[beasbrain]

Rosie

description: you know those men that say "i don't want kids?" yeah, this isn't one of them. this is about eddie munson willingly attending tea parties in a feather boa and considering it the highest honor of his life.

pairing: stepdad!eddie x singlemom!reader

tags: stepdad!eddie, no y/n, girldad!eddie, so much fluff your eyes will water and your teeth will fall out, domestic fluff, zero plot all vibes, he is in fact the father that stepped up, rosie is his everything, she calls him dad, baby dad ain't shit, yes he lets her paint his nails and do his hair, oh my god this is the cutest shit ever, eddie is so girl-dad coded

TW: slight angst, tooth rotting fluff

WC: 7.5k

A/N: requested by my dearest @bitterestwillow hope you enjoy queen <33 (soft girl-dad eddie is my apology after "I Told You Things"). this shit made my eyes water and my feet kick the entire time while writing. i know having a kid isn't everyones ff cup of tea but i promise, it's worth it. let me know what you guys think :) reblogs are always appreciated, friends <33

“Excuse me, sweetheart,” a voice from behind stops you mid-step. 

You look up from the sea of plumbing fixtures with a sigh already halfway out of your chest, one hand gripping the shopping cart while the other clutches a list that might as well have been written in another language. PVC elbows. Pipe thread tape. Half-inch coupler. 

Somewhere between watching a three-year-old full-time and trying to keep a roof over both your heads, you'd apparently become the designated handyman too.

You turn to find a man with long curls spilling over a faded Metallica shirt and a worn flannel rolled up to his elbows, exposing an array of tattoos.

He points toward the floor, "I think these are yours."

Your eyes immediately drop to the little cardboard box of screws that had apparently slipped from your arm, scattering across the concrete. Before you can bend down, he's already crouched, gathering them one by one.

"Oh my God, thank you," you mutter, already embarrassed. "Today's just... one of those days."

He stands, holding the box out to you. "Trust me, I have a lot of those."

Before you can answer, the tiny voice from your shopping cart pipes up.

"Mama forgot apples."

You look over at your daughter, whose legs are happily swinging from the front of the cart as if the world isn't actively trying to kick your ass.

"We're not at the grocery store, bug."

"I know."

"So..."

"I still wanted apples."

The man snorts, trying to hide it behind his hand, and you can't help smiling despite yourself. He glances at the collection of fittings in your cart before looking back at you.

"So... you remodeling your house or planning on flooding it?"

You hold up the wrinkled list. "My kitchen sink won't stop leaking."

He nods once. "And you got sent here with that list?"

"My landlord told me it'd be an 'easy fix.'"

His face immediately says everything. "Oh..."

"What?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "I mean... no offense to your landlord, but he's either lazy or doesn't know what he's talking about."

You laugh, genuinely this time. "Could be both."

"Probably both."

He steps beside your cart and gently picks up one of the connectors you'd grabbed. "You don't actually need this one."

"No?"

"Nope."

He swaps it for another. "And this thread tape is garbage."

"It is?"

"It's the cheapest stuff they make."

"I picked it because it was the cheapest stuff they make."

He smiles. "Fair enough."

For the next ten minutes, he walks beside you through the aisle, explaining everything in terms that actually make sense instead of sounding like a repair manual. He never talks down to you, never makes you feel stupid, just casually points things out with an easy patience that surprises you.

Your daughter has apparently decided he's the most fascinating person she's ever seen.

She leans over the cart. "Mister."

He looks over. "Yeah?"

"I like your hair."

He instinctively reaches up to touch it. "Thanks."

"You look like a lion."

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

He pauses for a second before grinning. "I've been called worse."

She nods thoughtfully. "I have a unicorn."

"That's awesome."

"It's pink."

"My favorite color."

Her eyes widen. "No way."

"Way."

She gasps dramatically and immediately begins digging through the pile of toys she'd somehow accumulated in the shopping cart.

You rub your forehead. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"She adopts people."

He glances down at the little girl now proudly presenting him with a stuffed dinosaur that has clearly seen better days. "I'm being recruited?"

"I'm afraid so."

He accepts the dinosaur with complete seriousness. "An honor."

Your daughter beams. Mission accomplished.

After another few minutes, he places the final item into your cart. "There."

You stare at the contents. "So... this should actually fix it?"

"Should."

You hesitate, then smile sheepishly. "You don't happen to know how to install it too, right?"

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and you immediately regret them.

"Oh my God, forget I said that."

He laughs. "No, actually..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I do."

"You do?"

"Spent enough years fixing my uncle's trailer. Not licensed or anything, but I know what I'm doing."

You study him for another second. "And what's the catch?"

"The catch?"

"Nobody just offers to fix a complete stranger's sink."

His eyebrows lift. "I wasn't exactly offering."

"No?"

"I was kind of waiting to see if you'd ask."

You laugh. "So now that I have?"

He pretends to think. "Hmm..."

Your daughter kicks her feet again. "Mama makes yummy grilled cheese."

He looks at her. "She does?"

She nods emphatically. "And tomato soup."

You cover your face. "Honey..."

She points at him. "He can come over."

He immediately raises both hands. "For the record, I support stranger danger."

"He doesn't look dangerous."

"I appreciate that very much."

She studies him another second. "You got nice eyes."

His ears actually turn pink. "Thank you."

Then she sticks out one tiny hand. "I'm Rosie."

He shakes it with complete sincerity. "I'm Eddie."

She smiles like she's known him forever.

You don't know what possesses you to trust him. Maybe it's the way he talks to your daughter like she's a real person instead of a nuisance. Maybe it's because he's spent the last fifteen minutes helping you without expecting anything in return.

Or maybe it's because, for the first time in what feels like years, someone looked at you and didn't see a burden. He just saw you. 

"So..." you say carefully. "If you're sure..."

He shrugs. "I'll fix your sink."

"And if it turns out to be a bigger problem?"

"Then I'll tell you honestly."

"And if you can't fix it?"

"We'll order pizza and pretend we never touched it."

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "That's a terrible plan."

"It's worked for me before."

Rosie is already nodding enthusiastically. "I like pizza."

He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I think she's on my side."

You smile. "I think she’s usually on the opposite of mine."

Neither of you could've known then that the sink would be fixed in under twenty minutes. Or that he'd stay another three hours because Rosie insisted on showing him every stuffed animal she owned.

Or that he'd come back the next weekend because she'd proudly announced she wanted to show him her coloring book.

Or that months later she'd accidentally call him "Dad," clap both hands over her mouth in horror, and burst into tears because she thought she'd hurt his feelings.

And years after that, if anyone ever asked Eddie Munson when he met the love of his life, he'd grin and tell them it happened in the plumbing aisle because a stubborn little girl needed apples and her exhausted mother didn't know the difference between a pipe coupling and a garden hose.

2 years later…

By the time you pull into the driveway, your shoulders are aching from wrestling grocery bags in and out of the trunk, and your patience has been thoroughly tested by the woman in front of you at the checkout who insisted on writing a check in the year 1998.

You manage to hook three bags over one arm, another two over the other, and nudge the front door closed behind you with your hip.

The house is quiet for approximately three seconds, then you hear it: a tiny burst of giggling. Then another. Then Eddie's voice, dramatically lowered into what can only be described as a very serious royal accent.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but Sir Teddy Bear has informed me that the strawberry scones have been stolen by dragons."

Rosie's gasp is so loud you hear it from the foyer. "No!"

"I'm afraid so."

"The pink dragons or the green ones?"

"The pink ones."

She sighs dramatically. "They're always doing that."

You quietly set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter before peeking around the corner into the living room, and your heart almost physically stops.

The coffee table has been pushed against the wall, a floral blanket spread neatly across the rug with every stuffed animal Rosie owns arranged in a perfect little circle. Tiny plastic teacups are balanced precariously in front of each guest, alongside mismatched toy plates covered in invisible desserts.

And sitting right in the middle of it all...is Eddie. 

He's cross-legged on the floor, his long curls pulled into two horribly uneven pigtails secured with glittery pink scrunchies. Rosie has somehow convinced him to wear a feather boa, an oversized plastic pearl necklace, and a paper crown that's hanging halfway off his head.

He still has a black band tee and jeans on, of course. The tiara somehow makes it look even cooler.

Rosie notices you first. "Mama!"

She jumps up and nearly spills an imaginary cup of tea all over herself before sprinting toward you, wrapping herself around your legs.

"Eddie's having tea with us."

"I can see that."

She beams proudly. "He knows all the rules."

You glance over at him as he lifts the tiny plastic teacup with absolute dignity. "I've been informed that my pinky needs to stay out."

Rosie immediately corrects him. "It stays up."

"My apologies."

He raises it another inch. "Better?"

She nods approvingly. "Much."

You can't stop smiling. "What exactly am I looking at here?"

Rosie grabs your hand and starts dragging you toward the blanket. "We're princesses."

Eddie quietly adds, "I'm Princess Sparkles."

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Princess Sparkles?"

He nods solemnly. "I wasn't given a choice."

Rosie immediately spins around. "You picked that one."

He freezes. "...I was given a choice."

She points a tiny accusing finger at him. "You said it was the coolest one."

"It was."

"You said sparkles make everything better."

"They do."

"So you wanted it."

He looks over at you with complete resignation. "I have no defense."

Rosie climbs right back onto the blanket before patting the empty spot beside her. "Mama, sit."

You carefully lower yourself onto the floor, smoothing your jeans beneath you. Immediately, Rosie starts pouring from an empty plastic teapot into your equally empty cup.

"This one's raspberry."

You take a sip with complete seriousness. "Oh my goodness."

She smiles. "It's yummy."

"It's delicious."

Eddie clears his throat. "If I may..."

Rosie nods graciously. "You may."

He lifts his cup. "I detect notes of raspberry with... perhaps a hint of gasoline."

Rosie frowns. "No."

"No?"

"No gasoline."

"My mistake."

She leans over and whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear. "It's strawberries."

He nods in understanding. "Ah. An excellent vintage."

She looks unbelievably proud of herself.

The tea party continues for another twenty minutes, complete with imaginary cookies, a lengthy debate between Bunny and Mr. Dinosaur over proper table manners, and Rosie insisting everyone sing happy birthday to a stuffed giraffe whose birthday appears to have been invented on the spot.

Eventually, she crawls into Eddie's lap without thinking, settling there like it's the most natural place in the world. He absentmindedly smooths a hand over her hair while continuing an entirely serious conversation with the stuffed giraffe.

"And how old are you turning today?"

Rosie answers for it. "Six."

"Oh wow."

"But not really."

"Oh."

"It's pretend."

"Right."

"You're bad at pretending."

"I'm learning."

She reaches up and gently fixes one of his crooked pigtails. "There."

He smiles. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Your chest aches. Not because of anything dramatic. Not because of all the nights you sat awake wondering if Rosie would grow up wondering why she wasn't enough for someone to stay. It aches because she no longer wonders.

She has Eddie. The man currently accepting fake tea from a five-year-old with the same reverence most people reserve for expensive wine. The man wearing a plastic tiara without a single complaint. The man who never once made her feel like she wasn't his.

He catches your eye from across the blanket, so you smile at him softly. He smiles back.

Then Rosie reaches up and shoves another glittery necklace over his curls. "There."

He looks down. "What does this one make me?"

She grins so wide her cheeks puff out. "My daddy."

Silence settles over the room for just a heartbeat. Eddie doesn't hesitate; he just looks up at her with the gentlest expression you've ever seen and presses a kiss against the top of her head.

"My favorite title I've ever had."

Rosie simply nods like that was the obvious answer all along before returning to her tea.

By the time Rosie is tucked into bed, complete with three stuffed animals, one bedtime story, a glass of water she absolutely won't drink, and a solemn promise that you'll check for monsters under the bed even though she's well aware monsters don't exist, the house has settled into that quiet only late evenings seem capable of producing.

The dishwasher hums softly in the kitchen. The television is on low volume, neither of you really paying attention to whatever old movie is playing.

