#thank you salv!

[firstpersonnarrator]

Oh my god, I have a new header. I’m dying. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted and more.

Thank you @salvador-daley for this gorgeous work of art featuring Rob being perfectly symmetrical while he falls on a bouncy house.

This is my idea of heaven. I’m dead. I can’t. It matches my icon and everything.

Unified aesthetics are my happy place. That is, aside from Rob. He is my even happier place.

[merrilark]

Top Five Foods

top 5 things!

P o t a t o e s. The most wonderful and versatile of tubers.

Cabbage! Cooked, stewed, or raw, makes no difference to me.

Raw turnips with salt. Ugh, I've been craving turnips for months.

Blackberries. I could eat blackberries all day. It's a shame they're so expensive.

It seems redundant to say "a good mulligan stew" when I've already listed two ingredients lol but! A good mulligan stew. There's little as comforting as a hot, savory broth full of chunky veg and herbs... But that could be the winter weather talking. ♥

[kaurwreck]

fav chuuya trivia: he’s a lightweight and a wine collector. combine it with the fact that poisons a weakness for him, ability wise, and too much alcohol is in fact poison. he chooses that often.

bonus: combine that with the fact that dazai’s coming of age came with going to a bar, and i don’t know what that means

anon cause shy

Untitled I. My dear, even though you treat me kindly, I'm stubborn. After we parted last night, I went drinking and berated some weakling. This morning, Waking up, I remember your kindness And sadly reflect on my vile behavior. And now, I, a total fraud, will here confess that, without shame, Stripped of all dignity, and therefore lacking honesty— I was urged on by my own illusions, raving mad. [...] III. In this world we sadly live in like this, your heart— Don't let it grow stubborn my dear Because I hope for intimacy with you Your heart— don't let it grow stubborn my dear.

[Excerpted from Poems of the Goat, written by Chuuya Nakahara, translated by Ry Beville]

[corrodedcoughin]

eddíe coming out to steve as genderfluid - or, well. he won't know the name for it until a few years later, but after he tries to explain it and steve listens and asks questions and seems to understand it well enough. but eddie's not out yet to anyone else, sticks to he/him pronouns and they don't mind being seen as a guy per se, but they'd be way more comfortable if people knew to use she or they when talking about them. but steve wants to help, so, using the skill he learned from el, he makes eddie bracelets. every color he can find, thin enough to be hidden or passed as a gift from kids. so eddie can choose which color means what and they can wear how they feel for when steve can't ask them, or when they're around other people, steve can distract the kids from calling eddie a guy too much when he's wearing blue (not pink. fuck stereotypes, eddie said, earning a kiss from steve, because they both know steve loves pink), or try to steer the conversation away from eddie completely if they're uncomfortable. when to call him a beautiful boy and when it's simply a pretty baby. eddie thinking it's equally amazing and terrifying to be loved like this, so much that whatever eddie thinks are difficulties or faults are actually the parts steve loves most. because eddie won't survive if steve ever stops loving them, but steve always looks eddie in the eyes, and it's always with endless patience and certainly when he promises, "don't worry. i won't ever stop."

Something about Eddie being so unsure of how to navigate this space, when he's always been so loud and ready to put on a show. This though? This uncertainty in himself of how to be who he feels he is? It rattles him down to his bones. He spends god knows how long contemplating the nature of who he is and how that changes depending on the week, day, hour.

He feels on unsteady ground when he brings it up with Steve but knows he needs to, if for nothing else but a sounding board. Eddie is tired of this rotating in a morbius loop in his brain. He gets ready to run before the conversation even starts, plans an escape route, any excuse so he can avoid looking at any feelings of discomfort in Steve's eyes.

The thing is, it never comes. Not once. Eddie fumbles his way through trying to explain how 'she' feels good sometimes but so does 'he' and some days the thought of being referred to as a man, woman, girlfriend, son, makes his bones feel like they belong in a different body. That somedays he just wants to be Eddie and can't that be enough?

Through it all Steve holds on, quietly listening with his thinking face fully in action. That's how Eddie knows this isn't going to go sour, the way Steve is sitting, chin in hand with a finger stroking over his top lip. Thinking.

When it's all said and done there's a silence that Eddie can't say is encouraging but then Steve gets up with a sigh and wraps Eddie up in his arms from where they'd been pacing a groove in the floor.

Eddie ventures out a quiet 'are we okay? I'm not too much?'

to get a muffled response into his hair 'never enough if I'm being honest'

And somehow? somehow it's as easy as that

[daftpatience]

I love your Kim i love your Kim i love your Kim he makes me so happy he's perfect. 10/10 amazing i love him

AWAUWUAHUHG this means SO MUCH because he is my babygirl

my fav thing is seeing people do that thing where they draw a buncha diff artist's interpretations of him, someday if i were ever in one of those id die happy. its such a fun and sweet fandom thing to love a persons' take on a character and im so honored aaa

[feline-evil]

Now we're nearing the end of my move (fucking finally) i can safely say that if i had not had the Song of Salvation on repeat for large stretches of time during this i do not think i would've made it through as well as i have

[henswilsons]

friends who duolingo together stay together @enchantedbuckley @usercowboy

[suenitos]

🏳️‍🌈

[swanconcerto]

another fun game i was tagged by my friends @plutobutartsy and @super-trouper-lights for GET TO KNOW ME 🦢🐚☁️🌹🎶💓

last/current song: it’s still scriabin’s prometheus lol it’s my song of the summer. also been loving malice mixer’s aegan and yoshimatsu’s ‘memo flora’ piano concerto. also found recently a collection of orchestrations of scriabin’s shorter piano works by nemtin under the fitting title of “nuances” i’ve been LOVING most of those. and this morning whilst i was exploring on google maps i was listening to an album of bach’s organ works it was great too.

last/current show: erm im still watching sinjin drowning youtube videos that’s about it. bringing back socks and sandals what what what socks and sandals

last/current book/fic: my current book is convenience store woman by sayaka murata! and the last fic i read was rereading alexis backstory by @super-trouper-lights so so good i’ve been reading some loz ones too. trying desperately to find good skyrim fics to no avail please help a brother out here

current obsession: NOTHING has changed it’s still piano vincent and nature . i need to go to the woods again it’s BLUEBELL SEASON

i don’t have enough friends so go nuts if you want to do this. we can be friends. i’ll kiss you on the mouth i don’t care.

[maerenee930]

Pets you pets you pets you pets you pets you

thank you so so much, salv 🥺🫂🫂🖤

[firstpersonnarrator]

Your new masterlist art and header both look so good. Someone extremely sexy with great skin must have made those for you. 😘😘

Why yes, someone extremely sexy with great skin and hair! Thank you so much for them, Salv. I am sooo happy!

