her murmur, and you smile softly as you give her body a squeeze.

"I love you more than you could ever imagine."

#soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #sickfic #natasha romanoff x you #natasha x y/n #natasha romanoff #black widow #fluff #marvel #yelena belova #natasha and yelena

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theskywithin · 2 months ago

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SOUL ASTROLOGY - CHECK YOUR RISING SIGN

The First House is the starting line of the soul, the moment your essence chose to return. It’s where you re-entered the world and agreed, once again, to exist in form. This house reveals not just where you landed, but how you chose to appear. The sign on the cusp describes the energetic style you needed to embody in that first breath, not just physically, but spiritually. It holds the imprint of your earliest instinct: the moment your soul said, “I am here.”

First House Aries

You came back mid-impact. Not to conquer, but to survive the silence that once swallowed you whole. There was a life where you waited, bit your tongue, folded your light into something small and acceptable and it broke you. Not all at once, slowly. Quietly. By the time you realized you were gone, there was no one left to scream. So this time, you came as a rupture. A soul that refused to ask permission to exist. A force not born of rage, but reclamation. This rising isn’t loud. It’s loud compared to what came before, the lifetimes of stillness, of staying, of giving your place away. You carry velocity now. Urgency. Instinct sharp enough to cut through the fog. You move before thinking because depth once delayed you into disappearance. People think you are impulsive. But they don’t see the ghost behind your momentum, the one who never made it past the threshold. You are the crack in the ice, sudden, sharp, undeniable, not here to destroy the surface, only to prove something lives beneath it.

First House Taurus

You entered this life like someone relearning trust through texture. As if the soul had been shattered in noise, and needed to find its way back by touching what was real. This rising wasn’t chosen to stand still. It was chosen to feel again, in the small, silent ways no one else sees. You didn’t come back to chase the world, you came to witness it. To hold beauty long enough that it imprints. Because you’ve known too many lives where everything slipped through your fingers. Where love was taken before it rooted. Where the body was rushed, the moment was missed, and nothing was ever yours long enough to sink in. This rising carries the memory of vanishing, not your own, but of everything you loved. So this time, you chose to become the keeper. The vessel. The one who stays. The one who remembers how the light fell that day. How the warmth lingered. You didn’t come back to be untouched, you came to be lasted in. Like a song that doesn’t end. Like the place a soul returns to when it finally wants to rest.

First House Gemini

You came back needing options. Needing space to split, to shapeshift. Not because you are scattered, because you remember what it was like to be trapped in one story for too long. This rising isn’t about wit or charm. It’s about escape. It’s the soul learning how to slip through the cracks before it’s caged. You’ve worn masks before, masks that calcified, that became prisons. This time, you made yourself changeable so no one could pin you down long enough to rewrite you. You move quickly, but not out of haste, out of memory. Memory of what it cost you to stay too long in one room, one role, one truth. Now you carry a thousand windows inside you. You translate the world as a form of survival. You ask questions to loosen the hold of what once claimed to be absolute. You didn’t come here to be known in whole. You came to be wind through a keyhole, the whisper behind the locked door, the flicker that reminds the soul: you are never just one thing.

First House Cancer

You came back to hold the memory of where you were torn from. This rising is the imprint of rupture. Of a soul who remembers the womb as a country it can’t return to. Who remembers being left, or taken, or forgotten, even if no one ever told the story out loud. And so you became the story. You became the echo. The pulse beneath the skin that says, I am still looking for where it’s safe to love without leaving. They say you are sensitive. What they don’t see is that your sensitivity is a radar. A sonar for threat, for absence, for the moment affection becomes danger, or silence becomes goodbye. You learned to read the air because you had to. You felt everything because not feeling would have broken you faster. This rising doesn’t come to nurture. It comes to remember what the body lost before the mind could name it. To build a shell strong enough to carry what was never buried. You came back as a tide in disguise still searching for the original shore.

First House Leo

You came back with the memory of being erased. Not gently, entirely. A soul once dimmed until it forgot its own outline. A voice once silenced so long it stopped reaching for sound. You remember lives where being visible was dangerous, where being powerful meant being punished. And so this time, the soul said: I will not disappear. This rising isn’t ego, it’s reclamation. You built yourself into something that cannot be ignored. Not because you needed applause, but because you needed proof that you were real, that you had heat, that you could take up space and still be loved. People see your light and think it’s confidence. But they don’t see what it costs you to burn like this. They don’t know the ache of wondering whether love only lasts as long as the glow. Whether you are anything without the fire. You didn’t come here to perform. You came to resurrect. To walk back into the world wearing the radiance that was once taken from you, not as decoration, but as defiance. You are the star that learned to light itself.

First House Virgo

You came back through a narrow doorway. The kind that scrapes your edges clean as you pass through. The kind that leaves no room for excess, distortion, or noise. Because this time, the soul said: Only what’s essential comes with me. This rising is not precision. It’s repentance. It’s the memory of having been careless once, with a heart, with a truth, with something you didn’t know how to carry. So now you return with sharp eyes and careful hands. You weigh every word. You measure every movement. Not for approval, for atonement. You don’t scatter, you distill. You refine your presence like something holy, knowing how easily things spoil when they’re left unattended. People think you’re trying to get it right. But they don’t see what you lost when you got it wrong. This isn’t about purity. It’s about recovery. A soul trying to stitch back together the thread it once severed. You didn’t come here to be flawless. You came here to walk barefoot across the broken glass of what still haunts you and make something sacred out of the pieces.

First House Libra

You came back through the doorway of relationship, not for romance, but for reckoning. A soul still echoing with the memory of connection turned cage. Of closeness that cost you your name. This rising isn’t about beauty. It’s about negotiation with absence. You learned, long ago, how to survive love that asked you to disappear. How to smile while vanishing. How to give more than you had, just to keep the tether intact. So this time, you chose to arrive with a face they could love. A voice that knew how to bend. A shape that could fit. But beneath the grace is calculation , not to manipulate, but to manage proximity. You learned how to stay just close enough to be needed, just distant enough to be safe. People think you fear conflict. But what you actually fear is abandonment dressed as intimacy. You’ve lived through the moment connection turned, without warning, into collapse. And now you know how to read the sky for storms. You didn’t come back to be chosen. You came back to remember how to choose yourself even when the cost is being alone. You are the silence between yes and no, learning how to say I without losing we.

First House Scorpio

You came back wrapped in shadow because too much light once burned you

alive. This rising isn’t about secrecy. It’s about sovereignty. The memory of lives where you were seen too clearly, too quickly, by hands that didn’t know how to hold what they uncovered. There are some betrayals so deep the soul builds a fortress it forgets how to leave. And so you returned this time invisible in plain sight, a face that reveals nothing, eyes that watch everything. You don’t offer your truth. You bury it. Not out of fear, but protection. Because once, you gave too much too soon. You opened and were emptied. You trusted and were torn. So now, you hold your essence like a sealed archive. If they want access, they’ll have to earn it. Bleed for it. Wait. People feel your depth and call it intensity. What they don’t see is the discipline it takes to carry that much emotion without leaking. The sacred violence of containment. The self that simmers, but does not spill. You didn’t come back to be understood. You came back to guard the treasure. To reclaim the parts of you that were stolen in the name of intimacy. You are the locked vault of a soul that once died from being too open.

First House Sagittarius

You came back mid-run, like someone who escaped just in time. This rising holds the memory of confinement. Of belief systems that boxed you in. Of truths that were handed to you like shackles. You’ve lived through doctrine disguised as love, through rooms with no windows, through lives that asked you to kneel when your spirit wanted to burn. So this time, you returned with distance built into your bones. With laughter sharp enough to cut the cord. With questions you won’t apologize for. Your presence is a moving target, not because you’re flighty, but because standing still once meant surrender. People call you bold. But they don’t see the exile that shaped you. The way your hunger for meaning was once punished. The way your fire was once dimmed in the name of obedience. You learned how to look far, because looking inward was once too painful. You learned how to leave, because staying meant silence. You didn’t come back to stay safe. You came back to outrun the lies that tried to own you. You are the flame at the edge of the map, daring the soul to remember: truth doesn’t live where it’s easy, it lives where you risk everything to find it.

First House Capricorn

You came back already carrying weight. Not karma, grief. The kind that calcifies over time. The kind that taught you how to hold what others could not. You’ve lived through collapse of families, systems, lineages, and you emerged with the vow: This time, I’ll be the one who holds. This rising isn’t strength. It’s inheritance of the burdens no one claimed. Of the legacies no one fixed. You wear responsibility like a second spine because you remember what happens when no one shows up. You remember being the one left to rebuild from ash.People think you’re composed. But what they don’t see is the fortress you had to become just to keep from crumbling. They don’t see the child inside, ancient and exhausted, already planning the exit strategy before the story even begins.You didn’t come back for applause. You came back to finish what they couldn’t. To build what lasts. To carry the bones of broken empires and lay them into something that might finally hold.You are the ruin that refused to stay ruined.

First House Aquarius

You came back unreachable. Not out of pride, out of necessity. There was a life where you tried to belong. You handed over your shape. You merged with the crowd, the cause, the great unfolding. And for a moment, it felt like love. Until it didn’t. Until your voice disappeared into a thousand others and no one noticed you were gone. This time, you chose form like a fortress. Mind over feeling. Distance over dissolution. Because you once felt everything, and it nearly took you with it. You do not arrive to connect. You arrive to witness. To remind. To interrupt. You are the soul who once gave too much and now guards the frequency only you can hold. People call you detached. But they don’t see the tenderness beneath the silence, the part of you that still aches when the chorus begins, but doesn’t dare sing along. You didn’t come back to join the song. You came back to hold the note that was missing all along.

First House Pisces

You came back half-submerged. One foot in this world, one still in the dream you left behind. Pisces on the rise is not softness, it’s surrender. Not because you gave up, but because you remembered that fighting doesn’t always keep you safe. You came through quietly this time. No armor. No noise. Just a soul with its palms open, whispering: Let it be what it is. You remember lives where you held on too tightly to form, to control, to separation. Where you couldn’t forgive, couldn’t forget, couldn’t flow. And so this time, you returned as mist. As music. As the echo of something ancient making its way back through flesh. People don’t always know what to make of you. You slip through categories. You absorb what others drop. You carry what leaks from the room. They call you sensitive. But they don’t see the soul inside, still remembering the silence before the beginning. You didn’t come back to escape. You came back to dissolve the illusion that we are ever truly separate. You are the last breath before the return to everything.

MY BOOK HERE :) !!

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #natal astrology #birth chart #astrology tumblr #natal chart #astrology blog #natal aspects

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threeacttragedy · 8 months ago

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Entry 16: The One About That Time I Shot an Arrow into the Air

“…It fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight.”

Archery has always been one of my fortes in life. I have absolutely no idea why, but I’m strangely quite good at it. My father, of course, attributes it to my ancestors; something passed down to me in my genes. So, I’m not sure that any arrow I shot into the air wouldn’t naturally find itself in the direction of its intended target. Today, that target would almost certainly be in the jugular of a Cerberus-like creature. Ah, yes, that mythical hellhound with three heads that guards the entrance to the Underworld. Not only does it dictate who can enter the realm of Hades, but also who can leave. And I’m not fond of creatures that would rather devour you alive than let you leave of your own freewill. Plus, could you imagine having three heads with three different personalities? Ugh, that would get confusing quickly. And, even worse, could you imagine all the in-fighting? I mean, an arrow to the throat – if it didn’t dismantle the beast – would almost certainly silence it. Luckily, we don’t have any three-headed dogs in this fandom…

Where am I going with this? Well – besides down a long and winding path that draws attention to the fact I enjoy poetry and archery – actually, I chose today’s poem for a specific purpose. If you haven’t figured it out from my previous cracks about the Kraken, I also like Greek mythology. In fact, learning about Greek mythology at around the age of 11 – yes, that defiant age where we’re no longer interested in Barbie (not that I was ever interested in Barbie) but we’re also not cool enough to be considered teenagers – was the first time I remember finding myself “thinking outside of the box.” And by that, I mean asking the question that I probably should not have said out loud: “If Zeus is a myth, does that mean God is fake, too?” That went down like a lead balloon (and, I hope, no one takes offense to reading that now; it is not meant with any disrespect). My mother was, of course, telephoned by the school and, when I returned home, she greeted me with (something along the lines of) a simple: “Did they answer your question? No? Then I suggest you find it for yourself.”