You've long since changed into one of Eddie's old shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands, and he's stretched out on the couch with his legs kicked over the coffee table, one arm lazily draped around your shoulders while the other balances a bottle of beer against his knee.

You're tucked comfortably against his side, your own beer untouched for the last fifteen minutes because somehow you've become completely distracted tracing absentminded circles against his forearm.

Neither of you says much; you never really have to. Comfortable silence had become one of your favorite languages together. After almost two years, it isn't awkward anymore; it's simply home.

Eddie presses a kiss against your temple before taking another sip of his beer. "Can I ask you something?"

You tilt your head up. "When have you ever waited for permission?"

He grins. "Fair."

He looks back toward the television for another moment before his expression softens. "You don't have to answer."

Your fingers stop moving.

"But..." He shrugs. "I realized the other day I don't actually know what happened."

You don't have to ask; you know exactly what he means.

He keeps his voice careful. "Rosie's dad."

For a second, all you do is stare at the condensation rolling down your bottle. It's funny. People assume single mothers talk about it all the time. In reality...you spend most of your life trying not to.

After a quiet moment, you let out a slow breath. "I was married."

You feel Eddie's arm tighten ever so slightly around your shoulders, but he doesn't interrupt.

"We got married young."

You smile faintly, though there's no humor in it. "I thought that was what you were supposed to do."

He stays quiet.

"So we got married, got an apartment together, talked about vacations we'd never actually take because money was always tight."

You laugh softly. "We used to argue over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper."

Eddie smiles. "The truly romantic stuff."

"The glamorous side of marriage."

Your smile fades. "When I found out I was pregnant... I was terrified."

You look down at your hands. "I remember sitting in the bathroom, staring at the test, thinking there had to be a mistake."

"And then?"

"And then I got excited."

Your voice comes out almost embarrassingly quiet. "I started making lists. I looked at baby names. I started clipping little nursery ideas out of magazines. I remember standing in the grocery store crying because I walked past baby socks."

A tiny laugh escapes you. "They were so little."

Eddie reaches over and quietly intertwines his fingers with yours, and you squeeze them.

"I couldn't wait to tell him."

You stare at the floor.

"He didn't cry. He didn't smile. He just looked at me."

The silence stretches.

"I remember asking him if he was okay. He just stood and told me he'd be back later."

You swallow. "He wasn't."

You blink a couple times before continuing. "He started coming home less. He worked late. He stopped touching me. Hell, he stopped looking at me."

Your voice remains remarkably calm. "I found lipstick on one of his shirts."

Eddie's jaw clenches.

"I asked him about it." You laugh quietly. "He told me I was hormonal."

"A month later, he asked for a divorce."

Eddie finally looks down at you. You don't look angry anymore; you just look tired.

"He actually used the words..." You smile bitterly. "'I think we've grown into different people.'"

He says nothing.

"So I signed." Your thumb rubs absentmindedly over the bottle label. "A week later he moved in with someone else."

"A girl barely old enough to drink." You let out another humorless little laugh. "My mother called it trading in for a younger model."

You look toward the ceiling. "I think she was trying to make me laugh."

"Did it?"

"A little."

Your eyes drift toward the hallway leading to Rosie's room.

"He never came to appointments. He wasn't there when she was born. He didn't call. He didn't write. He never met her."

Eddie's entire face has gone still. "He knows about her?"

You nod once. "He just... didn't want her."

The words hang in the room. Simple, matter-of-fact. Far crueler because of it.

You shrug one shoulder. "It took me a long time not to think there was something wrong with me."

Your voice cracks for the first time. "Then I worried there was something wrong with her."

Eddie turns immediately. "There isn't."

"I know that now."

"But at three in the morning with a newborn who won't stop crying and bills stacked on the counter..."

You smile through watery eyes. "You start asking yourself questions you know aren't true."

Without saying a word, Eddie reaches over and gently takes your beer from your hand before setting both bottles on the coffee table. Then he wraps both arms around you, like he's trying to hold every broken piece anyone else ever left behind.

You bury your face into his shirt, and he presses his cheek against your hair. After a minute, he quietly says, "Can I tell you something?"

You nod.

"The first day I met Rosie..."

You smile despite yourself. "The hardware store?"

"The hardware store."

He chuckles softly. "When she held out that stuffed dinosaur and told me his name was Mr. Pickles..."

You laugh through your sniffle. "It was Mr. Sprinkles."

"Oh." He grins. "See? I wasn't listening."

"You absolutely were."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I was busy because this tiny little person had just informed me that dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."

"They do."

"They absolutely do." He kisses your forehead. "I remember thinking..."

"...that if I ever got lucky enough to have a kid someday..." His voice lowers. "I hoped they'd look at me the way she did."

You close your eyes.

"And then I kept coming over." Another kiss against your temple. "And somewhere along the way..."

He shrugs against you. "...I stopped imagining some hypothetical kid."

"It was just Rosie."

You feel your throat tighten and he smiles into your hair. "I don't know the first thing about biology. I don't care whose eyes she has. I don't care whose nose she has. I don't care who signed what paper or what his last name was."

He gently tips your chin up until you're looking at him. "I've been hers since she handed me that beat-up stuffed dinosaur."

You can't stop the tears anymore, and he wipes one away with his thumb.

"And for the record..." His voice is impossibly soft. "The biggest idiot in Indiana walked away from you."

He gives you that crooked little grin that still makes your heart flutter after all this time. "Worked out pretty great for me, though."

You laugh, sniffling. "Yeah?"

"Oh, absolutely."

He starts counting on his fingers. "I got the prettiest girl I've ever met."

You roll your eyes. "Mm-hmm."

"I got a kid who thinks dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."

"They do."

"They absolutely do."

"And..." He leans over to steal a quick kiss. "I got invited to tea parties."

"A real privilege."

"The highest honor."

You smile into another kiss. Then he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs so quietly you're not sure he even meant to say it out loud.

"I didn't step up because someone else stepped out." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I stepped up because I fell in love with you."

"And somewhere along the way..." His smile softens into something almost impossibly gentle. "...I fell in love with her too."

You don't answer; you just lean into him until he's practically swallowing you whole with one of his hugs.

The familiar rumble of Eddie's van pulls into the driveway just as Rosie finishes painting approximately half of your thumbnail and almost all of your finger.

She leans back with a look of absolute pride. "There."

You hold your hand up to admire the aggressively uneven layer of bright pink polish coating your nail and cuticle alike. "It's beautiful, bug."

"I know."

She nods very matter-of-factly before dipping the tiny brush back into the bottle with all the confidence of a seasoned professional and absolutely none of the precision. The front door creaks open a second later.

"I'm home!" Eddie calls.

Rosie's head whips toward the foyer so quickly she nearly launches the polish across the living room. "Daddy!"

She abandons your half-finished manicure entirely and hops off the couch, bare feet slapping against the hardwood as she sprints toward him. You hear him laugh before you even see him.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there."

You round the corner just in time to see Rosie wrap herself around one of his legs. Eddie looks exactly like he always does after work at the shop.

His curls are tied back in a loose bun that's already halfway fallen out; there's grease smeared across his cheekbone and forearms, his old band shirt is stained with oil, and his jeans look like they've survived some kind of explosion underneath a car.

He crouches down anyway. "Hi, sweetheart."

She immediately wrinkles her nose. "You're dirty."

He looks down at himself. "...Little bit."

"A lot bit."

"Maybe a lot bit."

She reaches up and pokes a streak of grease on his arm with one tiny finger. "Ew."

He gasps dramatically. "Excuse me? This is artisan-grade mechanic seasoning."

"It looks yucky."

"It probably is."

He scoops her up anyway, careful to keep his hands away from her clothes as much as possible before carrying her over to where you're standing. His tired eyes immediately soften the second they land on you.

"Hi, pretty girl."

You smile. "Hi yourself."

He leans down, stopping just short of kissing you. "I'm gross."

"I noticed."

"You sure?"

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him anyway, grease and all. When you pull away, he looks almost offended. "I literally smell like motor oil."

"And?"

"And you kissed me."

"I happen to like motor oil."

He grins. "Liar."

Rosie wedges herself between the two of you. "You both smell funny."

You snort. "Thanks, Rosie."

"You're welcome."

Eddie presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. "I'm gonna go shower before I contaminate the entire house."

She watches him head toward the hallway before suddenly remembering something incredibly important. "Wait!"

He turns. "Yeah?"

"I'm painting nails."

His eyebrows lift. "Are you now?"

She proudly holds up the tiny bottle. "And after Mommy's..."

She points directly at him. "...I'm doing yours."

He looks at you, and you very helpfully shrug. "I don't make the rules."

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. "I've been selected?"

"You have."

He smiles at Rosie. "You got black?"

She blinks. "What?"

"Black nail polish."

She looks down into the little plastic basket of colors before digging through every bottle with increasing concern. "No..."

He sighs dramatically. "Of course."

She brightens. "I have sparkles."

He looks at you, and you bite your lip. He already knows he's doomed. "Well..."

He says carefully. "...dealer's choice."

Rosie gasps like she's just been entrusted with the nuclear launch codes. "Really?"

"Mhm."

She nods once with complete seriousness. "I know exactly what to do."

You exchange a look with Eddie. He mouths, Help. You smile sweetly. Absolutely not.

Twenty minutes later, he's freshly showered, hair still damp around his shoulders, wearing an old pair of gray sweatpants and one of your favorite oversized Sabbath shirts. He sits obediently on the living room floor while Rosie carefully arranges her entire nail polish collection around him. You curl up on the couch behind them, pretending to read while secretly watching everything.

Rosie picks up one bottle, sets it down. Another, sets it down. Then…she finds it. The brightest, loudest, most offensively glitter-infested neon purple imaginable. You physically have to cover your mouth.

Eddie eyes it suspiciously. "...That's the one?"

She nods enthusiastically. "It's princess purple."

"Oh."

"And sparkles."

"I see."

"And hearts."

"I can... also see that."

"And glitter."

"I definitely see that."

She beams. "It's pretty."

He looks at her, then at the bottle, then back at her. Without another word, he extends both hands. "Do your worst."

Rosie giggles so hard she almost falls over. For the next half hour, she paints with absolute artistic freedom. The polish ends up on his fingers, his knuckles. One suspicious streak somehow appears halfway up his thumb.

She pauses every few minutes to inspect her work before adding another layer. When she's finally done, she grabs both of his hands and holds them up proudly. "There."

Eddie examines them with complete sincerity. "...Rosie."

She waits expectantly. 

"I think these are the coolest nails I've ever had."

Her entire face lights up. "Really?"

"Oh yeah." He wiggles his fingers dramatically. "I've never looked more fabulous."

She immediately launches herself into his lap for a hug. He catches her without hesitation, wrapping one arm around her while being careful not to smudge his fresh manicure. You watch them from the couch, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

Rosie pulls back just enough to admire his nails again. "I made you pretty."

He gently tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "You always do, sweetheart."

She yawns a huge, sleepy little yawn, the kind that scrunches up her whole face. Eddie notices instantly.

"You getting tired?"

She shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."

"Mhm."

"I'm not." Another yawn.

He smiles knowingly. "Sure."

She curls herself against his chest anyway. Within maybe three minutes, she's completely asleep. Eddie looks over at you, careful not to move too much.

His hands are still decorated in violently purple glitter polish. His stepdaughter is slightly drooling on his shirt. His hair is still damp. He looks happier than you've ever seen another human being.

You quietly reach over and lace your fingers with his. He glances down, then back at you.

"So..." You whisper. "You gonna keep the nails for work tomorrow?"

He looks at his hands, looks at Rosie, looks back at you, and smiles. "Absolutely."

"You know the guys are gonna make fun of you."

He shrugs. "They can."

You raise an eyebrow. "They won't bother you?"

He looks down at the little girl asleep against his chest and gently kisses the top of her head.

"I'd let this kid paint my entire face green if it made her smile."

He glances back at his sparkly purple fingertips. "As far as I'm concerned..."