[bloomingonionbitch]

(ugh i am so glad y'all are weird about Al Pacino too - i can't be in the halls of my middle school or at fucking Dave and Buster's or Chico's Tacos casually talking about being hot for 83-year-old "Hoo-ah!" screen legend Alfredo James Pacino)

[dead-end-draws]

WOF tribe Merchant/Trading booth concepts:

Hey folks! This one was the recent winner of this WOF poll, so here’s my concept art that headcannons trading in Pyrrhia.

Read below cut for close-ups of the individual booths + the thought process / headcannons behind the design choices: 👇

Skywings: The Sky Kingdom’s mountain ranges provide plenty of pasture for raising sheep. As such, Skywing shepherds benefit from traveling to sell their wool, dyes, fabric, and woven tapestries. Many of these merchant tables also include herbs grown exclusively in the mountains, or ibex drinking horns that can be strapped on a dragon’s shoulder & carried in flight.

Along with goods, Skywing merchants may offer sewing services to fix tears, burn marks, or other fabric damage. They are sought out for their quality clothing, and most fabric across Pyrria originated from a Skywing’s talons.

Mudwings: Mudwings’ abundant food & cooking skills are envied almost anywhere in Pyrrhia. Their swamps have fertile soil, responsible for hosting diverse crops which can be purchased as produce at merchant stalls. For those lucky enough to find a traveling Mudwing merchant, the promise of a delicious dish can be whipped up and served at the stall in no time. Along with produce goods, Mudwings sell weaved baskets, spices, and cooking ware.

Sandwings: Sandwing booths offer luxuries of the desert: It’s most common to find accessories such as gold carved jewelry or musical instruments such as drums, lyres, & mandolins for sale. Though, even more sought out across Pyrrhia is Sandwing tattoos/piercings, which are done within the merchant areas. Ink etchings on papyrus paper are stationed outside their tents to showcase designs. All which can be selected, and poked into the skin with a tapping stick and plant dye ink by a trained talon.

Seawings: SeaWings sell a variety of ocean related goods; taking a share in the fish market with Icewings. Outside of food, there are den decorations like driftwood carvings, accessories such as seashell & pearl jewelry, and rope nets weaved by expert Seawing sailors. Some Seawings even sell fishing equipment, canoes, or offer sailor knot tying instructions to curious dragon buyers.

Nightwings: During the war, it was near impossible to find a Nightwing merchant. Most refused to participate in merchant territory, mostly as a way to keep up with their tribe’s mysterious nature.

Though in the more shady, unground parts of the market you can buy from a huge selection of obsidian weaponry, the sharpest in Pyrrhia. No one knew initially how Nightwings smithed so many weapons, or why, until their secret volcano kingdom and the intention to invade the rainforest was discovered. Then forging armor & weapons became clear. Along with a vast armory, for the right price, some Nightwing merchants offer Prophecies & Nightwing Literature (not always guaranteed to always be reliable) and assassin services as well (very reliable).

Rainwings: Though Rainwings haven’t been part of Pyrrhia trading for years, they have a vast hold on dragon medicine. An apothecary of herbs, salves, and remedies are all offered for various ailments due to the rainforest’s abundant resources. Along with medicinal goods, many Rainwings are fruit vendors, promising to any hesitant meat-eating dragons that such an array of flavors isn’t to be missed. Though, their fruit selling pitches often fall flat to most other predominantly meat-eating tribes.

Icewings: Icewings have everything a dragon could need to brace the cold, with a selection of goods only found in the most frigid regions of Pyrrhia. Furs, bone jewelry, and fresh fish (thanks to frost breath) are served on ice. Though Icewings themselves don’t require fur to withstand the cold, it’s considered fashionable and common in upper ranks to wear fur as a status symbol. Since metal is hard to smith without fire & in cold temperatures, fur and bone are more accessible to Icewings for clothing statements.

[bat-boys]

a healer's touch

pairing: Azriel x fem reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: mentions of injury and blood, a small amount of angst, lots of fluff

summary: as a healer you meet many people as part of your profession but when you are asked to heal a certain spymaster you are unprepared for the connection that comes with it.

a/n: hello, I'm new here! I had this in my head so needed to write to down. I hope you enjoy.

It had been a regular, if somewhat busy, morning at the healer's centre in Velaris. There had been a steady queue of people coming in and out to collect medicine, ask about a rash that concerned them or even pop in to express their thanks for healing a family member. You hummed a soft, familiar tune as you mixed herbs to create a salve for one of your regular patients whose old, aching bones continuously bothered them. 

It was days like this that reminded you of why you loved being a healer so much.

"Girl! Come with me. We're needed at the House of Wind." The calmness that had settled over the room was banished as Madja, the head healer, your mentor and distant aunt on your mother's side, bustled into the workroom to grab her box of salves, potions and herbs she kept on hand for moments like this.

"T-the House of Wind?" You squeaked as you set down your mortar and pestle, absentmindedly brushing your suddenly sweaty hands on your apron. 

"Yes," Madja sighed, "I curse the day I gave Rhysand permission to call for me personally anytime any of his friends get themselves into trouble." The words may have been harsh, but there was a warm fondness to her tone, and you knew she fussed over the Inner Circle like they were her own children.

"But me? Are you sure?" You may have been apprenticing under Madja for nearly a century at this point, but she, your peers, and the people of Velaris consider you a skilled healer in your own right. However, this was new and somewhat scary. You had never set foot into the House of Wind and barely interacted with the Inner Circle, whom you revered and respected for the future they were building across Prythian. You knew it was irrational, but you were terrified of attending to them and your healer skills fleeing at the very moment you needed them most. 

Madja stopped fussing and turned towards you, understanding flickering across her features as she took in your hands, wringing nervously in front of you. 

"Y/N, you are my best student, my successor - you are ready for this." Her voice was firm in her conviction, but her smile was soft as she fondly brushed a stray strand of hair clinging to your sweaty forehead, "Now come, get your things; I dread to think what they've gotten up to up there!"

The following five minutes passed in a blur as you shucked off your apron, grabbed your bag similar to the one Madja carried and met the two Illyrian lieutenants who bundled you up in their arms and flew you to the House. 

From the entryway alone, you knew the House of Wind was the most beautiful home you had ever stepped foot in. Madja chuckled beside you and didn't give you time to appreciate the room's beauty before she walked ahead of you and gestured for you to follow. Your heart was thumping rapidly in your chest as you swung your head from left to right and walked through the lovely hallways, trying to capture every ornate detail that decorated the walls. You must have been staring wide-eyed because Madja gently bumped her shoulder into yours, reminding you to remain professional. 