We all have our own truth, don’t we? Even in this fandom, we are each tasked with choosing our own path. Weeding out facts from speculation and speculation from rumor. Choosing what we want to believe over what is being pushed on us. Overcoming our willingness to follow blindly versus our refusal to be backed into corner. I suppose that’s why I’ve always liked Greek mythology (and, perhaps, storytelling in general) – because it helps us navigate life’s challenges by better understanding human nature. It’s also one of the reasons why my favorite story has always been the trials and tribulations of Eros and Psyche.

Ah-ha! See, I told you I had a purpose for bringing up those damn arrows!

Yes, Eros was the Greek equivalent of the Roman Cupid; that weird little dude who fired love arrows like a bouquet of flowers at a wedding. But Eros wasn’t some creepy little cherub in a cloth diaper; he was the devastatingly handsome God of Love. And he fell in love with the equally beautiful human Psyche. That part about her being human, however,managed to get Psyche some major side-eye from Eros’s mother, Aphrodite. In retaliation for humans worshiping Psyche’s beauty over her own, Aphrodite sent Eros down to earth to pierce Psyche with one of his love arrows so she would fall madly in love with a hideous monster (unfortunately for the Cerberus, it wasn’t them). But Eros defied his mother and, unbeknownst to Aphrodite, kept Psyche for himself hidden away in a castle. There, Psyche lived – mostly happily – with Eros visiting her every night. Eros promised Psyche she could live there indefinitely so long as she never looked upon his face (hence why he only visited her in darkness). But humans have this uncanny knack for being curious and, of course, Psyche peeked. Well, fuck! Haha, I won’t ruin the rest of the story for you except to say, yes, Eros was royally peeved at Psyche’s betrayal, fled their home, and sought refuge with his bitchy mother (because, of course, he did). Devastated, Psyche went clambering up to her pseudo-mother-in-law’s shrine to beg for forgiveness and Aphrodite, being a bit of a bitchy goddess, gave Psyche a series of impossible tasks to complete to prove her worthiness. Amazingly Psyche did in fact complete each of these four tasks but only because she managed to get a little help from some fantastical friends. Well, except for that final task for which Psyche was warned – don’t look in the fucking box. Damn humans.

Like all stories passed down from generation to generation, there are multiple versions of this myth, particularly when it comes to who helped Psyche complete her four tasks. Sometimes it’s one god(dess), other times it’s multiple; sometimes it’s earth’s creatures (the ants, the plants, and the flying things). But my favorite version is the one where Eros was the one pulling those invisible strings – or, at the very least, keeping an eye on Psyche from the shadows – because no matter how angry he was with her, Eros still loved Psyche and wanted to protect her.

Why do I bring this story up? Well, for starters, if you didn’t notice (because you were too focused on carriages and mirrors), Bridgerton Season 3 made quite a few parallels between Colin and Penelope and Eros and Psyche, even referring to the latter by name at the end of the fourth episode. The show also brushed on the importance of trust, the consequences of betrayal, and the idea that love can conquer all. Funny thing is I never thought Colin to be much of an Eros; he made a better Psyche, in my opinion. I mean, he was the one to peek into Penelope’s secret life!

But Colin’s real-life counterpart, Luke, makes a rather entertaining Eros.

On December 16, when Luke reposted to his Instagram stories a link to Nicola’s “Part 1” of her 2024 Year, the fandom went wild. And I’m not talking about just the Lukolas going insane with excitement; the Jakolas were having a field day, too – but not in a good way. The unease they’d almost certainly felt with those coordinated airplane and “Polin” posts from October returned with a vengeance when Luke resurfaced in support of Nicola – the woman for whom he consistently comes out hiding. I realized then that the one person who could simultaneously make the Lukolas’ hearts flutter and the Adjacents’ blood boil was Luke (i.e., our Eros could make Psyche rejoice while making Aphrodite lash out in anger).

If you really think about it, Luke has pulled us out of the black waters of the River Styx multiple times, making him the perfect Eros to our Psyche. Yes, our Psyche. The fandom is absolutely the Psyche of this story. After all, the fandom was the one who betrayed Luke with our collective reaction to Papsmear (but, in the fandom’s defense, that was a shitty fucking day). And, of course, that wench Aphrodite is collectively all the side story bullshit, from the Adjacent narratives to rag-mags sticking their ever-growing noses into places they don't belong.

As we finish out the year, I thought it would be fun to give Luke some credit where credit is due. In other words, I thought I’d highlight four times Luke “Eros-ed” (i.e., “rescued”) us from some mucky ass shit. This is not every moment Luke came out of hiding to do something wonderful; these are simply my top four moments where I believe Luke single-handedly resuscitated the fandom. You’re welcome to share your best Luke moments in the comments.

No. 1 - That Post-Papsmear Thing That Everyone Ignored:

Fuck, yes.

I am starting with the most overlooked event in the Lukola-verse – Luke’s post-Papsmear Cressida story. This is the taproot that keeps my faith in Lukola from falling over during a storm – Luke taking one for Team Lukola by promoting Season 3 using the scene from Ep. 6 where Cressida entered the Mondrich Ball and Colin pulled Penelope aside and told her he wouldn’t let Cressida ruin their evening. Yeah, yeah, Luke totally missed the target with that post but – again, in the fandom’s defense – everyone was still reeling from the sudden-but-not-so-sudden materialization of Antonia at the London premiere. In hindsight, though, you know you want to give him an “atta boy” for basically throwing shade at the Lutonia narrative while using a massive social media platform to do so. It was jaw-dropping, brilliant, and ballsy as fuck.

If you’re totally lost about how entertaining this Cressida story was, go read Entry 1 to be my blog. But, seriously, how have you not read it already?

No. 2 – Delivering the Cake:

Alright, fast forward three months (yes, three goddamn months!) to September 7 when Luke posted pictures from his stay at the Puente Romano resort.

No big deal, right?

Wrong!

It was a big fucking deal because, for starters, Antonia creeped in and posted random pictures of herself at roughly the same time Luke posted his resort pictures. And, of course, Luke had to like Antonia’s Instagram post. To make matters worse (gasp!) Luke’s had palm trees in his pictures which were oh, so reminiscent (but, not really) of palm trees posted by Antonia the previous day to her Instagram stories. Oh my God! And, then the real kicker? Luke’s slide deck included him eating a picture of himself from the London premiere sans Nicola! The horror! I mean, what probably started out as a cute post by Luke turned into a full-on Lukola heart attack within 30 minutes or less!

But then Luke pulled out a defibrillator and revived the fandom. Almost immediately.

After presumably hearing the cries from the Lukola fandom that he’d cut Nicola from the London premiere image, Luke demonstrated through his Instagram stories that (a) he was eating part of a cake (he was even darling enough to put the cake emoji with a smiley face), and (b) that the cake never had Nicola’s image on it to begin with (meaning, he didn’t remove her from it). Thank you for that clarification, Luke. Seriously, the fandom appreciated it.

After they recovered from their near-death experience, the Lukolas finally took the time to look at the images Luke posted. A not-so-random chaise lounge; a random white shirt; a restaurant called El Pimpi (which is a word used for the people who delivered messages to a ship’s crew and passengers); Luke throwing up the peace sign with his now infamous digits in – what appeared to be – the reflection of a glass table; and a reference to cake. It was Lukola- and/or Polin-coded shit. And, to make it just a smidge better, there was no visible reference to Antonia anywhere.

And, yes, I will cut in here to acknowledge that Antonia would, on October 25, include a lone picture of a balcony which was identical to the one Luke posted in his – what I like to call – “clarification stories” from September 7. Do I care about Antonia’s balcony? Not in the least. Could she have been at the resort? Sure. In fact, I’ve always found the idea of Antonia being present quite comical since Luke made it fairly obvious he omitted something (ahem, someone) from his Instagram post and instead filled it with random shit that seemed Lukola- and/or Polin-coded. Plus, if you want me to be perfectly honest, “insinuation” posts from Antonia stopped doing it for me months ago.

Back to what I saying… We must give Luke a round of applause for placating an entire fandom with something as simple as a cake emoji. Bravo, bravo!

No. 3 – Shutting Down the Mean Girls:

We closed out September with Antonia riling up the fandom by posting Instagram story after Instagram story, none of which were worth a second glance from a Lukola except for the “phone screen” one (see “Entry 7: The One Where the Queen Asked, ‘Did That Go the Way You Thought It Was Gonna Go?’” for reference). Oh, wait, there is another story – just for my own amusement – on October 1, Antonia reshared a story where she was labeled “Aphroditi.” Rather convenient for my story today, isn't it? Any ways, the Lukolas were a bit high-strung by October 2 when Nicola announced via Instagram that she had been named as part of the Time 100. Luke liked the post – but apparently to the haters on X he didn’t do it motherfucking fast enough. These weird-ass people do actually exist – the ones that genuinely believe Instagram likes (and the speed thereof) equate to true love.

Any ways, Luke apparently decided he was having none of that bullshit and stepped in on October 3 with his Polin-themed “Mean Girls” story. It was a throwback to a conversation he and Nicola had had in, I believe, 2022 on, haha, X.

“On October 3rd, he asked me what day it was.”

“It’s October 3rd.”

Luke captioned the story, “Xx.”

Not only did the fandom rejoice that Luke had returned to post something after nearly a month away, but the post included a throwback to Nicola, and it came on the heels of Halley Brisker’s now legendary “Nicola lately” post. Yeah, the one with Luke in the background (seriously, convince me it was someone else). Luke’s story also seemed to be one hell of a clapback to a rabid pack animal on X who faulted Luke for not leaving a comment on Nicola’s Time 100 post.

“Xx.”

No. 4 – The Littlest Things:

I debated over choosing Luke’s People magazine interview for the fourth moment, but that interview – although it made the fandom incredibly happy – didn’t pull our heads out of our own asses. So, I decided instead to go with the little things Luke has done over the past few months, namely, joining in on the Like Wars but in his own oh, so subtle way.

Let’s start with Antonia’s September 21 post of – honestly, who the hell cares? She posted and we knew Luke’s obligatory like was coming. It just took 10 ½ hours for Luke to get to it and it was only given after Nicola posted to her Instagram stories pictures from a concert she had attended. Was the fandom a bit deflated Luke liked Antonia’s post? Of course! But it was also fun to see the like come hours after Luke had already been online and on the heels of Nicola popping up online.

On October 11, we had a similar event happen. Antonia posted to her grid and Luke seemingly ignored it for roughly five hours. But, while Luke was ignoring her post, Antonia was going hard at it with Instagram stories and TikTok videos (Nicola, for her part, seemed to be playing her own game on social media during this time). Luke finally liked Antonia’s post and Antonia went silent thereafter. Then, on October 12, Luke officially made it back from his October 4 “Brb” moment and posted “Somewhere in Mayfair” to his Instagram stories. Let the fandom rejoice!