He wiggles them proudly. "...these are the coolest damn mechanic hands in Hawkins."

The house has long since gone quiet.

The dishes are done, the lights downstairs are off, and somewhere outside, rain taps softly against the bedroom window. The fan hums overhead, filling the room with the kind of gentle white noise that always seems to lull everyone to sleep.

Rosie had insisted on one extra story tonight. Then one extra hug. Then one extra glass of water. Then one extra kiss for Mr. Sprinkles. Then another for herself. If you give a mouse a cookie, or whatever they say. 

By the time you'd finally pulled her bedroom door closed, she'd already been halfway asleep.

Now you're curled beneath the blankets with your head resting on Eddie's chest, absentmindedly tracing lazy circles against his side while he combs his fingers through your hair. Neither of you is talking anymore, the exhaustion of the day settling comfortably over both of you.

His lips brush the top of your head. "You asleep?"

"Almost."

"Liar."

"Mhm."

"You drooled on my shirt."

"I absolutely did not."

"You absolutely did."

You smile into his chest. "I think you're making things up."

"I would never."

"You literally convinced Rosie last week there were raccoons that delivered pizza."

"There could be."

"There aren't."

"You don't know that."

You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against him. "I love you."

He doesn't even pause. "I love you more."

"You can't prove that."

"I can."

"How?"

"I made you grilled cheese with the crusts cut off yesterday."

"I didn't ask you to."

"You didn't have to."

You shake your head, smiling to yourself. You don't know how much time passes before a tiny knock sounds against the bedroom door. Three little taps, then another.

Then the knob slowly turns. The door opens only wide enough for a small face to peek through. Rosie's eyes are watery; her little bottom lip trembles when she spots the two of you.

"Mama?"

Your heart immediately softens. You sit up before she's even finished speaking. "What is it, bug?"

She clutches Mr. Sprinkles tighter against her chest. "I had a bad dream." Her voice is so quiet you almost don't hear it.

You hold your hand out. "C'mere."

She doesn't hesitate. Bare feet shuffle across the hardwood before she climbs onto the bed, crawling right between the two of you without so much as asking permission, as though she'd done it a hundred times before.

Maybe she has. You immediately pull the blankets over her little shoulders while Eddie scoots closer from the other side, making sure she's tucked safely between you.

Rosie simply curls into your side, one hand reaching across until it finds Eddie's sleeve. She hangs onto it tightly. You smooth her hair back from her forehead.

"Wanna tell us about it?" 

She shakes her head. "It was scary."

"I know."

"There was a loud noise."

You gently rub circles against her back. "But you're here now."

She nods once, then another sniffle. "You guys are here."

"We are."

"And we're not going anywhere."

She wiggles a little closer until she's practically glued to both of you at once. Eddie quietly reaches over and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

"You know what's nice about bad dreams?"

She looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes. "What?"

"They end."

She thinks about that. "They do?"

"They always do."

"And then you wake up."

She nods slowly. "I woke up."

"You did."

"And then I came here."

"You did."

"And now you're with us."

Rosie looks down at Mr. Sprinkles before whispering, "He got scared too."

Eddie leans over to inspect the stuffed dinosaur with complete seriousness. "He seems pretty brave to me."

"He was pretending."

"Oh."

"He didn't want me to be scared."

Eddie smiles softly. "I think he did a pretty good job."

Rosie considers that before giving the dinosaur a little kiss on the nose. After another quiet minute, she yawns. One of those enormous little yawns that seems far too big for someone so tiny.

You can't help smiling. "Tired?"

She immediately shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."

"Mhm."

"No."

She curls up even smaller anyway, one hand still tangled in your pajama sleeve now, the other resting against Eddie's arm.

You feel Eddie's hand find yours over the blankets, his fingers lacing through yours without a word. Rosie's eyes are already drifting closed. Just before she falls asleep, she mumbles something so quietly you almost miss it.

"I'm happy."

You glance across at Eddie, and he's already looking at her.

"What made you think of that, sweetheart?" he asks softly.

Her eyes never open. "I like when we're all together."

Your throat tightens instantly.

She nestles deeper beneath the blankets. "I like my home."

A few seconds later, she's asleep; completely, peacefully asleep.

You and Eddie don't move; you don't dare. He looks over at you in the darkness, and there's something in his expression that says everything words can't.

You reach over the little lump of blankets between you and rest your hand against his cheek. He turns just enough to press a kiss into your palm.

this shit actually made me ugly cry from pure content

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[brunettemarionette]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age ⤷ Thomas Shelby, John Shelby, Michael Gray, Alfie Solomons

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲

You're sitting in the drawing room of Arrow House, the fire crackling low, when Thomas walks in from one of his endless meetings. His cap is already off, coat slung over his arm, but the moment his eyes land on you, something in his posture shifts. He's been told. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the slow inhale of his cigarette as he crosses the room to stand over you.

"John," he says flatly, like the name itself tastes bitter. He doesn't ask if it's true. He states it. "John's in love with you."

You open your mouth, but Thomas raises a hand, the one holding the cigarette, and the smoke curls between you like a warning. He sinks into the armchair opposite, legs spread, eyes never leaving your face. There's no shouting, no immediate rage — that's not how Thomas works. Instead, the room grows heavier, the air thick with that dangerous calm he wears like armour.

"He's my brother," Thomas continues, voice low and measured, each word deliberate. "Blood. And still… he looks at you like that." A small, humourless smile ghosts across his lips. "I should have seen it. The way he lingers when you laugh at his jokes. The way he offers to walk you home when I'm busy. Foolish of me."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying you like you're a new problem on the board that needs solving. His hand reaches out, calloused fingers tracing your jaw with surprising gentleness.

"You're mine, love. Not his. Not anyone's." The gentleness vanishes as quickly as it came. "I won't kill my own brother. But I'll make it very clear where the lines are. He touches you, he dies. He speaks to you alone, he answers to me. And you…" His thumb brushes your lower lip, pushing down slightly. "You tell me if he so much as looks at you too long. Understood?"

Thomas pulls you into his lap then, one arm locked around your waist like iron, the other still holding that cigarette. He kisses you hard, possessive, a reminder more than affection. When he pulls back, his eyes are storm-dark.

"John will learn his place. Or I'll send him to the fucking sea. But you — you stay right here. With me. Where you belong."

He doesn't let you go for a long time. The fire burns lower, and Thomas Shelby plots in silence, already three steps ahead of any move his brother might make.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧

The front door slams so hard the windows rattle. You're in the kitchen, drying dishes, when John storms in, cap twisted in his hands, face flushed with a mix of fury and something rawer. He doesn't even greet you properly — just marches straight up, grabs your waist, and pulls you against him.

"Fucking Michael," he growls against your hair, voice thick. "That little prick is in love with you? My woman?"

You try to speak, but John's already pacing, hands running through his hair, the Shelby temper in full blaze. He stops, points at you, then laughs a sharp, dangerous sound.

"I knew it. The way he watches you at family dinners. All polished and quiet like he's better than the rest of us. Thinks because he's got Tommy's ear he can have you too?" John steps close again, crowding you against the counter. His hands frame your face, rough but trembling with barely contained rage. "You're mine. We're married in all the ways that matter. You wear my ring when we go out. You sleep in my bed. And Michael Gray thinks he can pine after you like some lovesick dog?"

He kisses you— fierce, claiming, all teeth and heat. When he pulls away, he's breathing hard.

"I'll knock his fucking teeth in. Tell him straight. You're not some prize to be won. You chose me. You chose this mad fucking life with me." His voice softens just a fraction, eyes searching yours. "Did he say anything to you? Touch you? Look at you too long?"

John doesn't wait for a full answer. He lifts you onto the counter, stepping between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs.

"You tell me everything, right now. Then I'm going to remind you — and anyone else who needs reminding — exactly who you belong to." He grins, but it's edged with violence. "Michael wants to play? Fine. But he's gonna learn the hard way that my woman ain't for sharing. Not even in their fucking dreams."

He stays close the rest of the night, loud and protective, hands on you constantly. A man who fights with his fists and his heart, and both are fully aimed at keeping you.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥

Michael finds you in the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow feels louder than a slam. He's still in his suit, tie loosened, looking every inch the composed businessman. Until you see his eyes. Cold. Calculating. Burning.

"Alfie Solomons," he says, the name dripping with contempt. "Is in love with you."

He walks over slowly, loosening his cufflinks one by one, never breaking eye contact. Michael doesn't rage like John. He doesn't brood like Tommy. He calculates.

"I should have expected it. The man has terrible manners and worse timing." He stops in front of you, tilts your chin up with two fingers. "You're with me. You've been with me. We've built something here, away from the worst of the chaos. And now that mad bastard thinks he can insert himself into my life? Into you?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"I won't make a scene. Not yet. But I'll ruin him if I have to. Slowly. Business first — cut off every deal, every contact. Then, if he still looks at you…" Michael's hand slides to the back of your neck, possessive. "I'll remind him why we run this city now."

He kisses you deeply, methodically, like he's sealing a contract. When he pulls back, his expression has softened just for you.

"You're mine, darling. Not some toy for that barking lunatic to daydream about." His thumb strokes your cheek. "Did he approach you? Say anything? I need to know everything so I can handle it properly."

Michael pulls you down onto the bed with him, wrapping himself around you in a way that's both protective and territorial. He talks strategy late into the night — quiet, precise plans — while his hands never leave your body. Alfie may be loud and unpredictable, but Michael Gray is patient, and he's already decided the outcome.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞

Alfie bursts through the door of the bakery office like a storm, flour still dusting his sleeves, eyes wild. You're at his desk, going over ledgers, when he slams it shut, hauls you up, and backs you against the wall in one fluid motion.

"Thomas fucking Shelby," he snarls, voice low and gravelly. "Is in love with you. My girl. My fucking woman."

He laughs, but there's no humour in it, just that unhinged edge he gets when someone's truly crossed him. One massive hand cups your face, the other braced beside your head.

"Now, I knew the man was a cunt. Always plotting, always watching. But this? This is bold, even for him. Coming after my treasure while I'm baking bread and minding my own bloody business." Alfie leans in, nose brushing yours, breath warm with rum and fury. "You're mine, right? You chose the mad Jew with the bakery and the guns. Not the fancy suit with the dead eyes."

He kisses you like he's trying to erase every thought of Thomas from your mind — messy, demanding, all tongue and teeth and possession. When he breaks away, he's still caging you in.

"I'll talk to him. Man to man. Or maybe I'll just shoot him. Haven't decided yet." Another sharp laugh. "Nah, can't shoot Tommy. But I'll make it very fucking clear. "You so much as breathe in her direction again, Thomas, and I'll feed you to the dogs. Slowly." Then I'll have a nice glass of rum to wash it down."

Alfie's hands roam your body, mapping territory, muttering half-curses and endearments in that thick Camden accent.

"You tell me if he looks at you. If he speaks to you alone. Anything. I'll handle it. Because you're my light in this dark, fucked-up world, yeah? And no Shelby — not even the king himself — is taking that from me."

He doesn't let you go for hours. The bakery can wait. Alfie Solomons holds you close, possessive and strangely tender beneath the bluster, already weaving new plans and threats in that brilliant, chaotic mind of his.

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

FOUR LITTLE GIRLS | steve harrington

Steve Harrington will always defend his wife—especially when it comes to incessant questions about when you were going to be having boy.

pairing: steve harrington x wife!reader words: 2.3k contains: fluff (like tooth rooting fluff), established relationship, girl dad!steve, tiny bit suggestive, pet names (baby, sweetheart, sweet pea, etc), female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: request by anon | this was a mix of a request and my own idea that i have had for a while! never written a full fic for dad!steve and i loved every minute of writing this one!! also apologies if you don’t like the kid’s names, just pretend it’s something else if you hate :’)

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

Ever since Maisie Harrington had learnt how to walk, Steve had been in a near constant state of panic.