It wasn't long before she led you up a series of stairs and stepped outside into the sun's warm rays. For a moment, you let your head tip back slightly, closing your eyes to let the rays dance along your face. Down in the city, you very rarely got to feel the sun on your skin like this. There was always the long shadow of a building to obscure the sun, or you were simply too busy rushing from patient to patient to fully enjoy it. 

You used the moment to centre yourself, reminding yourself of your extensive training and ability and capability to heal almost any wound. You were the head healer-in-training, and you could do this.  You let your eyes adjust to the scene before you as you took in the outside training centre. The floor was covered in what you assumed was red dust, coating the hem of your dress and clinging to the brown leather of your slippers. Racks of weapons lined the walls, a ring was set up in the centre clearly for sparring, and ropes and punch bags were littered across the space, too. You could see that the training session was still ongoing, and you could hear people shouting suggestions to each other over the sound of swords clashing, but your attention snagged on the two males you saw grumbling next to each other. You knew who they were immediately and swallowed thickly as you realised it was them you had been summoned to heal. 

"What trouble have you two found yourself in now?" Madja called as she walked towards the pair of them. 

"It isn't our fault!" The one you immediately recognised as Cassian exclaimed.

"It never is." Madja teased back.

"We saw the guards in the Summer Court using a new training technique, and we decided to try it out…it didn't go well." 

"Evidently not. You tend to Azriel, I'll take this one." Madja sighed, already moving away from you to deal with Cassian. 

You faintly heard Cassian make a witty comment behind you before it was cut off with a hiss as Madja laid a hand on the cut slicing his chest. However, you were distracted as you turned to face the other Illyrian sporting a nasty injury, and made direct eye contact with those beautiful, disconcerting, ice-cold hazel eyes. Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you made your way over to him, your heart slamming into your chest.

"Hi, I'm Y/N." You cursed yourself for sounding breathless and for the blush that no doubt was creeping up your neck.

"I'm Azriel." His deep baritone voice sent a shiver of delight down your spine and knocked the rest of your breath from you. 

"I know." You smiled at him, and he smiled very faintly back, a soft huff leaving his lips as you set your bag down and reached out your hand to him, "May I take a look?"

Early on in your training, you discovered that if your patient was conscious and capable of answering questions, you would ask consent to touch them and walk them through anything you were about to do. You found this calmed them down and created a sense of trust.

Azriel blinked at the question, not used to someone with such a soft demeanour looking after him. He didn't respond but simply extended his arm towards you. Gently, like he could bolt at any moment, you held his wrist in your hand and slowly tilted his arm to get a look at the gash you could see through his leathers. 

A soft hum escaped your lips as you saw the slash in his leathers and the blood leaking through the cut to his skin. It didn't look too deep but would undoubtedly need healing if he needed to use any of his weapons anytime soon. 

"I'm going to remove your leathers. Is that ok?" You asked, forcing yourself to make eye contact with him again, ready for the way his gaze knocked the breath out of you again. He simply nodded, and you smiled at him before you bent your head back to the task at hand. 

Azriel barely breathed as he watched you unbuckle the strap at his wrists and then push the leathers off his arm. He had never experienced such softness from a healer or anyone before. He allowed himself to look at you, to let his eyes roam over your beautiful face. His eyes snagged on that strand of hair that had fallen from the bun that rested above the nape of your neck, and he had to physically stop himself from reaching out and discovering how soft your hair felt between his scarred fingers. He almost gasped when your fingers finally touched his bare skin, and a jolt of electricity zipped through his body at the contact. 

"Oh, this doesn't look too deep; that's good!" you mumbled as you gently sponged away the blood from around the cut to get a better look at it. "Ok, I'm going to close the cut. You probably know this, but it may tingle." 

The shadowsinger watched as your brows furrowed, and the hand that wasn't clutching his wrist hovered above the cut on his arm. Warmth spread down that cut, turning into a delightful tingle reverberating around his body. He had always hated this moment of being healed, cringing at the way his skin would knit together before him, almost against his will. However, he didn't feel anything as he watched the cut on his arm disappear and marvelled at the almost pleasant way your magic brushed against his. 

"Thank you." Azriel sounded breathless.

"You are most welcome." He watched, unable to move, as your hands slipped from his forearm to gently trace the scars around his hand. Azriel was often jumpy around his hands, hating the way they looked, but he couldn't help marvelling at the way you touched them as if you weren't afraid or sad—merely curious: "Do your hands get stiff at all?"

"Sometimes after a long day of training or when it's cold." You could feel his eyes on you as you continued to examine his hands. You had noticed them when you had first looked at his injury, having heard of them through various whispers and rumours that filtered through Velaris. What you hadn't been prepared for was how beautiful they were. To you, the scars that had been left behind, were a testament to his strength. 

"Hmmm, I thought as much," you said, looking up from his hands to meet his gaze. "I have a salve that will help if you would like it?"

"I would like that very much." His answer was very soft, and it caused the breath to escape your lungs once again. 

"Pop down to the clinic when you're next in the city. I'll have it ready to collect from tomorrow. Or just send word, and I will ask a courier to deliver it to you. I know how busy you are!" You could tell you were rambling now, and from the quirk of his lips, you were also blushing furiously. 

"I'll collect it myself, Y/N, I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"It's no trouble at all." You whispered. 

"Y/N! Can you also check over this Valkyrie once you're done with the spymaster, please?" Madja's voice broke through the peaceful silence you and the spymaster were enjoying—both of you shocked but not displeased by this steady connection you seemed to have. 

"Of course, I'll be right there!" You turned back to Azriel with an apologetic smile, "I'd best go; it was lovely to meet you, Azriel."

He watched as you gathered your supplies, brushing that strand of hair behind your ears, "And you, Y/N. I'll see you in the clinic."

As you walked away to tend to one of the young females who was smiling sheepishly at you, you couldn't help the butterflies that flew about in your stomach at the thought of seeing Azriel again. 

…

You hadn't expected to see him walking through the door to the healer's centre the next day. So when you heard the soft tinkle of the bell above the door and turned around to greet whoever had walked through, your heart leapt into your throat, and your breath left your lungs as you beheld the Illyrian warrior who had wandered into your sanctum. 

"Azriel." You whispered, similar shy smiles falling on both of your lips. 

"I hope this is a good time? I wasn't sure when would be best to pop in."

"Oh no! This is great. I finished your salve an hour ago, so it's ready for you to take home." You grabbed the small bottle you had filled not long ago off the counter and passed it over to him, "Rub this liberally over your hands when they are stiff. You can also use it as a preventative measure on days you know you might need it. Let me know if you need any more and how you get on, and we can adjust some of the ingredients."