But I’m not stopping there. Let’s not forget about Luke and Nicola’s coordinated “Polin” pictures on October 21 or that, while Antonia was “rolling pasta” on November 17, Luke made it a point to go back and like Nicola’s Dr. Who post from November 15. On December 6, when Luke coughed up a like to Antonia’s grid post, he also handed a like out to Nicola at the same time (and a few others). Do you see a pattern starting to form?

Honestly, I believe Luke is owed a standing ovation for the way he has taken control of his own narrative and managed to deflect from the so-called “importance” of these bullshit Instagram likes. Although Nicola has historically attempted to distract the fandom from Antonia, in my opinion, it was always Luke’s responsibility to diminish the importance of Antonia’s role in his story. And, for the past several months, he has been doing just that – in the quietest way possible.

I’ve decided Luke is a bit like a shadow. Inconspicuous – sometimes even completely invisible – but when the light hits just right, it’s impossible to ignore his immense presence.

When Luke posts, or when he coyly plays around with the Instagram likes – even when he likes Nicola’s posts – it somehow resonates differently with the fandom. Nicola could post her year-end stuff and the fandom would be, like, “Oh, that’s cool.” But, when Luke reshares her post to his stories? “Holy fuck, that’s awesome!” It's a "different energy on set." Somewhere in the middle of all the bullshit that goes on within the fandom, Luke found his own truth. The “Bad Guy” who was “on a break” during Hot Boy Summer somehow became our hero; the shadowy figure that pulls us out of the water and sets our heads back on straight. Over and over again. It's been so subtle, we've barely even noticed.

I’m going to end this entry with the Longfellow poem I quoted at the beginning, mainly because I like it, but also because it’s about something that cannot be easily seen once released into the world but, if found, can have an everlasting effect on us.

“I shot an arrow into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight;

“I breathed a song into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for who has sight so keen and strong; that it can follow the flight of song?

“Long, long afterward, in an oak; I found the arrow, still unbroke; and the song, from beginning to end; I found again in the heart of a friend.”

P.S. In the story, Psyche is rescued by Eros (hurray!) and is made the Goddess of the Soul.

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only

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woso-story · 5 months ago

Text

Meeting The Ex

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The morning sun streamed through the windows of the cozy little café, casting a warm glow over the small table where you and Alexia sat. Her golden-brown eyes sparkled with laughter as she sipped her coffee, the easy joy of the morning filling the air. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing against yours as she teased, “So, are you ready for the ultimate day of relaxation?”

“Absolutely,” you replied with a smile. “Breakfast and then a spa day with you? Sounds like heaven.”

Alexia grinned, clearly pleased with herself for planning such a perfect day. The café’s soft hum of conversation and the aroma of freshly baked pastries created a serene start to what promised to be a beautiful day together. She told you a funny story about her teammate during the last training session, and you couldn’t help but laugh. Being with Alexia always felt so easy, so natural. Her voice was soothing, and her presence made everything feel brighter.

---

After finishing your breakfast—an assortment of flaky croissants, fresh fruit, and perfectly brewed coffee—the two of you made your way to the spa. The moment you stepped inside, the tranquil ambiance enveloped you. The soothing scent of lavender, the gentle music, and the promise of indulgent relaxation were almost intoxicating.

The first part of your spa experience was a couple’s massage. Lying side by side, you exchanged relaxed smiles as the therapists worked their magic, easing every knot and worry from your bodies. It felt like time had slowed down, and all that existed was the comfort of being together. Alexia turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting yours, and gave you a small, peaceful smile that made your heart melt.

“How are you feeling?” she asked softly as the massage ended.

“Like I’m floating,” you said, reaching out to touch her hand briefly. She chuckled, her laugh as light as the spa’s music.

Next came the whirlpool. The bubbling, warm water enveloped you as you leaned back against the edge. Alexia floated over to you, her damp hair framing her face as she placed a soft kiss on your shoulder. “This is perfect,” she murmured, resting her head against you.

“It really is,” you agreed, leaning into her touch. The whirlpool’s jets worked wonders on your muscles, and being so close to Alexia only made the experience better. You talked about your plans for the week, shared little jokes, and basked in the simplicity of being together. The world outside felt a million miles away.

---

After the whirlpool, you found two loungers in a quiet corner of the spa. Wrapped in plush robes, you reclined side by side, content in each other’s company. The peaceful silence was interrupted when you heard a voice say your name.

Startled, you turned to see Paula, your ex-girlfriend, sitting on a lounger a few feet away. She smiled warmly and waved. “Hey, it’s been a while,” she said.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Paula. Hi. Wow, it’s been...almost a year.”

“Yeah, since...” Paula trailed off, the memory of your breakup hanging briefly in the air. She quickly shifted to a lighter tone. “How have you been?”

You exchanged polite words, catching up in a way that felt distant but respectful. As you chatted, you felt Alexia’s presence beside you shift. She sat down next to you, her posture unmistakably protective. When Paula’s gaze flicked to her, Alexia introduced herself, her voice calm but firm. “I’m Alexia, Y/N’s girlfriend.”

Paula’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Oh, nice to meet you,” she said, smiling. “Y/N and I were together for about two years.”

You could feel Alexia tense beside you. Her arm slid around your shoulders, and you had to fight to keep the corners of your mouth from curling into a grin. Alexia Putellas, the calm, composed star adored by so many, was jealous. It was almost endearing.

After a few more polite exchanges, Paula excused herself, saying she was headed to the sauna. You watched her go, feeling the tension radiating from Alexia. Once Paula was out of sight, you turned to her and poked her cheek with your finger. “Are you jealous?” you teased.

Alexia’s expression was stoic as she replied, “No. I have no reason to be.”

You laughed softly. “I think you are. But you’re right, you really don’t have a reason to be.”

Alexia relaxed slightly, but as the two of you returned to your loungers, you could see she wasn’t entirely at ease. Her eyes occasionally flicked toward the direction Paula had gone, and her usually serene demeanor was subtly off.

---

When you got home later that evening, Alexia immediately moved to the kitchen to start dinner. You offered to help, but she waved you off. “I’ve got it,” she insisted.

After a while, you couldn’t resist joining her. Sitting on the counter next to where she was chopping vegetables, you studied her profile. Something was still bothering her.

“Lex,” you said gently. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied too quickly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest with me.”

She sighed, setting down the knife and turning to face you. “I didn’t like seeing you with your ex. It’s silly, I know, but...it made me feel...” She trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Jealous?” you supplied with a soft smile.

“Maybe,” she admitted, her cheeks tinged with pink. “I know I don’t have a reason to be, but I just didn’t like it.”

Sliding off the counter, you wrapped your arms around her waist. “Lex, I’m not interested in anyone else. You’re the only one for me. I love you.”

Her arms encircled you, holding you close. “I love you too,” she murmured, her voice soft but steady.

You pulled back slightly to look into her eyes. “Now, stop frowning and finish making dinner. Your girlfriend is hungry.”

Alexia laughed, her smile finally breaking through the lingering tension. “Alright, alright. Sit down and relax. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Later, as the two of you sat at the table enjoying the delicious meal she’d prepared, the earlier encounter felt like a distant memory. Afterward, you curled up together on the couch, watching a movie. Alexia’s arm was draped around you, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm.

At one point, she leaned over and kissed your temple. “Thank you for being mine,” she said softly.

“Always,” you replied, snuggling closer to her.

The warmth of her love and the comfort of her presence made everything else fade away. It had been the perfect day—because it was spent with her.

#alexia putellas fanfic #woso community #woso fics #alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso x reader #barca femeni #woso #woso fanfics

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legendofmorons · 1 year ago

Note

Your honor, I humbly submit an idea that has not left me alone for a solid few months. Seriously. I can’t escape it.

Reader is a hero. Well, kinda. They are a hero in their dreams in the most literal sense of the phrase.

When they were younger, they had this incredibly strong love for the Legend of Zelda and Mario and all manner of games where you could simply help people for the sake of doing good. They weren’t too shocked when their dreams took a more realistic turn. As they slept, they felt like they were living a second life where they were the hero. They would go around solving problems, collecting items, and generally saving the day. Some nights, the dreams would be from different times, based on different adventures, or fighting different people.

Those dreams had always felt extremely real to Reader, yet they knew they were just dreams. When morning came, they moved on.

That was the norm until a strange portal appeared in front of them. The summer was coming and they had no better plans, so they threw caution to the wind and stepped through. When they came to, they found themselves clad in the same clothes they wore in every dream, surrounded by the items they had grown so familiar with adventure after adventure.

They had gathered their things, realizing they instinctively knew how to fight, similar to what had happened on that first night. They wandered the area, heroic persona seemingly taking control, heading towards a town and immediately solving problems.

In fact, that was how they found the chain, while attempting to solve another problem. Something told them to keep their name close to their chest and they weren’t in the business of going against their gut, so they listened. They used a nickname in a group full of nicknames.

A long while of traveling and growing trust (and one particularly heated story rendition where the reader just plain forgot to censor their name) and Reader had shared their name with the group. They were met with stunned silence which was, admittedly, not the reaction they were expecting.

As it turned out, each of those dreams became stories to these heroes, acting as a guide on how to act, what to try. In their eyes, Reader was a hero of story and legend, someone kids played at being.

How do you think the boys would move forward from this?

-VS Anon

Dreamscape

Pairing: Chain & reader

Rating: G

Notes: (Y/n/n) - Ypur nick name. I wrote the opening and then skipped the middle, I hope it's okay. I just really wanted to write the meeting.

Summary: You find yourself in the world of the dreams you played hero in, but apparently those dreams were more real than you thought.

Warnings: none.

Other: I saw you submitted something along these lines more recently. VS, do you want a second take on this? I am willing to do another take, haha. As always, if I missed anything, please let me know

-------

You have always had a vivid imagination, at least according to those around you. But you can't really argue. After all, your dreams used to feel like a whole other world. A second life of sorts.

You'd loved games where you played a hero. Legend of Zelda? Amazing. Mario games? Absolutely.

Over the course of your life, you built what would have been quite the legacy in your dreams. You had countless items and had even been blessed by a sages.

Summer hangs in the breezes, due to start any day.

So, when a strange purple portal with a spooky energy opens up before you, you go through it. You don't have much else going on, and don't imagine anything too weird coming of it.

A shield, that was gained from a forest. Wooden with metal enforced ages and a beautiful swirling design carved into it.

You emerge in a small clearing with birds song cheerily overhead.

In front of you is a pile of items. Items that you know, because you collected them in your dreams.

A sword, gifted by the ruler of a fairy kingdom. The blade is enchanted to never break and to absorb any malice.

A small stachel that clips to a belt that is a bottomless bag. Anything you put in there appears in your hand once you reach in and think

A small cluster of potions. One that heals, one that provides stamina, and one that protects from fire.

Even the small flute from your travels.

"What the hell?" You murmur, looking at your hands.

You realize then, belatedly, that you are in the same outfit from your dreams. The leather armor on your limbs and the breathable fabric comfortable.

This is officially Weird, with a capital 'W'. This- doesn't seem like a dream. Not at all.

Ypu gather your items, securing them as you have many times before. You brush yourself off and look around for more details.

The clearing you're in is nice. Wild flowers are scattered about and there's a rabbit at the edge.

A river runs through it.

Well, your best bet is to find a town or something, and you heard once that towns are often near rivers. So, in theory, if you follow the river, you'll be okay.

You head off, following the river downstream and hoping for the best.

-------

After two days of travel you have come to a few more conclusions.

First of all, you can fight. Like- really well. You fought of monsters that included a lynel, some lizards, and several bokoblins.