It was Margot and Florence’s fourth birthday party and trying to keep tabs on your flight risk fourteen month old was proving difficult. Especially when your back garden was so full of squealing children, a bouncy castle (Steve’s idea, not yours), both sets of grandparents, a handful of your friends and some of Steve’s work colleagues. Steve had taken her eyes off Maisie for maybe three seconds before she had run off in the direction of the buffet.

“Baby, have you seen—”

You turn with a wiggly Florence in your arms and a brow raised.

“She was trying to grab a cupcake,” you say as you watch your husband’s shoulders sag in relief.

“That’s our Maisie Moo,” Steve murmurs affectionately, shooting you an apologetic smile as he leans in to kiss your forehead before ducking before to kiss Maisie’s cheek. “Can smell your mom’s baking from a mile away.”

You smile as you watch the way Steve’s eyes soften when he looks at his daughter. The man you saw fearlessly swing nail bats at inter dimensional creatures was now a damn teddy bear at the sight of his youngest with her fist in her mouth.

“Did you tell your mom we were practising by the way?” You ask Steve with a wry smile. 

Steve looks at you, his face a little flushed but he tries his best to look confused.

“What do you—”

“—you told your mom that we were ‘practising’ when she asked if we were trying for a fifth,” you say, beginning to bounce Maisie in your arms as she grew a little fussy—her big brown eyes locked on the buffet table ten feet away. “She just gave me some tips on how to conceive a boy.”

“Son of a—” Steve mutters, glancing down at Maisie before he stops himself. “—biscuit.”

“iscuit,” Maisie mimics with a small giggle. 

You look at Steve with a soft smile. “Nice save.”

“I told her to stop bothering you about that,” Steve mutters, gently taking Maisie from you as your daughter starts to try and wrestle her way out of your arms—completely fixated on that damn buffet. “The practising thing was a joke because we have so much—mommy and daddy time.”

Again, you try not to laugh at Steve self censoring. He had learnt from his mistake of saying ‘shit’ one too many times in front of your oldest, Ellie, who had nearly ruined your sister’s wedding by shouting out the word in the middle of the ceremony.

“Yeah well, you mom seems to think you won’t be happy until you have a boy,” you say, glancing in the direction of Steve’s parents. His dad looked as though he would rather be anywhere than at the twins' third birthday party while Steve’s mom seemed to be closely inspecting one of the cupcakes you made.

You don’t see it but Steve’s jaw clenches tightly, his eyes flicker down to your daughter in his arms and he wonders why the fuck people can’t see how happy he was. He had you. The love of his life, the woman who had been by his side through demogorgons, evil Russians and everything that came after that. The woman who gave him four little girls. Four perfect little girls.

Ellie, now nearly six years old, had an imagination so big that yours and Steve’s days were filled with tea parties, pretending to be mermaids in the inflatable pool and bed time stories that could last hours if Ellie had her way. Then there were the twins—Florence and Margot who were identical right down to their freckles but couldn’t be more different. Florence was quiet, liked to observe the world around her carefully and Margot? Well—Steve sometimes wondered if she had belonged to a circus in a past life. Margot would climb the walls if she could. And Maisie—who watched Margot run by with wonder in her eyes at her big sister—seemed to be following right in her footsteps. 

“I’m more than happy,” Steve tells you firmly, holding Maisie with one hand while the other cups the back of your head so that he could place a fierce kiss against your forehead. “Don’t listen to my mom. I’m more than happy to keep practising.”

You smile at him, you bump your ass against his hip and Steve wants nothing more to hand off Maisie to your mom to go upstairs and—

“Time for cake?” you ask Steve innocently and it makes him want to kiss you stupid. “Yeah,” Steve says softly, leaning in to press a determinedly chaste kiss against your lips. “Time for cake.”

The cake went as well as you had imagined it would—ending in orange and pink icing smeared in both the twins’ hair. Steve didn’t care that he had ended up with icing over his  brand new shirt, he just cared that his girls were smiling and that Margot hadn’t yet tried to scale the climbing frame (again).

The party was now dying down. You had taken Maisie up to bed an hour ago and your parents had taken on the task of rounding up the twins for a much needed bath. Steve had Ellie on his lap as he sat with some of his work colleagues outside. Ellie was happily drawing some—well, Steve wasn’t too sure what she was drawing. Some strange fusion of a dragon and a hamster, perhaps. Whatever it was, Steve thought it was a masterpiece.

“Good job, little lady,” Steve tells Ellie affectionately as he brushes her hair gently to the side. “We’ll have to get another fridge for all your drawings.”

Ellie smiles and shakes her head. “You’re silly, Daddy.”

“I’m not silly,” Steve gasps, feigning offence. “Your daddy is never silly.”

“Daddy’s always silly.”

Steve smiles before pressing a kiss to Ellie’s cheek. She squeals and promptly scrubs her cheek.

“You’re so good with them,” Mr. Matthews comments as the English teacher watches Steve with his daughter.

It was meant to be a compliment but to Steve, he was doing the bare minimum being a good dad. And so, Steve just smiles and turns his attention back to Ellie and her dragon-hamster hybrid.

“Don’t you ever wish for a boy?”

And there it was. The question Steve had been asked more times than he could count over the years.

“Don’t need one,” Steve says simply with a polite smile. “Got my girls. My wife. That’s all I need.”

It was what he always said and he truly meant every word.

“Don’t wish you were playing baseball instead of princesses?”

Steve stilled for a small second. If his daughter wasn’t sat in his lap, he may have snapped at Mr. Matthew’s causal sexism but he didn’t. Not in front of Ellie.

“Margot’s got a mean swing, actually.” Steve tells Mr. Matthews proudly. “Pretty sure she’ll be joining Little League this time next year.”

“She’ll be great!” Mrs. Willaims—the arts teacher—pipes up. “She’ll outrun all the boys in her class.”

Steve gives Mrs. Williams a grateful smile. She clearly thought Mr. Matthews was a sexist piece of shit too. Steve certainly felt relieved when Mr. Matthews retreated into the house to grab another drink.

The conversation flowed between Steve and his colleagues after that. Discussing lesson plans, what everyone was doing during the upcoming summer holidays. After the cake, the kids had (mostly) begun to settle down. Parents of the girls’ friends were taking their kids home with party bags filled with birthday cake, a bubble wand and some finger puppets. Steve was barely paying attention to the fact Mr. Matthews had taken well over five minutes to grab a drink.

“Um, I think Peter is piss—annoying your wife,” Miss Adams says to Steve suddenly.

The comment makes Steve turn sharply, Ellie shifting a little in his lap. He barely hears her grumble of annoyance as he sees you speaking to Mr. Matthews. He knows that look on your face, the quiet anger. The polite smile that masked the fact you wanted to smack the asshole stood in front of you.

“Oh—shoot. Rachel, can you keep an eye on—”

“I got her,” Miss Adams says with a smile as Steve gently lifts Ellie off his lap onto his chair. “Go.”

“Daddy? Where are you—”

“Daddy’s just checking on Mommy, okay? I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

He says it so gently that Ellie just nods and turns her attention back to her drawing. But Steve felt anything but gentle as he walked right up to you and Mr Matthews.

“—I’m just saying—girls are great. Really. But he’s probably missing out on—”

“—what’s going on here?” Steve asks, resting a reassuring hand to your lower back, despite the fact that he had a pretty good idea what was going on.

“Peter here was just—”

“—just telling your wife how great having a son is. That’s all.”

Nevermind the fact that Mr. Matthews had interrupted you, nevermind what he was trying to insinuate but the way he had called you his wife as though that was all you were pissed Steve off. Now—Steve loved you being his wife. He loved it. He was immensely proud of it. But you weren’t just his wife or the mother of his beautiful children, you were so much more than that. You were the woman who once threatened to smack Billy Hagrove with a nail bat. The woman who was scarily good at beer pong. The woman who made Steve Harrington get his act together. 

“Well—quite frankly Pete,” Steve says with a forced smile as his hand on your lower back moved so Steve could wrap his arm around your waist. “I don’t much care for what you’re insinuating here. That my girls aren’t enough for me. They’re more than enough, more than I deserve. And I would appreciate it if you don’t talk to my wife like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“—I don’t really give a shit. No one talks to her like that. No one. Especially not in front of me.”

Mr. Matthew swallows, glances at you who was looking determinedly down at your feet before he gives Steve a small nod.

“Right. Gotcha. Sorry Harrington, I didn’t mean to—”

“—but you did. And if you ever talk about my family like that again? I won’t be so forgiving.”

Mr. Matthews understood the dismissal. He nods once again, wordlessly setting down the unfinished can of Diet Coke onto a nearby table before he hurries out of the backgarden.

Steve watched him go, jaw set and posture tight. But when your hand found his arm, Steve blinked. He took a breath before looking back at you, eyes almost immediately softening.

“That was hot,” you told him with a smile and it was just what Steve needed. He laughs and feels the tension leaving his body as you run your hand up and down his arm.

“Really? That’s what does it for you these days?” Steve asks, both arms now encircling your waist. “You can be a real freak Mrs. Harrington, you know that?”

You roll your eyes before leaning in to place a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And you love it, Mr. Harrington.”

It took every bit of self control Steve had to note sweep you off your feet right there and take you upstairs. But there were still a few guests remaining, the kitchen and back garden needed to be cleaned and Ellie needed to go to bed. But after all that—

“Want to do some more practising tonight?” You ask Steve with a teasing smile as you pull away enough to look at him. “Because after seeing you defend me like that, I might need us to practise all night.”

“All night? Baby, you’re killing me.”

You smile at his whineiness. At the way his hands grip your hips a little, how he tugs you a little closer.

“Good,” you say, leaning again to press a sweet kiss to his lips. But to Steve, it felt anything but sweet. Especially that small swipe of your tongue—

But then you’re pulling away and leaving Steve breathless. Even after four kids, a simple kiss from you still made him feel light headed.

“I’m going to help my parents with the twins. You take Els to bed, okay?”

Steve swallows and nods. Honestly, he probably would have done anything you said while he was in this state. “Okay.”

You smile, sending him a subtle wink before heading back into the house. Steve watches you go, watches the way of your hips sway and the way the dress you were wearing lifts up just so—

“Daddy?”

Steve feels a small hang tugging on his jeans and he takes a few moments to come to his senses, looking down and smiling when he sees Ellie.

“Yeah, sweet pea?”

Ellie smiles and holds out her completed drawing for him.

“I finished it!”

Steve looks down at the drawing and smiles. He still had no idea what the creature was she had drawn. He didn’t know why the hybrid dragon-hamster’s wings were a violent shade of purple, he didn’t know why it was wearing a party hat but the smile on his daughter’s face meant everything.

“Oh, honey. This is incredible!” Steve exclaims, bending down so he could pick Ellie up. She smiled widely at the praise and wrapped her little arms around Steve’s neck. “Seriously. I might have to get in contact with someone from the Louvre—”

“—Daddy’s being silly again,” Ellie says with a shy smile. “Maybe,” Steve shrugs with a smile that absolutely nothing could ruin. Because Steve Harrignton may not have a little boy, but he was whole. Complete. As long as he had his girls, as long as he had you, he was happy. Ridiculously so.

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.✦ ݁˖ rec account: @moonstone-recommends .✦ ݁˖

[missmarls]

do you have any more head canons for older sirius ....

yes i ALWAYS have more to say about older sirius !!

warnings: smut and general angsty-ness

I feel like the whole relationship is grounded in this constant feeling that you need to make up for lost time. 

You fuck more often in your thirties than you did when you were nineteen, and the sex is never just sex. It’s like he has something to prove. He’ll make you come three times in his mouth before he even thinks about fucking you, and then it’s firey and possessive - he’ll bend you over the dining table that his mother used to hold court over, or lift you up and fuck you against the spot in the family tapestry that his name was burned off.  You scream his name loud enough that it may as well stitch it back into the fabric. 

He has to be touching you, all the time, like he’s scared he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

Because one day you were gone. He will never forget the night before he was arrested, when he was holding you for the last time and he had absolutely no idea he wouldn’t see you again for over a decade. 