"Thank you again, Y/N," You had to hold your body incredibly still to avoid the shiver that wanted to wander down your spine at the sound of your name rolling off Azriel's tongue. 

The pair of you stared at each other as silence once again settled over the room—a comfortable silence, one you didn't feel the need to fill. It was refreshing to feel that with someone, not having to say something to fill an awkward void. It was peaceful, and it surprised you to feel that with someone like Azriel, someone who was feared in every Court across Prythian, whose stories were used by parents to get their children to behave. 

"When do you finish your shift?" He finally asked, breaking that comfortable silence. 

"Oh! I actually finished ten minutes ago - you caught me as I was closing up." 

"In that case, can I get you dinner? To say thank you for the healing yesterday and the salve." Azriel looked almost shy as he shifted on his feet, having to clear his throat a couple of times. 

"Oh, you don't have to do that!" You were sure a vibrant blush was sweeping up your neck, and along your cheeks, at the soft smile the spymaster was giving you. 

"I'd like to." His soft voice made your heart melt, and in that moment, you knew you'd give anything to spend even a second more in his presence. 

"I would like that. I know a restaurant just a few minutes away that I've been meaning to try?"

His lips turned up into a broad smile, "Perfect. Lead the way."

…

If you had told yourself when you had joined the healer's centre all those years ago that it would lead to a friendship with your High Lord's spymaster, you would have laughed till you were hoarse. But that lovely meal you shared with Azriel in that charming restaurant along the Sidra was not the last. 

Azriel had taken it upon himself a couple of times a week to drop by the centre - either just as you were about to take your lunch break or just as you were finishing up for the evening - to take you out for a meal. Together, you had explored almost every cafe, restaurant, and picnic spot on this side of the city, and each time, you had left beaming ear to ear.

He had also taken it upon himself to either call down to the centre or request you come to the House of Wind to personally attend to the injuries he received from training or whilst away on missions. You had started to suspect that he called you even for injuries he could heal himself, and you blushed furiously every time you thought about it but refused to call him out on it, even jokingly. You lived every day for those visits, for those moments between the two of you, the times after the healing when you would sit together and talk, and the easy companionship you found in Azriel. 

Madja and Cassian had caught on to it, and both just smiled knowing looks when you told them you were off to the House of Wind or when you passed them in the hallway. Your frequent visits also meant that you had been introduced to Azriel's family, the Inner Circle of the Night Court. Slowly, over the months, you and Azriel developed your friendship, and you also began to cultivate friendships with the others, particularly Feyre, Rhys, and Cassian. 

Cassian made you laugh with his jokes, Rhys and you bonded over your shared ambition for the future you both so desperately wanted to create, and Feyre had become a dear friend who sometimes winnowed into your small apartment in the city to have girls' nights. 

You couldn't believe your luck at how your life had pivoted in the last couple of months, the happiness you now felt. All thanks to one person.

And one evening, after healing a nasty gash on Az's leg, you sat on the sofa next to him with the rest of his family scattered around you, a glass of wine in your hand and Az's wing hovering behind you to block out the cool breeze coming in through the open window you realised just much you loved him. 

…

"How many times a day do I use it?" the elderly patient in front of you asked again. You gave them a soft smile before reaching for a scrap of paper and pen beside you and scribbling the instructions down for them.

"Twice a day, once when you wake up and then again before you go to bed," you handed the piece of paper over to them, and they offered you a very grateful smile. "If you see no improvements within three days, come back, and we'll try something else."

"Thank you, Y/N, truly thank you." You waved them off with a fond smile as they shuffled out of the centre.

You were just turning to offer a smile and welcome to the next person who stood in line at the large counter in the centre of the room when the main door to the centre burst open, and Cassian stood in the doorway. Immediately, you knew something was wrong. His body was heaving, and he was out of breath as if he had rushed to find you.

"It's Azriel," he thundered. Your blood ran cold, and your heart stopped dead in your chest before starting up at a thunderous pace. Immediately, you allowed your calm healer's mind to take over, silencing the roaring in your ears and the panic clawing up your throat.

"Marta! I need you to take over at the counter. If it's urgent and you can't help, call for Sara. If it's something that can wait, take note of their name and where they live, and I will personally visit them in the next couple of days. Is that ok?" You didn't wait for a reply, throwing the apron off your body and grabbing the box of supplies you always kept by your feet when on counter duty in case you needed to rush off to a patient before diving around the counter towards Cassian. 

He threw an arm over your shoulder in greeting and comfort and to steer you through the crowd to a section of the street that was less occupied so he could fly you both up the House of Wind. 

"How bad is it?" You mumbled as you felt his strong hands cup underneath your knees and around your back, your arms reaching up to loop around his neck. 

"Bad," he grunted as he soared into the air. Being in Cassian's arms as he flew was so different from being in Azriel's. He was warm like the spymaster, but the desire to explore the air with the male wasn't there. The joy you often took in this short journey was missing. 

Cassian landed heavily on the tiled floor of the entryway, back where you had stood all those months ago when you had first been summoned. The House was deathly quiet as you made the familiar walk through hallways you barely acknowledged towards the bedroom Azriel always occupied. 

“Y/N.” Rhys breathed your name as you strolled towards him, and you noticed how Feyre, Mor and Nesta stood around the open door, each looking more nervous than the last. 

"Rhys," you acknowledged your High Lord, someone who had become your friend in the last couple of months, "is he in there?" You asked, his head dipping in a single nod as you slipped past him into the room. 

A sob almost wrenched itself from your throat as your eyes finally landed on Azriel. He was deathly pale, his body sprawled atop the covers of his bed, his wings flared out beneath him. You stared at him for a second, silently willing his chest to rise and fall with breath, and when it did, you almost screamed to whichever God would listen. A part of you couldn't help but acknowledge that he still looked handsome in this state, the proud line of his nose, the sensual curve of his lips - even as blood dripped from the huge wound in his chest and pooled on the bedsheets underneath him. 

"Where is Madja?" Rhys quietly asked as you stepped into the room and dropped your supplies by the side of the bed, your hands shaking as you began to raise them to assess Azriel's condition. 

"Away tending to a terminally ill family member." You tightly replied. 

"Shit." Shit, indeed, you wanted to grumble, but you were also suddenly, unspeakably angry. 