Second of all, walking for two days straight sucks but also you aren't as exhausted as you probably should be.

And third of all, this is definitely not a dream.

You're starting to wonder if this second life was ever a dream.

The third day you find a small town, but a town nonetheless. Thank whatever it is that looks out for you.

You make your way towards the store, hoping to stock up on arrows and food. You've accepted this is your life for the moment, might as well be prepared.

Unfortunately, while lost in thought you trip and stumble into someone. You are both sent sprawling to the ground.

With a groan, you rollout of them. You sit up and say, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, are you okay?" A male voice asks.

You turn to look at him and nearly chokes. You find yourself staring at the Link from Skyward Sword.

Okay, this is a lot.

"Uh-" You manage eloquently. Blinking as you try to formulate some kind of response.

"Did you hit your head?" Another male asks, he has pink hair. That's another Link, the one from Link to the past and s several other games.

"I think I might have." You frown, pushing to your feet.

You look around the group and find it made up entirely of Links from different games.

"That's no good, you need a potion?" Asks Twilight Princess Link.

"No... Just a little dazed." You wave him off, "Ever since I walked through a portal it's been a little weird."

"You walked through a portal too?" Asks Wind Waker Link.

"Yeah... Why?"

"I guess you're supposed to help defeat the shadow." Muses what is probably an older version of Majoras mask Link.

"Maybe."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, I'm Twilight." The Link in a wolf pelt says.

"I'm Time."

"Legend."

"Hi, I'm Wind!"

"Wild."

"I'm Warriors."

"Hyrule!"

"I'm Sky."

"Four."

You know these are all nicknames, so you decide to give your own nick name. You have a feeling your real name will cause- a scene.

"I'm (Y/n/n)."

-------

Time can't stop thinking about the connections between you, (Y/n/n) and the hero (Y/n). You both have the same items, the same personality, and even the same appearances.

The hero you remind him of is legendary, chosen not by Hylia but by a deity before any remembered. A hero chosen Fierce Deity.

He comes back to the conversation in time to catch the tail end of your story.

"Ams then my friend was like "Stop hiding from them, they don't remember ypu tripping two years ago, (Y/n)."

"What?" Hyrule chokes.

"You're name is (Y/n)?"

About time. Fierce purrs from the void inside Time's mind.

"Uh- yeah?"

"You're The (Y/n)?!" Wind demands.

"Oh stars." Time mutters.

"I mean, maybe?"

"You're The one who slayed the hydra of Catan?" Wild blinks.

"Oh. I mean, yeah. That wasn't a big deal." You shrug, "It needed to be done."

"You rode a tornado!" Legend accuses.

"What? No I got swept up in a tornado."

"You knew the original sages before Skyloft even exsisted!" Sky gasps.

"Yeah?"

"You're the biggest hero ever." Warriors manages, sounding awed, "How are you unaware?"

"Uh...I didn't think that stuff mattered?"

"Are you kidding? Kids play games where they pretend to be you." Four says, looking horrified at your unawareness of your importance.

"Oh. Neat?" You say shakily.

This makes no sense, your dreams - if they were ever that - never seemed like you would be a hero of legend important enough to be known millenia later across different timeliness.

"You really don't know." Legend muses wryly.

"Glad I helped?"

"You are telling us all about your adventures." Wind informs you.

#lu #linkeduniverse #misty writes #linked universe x reader #lu four #lu hyrule #lu legend #lu sky #lu time #lu twilight #lu warriors #lu wild #lu wind #Dreamscapes au

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mercurial-chuckles · 3 months ago

Text

Permanence

Part 02: Distressing Transience

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes | Stucky x F!Reader Warnings: Fluff | Angst | Angry & Grumpy Bucky | Mutual Pining | Eventual Poly Relationship | Eventual Smut Galore | Eventual Fluff Galore | ~3k | Canon Divergent | Nightmare | Bucky's Hydra-Related Trauma | Happy Ending (it's me!) Kept the warnings basic 'coz I don't wanna reveal too much. If angsty or mature content affects you, please refrain from reading | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I'm missing anything! A/N: I'm excited for the great reveal in this. 🥰 This is based on a request. The OC version of this story will run in parallel, but since I got quite a few requests for a reader version, here it goes! Hope you enjoy! ✨ Take a moment to reblog or share your thoughts--it makes all the difference in the world. Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider made by me in Canva. Picture credits to the internet! Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Skovheim, Norway, 2011

It was bitterly cold. You draped the throw blanket from the couch, hoping to keep yourself warm.

You hated the cold. It reminded you of terrible times. Times of loss.

You'd pushed those thoughts away and went to check on the cake. Plum. Bucky's absolute favorite. You set the cake on the tray to let it cool.

Outside, the birch tree branches rattled on the kitchen window. The wind seemed to picked up. It had been raining since morning, which was rare for this time of year.

The tiny clock over the small island in the kitchen ticked past seven.

Bucky was never late.

Fear mounted you by the second. You turned off the light in kitchen to get a glimpse down the winding road. It was too hard to get a view through the fogged up window. The heavy rain blurred everything outside, but that was your only view. The sensors had stopped working and needed to be replaced. Bucky had installed several of them, starting from the point where the hidden road to your isolated home began, down at the base of the hill.

The cottage was located up the steep hill, hidden by luscious trees, with a patch of birch trees between the thick coverage. It was beautiful, to say the least, but most importantly, it was strategic. One side was shielded by the edge of the cliff, which overlooked the sea, and there was only one way of entry and no residences nearby.

You told yourself the roads were probably flooded--or maybe there were fallen trees. Bucky was a supersoldier; moving a tree or two would be nothing for him. Still, unease coiled tight in your chest. You could sense him, just like you had always known he was alive--even back when the world grieved Sgt. Barnes' heroic death in World War II. You knew Bucky was alive.

But you worried.

You were, after all, more human. Moments like this made you wish you had the power to teleport.

You didn't want him to go in the first place, but you were running low on groceries, and Bucky was fretting about replacing the sensors in the security system. Usually, night was a safer time to avoid interaction with the townsfolk. Also, Arne, your trusted contact, was to meet with Bucky in the town to deliver the equipment, monitors, transponders, sensors, and a few others. You hated that you couldn't convince Bucky to let you join. James Buchanan Barnes was a stubborn man, alright.

When you heard a distant rumble, you were unsure if it was just the whether; you could barely make the lights--one brighter than the other--of the pickup truck in the foggy downpour.

You ran and waited by the door. Your nerves wouldn't settle until you saw him. Standing by the door, you chanted, 'Come on. Come on.'

After a few minutes, you heard the shuffling behind the door. Then came the muffled creak of the floor. A groan behind the door frame made you freeze.

Silence.

You waited.

Then, two knocks. Two seconds apart.

Your body moved before you could breathe in relief, hand on the knob, waiting. He'd drilled it into your head: Never open unless you hear the knock.

You unlatched the door and let it swing open against the push of the wind.

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him, with more force than necessary. Water dripped from the hem of his jacket, pooling on the wooden floor. The cap was soaked, plastered to his head, shadowing his eyes.

He didn't greet you with the usual, 'I'm here, I'm okay.' in that gentle tone like he usually assured you every time he returned.

You searched his eyes, worry wrecking your gut.

"I'm fine," Bucky muttered after a few seconds, eyes flicking to your face.

You let out a sigh of relief. He seemed off but you didn't think much about it, more worried that he was soaked to the bones.

"You're drenched," you said.

"It's pouring," he offered with a faint, bitter chuckle, trying to toe off his boots, but they were sloppy wet, squelching with the slightest movement.

"You don't say," you chuckled, crouching down to help him tug the boot off.

"I got it," he hissed sharply.

You stilled immediately, retrieving your hand and standing up. Bucky rarely got this way. After escaping from the clutches of Hydra, touch bothered him, but that was years ago. He never shied away from your touch. However, it seemed like he was past that. Now, your mind was back to worrying.

"Are you okay?" You asked softly. Bucky visibly stiffened. Your focus shifted to his right palm, fisted tightly around the box in his hand. Bucky seemed to notice you glance because he loosened his grip.

He carefully placed the plastic wrapped carton beside the door, along with two other bags, wordlessly.

You dragged the old chair from the dining table, the legs scraping softly across the wood. He lowered himself into the chair, broad shoulders hunched, clothes clinging to his body and accentuating his form. Bucky didn't meet your eyes, removing his shoes, almost tearing them off his feet.

Reaching for his cap, you gently tugged it off his head. He finally looked at you, and you were pretty sure he looked miffed.

"You'll get sick," you mumbled. You just needed to hug him.

"I don't get sick," he quipped.

You tutted, his mood firing up your frustration further, but you knew nothing would yield when he was in a mood.

You'd have to wait to ask questions later, once he showered and ate.

You'd have to wait for that hug.

"Hang up your things. I'll make you some tea. Don't take long in the shower," you said.

The stiffness in his shoulder became evident when he walked to the bathroom at the far end of the living room. That shoulder must be acting up again. You wondered if he'd let you ease the pain in peace or if you'd have to coax him into it. The cold always made it worse.

Gosh! You hated the cold!

By the time Bucky returned from the shower and changed into his joggers and Henley, you had mopped the floor and unpacked the groceries from the waterproof bags.

His hair was still wet, droplets falling. It was fricking cold, and this man didn't flinch. It bothered you how blatantly reckless he was with his health.

It bothered you how much he affected you, all while looking infuriatingly gorgeous. You'd rather not delve into those waters. It was a dangerous realm.

So, you ignored the trickling water droplets down the expanse of his neck and internally berated yourself. You handed him the cup of tea and turned to fetch a dry towel.

Bucky's gaze followed you when you walked to get another dry towel. You noticed him eyeing the cake when you returned.

"You're not getting a single piece unless you dry your hair right now," you said pointedly, pushing the towel toward him.

"Is that so," he sniggered, looking down at you. You caught the sly twitch of his pink lips before he turned to sit on the couch.

Bucky wasn't the man you remembered from the 40s--the playful, flirty, sassy, nerdy boy from Brooklyn. Hydra had changed him immensely so. It had been almost a decade since he escaped their clutches, a decade since you found him. He was healing slowly but surely. You'd like to believe that. You'd been through a lot, collectively as well as individually. So, the little glimpses of the lost man always rejoiced you. Eventually, he'd get there. He had to.

"Stop it, you'll hurt your neck," you chastised when you noticed him vigorously moving his head against the towel. You pulled the towel from his grasp, at least tried. Initially, Bucky didn't budge but he reluctantly let go. You smiled, victorious, as he slumped into the couch and sighed, letting you gently towel off his hair.

You knew he hadn't slept well last night. He'd nearly finished reading the book he had started--you'd noticed the bookmark in the morning.

Every time he had to go into the town, he got tense. Bucky wouldn't tell you, but you knew it. You'd been living and navigating through this life for a few years now. Though you were grateful he'd come a long way, Bucky still had a long winding road ahead to fully heal.

"That's how you do it, Sergeant Barnes," you jested, pulling his hair back into a small bun. He let out a satisfied hum, which made your stomach flip.

"Hand me that scrunchie."

He leaned over, tugging you gently along the couch as you held his hair together. That's when you noticed him flinching.

"Bucky?" You quickly tied his hair and moved around to sit beside him on the couch. You tried to reach for his hand, but he pulled away.

"Bucky," you prompted, this time pleading.

He sighed, pulling the sleeve of his right arm up over his veiny forearm, revealing a long gash of red and blue bruising that marred his skin. If his serum didn't already heal, it only meant the bruise was worse, to begin with.

"What happened?" You asked, worried and angry that he hadn't told you about it.