Now, he holds you so tight that you can hear the beating of his heart in his chest. Sometimes you’ll wake up in the morning to find him leaning up on his elbows, staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re actually here, laying in the bed with him. 

He isn’t the boy that you fell in love with at Hogwarts. He’s a man, hardened, with lines beyond his years on his face. It upsets you to no end that the crows feet set beside his eyes are there because of indescribable suffering, and not years of laughter with his best friends.

But the boy does come out sometimes— when he stares at your tits like a teenager while you’re getting ready, or when he refuses to come in the kitchen when you make eggs for breakfast because they ‘smell like a goblin’s farts’. He winks at you after Moody makes an accidental innuendo during an Order meeting once, and you start choking on your wine so hard that Molly Weasley has to hit you on the back.

One night, you wake up cold, and find his side of the bed empty. You pace down the hall, and he’s there, on the sofa, listening to David Bowie on the record player you’d found beneath the floorboards of Regulus’ old bedroom (Sirius hadn’t spoken for a day after you found it, rendered silent by the realisation that his brother had hidden it from his mother after he ran away) with a cigarette smoking away in his hand.

James fucking hated this song, he croaks, sensing your presence in the room without having to turn around. He charmed the vinyl so that the song would skip when I put it on in the mornings.

And now the charm has worn off and James can’t fix it because he’s dead, he doesn’t say, but you understand. Neither of you were raised in a way that allowed you to talk about the emotionally complicated things in your lives, but you read him in other ways, like the faraway tone in his voice, or the slight tremor in his hand when Harry laughs with the exact same cadence as his father.

You just sit with him and stare into the fireplace together some nights in silence, passing a bottle of whisky between you and chainsmoking cigarettes like you used to in the astronomy tower when you first started seeing each other at school. The weight of everything that you’ve lost swirls in the air along with all the cigarette smoke, but the feeling of his thigh against yours is almost enough to make the hurt go away, even for just one night.

[ellecdc]

those were your rules

Sirius Black x fwb!reader who wants more [966 words]

CW: fem!reader, reader tries to call it off with Sirius when she realizes she wants more, some slight angst for a minute, inspired by this great fic that came across my feed based off of a scene from Gilmore Girls

“Okay, one more time?” Sirius asks again, the heels of his palms pressing into his eyes that you’re sure have him seeing a kaleidoscope of colours.

You think you might’ve been tempted to laugh, were it not for the lump in your throat; were it not for the words he’s asking you to repeat again that took you nearly three weeks to build the courage up to say at all to begin with. 

“I…I need this to stop.” You manage, mouth dry as you stare at the heather grey t-shirt he’s wearing instead of his face. 

“This,” he starts, hands falling to his hips as he tries and fails to make eye contact with you, “being…”

“You and me.”

“Right,” he agrees slowly, “you and me being…”

You let out a breath and look to your left, chewing on your lip as you try to find a delicate way of saying “the sex, Sirius.” 

“But why?” He finally manages, letting his weight fall back into the back of the sofa in a half-seated, half-standing position. You really picked a horrid place to have this conversation; you asked to come over, and Sirius - none the wiser - was likely excited for a romp, but then you were taking your shoes off to be polite but not allowing him to take your jacket, slapping him with the “I can’t do this anymore” before you were even five whole steps into his flat. 

“It’s…I don’t know, Sirius. It’s not enough for me.”

“I’m not enough for you.” He parrots in monotone; not a question.

“No, Sirius, that’s not what I’m saying.” You moan. “But, just, this arrangement - it isn’t enough for me anymore. I want more.”

“You want more. More, what?”

“Sirius, come on.” You groan, finally looking at him in exhaustion and hoping he can hear the desperation in your tone. “Are you really going to make me say it out loud?”

“I just don’t understand what’s changed!” He pleads, standing again and holding his hands out helplessly. 

“I have!” You shout back, immediately feeling guilty because this wasn’t meant to be a fight, and this was probably exactly why he insisted on this kind of arrangement with you. 

“I have,” you try again, softer this time, “I just…I want more. I want a boyfriend. And I can’t have that if…”

“If you’re sleeping with me.” He surmises, earning him a nod as you go back to studying the soft grey of his shirt. “But…we agreed, yeah? We agreed that that’s all we’d be.”

“I know.” You admit. “I know, and I’m sorry, I just…” Your shoulders raise helplessly, causing him to sigh.

“Was it…something I did?” He asks carefully, joining you in looking to the left of the room instead of at each other. 

“No, Sirius. And I don’t hold anything against you.” You insist delicately. “I’m not asking you for anything you’re not able to give me, either. That’s why I’m-”

“-leaving.” He finishes for you. The word apparently sour in his mouth, the aftertaste leaving his lips puckered somewhere between disgust and hurt. 

“This was just temporary, yeah?” You try, nudging your socked toe against a scuff in the hardwood floor beneath you. “This was never meant to be forever; not exclusive, no commitment.”

He turns to look at you at that, face pained as if you hadn’t just repeated his own rules verbatim. 

“Those were your rules.” You remind him gently. 

“But you want more.” He offers, again, not a question. 

“I’m sorry, Sirius.” Is all you can think to say. 

You try not to shrink under his gaze, your own eyes flitting between his - that look suspiciously red rimmed - and his t-shirt; apparently the thin fabric covering his heart safer territory than his eyes as they search your face for, what, you aren’t sure. 

“Alright.” He says simply, apparently having come to some decision.

“Alright?” You ask carefully, watching him as he stands and shakes out his hands, rolling his shoulders as if stepping away from a fist fight. 

“Alright,” he repeats, “you want a boyfriend? I’ll be your boyfriend.”

“Wha- wait, Sirius-”

“What? That’s what you said, right? You want more?” He’s gaining on you as he asks, and this time you do shrink under his gaze; feeling about two feet tall as he makes it to you, his chest centimetres from your own. “I’ll give you more, then.” 

“You- no, I…that’s-”

“You want a boyfriend, I’ll be your boyfriend.” He says again, softer as he slips his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans; not touching you, exactly, but enough to make him feel like an anchor for your fluttering heart.

“I don’t want you to be something you don’t want to be. I don’t want to force you.”

“You’re not forcing me.” He says, grey eyes mapping out points of your face. “I said this wouldn’t be exclusive but…it sort of already was for me. Might as well just call it what it is, then.”

You shake your head, not in disagreement, but in disbelief. “You said you don’t do relationships.” 

His eyes narrow slightly as if wanting to wince, but they stay open in favour of watching the way you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“No, I don’t.” He admits, and the little flicker of hope in your chest is almost snuffed at his admission. “But I’ve never really wanted to do a relationship before. But I want you.” 

“You want me?”

He must notice the tentative, hopeful smile on your lips, because a matching one grows on his own before his eyes flicker up to yours. “I want you.”

“But…I want a boyfriend?”

His smile softens but doesn’t shrink as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Then I guess I have myself a girlfriend, don’t I?”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[moonstruckme]

Seeing Stars

summary: after a bump on the head, you wake with your head on the shoulder of a beautiful stranger (who isn't really a stranger)

cw: hospital setting, concussion, memory loss, mention of vomit

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You wish the drone of all these people would quiet down so you could sleep better. You’re so tired, and conditions are perfect for it otherwise, your body heavy and a warm pillow of ideal firmness beneath your head. There’s a gentle brush of something against your forehead every now and then which feels inherently comforting. It does it again now. 

“That’s nice,” you murmur. 

A low chuckle. “Happy you think so.” 

You tilt your head towards the voice, startled to see a rather breathtaking man looking back at you. He’s close enough for you to count the long, dark lashes fringing his grey eyes and to catch the little tick his mouth does, as though he’s pleased to be looked at by you. Your warm, ideally firm pillow seems to be his shoulder. 

You sit up. Flashes appear behind your eyes; you blink to dispel them. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” the man says. He’s frowning, suddenly, brows sewn together in apparent concern. Every movement of his face only serves to make him lovelier; it’s dizzying. “What’s the matter?” 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.” 

The brow situation worsens. “Don’t be sorry for that, lovely. I hardly mind. Come on, why don’t you come back?” He folds a hand around the side of your head very carefully, as though wary of hurting you, to guide you down again. “The nurse said it’ll be good for you to rest while we wait.” 

You don’t argue, because he seems to know things. You trust him. Maybe it’s foolish, but who wouldn’t trust someone treating them so kindly, who presses his lips to your forehead as you settle and covers your ear with a hand when the wail of a passing siren cuts through the room and you wince. 

“I know,” the angel-man murmurs, sounding woefully compassionate to your plight. “We shouldn’t have to be here much longer. Are you feeling okay?” 

You hum unsteadily. 

“Do you think you might be sick again?” You’re unsure. “You should tell me if you might be. I’ll have to get a bag.” 

“Have I been sick?” you ask, looking up at him. 

Something flickers over his expression at your question. He rubs his thumb over the space behind your ear soothingly. “You have,” he answers, “but that was before we came, so it was a bit different. I don’t think they’ll let me follow you into the toilets here.” 

You feel your eyes widen. “You were there?” 

The man grins. It’s worse than anything he’s done so far, so dazzling you feel you have to close your eyes. You’re seeing stars again. 

“I’m not so terribly squeamish as to leave my loveliest girl all alone when she needs me,” he says. “I’m not that awful.” 

“I don’t think you’re awful,” you tell him. 

“No.” He makes a humorous-looking pouty face at you, still stroking behind your ear. “No, you wouldn't. That’s why you’re my loveliest girl, you’re too good to me.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“What does what mean, gorgeous?” 

You shy a bit at the misnomer. Surely people this beautiful shouldn’t just be dolling out compliments like that. “Your girl.” 

His thumb doesn’t stop petting you, but it slows. He looks at you for a handful of moments. It’s rather a lot; you shift in your uncomfortable, plasticy chair, but don’t think once of lifting your head from his shoulder. 

“Do you know who I am?” he asks eventually. 

You worry your lip between your teeth. “Am I supposed to?”

“No.” He folds his hand over your head again, kissing your temple. “That’s okay. You’ve had a bump on the head, and it’s made you forget some things, but it won’t be forever. My name’s Sirius.” He says this all very patiently. You get the sense he’s done it more than once. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now.” 

At this, you do lift your head. Sirius lets you, though he watches like he doesn’t intend to let you go far. “You and I have?” you ask.

The corner of his mouth ticks. “That’s right.” 

“How long is a while?” 

“You say two years.” He tilts his head from side to side, like really it’s up for debate. “I say two years and a few weeks, because I thought our first date was to the Ramones show but you thought we were hanging out as friends.” 

You gawp at him. Your mouth has actually dropped open. “Are you my boyfriend?” 

“Some have said that,” Sirius says, smiling. “I prefer exclusive live-in soulmate.” 

You don’t know how you know, but you sense he’s half joking about the last part. Not the first, though. 

“Really?” you ask. 

Sirius quirks a brow. “Is it so difficult to believe?”

“You’re just—you’re so pretty.” 

“Really?” His smile returns to knock the air from you. This one’s wide enough to make his lashes kiss at the corners. “You think so?” 

“Of course. You’re beautiful.” You shake your head, surprised when it hurts and then startled anew when Sirius cups your face to still you. You trace the length of his arm with your eyes, admiring the patchwork of tattoos that goes all the way up to disappear under the sleeve of his t-shirt. 

“Be careful with yourself,” Sirius murmurs. 

Your eyes flit back up to his face. “You have to know.” 

“Have to know what?” 

“That you’re beautiful.” 

Sirius looks absolutely delighted by you. “Well, it’s always nice to hear it,” he says. “Especially from someone so lovely as yourself.” 

You feel your features pinch with genuine dismay. “I don’t tell you?” 

“You say you don’t want to give me a bigger head than I already have. Something about throwing the earth out of its orbit or something.” He strokes your cheek while he talks, as though this sort of disparagement could inspire only fondness, but at your obvious distress Sirius softens. “I’m joking. You tell me, you just don’t usually look so surprised when you do. Come here, sweetheart.” 