"With all due respect, Rhys, I have been trained personally by Madja for over a century, and I have been tending to this male's wounds personally for the last couple of months. I know his body and how it heals better than I know my own. I will take a look, and if it is beyond my capabilities, we will call for Madja, but I promise you now I will heal him." Everyone froze in the wake of your outburst, but you kept your eyes locked on the High Lord of the Night Court, a male you had grown increasingly fond of as you spent more time with Az and his family. He simply looked at you, a beat of understanding flashing in his eyes before he turned to his mate standing beside him, reaching out to take her hand and smiling softly at her before turning back to you.

"My apologies, Y/N. Please, do what you do best." His words were soft and apologetic, and you simply nodded at him before turning back to the male sprawled on the bed before you. 

Your heart broke to see him in such a state, the man you had grown to love. 

"What do you need?" Feyre softly asked behind you. Suddenly, you were incredibly grateful that Az had friends who cared about him so deeply and honoured that he had introduced you to them, too, and brought you into the lovely warmth of friendship. 

"Two bowls of water—one warm and the other cool—and some rags, please, Fey. I also need someone to help me get him out of his leathers. Can someone close all of the curtains and drapes in this room and get some faelights in here, please?" Immediately, Cassian was in front of you, starting at the buckles on his wrists, ankles, and chest. 

"Why?" Someone asked behind you, you thought it was Mor. 

"His shadows. They'll help heal him, but we need to create the environment in which they thrive best: darkness." Both you and Az had tested the theory over the last couple of months and you had found he was stronger and healed quicker when his shadows were around. It was something you so desperately wanted to study further but didn't want to overstep a boundary. 

Finally, between you and his best friend, you managed to wrangle Azriel out of his leathers, careful not to jostle him too much to not irritate his wound. 

"How bad is it?" Cassian asked, parroting back to you the question you had asked him not ten minutes ago but what felt like hours. You ignored him for a second, taking a look at the hole in Az's chest, punched just above his heart and cutting through those beautiful Illriyan tattoos before reaching your hand out to hover over the wound to get a better feel of it.

"Bad," you mumbled, "but easily enough to heal." A series of sighs cut through the tension in the room as every member of the Inner Circle let out a breath they had all been collectively holding. "He was stabbed from the front with a blade tipped with an ash arrow, I believe. He pulled the blade from his body, but it has left some splinters behind, draining his powers and stopping him from healing. Infection has set in so I think this happened a couple of days ago, he must have gained enough strength to winnow back here before passing out."

"Do what you need to, Y/N." Rhys's voice was soft but had the undercurrent of a High Lord's command—heal my friend, he commanded. You nodded once before rolling up your sleeves and turning back to Azriel.

For hours, you worked at healing Az, praying to the Mother throughout it all that he would pull through - if only so you could tell him how much you loved him.

…

There was nothing gentle about the way Azriel surfaced to consciousness. One moment he was swimming in darkness, and the next, his eyes shot open, and he sucked in a huge faltering breath. After years of meticulous training, his senses immediately began to take in his surroundings, and his brain was already calculating his escape route. It was only when he took in the soft bed beneath him, the familiar decorations in the room, and the female sat curled up in a chair beside him that he could recognise that he was home. That he was safe.

Safe.

He felt the twinge in his chest. He knew the moment he moved, a biting pain would radiate throughout his body, so for the moment, he just lay there. His eyes stayed focused on you, on the way you had clearly pushed a chair as close as you could to his bedside. Your hair piled up in a messy bun on the top of your head—tendrils escaping and framing your beautiful face—and a damp rag hung limply from your hand.

His shadows flitted around him, whispering your name to him in a fond way he had never heard them speak of another before. They told him how you had rushed to his side, commanded the room, and stood up for yourself and your capabilities. How you had spent hours upon hours pulling splinters out of the wound and then encouraging his skin to knit together, to heal. How you had nearly spent your entire magic to save him and had then stayed and made sure he battled the infection, sponging cool water onto his skin, talking to him as if he was conscious. 

“Y/N.” He whispered, his voice hoarse from misuse and lack of water. Immediately, your eyelashes fluttered and opened, scanning the room before landing on his awake form. Now that your beautiful eyes were open, he could see the smudge of purple underneath each one, and a pang vibrated through his chest at the thought of this incredible female staying by his side even when you were exhausted. 

"Az." You whispered back, tears begin to shimmer in your eyes as you took in the shadowsinger finally awake. Still pale and far from healed entirely, but awake. 

He winced slightly as he reached out and hesitated somewhat before gently cupping your jaw, stroking his thumb along your cheek and catching the tears slipping free.

"Thank you." You knew his shadows had whispered to him that you had almost depleted yourself for him and risked yourself to heal him. 

"You scared me." His face crumpled at your words as he saw in your eyes the terror you went through for those hours you weren't sure he would make it through. Guilt ate at him for not spotting the trap that had been laid for him.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I was ambushed." He continued to brush his thumb over your skin, and you let the feeling ground you and reassure you that he was here and alive.

"I don't need to know," he heard what you were saying, that you didn't want to know, "do you want to sit up?" 

"Yes, please." You moved swiftly and efficiently, having done this for so many patients before Az. You gently scooped under his arms and lifted his weight so he could move to a sitting position. He winced as the movement tugged on his newly stitched-together skin, but with your expert handling, he wasn't in too much pain. "How long was I out for?"

"A day and a half."

"Shit. I need to debrief with Rhys." He made to sit up further, to swing his legs over the side of his bed, but your hand was instantly there on his shoulder - softly but firmly pushing back. 

"Later. Once you've had some water and food, and I've had a chance to assess your wound again."

"Yes, ma'am." He smirked and gently took the hand that was on his shoulder, intertwining your fingers and running his thumb comfortingly over your knuckles. 

Another soft silence settled over you both, and Azriel found himself glancing down at your connected hands, "That day we met was the first time someone had dared to look closely at my hands. It was also the first time I saw someone examine them and not flinch."

"Your hands are beautiful, Az." Your voice was soft, still shaky from crying. 

"You don't need to say that Y/N." 

"No, I'm serious," you frowned, "your hands are beautiful, and they are strong - just like you." You both watched as you trailed your fingers across the back of his hands, tracing the lines of scar tissue. "I was so scared when Cassian burst into the centre, but that didn't match the terror when I saw you unconscious, and I didn't know if I would get a chance to tell you how much you mean to me." He could hear the emotion building in your voice again. 

"Come here, sweetheart." His face was soft as he held his arm out and motioned for you to come closer. A sob lodged itself from your throat as you shifted, taking care of his wings and injury, to slip onto the bed and move into the warm space of Azriel's body. Immediately, you curled into his side, carefully slipping a hand around his waist to hold him closer. Az curled his arm around you, and the feeling of being in his arms, being held by him, had your heart soaring in your chest. 