"It's nothing," he dismissed, "Got a flat, had to change the tire in the nasty weather. Hurt myself," he finished, already pulling away, but you held onto it with all your strength, fighting him. He didn't look guilty, unlike the other times when he hid his injuries or sufferings. He looked unapologetic.

"Bucky."

"I'm fine," he murmured.

"Shut up and stay put," You hissed, livid. This wasn't the first time, and you knew it wasn't going to be the last. Bucky loved to suffer, and he thought he was reaping all the consequences of his actions. You'd fight this war with him until you won despite losing the battles every now and then.

You cupped your palm over his bruise and closed your eyes, feeling the warmth emanate. You felt the faint, dizzying sensation. When you opened your eyes, the bruise faded, and the skin on his warm forearm looked normal, with no sign of the gash anymore.

Bucky's silence was telling, the sharp tick of the jaw and the crease between his brows, and you waited for a long moment, but he said nothing.

"What?" You asked, not being able to bear his silence anymore.

"Nothing." He bit out rather harshly.

"I can't see you hurt," those words hurtled before you could stop. In an attempt to belie your vulnerability--your love, you got up from there, hoping to fade your emotional turmoil. You blinked back the tears threatening to spill and made your way to the kitchen, willing your thoughts to quiet as you focused on heating up dinner.

"Bucky, dinner's ready," you called out, surprised to see him already near his bedroom door.

He paused, hand resting on the doorknob. "I'm not hungry," he remarked.

"I made your favorite cake," you added gently, trying to coax him. You hated it when he went without eating. He hadn't skipped a meal in a long time, not since the early days after escaping Hydra, when nausea haunted him daily. You knew too well that when the mind is in chaos, the appetite is usually the first thing to go.

"Not hungry," he repeated, more bitterly this time, before disappearing into his room and closing the door behind him.

You couldn't sleep--not until you knew he was. You'd gotten used to sleeping next to him. Just knowing he was there settled your nerves. You waited for hours, hoping to hear the gentle knock, the soft padding of footsteps, and the familiar 'Can I?'--a question that had become rhetorical over time. But he hadn't come.

You tried to read, but your focus kept slipping away. Feeling thirsty, you reached for your bottle, only to realize it was empty as you gave it a shake.

Ugh! You'd forgotten you'd downed the whole thing when you got hungry earlier in the night.

As you hopped off the bed, you talked yourself out of knocking on his door. But the moment you stepped into the living room, you heard him cry out.

With a sigh, you slid off the bed, quietly debating whether or not to knock on his door. You told yourself not to, and to wait for him to come to you when he was ready, even though you were sure something was wrong.

But the moment you stepped into the living room, a sound stopped you cold.

"NO. PLEASE. NO." Bucky was sobbing, groaning.

The bottle slipped from your hand as your heart leapt into your throat. You bolted for his room. The door was unlocked, thankfully. But he wasn't in bed.

You flicked on the table lamp. The soft light fell over his figure, curled on the floor, trembling.

"Buck. Hey, hey…it's okay," you said quickly, crouching beside him and reaching for his face.

"NO. Not you," he cried, grabbing your wrist in a panic.

"It was just a dream," you said, wiping his tear-streaked face.

He caught your hands and pressed your palms against his cheeks. Then he pulled you into his lap, arms tight around you.

"You're hurt," he gasped, frantic, inspecting your neck and arms, turning your hands over, searching.

"Bucky," you said gently, blinking your tears away.

"I'm alright. It was just a nightmare." You reminded.

His chest heaved, "I… I thought…" But the words broke off as he crushed you to him, sobbing into your shoulder. You held him just as tightly.

After a while, you whispered, "I'll get you some water." But he wouldn't let go.

"Okay. Okay… just lie down with me," you murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

With you in his arms, he rose from the floor without so much as a flinch. You clung to him instinctively, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he carried you to the bed. You held on as he gently laid you down, then climbed in beside you, immediately curling himself around you. His fingers found yours, intertwining them softly.

"I got you, Bucky. Always," you whispered, feeling his tear-streaked face pressed against your temple. Your right palm settled over his heart, feeling it slowly begin to calm beneath your touch.

In an attempt to calm him, you talked about random things--from constellations to the book you'd been reading, which you thought was horrible, and why. He let out a throaty chuckle when you told him you should seriously reconsider the situation with Gollum, the alpine hare you both named, who visited your humble garden now and then and caused a ruckus.

Eventually, you convinced him to let you make some tea, and he followed you to the kitchen without a word.

"Buck…" you started, unsure.

You slid the mug toward him. He leaned onto the counter and slowly sipped. You studied him for a long moment and then asked softly, "What happened out there?" You were pretty sure something was bothering him.

He didn't answer immediately. Bucky took a few slow sips.

"I saw Hagen," Bucky said finally, eyes fully focused on you.

You stilled, staring at him wide-eyed as things clicked into place. The subtle hostility when he'd returned home that evening. The nightmare that followed. It all made sense now. You had chalked it all up to the rain--he was soaked through when he walked in. You should've guessed that his silence was more telling than his words. You didn't expect this though.

The odds of that encounter were next to none tonight. That was what you'd counted on.

Exactly five days ago, when Bucky made the trip to the city to place an order with Arne, the electronics guy, you'd ventured alone into town, breaking his most sacred rule--never go anywhere without me.

But you lived in a far corner of nowhere, surrounded by mountains and mist, and the town was safe even if Bucky thought otherwise.

Mr. and Mrs. Hagen, who owned the small bookstore you frequented, were kind people. That day, you'd noticed how worn Mr. Hagen looked. When you gently asked if he was okay, he told you Mrs. Hagen's health was failing. And when he asked if you wanted to see Mrs. Hagen, you agreed. Mrs. Hagen was a lovely lady. You and Bucky visited the store every now and then, hoarding books as you both enjoyed reading, and Mrs. Hagen often added a couple of books onto the pile for free. 'You can never have enough books.'

"He thinks it was a miracle," Bucky said flatly. "Said you visited," He bit out loud.

But you said nothing.

Bucky stared at you. His jaw tightened. "It fucking makes sense why you looked off that day. You know the price of using your gift."

"She was dying, Buck," you said quietly, looking away. "I couldn't walk away."

"And what about...you?" His voice dropped lower. "What happens when someone gets a whiff?" He gritted out.

You chanced a look at him. The shadow above him from the kitchen light cut sharp lines across his face, making him look like a sculpted god. Albeit an angry-looking god.

"She was suffering," you repeated, moving your gaze onto the foggy kitchen window, rain still pelting.

"That doesn't matter," he snapped. Bucky stepped forward, his right hand finding your elbow as he tugged you toward him. You didn't resist.

"Look at me." Bucky gritted out, frustration marring his features.

Your gaze rose slowly to meet his, guilty.

"What were you thinking?" he asked sharply. You could sense his pain.

"I was thinking she would've died."

"And I'm thinking I can't lose you too," he thundered, like the sky outside. His arm slipped around your back, his grip tightening as he pulled you closer.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to remind him that you were strong, more than human. That you'd lived in the harsh world alone for decades, that you went into the clutches of Hydra's lair to find him, that you weren't the one people should be afraid of. But your mother's words rang loudly in your head, 'Sweetheart, sometimes what makes you powerful is exactly what makes you vulnerable…hunted.'

Feeling utterly helpless, your shoulders dropped. You couldn't see people suffer. You carried a lot of regrets yourself. The fact that you didn't find Bucky soon enough after he fell off the train, the fact that you should've stopped Steve from getting the serum. If Steve hadn't, he would not have sacrificed his life. Those haunted you every damn day. So, what if you alleviated Mr. and Mrs. Hagen's suffering. It brought you peace.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, burying your face into his chest.

He sighed into your hair, kissing you tenderly.

"I need you to resist helping people," he pleaded.

"I don't know how Buck," you whispered, holding him tightly.

Bucky dreaded love more than he ever feared Hydra. While he mourned the love he had lost--Steve--he also mourned not being the kind of man you deserved.

The way you saved him persistently, and resurrected him after Hydra, with years and years of patience. It was beyond his understanding. Gosh! You could totally beat Steve when it came to being stubborn.

He watched you, relaxed in his arms, deep in sleep.

His Angel!

Sometimes, it was hard to believe that you were by his side. His fingers traced your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

Bucky knew he was a selfish man because he'd never said he loved you out loud, afraid he'd cause an imbalance in the perfect ecosystem. Because he knew you loved him. And even if you never explicitly worded your love, you defined it in every little action. It pained him how deeply you loved him despite what he'd done.

In the late hours of the night, when he curled up beside you--nightmares as an excuse--he'd usually think of a better tomorrow. One where he'd repented the doings of a man in his mind who he'd been unwillingly sharing space with. Where he could love you the way you deserved. Where Steve was still alive, and you all lived in a world where freedom wouldn't be weighed by norms. But fate couldn't be that forgiving, right?

Bucky still hoped and prayed for forgiveness--for the actions he had unwittingly committed. He tried to be a better man every day.

Bucky was protective of you--territorial might befit. But the fact was, you protected him every day. From himself. From his nightmares. You were his salvation.

You shifted, turning more into his side, still deep asleep, slipping your hand around his waist. Bucky chuckled softly, clutching the oversized T-shirt on the little of your back, and pulled you closer.

God! You were divine. So far out of his league. Did you even know that?

He could literally kill for you. And he was close to committing that heinous act that very evening.

He'd gone to the bookstore to buy the book you'd been waiting for, only to overhear Hagen talking about you and 'miracle' in the same breath. The fear hit him instantly. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the wrinkled man. A sinister thought crawled into his mind: kill Hagen and his wife. Make it look like a robbery.

Then, Bucky thought of you and felt utterly disgusted with himself for even thinking of it. He wasn't that person, and he'd never be him again. He fled from there as fast as he could, terrified of himself.

He wondered if he could ever truly be the man you deserved. He highly doubted it. But the fact was, he couldn't let you go. He'd already lost Steve. He couldn't fathom losing you, too.

Bucky loved you. With every tiny, broken piece of himself--he loved you.

He moved closer, admiring your peaceful face and enveloping himself in your intoxicating scent.

You were so goddamn delicate. So mesmerizingly pretty. It was up to him to safeguard you.

You'd wake up in a few hours. You hadn't eaten because he hadn't. And he'd been a fucking prick all evening. You'd even baked him his favorite cake, but he'd been too cooped up in his head, too angry at you for being so reckless. Didn't you understand he couldn't live without you?

He'd make your favorite breakfast and apologize. Maybe you'd kiss him on the cheek like you had yesterday. That little kiss where you'd rise on your toes and tug him down gently always made him feel alive.

Bucky leaned in, and placed a small kiss on your forehead. Your scent enveloping him, a medicine to his wounded thoughts and shattered soul. In the confines of his mind, he whispered, 'I love you,' perhaps too loudly for your heart not to hear.

Fic-a-boo Part 03: Perennial Embers The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Pepper Potts speaking." "Hi...Umm. Hi, Pepper," you said, your voice a little shaky, "I need to cash in that favor."

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daydreaming-nerd · 1 year ago

Text

I’ll Crawl Home To Her (Azriel x Reader)

AN: This was supposed to be based off But Daddy I Love Him but it morphed into something else but I'm kinda happy about it.

Summary: The story of how the princess of Velaris and the shadowsinger came to be.

Warnings: blood, injury, dickhead dads, bit of smut but it's not too descriptive (It's for the plot), angst, fluffy ending.

Word count: 8053

As a princess I was told that “hate” is a very strong word. Consequently, there weren’t a lot of things that I hated. For example, I greatly disliked when my tea came with too much milk, and I absolutely despised corsets. But if there was one thing I hated, and I mean truly hated, it was my father.