He coaxes you under his arm, helping you snuggle up against his side where he can kiss your head as often as he pleases. It’s like Sirius knows exactly what you need; with your head against his chest, now the thing you hear most is the steady beat of his heart. His body works like a grounding point for you, calming your nerves and hushing your thoughts. The sweep of his thumb over your shoulder sends pleasant little shivers all down your arm. 

“You don’t have to be so shy, my love,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s only me.” 

If you weren’t shy before, you are now. You hide your face in his chest. “Please don’t call me that.” 

Sirius chuckles. “No?” he asks, his voice slow and syrupy sweet with a heart-pittering quality that rings familiar. “You usually like it when I call you nice things.” 

“It’s too nice.” 

He hums amusedly. “Sorry,” he says, in a tone not sorry at all, “I think you might just have to get used to that, lovely.”

[shreksleftthumb]

Sirius, You Are the Father series masterlist

summary: Sirius and your's paths never found themselves crossing in the six years you've been at to Hogwarts together, until they did. In a real intimate way. And then you get pregnant, and you become permanently connected for the rest of your lives.

I'm so terrible with describing things, my b😭 This is basically a teen drama set at Hogwarts with pregnancy added in the mix because why not. (actually the pregnancy is kind of the main plot) (i swear i'll get better at this)

also on ao3 here!!

warnings: teen pregnancy, low stakes angst, very very brief suicidal ideation, pregnancy symptoms (obviously), lots of family issues and both sirius & reader have not great families, references to sex (obviously) but nothing explicit, lots of swearing, peter pettigrew is a bit of a git

status: ongoing

chapter one: New Friends || 3.5k

you figure out why you're sick.

chapter two: A Confirmed Result || 5k

you're in denial.

chapter three: Tough Decision || 3.3k

things keep getting worse.

chapter four: Rewind || 11.7k

september-present of sirius's final year of hogwarts.

chapter five: Family Reunions || 7k

Sirius knows you're pregnant.

[enjinsdoll]

enjin’s sprawled across the couch. one arm thrown over the backrest, half paying attention to whatever’s on screen. but then his attention is on you when you step inside the room.

“what’re you—”

you’re stepping right in front of him and drop to your knees. right between his legs. his brain’s saying good-fucking-bye.

“oh?”

his posture changes instantly as he straightens up. he spreads his legs wider and reaches for the button of his pants. a small grin creeps over his features and his eyes darken with hunger.

“damn,” he whistles, “didn’t know you were feelin’ generous toda—”

you grab his knee firmly and start patting around like you’ve lost something.

“what are you doing?”

“hold on,” you mumble, fingers brushing over his thighs. “i think my hair tie snapped and flew over here—”

huh?! takes him a moment until his brain catches up and his entire face falls.

“you’re joking.”

you lean closer, peering around his leg, still searching. “no? i literally just had it—”

he grabs your wrist, absolutely offended and feeling horny and being made fun of. “you get on your knees in front of me and it’s for a fuckin’ hair tie?”

“yes?”

his eye twitches dangerously. groaning then he drags a hand down his face like the world, and you had personally betrayed him.

“unbelievable,” he huffs. “actually evil.”

you snort, finally spotting the hair tie by the couch leg and grabbing it. “found it.”

“yeah? congrats.”

you stand up, looping it back into your hair, completely unfazed. he watches you, sulking and pouting.

“y’know,” he adds after a second, “you could’ve at least pretended for a few more seconds.”

“you were already halfway undressing.”

“because you set me up.”

“skill issue.”

he stares at you. then scoffs, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at you.

“get outta my face.”

but he’s smirking again and he definitely doesn’t forget that moment anytime soon.

[miiroki]

𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ┅ 𝖤𝗇𝗃𝗂𝗇 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝘌𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥! 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮.

﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚

NOTE: I need his backstory so bad. Like foaming at the mouth bad. Also lmk if you guys want more Gachiakuta bc I’m so down to write a lil something for Zodyl 🤤

The first thing you noticed about dating Enjin was that he took it very seriously. No playing around with this man. Not in a scary way, not in a “we need to define the future of this relationship” way.

Nah, Enjin approached dating like it was his full-time job to make you happy.

And today, apparently, was his magnum opus.

“Stay on this side babe.”

You barely had time to react before he gently guided you to the inside of the sidewalk, his hand firm but careful at your waist, warming your skin across the thin fabric. He shifted himself to the outer edge, closer to the street, like some kind of overprotective guard dog.

You blinked up at him. “You know there's no cars coming, right?”

“I know,” he said immediately.

“…So?”

“So I’m still walking here, no buts.”

You stared at him for a second longer before snorting, a grin tugging at your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you like it,” Enjin shot back without missing a beat.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Mmm… jury’s still out.”

He scoffed, but the way his hand slid down to lace your fingers together betrayed him completely.

—

The market district was lively, packed with stalls and chatter and the faint smell of street food drifting through the air. Normally, your days off were spent actually resting. Fighting trash beasts wasn't an ordinary feat after all.

Today though? You hadn’t lifted a finger.

“Which one?” Enjin asked, standing in front of a small stall overflowing with hair clips and trinkets. He held up two options, one delicate and pretty, the other a little flashier.

You didn’t even look up from where you were lazily leaning against the table. “Both.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Got it.”

You smirked. “Enjin,” you sing-songed, watching as he paid, “you didn’t even try to argue with me.”

“Now why would I do that to my missus?” he said, like it was obvious. “You want them.”

“That’s not the point,” you teased. “You’re supposed to pretend and then argue with me about which one looks better”

“I have standards alright,” he replied, turning back to you and gently clipping one of the pieces into your hair, and putting the other in the small plastic bag the seller gave him. His fingers brushed your temple for just a second too long. “You meet all of them.”

Okay. That was unfair.

You rolled your eyes dramatically, even as warmth crept up your neck. “You’re such a suck-up.”

“And you’re spoiled,” he said, completely unbothered.

“Mm. And?”

“And I like spoiling you.”

Yeah. You knew that already.

—

By the time you reached the flower stall, your hands were already full of little things he’d insisted on buying, snacks, accessories, a skirt you had casually mentioned liking in passing.

You didn’t even have to ask anymore. It was honestly getting a little ridiculous.

“Oh,” you said lightly, pausing by the flowers. “Those are pretty.” They were fake flowers since it's hard to even get anything to sprout down here in this cesspit.

Before you could grab Enjin's hand to make him look, he was already talking to the vendor.

You didn’t even bother pretending to stop him this time. Instead, you leaned against the stall, watching him with a soft, knowing smile.

He was focused, asking questions about which ones colour would last longer, which ones had the specific shade you liked, like this was some kind of life-or-death decision.

God, he was so gone for you.

“Yeah these please,” he decided finally, picking out a bouquet. Not too big, not too flashy, just right.

When he turned back to you, there was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks.

“For you.”

You tilted your head, accepting them slowly. “Wow… flowers too?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Is that too much?”

You stepped closer instead, clutching the bouquet with one hand while the other reached up to tug lightly at his collar.

“Enjin,” you said sweetly, “there’s no such thing as too much with you.”

That did it. He froze for half a second, then immediately looked away, ears burning. Where was his manly suave persona when he needed it the most.

You grinned.

Yeah. Wrapped around your finger. Completely.

—

Later, as the sun dipped lower and the streets grew quieter, you found yourselves walking side by side again.

Well, almost side by side.

“Enjin.”

“Babe?”

“You’re drifting back to the outer side again.”

“…I am not.”

“You are.”

He glanced down, then huffed when he realized you were right. Without a word, he reached for your hand again, squeezing it gently.

“Habit. Maybe if you hold my hand tighter you’ll keep me steady,” he muttered.

You bumped your shoulder against his. “You’re hopeless.”

“And you love it.”

You smiled, leaning just slightly into him.

“…Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything after that.

But the way his grip tightened around your hand, and the soft, stupid smile he tried (and failed) to hide, said more than enough.

–

Back at headquarters, for another job and another shitty trashbeast to clean up after.

As soon as Enjin walked in, fully dressed and all ready to face anything, he could sense the weird vibes.

He could already see them gathered near Semiu’s desk, Riyo and Zanka leaning against the wall and Rudo talking to Follo, Mr. new and awakened giver.

Enjin scuffled in, Umbreaker tight on his waist. He was expecting a warm and delightful greeting from his fellow cleaners, not weird stares.

“…Why’re you all staring at me?” Enjin muttered, stopping a few steps short.

“Oh, nothing,” Riyo said far too quickly, clearly meaning the exact opposite.

Zanka snorted.

Yeah. This was weird.

“Perfect timing,” Semiu cut in, tapping her desk. “Now that you’re all here, listen up.”

Enjin straightened immediately, slipping into work mode like flipping a switch. Whatever energy was going on could wait.

Mission details came first.

—

The briefing was standard—location, target, hazards. Nothing out of the ordinary. By the end of it, everyone was focused, ready to move.

“That’s everything,” Semiu finished, then paused like she’d just remembered something.

Her eyes flicked to Enjin.

“Oh, and Enjin?”

“…Yeah?” he said cautiously.

“Your girl left something behind in the women’s showers.”

There was a beat of silence.

Rudo blinked. “Why were you in the—”

“Key word my girl left something behind, not me,” Enjin cut Rudo off immediately, already walking over as Semiu held it up between two fingers.

A familiar choker. Your communication choker.

“She forgot it,” he muttered, taking it and slipping it into his pocket like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll give it back to her before I leave, Can’t have her walking around without one.”

That should’ve been the end of it. It was not the end of it.

Rudo tilted his head. “Wait who? What do you mean your girl?”

And just like that—

“Ohh it must be nothing really Rudo,” Semiu drawled, leaning back in her chair with a grin that spelled trouble. “So it’s true Enjin.”

Enjin froze. “What’s true.”

“You,” she gestured vaguely at him, “managed to pull a girlfriend.”

Riyo let out a laugh. “Managed is right.”

“Hey—”

“I’m just sayin’,” Semiu continued, completely ignoring him, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Zanka crossed his arms. “Neither did I.”

Enjin’s eye twitched. “Zanka man, you're supposed to be on my side.”

“What’s she like? I didn't know you wanted a girlfriend.” Riyo cut in, suddenly way too interested. “She must be something special if you’re carrying her stuff around like that.”

“I’m not ‘carrying her stuff,’ I’m returning it.”

“Kinda the same thing,” Zanka said.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Sounds like it is.”

Next training session, Zanka was gonna get it.

Rudo, meanwhile, was still stuck on step one. “…You have a girlfriend?” he asked slowly.

Enjin dragged a hand down his face. “Yes.”

Rudo squinted. “…You?”

“Why is that so hard to believe people! I’m a goddamn catch?!”

“Because it’s you,” Riyo and Zanka said in unison.

Semiu laughed, resting her chin in her hand. “Honestly, I’m more curious about her. I mean, I don’t get to talk to people from team beauty often. She must have taste… or terrible judgment.”

Enjin shot her a look. “Watch it Sem...”

“What?” she grinned. “If she plays for the other team, I might just steal her from under your nose is all.”

Riyo nearly doubled over laughing. “Oh my god, imagine—”

“Enjin wouldn’t survive it,” Gris added, trying to hold his laughter.

“He already barely is,” Riyo wheezed.

“I’m right here,” Enjin snapped, ears starting to burn.

Semiu only looked more amused. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“I’m a little bit kidding.”

“Semiu.”

“What? I haven’t even seen her yet,” she shrugged. “But if she’s good enough to get you all soft—”

“I’m not going soft.”

“Right.” Zanka said from behind him.

“Shut up Zanka!”

Rudo looked between all of them, increasingly lost. “Wait—so…who is she?”

No one seemed to answer him, everyone was distracted with their own conversations.

Because at this point, Riyo had started mimicking Enjin.

“Oh, she forgot her choker, I’ll make sure to get it back to her,” she said in a dramatic, overly gentle voice.