"Did it snap in place for you?" he asked softly, and you knew what he was asking—he was tugging at that soft thread that now sat between you. 

"When I saw you lying there unconscious. You?" That moment when your eyes had landed on Azriel on his bed, true terror had speared through you as that bond had snapped into place, and you had realised it was your mate lying there in the space between life and death. 

"That first day, when you held my hands so gently and offered me that salve." His voice held so much emotion, and you felt warmth trickle down that thread and disperse throughout your body as you both acknowledged the bond. 

"Az." He closed his eyes at the sound of his name on your tongue, and he could never get tired of hearing the way you said it as you propped yourself up to look at him. 

"We can talk about it later, about what you want to do and how we move forward. You don't have to make any decisions now." His hand stroked the skin on your exposed arm, the other finally brushing that strand of hair out of your eyes. A frown fell on your face at his words.

"I hope you are talking about how we accept the mating bond and not whether I want to accept it in the first place. I am honoured to be your mate, Azriel, and to get the chance to love you for the rest of our lives." He was sure he had stopped breathing, convinced he was still dreaming. That you would be willing to spend the rest of your life with him, to love him the way he loved you so fiercely. 

"Are you sure?" His voice sounded small, and you couldn't help the smile that danced on your lips. 

"I have never been more sure of something in my life, Az. You deserve this type of love. Let me give it to you." You whispered as you closed the space between you two. Your eyes scanned his face, ready to pull away if he gave the signal that he wasn't ready. But as his breath fanned your lips, your eyes locked, and the hand that had brushed your hair aside cupped your jaw firmly in his large palm, as he surged forward to capture your lips in his. 

Immediately, fireworks erupted behind your eyes at the delicious feeling of his lips moving against yours, wave after wave of pleasure rolling down your spine as you tilted your head back to give him more access. A soft moan slipped past your lips when Azriel gently nibbled on your bottom lip, causing a gasp, which he swallowed expertly with his mouth. You felt Azriel's hand slip from your jaw to cup the back of your neck, holding you firmly as the kiss transformed from something sweet into something else, something more wonton, something close to fire. 

Far too quickly for your liking, Azriel pulled away, gasping for air. Your eyes fluttered open as he rested his forehead against yours, a soft grin dancing on both of your lips as you made eye contact and saw the emotion swimming in both of your eyes. Azriel watched, entranced, as he swiped his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. Your eyelids fluttered as a soft moan escaped again between your lips; Azriel wondered if that was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.  

"My mate. I have waited for over five hundred years for you." He whispered into the heated air between you. 

"I hope I was worth the wait." You joked. Azriel couldn't help but close the space again at your words to press his lips to yours again in a soft kiss this time.

"You definitely are." Your toes curled at his tone, and as his lips still brushed against yours as he spoke. 

"The healer and the spymaster… there's a story there, I think." You grinned as you brushed his hair back off his forehead, wanting to take in every inch of emotion that he was freely displaying on his face. 

"And we will write it together," he promised, and you couldn't help the matching grins on your faces as you leant forward again to join your lips together in another spectacular kiss—knowing that for the rest of your very long life, you would never get tired of kissing Azriel, your mate. 

[hookhausenschips]

The Fastlane To Family {KR7}

500 Follower Special!!!

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Summary: The new rookie slowly becomes the on grid child of the Iceman.

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As the newest and youngest member of the Formula 1 grid, I, Y/N, stood beside my race car, inhaling the mixed scents of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel. The roar of the engines filled the air with palpable anticipation.

I glanced around, absorbing the vibrant spectacle, the excited chatter of fans blending with the mechanical symphony of the pit lane. Yet, amidst all the noise and excitement, there lingered a silence in my heart—a void left by a father who walked away from our family when I was just a child.

Growing up, it was just my mom and me. She was my rock, cheering me on from karting races to junior championships. Despite her unending support, there was always a part of me that felt incomplete. I had a father, but I never really had a dad.

It was during my first official test as an F1 driver that I met Kimi Raikkonen. Known as the 'Iceman' for his cool demeanor on track, Kimi was a veteran of the sport, admired by many for his straightforward attitude and racing prowess. As I struggled with the complexities of handling my F1 car, Kimi noticed me.

"Remember, it's all about balance and knowing your limits," he advised one afternoon as he watched me analyze some telemetry data that looked more like a cryptic puzzle.

I nodded, feeling somewhat star-struck. "Thanks, Kimi. It's just a lot to take in all at once."

"You’ll get there. It takes time," he replied, his voice carrying a calming assurance.

After that initial moment of guidance at my first test session, Kimi’s role in my life began to deepen progressively. It wasn’t just about racing anymore; it was about finding a connection that spanned beyond the track.

Over the next few races, Kimi became a mentor and a friend. His advice was always practical, his presence reassuring. Somehow, he began to fill a gap I hadn't realized was so profound.

As the season progressed, Kimi taught me about resilience, about facing the media, and handling the pressures that came with the sport. His family occasionally visited the races, and I saw the loving father he was to his own children. It was in those moments I felt both a sense of warmth and a twinge of envy.

One evening, after a particularly grueling race in Monaco where I had spun out, Kimi found me sitting alone by the paddock, my head in my hands.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked, sitting beside me.

"It's just... sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for this," I confessed. "I miss having someone to look up to. Someone who's there, you know?"

Kimi looked out into the distance before speaking. "I may not know all about your personal life, but on this track, you're never really alone. We’re a team. And if you ever need a bit of that... fatherly advice, I’m here."

His words were a salve to my bruised confidence.

A pivotal moment came mid-season during a particularly challenging weekend at the British Grand Prix. The weather was unpredictable, and so was my confidence in handling the car under such variable conditions. After a disheartening practice session, Kimi invited me to debrief over coffee, away from the bustling energy of the team garages.

As we sat down in the quiet of the motorhome, Kimi shared stories from his early days—mistakes he'd made and lessons he’d learned. "It's not just about fighting the car," he explained, "but cooperating with it, understanding it like a dance partner." His anecdotes were not only instructive but also peppered with his dry humor, making the lessons stick in a way that technical debriefs often didn't.

As the season progressed, our mentor-mentee relationship started to feel more like a friendship. Kimi invited me to join him and his family for dinner during a race weekend in Monaco. Sitting with his family, sharing laughs, and stories, I felt an inclusion that went beyond my expectations. His wife was warm and welcoming, treating me like a guest of honor, while his children eyed me with curiosity and shy smiles.

Our bond continued to strengthen as we faced various challenges together. During one stressful race in Singapore, where the heat and humidity tested every driver’s endurance, Kimi and I found ourselves fighting for podium positions. Post-race, exhausted yet exhilarated, we shared a long cooldown lap, discussing our individual races and the intense final laps.