If it wasn’t for the way he treated my mother and older brother then it would be the way he treated me. How he kept me from my beloved, my brother's best friend, the shadowsinger, my Azriel.

Azriel had been mine long before my father ever knew about it. When I grew to be 207 my mother finally convinced my father to let me go to Windhaven with her to visit Rhys. I hadn’t seen my brother in years, as he had begun training with the Illyrians.

He wrote me letters of course, detailing friends and enemies he made along the way. Two of which stood out to me, Cassian and Azriel. However these letters never made up for him in the flesh, which is why during my first trip to Windhaven I had never been so excited. To this day I still remember it…

The winter wind stung my cheeks as snow clung to the furs of my cloak. It was as if no matter how many layers I wore the wind found its way to barrel through and nip at my skin.

I found myself walking along the edge of the camp, where the light of the fires couldn't reach me and only the moon gave me the ability to see. When my mother and I arrived at the little cabin Rhys was not there, after speaking to Devlon we found he was on assignment and would be home soon.

After a few hours in the cabin I began to feel claustrophobic, so I took a walk around the heavily wooded area. There was something magic about the first snow of the season. The way the snow covered the ground and crunched under my boots. White capped trees that looked like they were frosted by the gods, and the still silence that came from the insulation the blanket of white provided.

“It’s a little cold out don’t you-” a voice crooned behind me and stopped abruptly as I turned to face him.

Standing frozen just a few feet from me was an Illyrian male with his mouth agape at the sight of me. He was large, his wings the biggest I had ever seen. Inky black hair framed his carved face as his hazel eyes frozen in shock as if he had just seen a ghost.

“Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head a bit, as if to clear the fog from his mind. “It’s just that I don’t see many beautiful things up here, you startled me.”

My cheeks flush and I pray he thinks it's from the cold and not the butterflies in my stomach.

“I find that hard to believe when this is your view,” I smile, gesturing to the snow valley below us. “There’s nothing more beautiful than the first snowfall of the year.”

Footsteps crunch behind me as he comes up on my right, “Perhaps, but it pales in comparison to you,” he smirks and this time I know he can tell he’s the reason my cheeks are pink. “Might I have the honor of knowing your name?”

I turn to meet his gaze once more but before I can answer back I hear a shout coming from far away.

“Y/N!” my brother shouts charging towards me.

“Rhys!” I call back running into his embrace.

He lets out a groan as I leap into his arms, a pile of furs and wool as I pull him into me. The scent of sea salt and citrus filling my nose, the warmth of him seeping through my clothes.

“Ahh little sister I’ve missed you,” Rhys says, setting me down to get a good look at me.

“Little sister?” called the male behind me, his snow crunching footsteps coming towards Rhysand and I’s side.

“It seems you’ve already met her, this is my little sister, y/n.”Rhys beams, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Y/n this is my very good friend, Azriel.”

“Azriel,” I blink, holding out my hand for the shadowsinger to shake. How had I not realized? Rhysand’s letters spoke of his shadowsinger friend, now that I looked at him, and I mean really looked at him, I could see the dark matter swirling around him.

“Princess,” he says, bowing his head and pressing a kiss to my hand. “It is an honor to meet you. You’ll have to forgive my previous informality, I didn’t know who you were.”

Rhysand let out a hearty laugh behind me, “Azriel my friend there is no need for such formalities, in fact my sister detests them.” he smiles.

“It’s true, you can just call me y/n, I’m sure that we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the years to come.” I smile hoping I was speaking the truth into existence.

“Come, mother has made dinner for all of us and you have yet to meet Cassian,” Rhys said enthusiastically, throwing an arm over my shoulder.

From that day forward I found myself spending more and more time at Windhaven, in hopes of seeing Azriel. Sometimes I would see him for only a minute or so, other times he would be able to stay and have dinner with my mother, myself and of course Rhys and Cass.

Those were always my favorite nights when he and I would share stolen glances across the table. Sometimes we might brush hands reaching for the carafe of wine, other times I would feel his boot brush my ankle under the table. Both of us danced around the other like flickering flames.

It wasn’t until a few years later when all three of them conquered the blood rite that Azriel and I were finally able to admit our feelings for one another…

We stood behind one of the many rows of cabins, the sound of laughing warriors celebrating their victories or mourning their losses ran through the camp. Before he even spoke I knew why he asked me to meet him back here, I could feel the tension between us both.

“I’m tired of acting like I don’t care about you. I’m tired of saying “nothing” whenever Rhys and Cassian ask me what’s on my mind. I’m tired of trying to hide that everytime I come back to camp that I’m looking for you and hoping I can see you for just one second. I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you,” Azriel confesses, caging me against the back wall of a cabin.

“Azriel I-” I begin but he cuts me off.

“When we were on the mountain, there was a moment where there was a dagger to my throat and I thought I was going to die. I thought I would leave this world without telling you how much I loved you. If it wasn’t for Cassian that would’ve been the case. I won’t make the same mistakes twice,” he finished.

“Azriel, I love you too,” I shuddered a sigh, aware of how close he was to me.

The second the words left my mouth he was on me, large hands encircling my waist as I felt every inch of his body pressed against mine. His breath was hot on my face, contrasting the bitter cold of the night air.

“Can I kiss you?” he breathed, lips mere inches from mine.

“Please,” I begged, but once again the word hung in the air for mere seconds before his mouth was on mine.

Every part of it felt so right. His hands on my waist, my fingers in his hair, his lips on mine claiming me in a way that made my head spin. My arms pulled him as close as possible, needing to feel him, smell that scent of rain, leather and whatever intoxicating cologne he was wearing. I was so drunk on him that I was shaken when I heard a hearty laugh ring out through the camp.

I pulled back immediately realizing what was happening, “Oh my gods, we can’t do this here, my brother he-”

“Shhh, shhh,” he cooed, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. “I talked to Rhys about it, I have his blessing to court you. He took it rather well, he actually seemed excited.” Azriel laughed, pressing a kiss to my forehead as he held me closer, his body blocking the wind from seeping into my clothes.

“Oh Azriel,” I smile, kissing him hard as I feel him lifting me into the air, my head spinning just as fast as he spun me.

We spent the rest of that night lying on a blanket in a field away from the world. The sound of distant celebrations making us laugh every now and then. At some point I could’ve sworn I heard Cassian singing a tale of an old drunk warrior.

I had tried to tell Azriel that he should join his brothers in their celebration but he insisted that he would much rather spend his few moments of peace with me. It was one of the best nights of my life.

Our relationship was kept secret from everyone but Rhys and Cassian. Even my mother, who always accompanied me to Windhaven, was kept in the dark. No one with close ties to my father could know. That being said, it was hard for Azriel and I to find quiet moments together.

Most of the time we met in the woods behind camp. Azriel would go away and bring me little trinkets, pretty rocks and feathers he found while in the mountains. In the spring he always came with a freshly picked bouquet of wildflowers. We always ended up making out and getting carried away, on more than one occasion I tried to take things further but he never let me.

“I won’t have the first time I bed you in the woods. You’re a princess, you deserve a soft bed to be worshiped on.”

Was what he always said to me. While I appreciated the sentiment, I couldn’t help but wish for more.

It wasn’t until a few months later that I finally saw an opening. Father and mother were going to be at a meeting in the Winter Court, leaving Velaris in the care of Rhys. More importantly the cabin at Windhaven would be empty. That night was truly the best night of my life.

My back hits the warm sheets below me as Azriel looks at my bare body with hungry eyes. I had never been with a male before, my father and mother dead set on having me intact for whatever husband they shackled me to. But Azriel would be my husband, even if he wasn’t noble or the son of a High Lord he was mine, and I was his. I didn’t care how many rules I had to break to have him.

“My beautiful, beautiful princess,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to my neck.

His hands wander the expanse of my bare skin, both warming and leaving goosebumps wherever they trail. I arch my back into him, needing more, needing the very essence of him branded into me.

“Azriel I need more,” I breathe tugging on the ends of his hair.

He had already stripped me bare and kissed every square inch of me before falling to his knees and feasting on me like I was his last meal. I had read about such sinful touches before, dreamt about experiencing those sensations with him at night. None of it compared to the real thing.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks me once more, brushing the hair from my face.

“I’m sure, I want it to be you,” I nod running my hands through his hair again.

The wild twinkle in his eyes was enough to make my toes curl as he smiled at me, “I promise to be gentle, to make you feel good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to my lips.

“I trust you Az,” I nod and his lips kick up again at his nickname.

I feel him nudge and my entrance and my breath hitches as he inches himself inside. The stretch was painful, but the sting faded as he peppered kisses all over my face, whispering sweet nothings to me.

“Shh you’re doing so well princess…”

“You’re so beautiful…”

“Can you feel me? Can you feel us?”

“I love you…”

I must’ve seen stars a million times that night. His gentle nature only made me fall deeper in love with him. It wasn’t the brutal fucking I had heard about in taverns and from drunk men at balls. He had taken his time, and been even more gentle than he had promised me.

We made love a dozen times that night. Kissed and touched and worshiped until I fell asleep, bathed and warm in his arms.

The next morning was hard to face. Knowing we had to leave the cabin and act as if we didn’t spend the entire night exchanging souls, and tangled in eachothers arms.

Az especially was on edge, so much so that when a younger male offered to tie my boot for me Azriel marched over and pushed him into the mud before pulling my foot onto his bent knee and tying it himself.

Of course I yelled at him for being an Illyrian baby while Rhys and Cassian laughed and poked fun at their friend. Azriel just huffed and shot a warning glance at the poor male who had tried to tie my boot.

From there on out we spent every possible moment together. I would tell my father that I was visiting friends in other courts just so I could see Azriel, which wasn’t often. As the war between humans and fae grew more iminanent I saw less and less of the shadowsinger. Our meetings became more fervent, and well…passionate. We became careless and it’s what ended up tearing him away from me for good.

My back was pressed against the cabin wall, my hands pinned by my head as Azriel’s lips consumed mine. We had no longer than an hour together before he would be set back to scout for Hybern’s troops, but we intended to make the most of it.

“I missed you,” he breathed into my neck.

“I missed you too, two weeks is too long,” I murmured, breathing in his scent. He always left me one of his many shirts to sleep in but it never did compare to the real thing.

“I don’t have much time, they’re sending me to the border to scout for Hybern’s troops,” he says in between kisses.

Scarred hands drift over my waist and graze my bum as I feel him collecting fist fulls of my skirt. Before my dress can be pushed up much further than my knees the door to the cabin barges open, startling both of us. Azriel placed his hand on one of the daggers strapped to his side, but not even he could defend me from who stepped through the threshold.

“What the hells is going on here?” My father’s voice boomed from the doorway, the cold air from outside seeping into the place that was once our own.

I peek out from behind Azriel’s shoulder to find not only my father but Lord Devlon standing before us. My fathers eyes locked on mine, and white hot fear seared my nerves.

“What are you doing with my daughter?!” My father roared, his power slamming Azriel aside.

“Father no!” I scream, clinging to his arm to interrupt his antics.

Devlon screamed for backup to come as Azriel’s feet hit the floor again. The commotion outside beginning to stir.

“My lord, I-” Azriel starts to explain but my father cuts him off.

“You will not speak unless spoken to, you bastard born brute!” my father screams as Devlon’s men come to detain the Shadowsinger.

“Father stop it! He didn’t take advantage of me, we’ve been seeing each other.” I plead with my father as tears start to well up in my eyes.

“What?!” he scoffed, looking at me like I was a common whore. “You are promised to one of the sons of Spring and yet you soil yourself with filth of his kind?”