Zanka chimed in, “Careful, it might get scratched—”

“—handle with love—”

“Stop talking,” Enjin snapped, mortified now, tugging at his collar.

Semiu smirked. “Princess, huh?”

Enjin immediately regretted everything.

“That’s not- I didn’t- you’re all making shit up!”

“We’re definitely not,” Riyo said.

“Absolutely not,” Zanka agreed, gripping Lovely Assistaff tighter.

Rudo crossed his arms, frowning in concentration. “…I still don’t get why your guys are saying all that stuff.”

Everyone paused.

“Because it’s funny,” Semiu said simply.

Riyo nodded. “And rare, we can never get one up on Enjin”

Zanka added, “And he deserves it.”

“What’s your deal today dude?! I do not deserve it—”

Enjin gave up. “…I hate all of you.”

“Aw,” Semiu cooed. “Don’t worry. Bring her around sometime.”

Enjin immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

That only made them laugh harder.

And as they all started heading out for the mission, Rudo lingered for a second longer, still thinking.

“…I want to meet her,” he muttered.

From ahead, Enjin groaned. “Hell no.”

[sosleks]

the common tongue of you loving me

So’lek x Tamtey (Female Sarentu)

Summary: what should’ve happened at the end of the dlc.

A/N: not a self insert fic. minor spoilers of the fta dlc. gets kinda steamy towards the end but nothing explicit. enjoy!

irayo: thank you

So’lek is running out of breath.

The rain pelting against his skin isn’t helping, his legs ache with a familiar burn that’s boarding on searing now, and his arms—strained, trembling, struggling to keep up with the pace of his feet.

His lungs feel like they might collapse. The longer he runs, the harder it is to breathe.

Mud cakes his calves and his feet. There’s rainwater in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he doesn’t stop.

He can’t stop. Not now. Not with the Mangkwan and RDA on their trail, so close. Too close.

He can still hear their yips, the heavy thuds of their footsteps, the whirring of helicopters overhead, searching for them.

But none of it drowns out the groan coming from Tamtey in his arms.

She shifts, hisses again when So’lek jostles her as he ducks beneath a fallen tree. She stiffens instinctively, but her body protests. Electrifying. Sharp. It sends jolts all over.

So’lek doesn’t look at her, eyes ahead and focused. He moves through the forest. His grip on her tightens with every duck, every climb and jump—with every step he holds on a little bit harder.

He feels her move, only slightly. A hand on his chest, white-knuckling the straps to his vest.

“So’lek?” It comes out all weak and hoarse.

His ears flick. “Mangkwan.”

She doesn’t say anything, barely managing a weak little nod as she closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. She doesn’t let go. Just holds on tighter as he finds his way through the trees.

She notices the sharpness of his breathing, ragged and short and all wrong. He’s sweating profusely, or maybe it’s just the rain—she can’t really tell anymore. The edges of her vision start to blur and her head lulls, body jostling with So’lek’s movements.

She can feel the thundering of his heart against her side, heavy, breathy pants scattering across her face. She doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t know what happened.

All she can smell is black smoke in the air, traces of metal burned into her nostrils, So’lek’s faint musk soaked into his vest.

There’s a pain in her chest, maybe her lungs. It’s hard to breathe. It burns. And her head—fuck—it feels like she collided with an AMP suit head-first.

Everything is blurry and muffled in her ears. She barely catches So’lek cursing under his breath, the way he looks over his shoulder, the way his entire body stiffens as his ears pin back and his tail lashes.

When he stops running is when she realizes something isn’t right.

Lifting her head from his shoulder proves to be more difficult than it should.

She tries to blink the fuzziness away, but everything is dark, and she’s not sure where they are. At least—the smoke and fire and ash make it harder. Everything is unrecognizable—a part of the forest she once knew like the back of her hand now ravished, black and charred and looks nothing like her home from mere weeks ago.

For a moment, she thinks they’re somewhere else entirely. Not the Kinglor Forest. But somewhere like—hell? Is that what Priya called it?

“They are close,” So’lek says. Not a warning. A statement. Maybe both.

She sees it, then, swivels her head and takes it all in. A dead end. A cliff side too tall to climb. The air thick with too much smoke to call Ìley. They’re stuck.

They’re completely and utterly screwed.

“How… how many?” Her head spins violently, but she pushes through. “Mangkwan,” she clarifies. “How many?”

“Too many,” So’lek answers simply.

It didn’t matter how many there were.

One or a dozen, he wasn’t putting her at risk.

“Where are we?” She swallows the bile in her throat as So’lek shifts her in his arms.

He doesn’t answer at first, but he glances around, ears twitching at the smallest, faintest sound, tail thrashing behind him. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, bow strapped to his back, knife sheathed at his waist.

Her eyes slip shut, head falling back on his chest, fingers still gripping his vest. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump of his heart against her temple is the only thing tethering her to reality.

“So’lek?” There’s a dull throb behind her eyes.

Her knuckles ache where she’s holding on tight to him, nails biting into fabric.

Then, he stills entirely. Muscles taut, holding his breath. Tamtey registers his fingers pressing into the skin on her thighs, the warmth of his palm against her ribs.

His ears flick, once, twice, three times.

“Can we get to your camp from here?” she asks when he doesn’t respond.

“No.” He shakes his head, sighing. Water streams off his braids. “Too far.”

Her eyes squeeze shut as he carefully adjusts her, stepping over roots. His touch is gentle. She wonders how long he’s been carrying her like this. Through the rain and mud and the brunt remnants of the forest.

“There is a cave close by,” he says alas, but Tamtey doesn’t feel comforted at all by that. “We can lose the Mangkwan there.”

She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t respond. Everything feels weighty, head too heavy to lift and look at him properly—to see if there’s anything untouched by the Mangkwan and RDA that would be familiar to her. She just wants to go home.

He moves slower this time, his steps careful, eyes aware—searching. He stops, and Tamtey uses all the strength she doesn’t have to open an eye and watch how his gaze slides over their surroundings before ducking into the darkness of the cave.

Moss and vines brush against her bare arms, drops of rain splatter across her face. She doesn’t flinch. The coolness feels nice against her skin.

He doesn’t move deeper. Not yet.

He stops at the mouth of the cave, slowly guiding Tamtey’s arms around his neck, touch featherlight.

“Hold on,” he rasps, his head knocking lightly against hers as he readjusts her.

He makes quick work, one arm bound beneath her, holding her against his chest as the other moves hastily, almost frantic. His eyes glance down at her, checking her, noticing the way her face twists in discomfort.

He’s messing with the overgrowth at the entrance, covering their tracks, hiding them from suspicious eyes. He moves fast, hands quick, before he steps away and deeper into the cave—deep enough their voices won’t carry to the outside.

Tamtey shifts as he lays his palm back on her ribs. Her nose scrunches, the smell of moss and dirt and something fresher makes breathing a little easier.

“Our scent.” She weakly tugs on his vest.

“The rain will help cover us.” He scales the cave, the small stream, the glow of moss and mushrooms and roots. “We will be fine.”

The words feel heavy in the lightness of the cave.

She wants to laugh wryly, remark something dry and out-of-pocket that would get a crack of a smile out of him, but as So’lek slows and his breathing evens out, she feels every blotch of purple bruising her skin, the ache in her bones, the exhaustion pulling her, the soreness of her muscles, the tension behind her eyes—there’s pain everywhere.

“So’lek,” she says, tone watery. He hums, listening. “I’m scared.”

The admission hangs between them for a while.

The words are heavy—heavier than anything she’s ever said—ever felt.

She thinks she feels So’lek’s hold on her tighten, a soft squeeze, a gentle reminder that she’s not alone, but she doesn’t know if it’s actually the throb of pain pulsing through her instead—it all feels the same.

“You are in pain,” he says, voice flat. “You need to rest and let me worry about everything else.”

“But, the Mangkwan—“

“Will not find us here.”

“You don’t—“ She swallows, head spinning. “You don’t know that.”

“I know enough,” he replies flatly.

“You don’t know that though,” she slurs, forcing the words out of her mouth. She coughs, throat dry.

“Sarentu,” he sighs, exasperated, eyes flickering to her.

She huffs as she brings a heavy fist up and shoves it in the center of his chest. It lands poorly, all weak and pathetic and does nothing to deter him.

“Don’t call me that,” she tries to sound serious, but it comes out feeble, traces of a smile on her face despite their circumstances and the lingering ache in her muscles.

She thinks he breathes a laugh at that, if the puff of air that scatters across the damp skin on her face is anything for her to go by.

Silence weaves between them as So’lek wanders deeper into the cave. He walks for a while, doesn’t stop to rest or put her down as the tremble in his arms becomes too noticeable. She should tell him to stop, to take a break because he deserves it, but he won’t listen to her and she’s in no mood to fight.

“How deep does this place go?” she murmurs into the rough fabric of his vest, brow drawn taut.

He breathes out through his nose. “Deep enough.”

Deep enough to stay hidden from curious eyes.

Deep enough their voices don’t carry to the outside.

Deep enough that the spray of the waterfall washes away their scent.

He walks a little longer, just to be safe, before he finally stops and slowly lowers her onto a bed of soft moss. Her muscles tighten as he sets her down, arms still locked around his neck.

He guides her back until she’s leaning comfortably against the wall. Her head is still swimming as So’lek rifles through the pouch on his hip, forgoing stripping the weapons off his back first.

“Here. Eat this.” He shoves a dapophet pod into her hand. Her eyes open painstakingly slowly, fingers curling around the softest parts of it.

Her face twists into a grimace. “I don’t think I can.”

He looks at her, long and patient. He doesn’t allow the worry in his chest to fester as fingers coil around her wrist, warm and grounding.

“Try. Even if it is just a little,” he says. She barely manages a nod, breath staggering.

Her stomach churns unpleasantly.

He assesses her quietly with careful hands, fingers skimming over bumps and bruises, eyes lingering longer on deep gashes and dried blood. Pressing into tender spots, gauging her reactions. Nothing broken. Nothing fatal. He masks the relief that floods his chest, schools his expression as he busies his hands with the pouch on his hip again.

He works quietly, diligent fingers grazing over battered flesh. His eyes are narrowed and focused, concentration threaded in his furrowed brows. His hands are steady as he wipes blood and soot and chipped paint from her skin, soft as they smooth salves over open wounds.

She hisses as he works, the ground shifting beneath her. She forces herself to bite into the pod, swallowing slowly. Her throat works against her, stomach turning over uneasily.

“What happened?” she asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist.

So’lek’s movements don’t falter as he says, “You were taken by the RDA.”

“I already know that,” she groans, eyes pinning shut as the pain in her temples pulses.

“I helped you escape Hometree,” he answers simply.

His eyes never lift to meet hers, even as she hisses from the sting of salves over fresh cuts and flinches every time he prods at purpling marks blooming all over her skin.

She lets the words settle between them, body rigid as he shifts her other arm in his hold. He starts at her fingers and works his way up, touches cautious.

“What about the others? Are they okay?” She bites her lip as he turns her wrist over.

“They are safe,” he assures.

She eases a little more at that, nodding. It helps. A little. He glances up, sees her closed eyes, the tightness of her jaw, the bunch between her brows. Her ears pinned back, tail swishing against the ground.

“You should rest after this,” he says plainly. Refocuses on her wounds.

“Okay.” She nods stiffly again.

She doesn’t argue. Knows it’s fruitless if she did. So’lek would force her if he had to, refuse to leave this cave until she fully recovered, shove pods down her throat just to help stifle the pain.

He reaches for her other hand, fingers around her wrist as he shifts again. She flinches, only a little this time, a small whine slipping from her.

Progress, So’lek thinks, she’s healing.

“When can we leave?” she asks, eager to see the others and sleep on something softer than moss and cold stone.

So’lek pins her with a look. “When you can outrun the Mangkwan.”

She huffs a laugh. “Can do that in my sleep.”

“You’re spending too much time with Priya,” he says boredly.