“I saw you holding off Carlos behind you,” Kimi said, a note of respect in his voice. “You’re getting stronger every race.”

Hearing such words from Kimi wasn’t just a compliment; it was a form of validation from someone who had seen it all in the world of Formula 1.

Seasons changed, and my career in F1 began to flourish. With Kimi’s guidance, I improved not just my driving, but my understanding of the technical aspects of racing. His presence at critical moments of decision-making became something I relied on more than I had expected.

His mentoring had transcended the cockpit of a race car. Kimi had become a steadfast part of my life—a constant in a world marked by speed and change. Our bond, forged in the fast lanes, was built to last a lifetime, proving that sometimes, family finds you in the most unexpected places.

It was during a pre-race event that a journalist unexpectedly asked about my family. "I understand your father isn’t in the picture. How has that influenced you?"

I paused, looking over at Kimi who was signing autographs nearby, laughing with a young fan. Turning back to the journalist, I smiled.

"I grew up without a dad, that’s true. But I’ve found guidance, strength, and a bit of family right here in the paddock. Kimi’s been a great mentor and a father figure to me."

The racing season was nearing its end, and rumors about Kimi Raikkonen's retirement had been swirling in the paddock for weeks. However, nothing could have prepared me for the moment he confirmed it. We were in the team's motorhome when he gently broke the news to me personally.

"I think it's time for me to step back," Kimi said, his voice steady but his eyes revealing a hint of sadness. "Spend more time with my family, you know?"

I nodded mechanically, trying to process the information, but a storm of emotions was brewing inside me. As he continued to explain his decision, a sense of abandonment enveloped me, growing stronger and darker. It was as if history was repeating itself; just when I thought I had found a figure of stability and support, he was leaving.

"Kimi, you can’t leave," I blurted out, the words laced with a mix of desperation and anger. "You’re just like him—just like my father. You're walking away when I need you most!"

Kimi looked taken aback, his face softening. "Y/N, come here," he said, motioning for me to sit beside him. Hesitantly, I moved closer, trying to hold back tears that were threatening to spill.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Listen, I know this might feel like I’m abandoning you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I'm not leaving your life—I’m just leaving the grid."

The dam broke, and tears streamed down my face. "It just feels like everyone I depend on leaves eventually," I confessed, the pain of past and present mingling together.

Kimi wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a reassuring hug. "Y/N, I’m not your father. I won’t just disappear. I promised to be there for you, and I intend to keep that promise. You’re part of my family now, and that doesn’t end with retirement. You'll always have a place with us, at our table, in our home. Anytime."

His words, genuine and firm, slowly seeped into my heart, easing the ache with the warmth of his assurance. "You mean that?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I do," he confirmed with a nod. "And hey, I'll be around. I’ll come to races when I can. And you’ll always be able to call me, anytime you need—about racing, or about life. Anything.”

As Kimi’s retirement neared, our interactions became tinged with a sense of urgency, each moment feeling more significant. One late afternoon in Italy, Kimi and I took a walk around the track, discussing life beyond racing.

“What worries you about all this ending?” I asked, curious about his thoughts on leaving the world he’d known for so long.

“It’s a big change, sure,” he admitted. “But life’s about phases. You end one chapter and start another. And remember, leaving F1 doesn’t mean disappearing. We’re family now, Y/N. That doesn’t end with retirement.”

His words were comforting, especially as I grappled with my own fears of abandonment. Seeing how he approached his transition with a mix of realism and optimism helped me understand that endings were also beginnings.

As we continued walking, the setting sun cast long shadows on the track, and Kimi stopped to look out over the circuit. “Every turn on this track has a story,” he mused. “Just like every phase in life. Make sure you live them fully, no matter the challenge.”

The conversation lightened my heart and cemented a new kind of bond between us. Kimi’s retirement race came, As Kimi drove his final lap, the crowds cheers felt like a celebration of more than just his career. It was a tribute to the enduring nature of chosen family, to the unbreakable ties that we had formed.

I felt a surge of gratitude. I might have lost a father early in life, but in this world of high speeds and fierce competition, I had gained something invaluable—a family on the track and a father figure who taught me more than just how to drive.

As the fireworks painted the sky, I realized that family isn't always defined by blood, but by the bonds we create and the promises we keep. Kimi had shown me that no matter the distance, those bonds can withstand more than we sometimes believe possible.

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F1 Taglist: @hiireadstuff, @really-fucking-tired, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery, @evie-119, @dhanihamidi, @leclercdior

[morallyinept]

Home - A Joel Miller One Shot

Summary: Joel returns home to you.

Pairing: Post Outbreak Joel Miller x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader, except that reader has hair and is prone to freckling in the sun. These are very small details briefly mentioned.)

Word Count: 1.6k

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. You're safe.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Nothing too heavy. Some angst and longing.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: I've had some terrible writer's block recently and the new season 2 Joel reveal has inspired me this evening. Thanks, Joel! 🥰

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Enjoy! 🖤

The swing hangs at one end of the rickety porch, a timeless piece that has seen many seasons and heard many secrets in your time here in the Jackson commune.

Crafted from sturdy oak, it’s varnished and smooth in places when you run your fingers over the armrests that curve gracefully at each end.

You remember his own fingers gliding over the wood as he sanded it, splintered and calloused, and yet strangely soft in the middle of his large palms when you’d rubbed cooling aloe salve into them after, whilst he'd planted a line of tantalising kisses on your shoulder and remarked on how freckled you’d gotten in the sun that afternoon.

You don't remember much else after that as his kisses had engulfed you wholly.

The thoughts cause splinters in your stomach lining and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing them not to creep into the jagged fissures of your hollowed bones. But it’s futile. The memories of him are everywhere you look.

Your gaze drifts to the haphazard wooden flower boxes, overflowing with vibrant blooms and herbs.

It was Joel who had planted them, his hands deftly tending to each delicate stem, leaf and petal as if they were his own children.

You can picture him kneeling beside the boxes, soil dusted over his denim clad thighs, his brow furrowed in concentration as he carefully watered each plant.

You think about the bed you climb into each night, noting the void in the space beside you where Joel's warmth and his presence once lingered. You can almost see the imprint of his broad body on the mattress, the indentation where he'd slept night after night with you curled into his body, leg resting over his hip.

You can still feel the heat from him as you'd wake in the night to find him practically draped over you.

The seat on the swing is wide and deep, designed for comfort and for sharing, for cuddling together on warm, balmy nights under the fraying, knitted blanket with wonky stitch lines.