“He’s not filth. He’s Rhys’ friend, and he’s good, brave and kind.” I beseech him as I hear Azriel struggle against the men who have him bound.

My father takes a deep breath and turns his gaze from me. The sound of his boots crossing the wooden floors to stand before Azriel are the loudest most impending sound I had ever heard. He stands before my shadowsinger before raising his hand and letting his fist collide with that beautiful face I had spent so long kissing.

My gasp reverberates through the room but Azriel doesn’t make a sound, as if he’s challenging my father, or proving his worth.

“What should we do with him?” my father asks, not taking his eyes off Az.

“The boy has completed the rite, we can send him to one of the battalions on the border. Perhaps the trash will take itself out,” Devlon laughs. I had known that the Lord had a chip on his shoulder for my brother and his friends. But sending him to the slaughter?

“Father please I love him!” I cry falling to my knees before my father, grasping his hand. I would never beg my father for anything, never fall to my knees for anyone. But for this I would… for Azriel, I would die on my knees.

Despite my pleading my fathers gaze never falters from where it is fixed on Azriel. As if he’s trying to decide if he should slit his throat now or let him die on a battlefield. Azriel’s face remains steadfast and strong, showing no signs of weakness, like he will accept whatever punishment befalls him with the grace of a warrior.

“Send him,” he says resolutely before turning away.

“NO PLEASE!” I beseech as my father hauls me to my feets again, but my knees are giving out under me.

“It is done,” his gruff voice says in my ear as I watch them haul Azriel to his feet. “One day you’ll thank me.”

I watch as they pull Azriel toward the door. Dragging him unnecessarily letting his wings drape across the ground. It was all happening so fast and could be the last time I ever saw his face.

“Let me say goodbye! Please let me say goodbye!” I shouted thrashing in my fathers grasp. Needing to touch Az one last time, needing one more moment with him.

Azriel’s eyes were frantic as he heard my screams, as he watched my father use his strength to detain me.

“Listen! Listen!” he called trying to get me to stop my frantic blubbering, the guards pulling him out the door. “You have to be strong princess. I love you , and I will find you again, if not in this life than in the next!” he shouts as he is hauled past the threshold of the cabin.

“Azriel!” I scream, my voice cracking under the weight of my tears.

“I love you!” he shouts again from the outside of the cabin.

“I love you!” I call back to him, not knowing if I’ll ever get another chance to say it.

That was six months ago...

Since then the war had gotten more and more bloody, and unavoidable. As far as I knew Azriel was still alive. I hadn’t seen him since the night he was ripped from my arms, a night I often had nightmares about. I sent him letters whenever possible and every so often I would get one back.

I could tell he had tried to send more, as every date on the ones that did make it through were skewed. The most recent one, dated two months ago, burned a hole in the pocket of my dress. The folds were so worn from reading that I feared they may fall apart the next time I opened it.

My love,

I am alive and well, though my battalion has suffered great losses. More and more Illyrians are sent to the frontlines every day to take the place of the dead. There are times I wonder if a wide eyed recruit will ever take my place…

At night I lie in bed and dream of you lying next to me, your warmth. Or the way your hair looks sprawled in swirling over the green grass when you’re under me. The sound of your voice calling my attention. The softness of your hands. The night you came undone for me in the cabin.

My only consolation is that when I look up at the night sky. I know you are looking at those same stars. And if what I’m doing is keeping you safe. Keeping you fed and swathed in those blue silks that drive me crazy. Then I will sleep in this tent and fight alongside my peers happily. My love is safe and warm because of me.

I love you, and I will return to you.

Yours eternally,

Azriel

I fold the tattered parchment with gloved hands and tuck it securely into the pocket of my dress. The shouts of men and the clash of swords outside my tent drown out the peace I had struggled to preserve.

Hybern’s army had marched on Velaris and while the border hadn’t been breached, my father decided it was unsafe to leave my mother and I there. My mother was sent to a camp with my father where he would watch over her, I was sent to Rhys’ camp.

The flap of the tent is thrown open, my brother charges in wearing his leathers, his hair disheveled and a letter in hand.

“What is it?” I stand upon seeing the worry gracing his face.

Armies had been marching upon another camp a few miles away. If they had breached the encampment that would mean they were coming for us next. We would have just minutes to evacuate and find a safe place.

“The men were able to hold the front lines,” he says, setting down his swords with a sigh that told me that there was still news to be revealed.

“Then what is it?” I asked quietly, unsure of whether or not I wanted to know the truth he had to say.

Violet eyes met my own, in them, a sorrow and worry I had not yet seen from my brother, “It’s Azriel.” he said.

My heart stopped and my world quieted as I perched myself on a nearby chair, not trusting my legs to keep me upright. Not when my heart lay in the balance, the very reason I was alive.

“He was injured, severely. He may be dying y/n.” he said sadly, coming to stand before me.

May be dying. Which meant he was alive, which meant there was still a chance.

My head snaps up to him, a new fire in my gaze that no one had seen in six months.

“Take me to him,” I ordered my brother as I stood to collect my cloak.

“You’re asking me to take you, my sister, to the front lines. I won’t do it.” Rhys shakes his head.

“I am going with or without you Rhys,” I say firmly, wrapping my cloak around my shoulders.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before picking his swords up again and strapping them to his sides. With my hood over my head and my brother's hand at my back we made our way out into the night. Once we reached the wards at the edge of the camp we winnowed to the encampment near the frontlines.

Immediately as we walked through the rows of tents and campfires I could tell that these males had seen hell. All of them looked significantly worse than the males at the camp we had just come from. Most of them were caked in mud and blood, some were drunk on whatever filled their cups. All of them were loud and rowdy and most likely celebrating their last nights in this life.

Rhys led me through the camp, until we arrived at a lonely tent in the center. It was large and from the outside I could practically smell Azriel. I bolted for the entrance and threw open the flaps, my heart racing, unsure if I would find him alive or dead.

But there he was, breathing. Leaning against the back of his bed with a large bandage over his left thigh. He was awake and refreshingly himself, as if nothing was truly wrong and most importantly he was alive.

I run to him throwing my arms around his neck, “Oh Azriel,” I coo breathing him in.

“Y/n?” he says, his mind clearly still foggy.

I pull back to cup his face, whoever had healed him has cleaned him up, the small cut above his eyebrow already starting to heal, “Az,” I breathe.

His hand comes to cup my face, “How are you here? This can’t be real,” his eyes search my face as if to try and wake up from a dream.

I place a kiss on his lips, “I’m real, I’m here,” I assure him as tears spill from my eyes. “They told me you were dying.”

“I am well, it was a deep cut but the healers say I’ll be okay,” he assures me as his eyes continue to take me in.

I let my eyes do the same, taking in every cut and bruise on him, even the patched holes in his wings no doubt from arrows piercing the beautiful, leathery flesh.

“Faebane?” Rhys’ voice croons from the entrance of the tent as he watches us, it seemed that his nerves were also settled upon seeing Azriel well.

“Yep,” Azriel said nonchalantly, but his eyes told the truth of how happy he was to see my brother, or maybe how relieved.

“Hurts like a bitch doesn’t it?” Rhys chuckles stepping into the tent and closing the flap.

My eyes widened at his causal tone, “How can you both be so docile about this? He could’ve died.” I exclaim, looking Azriel over once more in case I missed any lingering wounds.

Azriel's chest rumbles with a chuckle, “Shhh my love. Everything will be alright.” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “But what are you doing here? It isn’t safe.”

“The border of Velaris is almost breached,” Rhys started from behind me. “We couldn’t leave her and my mother there, it wasn’t safe.”

“Mother is with father and I’m with Rhys. We found out you were injured and just a camp away and I asked him to take me to you.” I continue Rhys’ explanation.

Azriel cuts Rhys a somewhat harsh look as if to say ‘why the hell would you take her somewhere so dangerous?’

“You needed to see each other,” Rhys explains further. “If anything were to happen to you and I didn’t let you two say goodbye, I would never forgive myself.”

Azriel’s shoulders softened in understanding before turning to me once more, “You have to go princess,” he said, eyes full of sorrow.

My breath hitches as I stumble back a little from where I sit next to him, “What? No, I won’t leave you,” I say resolutely.

He cups the side of my face, “Please it’s not safe here,” he eyes pleading as his voice falters.

I go to argue but Rhys speaks up behind me, “He’s right y/n, It’s the most vulnerable camp we have.” my brother says, his words solemn.

“I don’t care!” I exclaim turning back to brush Azriel’s hair from his face. “I’m not leaving him Rhys, we will be okay.”

Azriel’s eyes flare, “Look at me!” he shouts gesturing to his leg. “I can’t protect you here,” his voice is laced with frustration, not at my unwillingness to leave, but his inability to do the one thing he swore to always do, protect me.

“Then I’ll die here with you!” I proclaim, fiercely. “If you cannot protect me, then you cannot protect yourself. Please Azriel, please don’t make me leave.” I cry lying down on his chest, gripping the leathers there, as if it might keep my brother from ripping me away.

“I can’t,” I sob as my words get caught in my throat. “I can’t lose you again I-”

“Shhh,” Azriel coos, his hand stroking my hair as he pulls me into his chest. “You’ll stay here in my arms.” he assures me and I’m finally able to relax into his touch.

“Y/n, I can’t stay here. I need to go back to my own troops and prepare them for tomorrow,” my brother said softly, not trying to persuade me to return, but to inform me of the increasing danger.

“I understand,” I say standing to say goodbye.

“I’ll come back for you tomorrow morning, before the troops march,” he said, his words tinged with sorrow.

I take in the sight of my brother looking defeated, a look I so rarely saw on him. It broke me to realize I might never see him after this. If the enemy marched on this camp there would be no one to keep Azriel and I from the slaughter given his injury.

“Okay,” I whispered, my voice cracking as I threw myself onto my beloved brother.

Rhys said his goodbyes to Azriel, both of them not wanting to get too deep, say too much, for fear of manifesting defeat on both sides. When my brother exited the tent I took my spot next to Azriel on his large cot and waited for either death or the sunrise.

Later in the night, the raucous from outside got louder and louder disturbing my sleep. When I raised my head from Azriel’s chest I found that his eyes remained open and fixed on the tent entrance, like he was ready to challenge anyone who dared to walk through despite his inability to walk.

“Hey,” I smiled weakly, my voice shaky from sleep.

“Hey,” he smiled back, pushing a hair from my face.

I moved back the blanket to check the gash in his thigh. Lifting the white bandage, I could see that it was almost completely soaked through, if I left it that way he would never get better.

I throw my legs over the edge of the cot and search for my discarded cloak, “You need fresh bandages or you’ll get an infection. I’m going to go get you some.”

“Y/n don’t you dare leave this tent. There are war bound men out there looking for one last lay before they leave this world,” he pleads, reaching for my hand that’s just out of reach.

“I’ll only be a moment Az,” I assure him before raising my hood and slipping out of the tent.

I can hear him shouting my name as I exit, but his protests are quickly drowned out by the sound of drunken men. Azriel was right, these men were drunk and not in their right mind. But if that wound got infected and he died I would never forgive myself. So I kept my head down walking towards the medic tent I passed on my way in, ignoring rambunctious cheers and stumbling men.

The light of the medic tent comes into view and relief washes over me swiftly before the rug is pulled out from under me and I run smack into a broad chest.

“Well what do we have here?” laughs a drunken male. I can smell the sweat and alcohol on him.

“Looks like we have a little birdy who lost her way,” laughs a male from my right.

My feet take two steps back before bumping into another mountain of a male. His hand comes up to rip the hood off my head, if all three of them recognized me as their princess they didn’t show it. My pulse began to race as I frantically looked for a way out of this hell.

“What’s a beauty like you doing out here?” crooned the male behind me.

I put on a stoic face, “I’m leaving if you’ll excuse me,” I state, but before I can even take my first step I feel large hands grasping my shoulders holding me in place.

“Whoever bought you for the night must’ve paid a pretty penny,” jested the man to my right.

“What do ya say darlin? Are you gonna give these brave men a proper send off?” the man behind me says low into my ear as he grabs me around the middle, plucking me off the ground.

I start kicking trying to break free, my screamed muffled by his hand over my mouth. All the trashing in the world wasn’t enough to break their hold as the other two males descended upon me, as if they were willing to take me right there in the middle of camp.

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my princess,” drawled a voice from behind me.

The eyes of the three men surrounding me went wide at whatever figure stood behind us, all three of them scurrying off to gods knew where. I turn slowly to face whoever my rescuer was, and I’m met with a mountain of sheer muscle and bright red siphons.

“Cassian!” I cried running to throw my arms around the burly warrior, I hadn’t seen him in over a year.

He hugs me tighter, the kind of bear hug only he could provide. It was clear to me that he missed me just as much as I had missed him. When he releases me he bends down to cup my face, and wipe away the tears I didn’t know had fallen.

“Princess, what are you doing here? Where is your brother?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Rhys brought me here but he’s gone now, he’s gone back to his own camp but he’ll be back tomorrow,” I say as Cassian continues to wipe away the fresh tears, this time tears of happiness and not fear.

Cassain stands up as if to assess for danger before tossing an arm around me, “Stay with me, I’ll keep you safe. Where is Azriel? I was told he was injured,” he asks, remaining vigilant.

“He’s okay, I was just getting him fresh bandages,” I report, pointing Cassian towards the medic tent.

“He let you leave his tent?!” he balks corralling me inside the tent.

“Uh, no. Not really,” I laugh nervously.

He rolls his eyes and grabs a few armfuls of bandages before shoving them into my arms. We weave through drunken men who do a good job of staying at least three feet away from me, no doubt seeing The Lord of Bloodshed trailing me.

I throw open the flap of Azriel’s tent, running to his side at once.

“Oh thank the mother,” he sighs in relief upon seeing me.

I laugh at his fussing and begin dressing his wound, “Look who I found,” I say nodding my head to where Cassian stands behind me.

“I believe I found you,” Cassian corrects me, sheer amusement in his voice.

“Cass!” Azriel beams as his brother gives him an affectionate smack on the shoulder.

“Brother you look a little worse for wear,” Cassian chuckles looking at the wound I was currently cleaning.

“I’ve been better,” Azriel winces as I wrap the wound in a clean bandage.

“I heard what happened and came as soon as I could. Ran right into your princess here, causing trouble as usual,” the warrior chortles beside me making me roll my eyes.

“What?” Azriel asked, more alert than he previously was.

“You were right, the men out there are assholes,” I scoff, tying off the fresh bandage.

“Did they touch you?” he inquired, his eyes ablaze.

“Az it’s fine Cass was there,” I assure him placing a hand on his shoulder feeling the palpable tension there, like he was ready to pounce.

“Y/n did they put their hands on you?” he asks again, this time more unyielding than before.

“Yes but look at me, I'm fine!” I say with an exasperated sigh.

Azriel’s eyes flit to Cassian as he extends his hand to his brother, like he needs support.

“Cassian help me up,” he orders, already scooting to the edge of the cot.

“Azriel don’t you dare!” I shout smacking his chest. “Enough with the territorial, Illyrian nonsense! You’re injured, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

The shadowsingers body slumps back into bed in defeat with a huff, clearly upset he couldn’t pummel the shit out of a couple of lowly males who weren’t worth it in the first place.

Cassian’s chuckle reverberated through the tent, “Good to see you two picking up right where you left off,” he joked, remembering all the times we had similar quarrels.

It was the early hours of morning, and while the sun was still hiding behind the mountains, it would be rearing its ugly head soon enough. The partying and cheering from outside the tent had died down. Men either passing out drunk or choosing sleep over thoughts of what might happen tomorrow.

Cassian snored softly in the corner of the tent in the chair he took up. He had elected to stay behind and watch over us at Azriel’s request and I was smart enough to not argue with two Illyrians.

I layed on Azriel’s chest, waiting for sleep to claim me but it never came. Sleep didn’t find Azriel as well, his hand twirling through the strands of my unbound hair as we sat in silence.

“You know what kept me alive out there on that battlefield after I was injured?” Azriel whispered into the night.

“A healer that I’ll be paying a very handsome bonus to?” I laugh squeezing my arms around him a bit.

“No, you” he said seriously rubbing my shoulder

“Me?” I gawk, sitting up so I could look him in the eye.

“Yes, you,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “When I was downed they thought I was dead. Horses and men clamored over me. It was all so loud, such a blur but then I closed my eyes and there you were.” he said looking at the canopy of the tent, as if remembering the event.

“It was a memory from the first time I saw you, before I even knew who you were. You were standing in the snow waiting for Rhys and your mother and there was snow all over your hair. It was the first snow of the year and you were entranced just like you always are.” He chuckles, pulling me closer. “But I knew then and there that I had to open my eyes. Had to get up. Even if it was just to see your face one more time, kiss your lips, tell you I love you. I woke up in this tent reeling from it. I could’ve sworn you were here, in the vision I felt your touch. And then hours later you storm in here with your fussing and worrying.” he says.

I feel a tear roll down my face as I cup his face, pulling his gaze from the canopy to me. I pulled his letter out of my dress pocket, the paper flopping about from how many times it had been folded and unfolded.

“I kept this letter with me every single day. I must’ve read it a hundred times, hells I might even have it memorized.” I laugh, shaking the paper in my hands. “I never once gave up hope that I would see you again. No matter what happens after tonight I still won’t give up hope. I know I’ll find you again.”

Azriel chuckles, pressing his forehead to mine, “I’d crawl home to you if I had to princess,” he says resolutely.

I wake the next morning to the sound of men moving about outside the tent and an empty cot. The covers before me are still disheveled from where Azriel slipped out from under me. I threw the blankets off the bed and pulled my cloak from where I set it last night, fastening it to my shoulders.

When I toss open the flaps of the tent I’m momentarily blinded by the bright sun before the sight of men collecting their weapons and armor come into focus. My eyes darted frantically for a trace of Azriel, surely he couldn’t have gone far, surely he wasn’t going to fight today.

“Azriel!” I call out roaming around looking for a flash of a blue siphon.

Heavy footsteps come up behind me grabbing my arm and I turn around to be met with Cassian. I looked back to the tent and realized he had been keeping watch outside.

“Cass, where is he?” I ask him, but all I’m met with is a heavy gaze from Cassian.

“Y/n?” calls a voice from behind me and I turn to see my father, mother and brother walking towards us.

My mother runs over to me taking me into her arms and holding me close. It was clear to me that they had found Rhys and instantly questioned why I wasn’t under his care.

“Thank the gods,” my mother breathed taking in my unharmed appearance.

“You smell like that Illyrian brute,” my father sneered and I knew right away he ment Azriel.

“He could have been dying,” I reply with equal venom, my gaze narrowing at the man who went through such great lengths to keep us apart.

“Of course, why do you think I sent him to the frontlines again today?” he scoffed, already turning his attention to the hordes of men preparing for battle.

My blood turned to ice in my veins and my heart plummeted.

“What?” I cried looking at Rhys who wore a solemn look on his face. “Rhys, you knew?”

My brother lets out a shaky breath, “I knew before we even arrived last night. When he tried to get you to leave I used daemati to tell him he was being sent to the front lines. He knew it would be the last time he ever saw you.” he confessed.

He knew.

Haste clouds my mind and I turn to run in the same direction with the rest of the men, my father and brother joining their ranks without another word. My mother catches me around the shoulders and pulls me into her embrace as my knees hit the muddy ground beneath us.

“No, no, no, no no!” I scream trying to run to the front, as if I could keep Azriel from death myself.

“The battle is not yet over sweetheart, he may still live,” My mother coos stroking my hair.

“He was injured mother,” my words come out as sobs as I cling to her cloak.

“Have faith,” she pleads, kneeling on the ground with me, trying to calm me as best she can.

“Azriel,” I cry. “My Azriel.”

I give into my mothers embrace and after a while she ushers me toward a tent. She wipes my face with a cool towel trying to calm my swollen eyes, but it’s no use. Every war cry, and ear rupturing blast feels like the one that takes Azriel’s life. Each one sends me back into a mess of shallow breaths and tears.

Only when the battle cries fade, and the blasts of siphons and raw power cease do my tears stop. Soldiers and Illyrains come filtering back to the camp, some whole, some being carried by their peers. My brother and Cassain are the first to find us. Rhys was unharmed, but Cassian was wheeled to a healer immediately. Thankfully, she claimed he would be alright.

I took to the masses, weaving through men making their way back occasionally running into some as my eyes were focused on the skies. Searching amongst the hordes of Illyrians flying in. If Azriel was anywhere it would be there.

“Azriel!” I shouted, my voice going hoarse from the screaming I had been doing.

More and more Illyrians fly overhead, not one of them resembling my Azriel. If he was amongst them he would see me standing out like a sore thumb amongst the rabble, going against the grain of everyone before me.

“AZRIEL!” I call out even louder, cupping my hands around my mouth as if it will help.

“Y/N!”

I hear my voice being called, not from the skies, but from the ground. My eyes snap to the crowds before me before I see a pair of wings over the top of a million heads.

“AZRIEL?!” I call out moving in the direction of the voice that called to me.

Then I see him, my Azriel. The wound on his leg is split open and his wings are pierced with a dozen arrows which explains his inability to fly. But he’s there, and he’s whole, and alive.

“Y/n!” he calls out to me again.

I pick up the skirts of my dress running to him, my shoulders bumping into all the men I weave around. I jump into his arms feeling him pick me up, pulling me impossibly close.

“Oh Az,” I breathe running a hand through his hair as my feet hit the ground again, his eyes assessing me for any injury. “My love, I thought I would never see you again,” I cried.

His thumbs wipe away my tears as he cups my face, “Death, nor a thousand evil men could keep me from you,” he smiled before pulling me into his chest.

As we hold each other, the chaos around us fades into the background. For a moment, time stands still, and all that matters is that we are together. He was here, in my arms and he was alive. Both of us were, and there were many more years ahead of us. Many, many more years.

Epilogue: third person pov

Rhysand and Feyre stood in the living room of the townhouse. The world outside was near silent as Velaris slept, having spent the day celebrating solstice. Even the faelights in the home seemed to have dimmed. Members of the Inner Circle worked to clean the dessert plates off the table where they had their magnificent feast.

“And that’s their story,” Rhys finished saying to his mate, rubbing her shoulder as they continued to admire the scene before them.

On the large couch before them y/n was asleep on top of an even sleepier Azriel, his arms, legs and wings all but draping off the edges just to keep her comfortable.

When Feyre stumbled into the adorable scene it had occurred to her that she had never heard the story of how the two came to be. Rhysand was more than happy to tell her the tale of forbidden love and near death experiences.

“They’ve been through so much,” Feyre said, leaning into Rhysand’s touch.

“They truly have,” Rhys nods, pressing a kiss to his mate's temple. “But now they get to eat too much turkey every solstice and skip out on dish duty so I think it worked out okay.” he chuckles.

Feyre slaps him on the chest playfully but laughs right along with them watching as the pair lounges on the couch, mouths open and completely and utterly relaxed. The High Lord and Lady turn from the living room to rejoin the rest of their family in the kitchen. There would be time to make fun of the princess and the shadowsinger tomorrow.

They had all the time in the world.

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