You still hold it up to your nose, inhaling the last ebbs of his scent that haven’t been blown out the fibres fully by the breeze. But it’s fading fast and you’re worried that one day it’ll be gone forever, just like he is.

Strung along the railing and woven through the latticework, tiny lights glimmer around you like a thousand stars brought down to earth on glittery strings. Each delicate bulb emits a soft, warm glow, creating a cascade of golden light that flickers gently with the whispers of the night.

The cushions you’re sitting against, plump and inviting, have seen their share of tears. You’ve clung to them during sleepless nights, seeking the comfort they no longer fully provide. The smaller pillows, in warm tones of orange and gold, have been hugged so close to your chest as if they can somehow bridge the chasm of his absence.

The muted hues on the porch that echo the colours of the forest surrounding your home beyond the fences, mirror your fading hope, each day a little dimmer than the last.

You tell yourself that perhaps tonight will be the night, that he’ll emerge from the shadows like an ethereal spectre back to you, but you know, somewhere in your heart that’s been broken beyond full repair, that it’s wishful thinking. A dream with its shiny ribboned tether drifting so close, yet so far out of your reach.

You’ve often found yourself on the empty porch, night upon night, your heart heavy with the belief that he’ll return. Waiting... always waiting.

They've stopped coming now, stopped checking in on you. Stopped bringing baked goods, like they do when someone passes away. Leaving you to wilt and exist in your own bubble of enduring sadness and melancholy.

They said you should move on, like it's an easy thing to do. And a small part of you thinks that perhaps you should at least try. It's been too long.

You’d heard the rumours, whispers in the commune, of the men and women who never make it back, of the dangers that swallow them whole out there - even the strongest aren’t immune.

Joel, like many in the commune, had volunteered for supply runs, journeys that had become increasingly dangerous. The surrounding areas fraught with peril - raiders, infected, treacherous terrain, and unpredictable weather. Every time someone leaves for a run, there’s no guarantee they'll return.

You knew this. You knew the risk. So did Joel. The supply runs are a lifeline for the community, but they come with a heavy cost. Each departure is shadowed by uncertainty, each return a fleeting relief.

When Joel didn’t come back from his last run, the fear that had always lingered at the edge of your mind about him embarking on them, consumed you whole.

You knew the risks he faced, had heard the stories of those who never made it back from his own weary lips of close calls, and had seen the grief in the eyes of others in the commune who had lost their loved ones.

You were one of them now.

The days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and the silence grew louder. Every creak of the porch, every rustle of leaves heightened your anxiety, making your heart race with the hope that it might be him, only to be crushed by the realisation that it wasn’t.

It never was.

Your nights were spent waiting on the porch swing that Joel built for you both to spend balmy nights in the summer drinking tangy lemonade and being cuddled up in his strong arms.

And he isn’t here doing that with you anymore and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to move on, or accept it.

You try to hold onto the minute flicker of hope that remains, but it’s fading fast, leaving you with nothing but the hollow ache of loss and the fear of what the future might hold without him.

Each day without word, each night without his voice, has chipped away at your hope leaving you empty and lost.

Tonight is no different; and when you find yourself dozing into the late night on the swing in a routine you can't seem to break, the cool breeze stirring you awake, you resolve to go to bed and spend another night alone reaching out longingly to his side of the mattress, wondering where he is.

You stand to go inside, shaking off the blanket, and a flicker of movement catches your eye through the shadows and startles you.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat when you hear your name called softly.

You visibly pinch yourself, the sharp pain registering that you’re not dreaming.

There he is, standing where he used to stand, the same but different. His silhouette is a familiar yet foreign sight, the longer hair and the weary lines on his face telling stories of the time and trials he’s endured out there.

Your heart pounds as a flood of emotions surge through you - disbelief, hope, anger, relief.

Your hands are trembling. Your heart is hammering so loudly now that you can't hear yourself think or even call out his name on a broken chord. Your legs barely support your weight, and for a moment you feel time stop completely, it's drag heavy agaisnt your skin.

Joel stands at the edge of the porch, the soft glow of the fairy lights casting a gentle light on his familiar face. His hair, longer and wilder than when he left, brushes against the top of his shoulders in swept back curls, seeming more grey and dishevelled.

The breeze seems to whisper through it as if sharing foreboding secrets from his time away. He looks different, weathered and sunken in his stature. And you're harshly reminded that it’s been over a year since he’d walked away from this home, from you.

"You're back," you whisper, your voice breaking as tears stream down your cheeks.

He steps tentatively up on the porch, a low groaning creak rumbles out from under his boot.

You resolve crumbles, and you rush to him, throwing your arms around his neck.

He holds you tightly, his own tears mingling with yours.

The pain of the past year, the nights you cried yourself to sleep, the days filled with endless worry, all dissolve in the warmth of his tight embrace, and your heartbeats meld together as one under the gloaming lights around you.

Your fingers grip into the rough material of his jacket, and you inhale deep. He smells earthy, like the fragrance of fresh rain on dry earth. It carries with it the essence of the forest, of pine needles and damp soil, mingling with the crispness of skeletal autumn leaves.

"I thought you were dead," you sob into his shoulder, the words releasing a year's worth of grief and longing.

"I know," he murmurs, his voice choked with guilt. "I never stopped tryin’ to get back to ya."

His words carry the warmth of the Southern sun, the gentle drawl of his accent wrapping around the ruggedness of his tincture giving it a raw, unfiltered quality. It’s a voice that speaks of home and belonging, of wide-open spaces and endless horizons. Of survival and repentance.

It’s a reminder that he’s real, that he’s here, standing before you, alive and well. And yet strangely frail; wounded deeply by the experience of the outside world.

And as you reach out to him, your fingers brushing against his roughened cheek peppered with his greying beard, you know in that moment that Joel is truly home.

“What happened to you, are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened out there?” You fire off clumsily, your voice shaky and breathless until Joel simply looks at you with those molten, sad brown eyes and you finally breathe.

"I'm okay, I ain’t hurt," he replies softly, his voice thick with emotion. His eyes never leave yours.

“I thought I'd lost you,” your voice is nothing more than a croaked whimper. “You’re really here?” You question dreamily, sinking back into his arms.

"M'here."

As you stand together on the porch, bathed in the gentle glow of the fairy lights, you finally feel a sense of peace wash over you.

And almost as if he can sense your bewilderment, your fear and frustration - your relief - Joel runs his hand through your hair, caressing your skull and cradles you closer into his chest. Alleviating your fears and confirming the unwavering truth presented to you, that he is in fact here. He’s home.

"M’home, darlin’."

Joel Miller has come back home to you.

Thank so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little story. If you did, I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy it too. Thankies! 🖤

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