“The others are probably worried.” She winces, teeth clamped down on her lower lip.

“They will manage,” he says.

“Do they know where we are?” she asks, fingers curling into a tight coil as So’lek scrubs at a particularly stubborn speck of dried blood.

He carefully unfolds her hand and gives it a light squeeze. “Yes. They know not to come looking for us too.”

“How long before I don’t feel like dying anymore?” She presses the flat of her palm against her forehead where the pounding persists the most.

“Soon,” he answers, flat-toned.

She scoffs, lighthearted. “And how long is soon?”

He exhales out his nose. “You are impatient.”

She cracks an eye open, face splitting into a small grin. She doesn’t say anything, just leans her head against the stone and prays to Eywa this will all be over soon.

The silence stretches. So’lek focuses on her wounds. Tamtey’s mind wanders.

There’s a barely noticeable tremor in her hands, but So’lek sees it. He sees everything that is wrong and out of place. Something that shouldn’t belong. Unwarranted, entirely undeserving.

He doesn’t speak on it. Not for the remaining time he spends patching the last gash on her bicep.

He moves up, grazing over bruised collarbone. She hardly flinches at his touch as he moves her hair from her shoulder and skims gentle fingers over purple blotches.

“They took Hometree,” she whispers.

So’lek momentarily stills, gaze flitting over her. He hums with a nod, smooths more salves over split flesh.

“They did,” he mutters.

She swallows thickly. “They took me.”

“They did not succeed,” So’lek cuts in quickly.

His hands stop their ministrations, stare piercing as he pins her with a sharp look. There’s a look in his eyes, wild and unfamiliar. Vulnerable. It nearly startles Tamtey.

He pauses, forcing a steady lungful of air into his chest, and pushes it out his nose.

“I will not let that happen,” he says softer this time, a quiet tenderness that Tamtey notices but doesn’t point out.

He hasn’t allowed himself to think about that day. The guilt, the ache that made a home in his heart—it was all too much to think about. To relive the moment he was rendered useless. Held back as he was forced to watch them take her away from him. Laughed at because there was nothing he could do but stare into her eyes as they carried her out.

He doesn’t like to think about that day. When she was helpless and desperately trying to free herself as So’lek was pinned back by three other bodies.

He can remember how his heart felt like it would actually stop beating. How he couldn’t hear anything over his blood pounding in his own ears.

He didn’t care about the pain in his ribs, how he could barely manage a breath without violently coughing. How blood was pouring down his face, that there was a knife tucked securely in his kuru.

None of that could compare to the look of fear in her eyes when she reached out for him.

Suddenly, the lightness of the cave air feels thick.

So’lek shakes his head, as if to shake away whatever is burrowed inside his chest. It comes unbidden, this… sensation. The way his heart rate picks up every time he’s near her. Or how his blood turns to ice in his veins when he can’t reach her through the radio. Or how only her touch isn’t met with a flinch or a violent tremor.

It’s familiar in a way that it feels almost natural. Like home.

Warmth.

Stability.

Belonging.

It feels almost painfully like home.

He doesn’t afford himself to linger on that.

She falls quiet, picking at the skin around her thumbnail. “But that’s the problem,” she says, hesitant with her next words. “They did.” A pause. A deep breath. A stuttery exhale. Then a whisper, “They almost were.”

“No.” His voice is firm. Certain. He leaves no room for argument. “You escaped. That is what matters.”

“They’re still out there,” she says, ignoring the tense look in his eyes. She gestures towards the cave entrance. “They’re hunting us.”

So’lek swallows harshly, quiet for a beat or three. Then, almost like it physically pains him to admit it, he says, “Yes.”

For the first time since they had met, Tamtey cries.

At first it’s just one tear. It rolls down her cheek, drips from her chin, splatters into the damp fiber of her top. Then another one from the opposite eye. It leaves a trail as it slides down, down, down—then there’s more. They don’t stop.

Her vision is blurry. So’lek’s taut silhouette is a blob when she looks at him.

She uses the arm So’lek isn’t holding to wipe at the wetness on her cheeks.

So’lek sits unmoving, unsure what to do. This… is out of his element. He watches, listens to her labored breathing, her breathy sobs. Legs tucked beneath her, she tips her head back, letting out a long puff of air.

“You came back.” She’s looking up into the darkness of the cave, her free hand clenched onto her thigh.

His eyes flicker to her after a heartbeat. “Yes.”

She breathes a watery laugh, looks at him with wet eyes. “I knew you would.”

“Always,” he says quickly.

She nods. “I know that.”

He stares at her, careful.

Something in his chest shifts.

Then she shifts. He looks at her closely, attentively. She’s trembling now, arms wrapped around herself, knees brought to her chest and pressed together. There’s a draft, from the rush of the waterfall, the spray of mist dampening their skin.

So’lek moves before he can overthink it.

He doesn’t think about it at all, actually.

He just… moves. Without thought. Instinctively. It’s scary how easy it is, to reach for the shawl tied at his waist and drape it over her shoulders. To afford his touch to linger a few seconds too long before she notices and he reads too much into it.

She smiles faintly, fingers curling into fiber. “Irayo.”

His hands fall away from her, nodding. “You should rest.”

He moves around the space to clean up, unstrapping his weapons from his back. He offers her another pod, and this time, she takes it gratefully. Bites into it and chews slowly, jaw working in small circles.

When he’s done, he reaches for his bow, but keeps his rifle beside her. She's swallowing the last bite when he glances her way.

“I’ll keep watch while you get some sleep,” he tells her with a single bob of his head.

The words unfurls something ugly in her.

Sleep is the last thing she wants right now.

“H-How far out?” The words come out steadier than she feels.

He faces her, bow in his left hand. “I won’t be far. I promise.”

He turns to leave, but her stomach twists uneasily watching him walk away—out of sight. With nothing but his bow and a knife, no comms, no radio.

She feels it then. The heaviness in her chest. The blood pounding in her ears. The tremors that grab her in a violent pull. The lightness in her head. Her heart feels like it’s trying to escape from behind her ribs. Sweat beads across her forehead, cold, nothing like the mist from the waterfall or the rain pelting outside.

The walls feel like they’re too close. Trapping her there, forcing So’lek out.

No. She can’t do this.

“So’lek?” she calls, voice echoing through the cave.

So’lek stops and turns to face her, brow furrowed. His grip loosens on his bow for a brief second as he looks her over with sharp, careful eyes.

When he finds nothing, he lets himself breathe for once. Lets his shoulders fall, feeling the tension ebb from his muscles slowly. He doesn’t speak. He just waits. Patient. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

Silence stretches, the rhythmic rush of the waterfall a few feet away drowning out the ragged intakes of air she forcefully sucks into her lungs.

She doesn’t know why she stopped him. She knows he won’t be far. Close enough to see her, to hear her call for him if she needed to. Close enough to shield her from anything that walked past the threshold of the cave entrance. Close enough to still smell him. To hear him pluck the string to his bow, knock an arrow into place when his fingers become restless.

He was always close.

But it wasn’t enough. Not tonight. She needed him near. To see him. To be able to reach out and touch him when the tremors were too hard to control. To hear him breathing beside her. To watch his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. To feel his body heat blanket her like a second shawl around her shoulders.

She needed that grounding presence. That reassurance that they were safe. That he wasn’t going to slip away into the darkness and carry the moon on his shoulders.

She could say it. She could say she’s scared. That she wants him to stay. Tell him her fears, the knot of anxiety in her chest that hasn’t quite loosened.

All she had to say was that she wanted him here. With her. Not there. Not with too many paces between them that feels like he’s on the other side of Pandora.

She could say it.

She knows he’ll stay if she asks.

But she doesn’t say it. Instead, she says:

“You keep saving me.” She wills her voice to stay steady, but the words crack at the end. “Why?”

She sees the hesitation before she hears it.

So’lek swallows thickly. “You are Sarentu.”

Her jaw tightens. “Is that what you told the others?”

His throat works against him. But he pushes through it anyway. “Yes.”

She looks away. “I’m not them.”

“I know,” he says.

“Then why did you?” she asks quietly.

So’lek averts his eyes to the ground, to the bow in his hands. He doesn’t look at her. And that hurts worse than the ache in her ribs. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Then he looks at her. Really looks at her.

Something in his expression cracks. She sees it. The crumble of his perfectly articulated composure. The way he grapples with himself. The way he struggles with vulnerability, like if he says it out loud it’ll make it real. He’ll be forced to face it. Forced to echo what he’s terrified of, what he’s afraid to admit.

A muscle in his throat jumps.

He keeps his tone neutral. “You already know why.”

She shakes her head, thumbing chipped paint off her forefinger. “Tell me anyway.”

So’lek’s jaw tightens, white-knuckling the grip of his bow. He lets out a steady stream of air through his nose. He forces his mouth to shape the words.

“When they took you, they also took a piece of me I didn’t know I had left,” he says, like it’s sacred.

Tamtey looks at him then, slow and measured. Her heart feels like it’s squeezing her throat, suffocating.

“I could not protect you. I failed you,” he continues. Plucks the string of his bow when her eyes are too much for him to handle.

“I don’t blame you,” she whispers.

“I do.” He sighs, solemn. “That is enough.”

“So’lek—“

“You should rest,” he says like the matter is settled. He clears his throat. “I’ll keep watch. I won’t be far.”

“Don’t,” Tamtey snaps as he goes to turn. He stops and looks at her. Tears well in her eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t walk away when I just got you back.”

So’lek swallows thickly. Nods once. “Okay.”

He crosses the gap in three easy strides, sits beside her with a reasonable amount of space between them. He brings his legs up to a bend, bow lain idle against the cave’s wall as he rests his arms over his knees and tips his head back against stone.

Tamtey draws the shawl tighter around herself, but it does nothing to chase away the chill.

Carefully, mindful of the ache in her muscles, she bridges the gap. So’lek stiffens as he watches from his periphery, fingers twitching as she shifts closer. Close enough their arms brush and her knee knocks against his leg.

She rests her head on his shoulder, movements diligent. She welcomes his body heat wrapping around her, and lets out a tiny content hum.

So’lek closes his eyes, breathes in and then out.

“Tamtey,” he says, voice strained. Rough around the edges.

His fingers coil into fists above his knees.

She cranes her neck to look at him properly, big yellow eyes blinking up at him almost innocently. He levels her with a look, brow arched.

“I’m cold,” she says simply with a shrug.

He allows it. Just this once. Because she’s cold.

Only because she’s cold.

He ignores the way his heart climbs up his throat as he wraps a cautious arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer into his side, tucking her beneath his arm, head resting on top of hers.

Silence settles heavy like a thick fog. Palpable.

So’lek’s mouth works before he can overthink it.

“I radioed you everyday,” he says.

Not mean.

Not angry.

Just fact.

“But you never answered,” he adds quietly.

Tamtey shifts, draping an arm over his waist. Sighs.

“They took my radio. And my earpiece.” She exhales softly. Tired. “And my bow.”

The way she says it has So’lek cracking a rare smile. The arm around her tightens a little. Not restricting. Just holding. Grounding. Reminding himself this is real and she’s here and not going anywhere.

He reaches into the pouch on his waist, careful of her injuries—always careful with her—and pulls out a radio and an extra earpiece. He hands them to her. He never leaves his camp without a spare.

“Here,” he says. Rests them in her outstretched palm. “Keep it.”

She takes them, the arm around his waist lifting. He misses the warmth immediately, but doesn’t move to pull her back. Instead, she thumbs the walkie-talkie, fiddles with the earpiece in her hand.

She curls her fingers around them as best as she can, squeezes just a little, then sets them aside before she tips her head back and smiles up at him.

“Irayo,” she whispers.

So’lek doesn’t speak. Just inclines his head once. Meets her gaze, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

The silence stretches. Neither one tries to disturb it. Not for a while, at least.

So’lek watches the entrance of the cave, unblinking.

The arm around her shoulders fractionally tightens, almost unnoticeable. Every time the wind howls louder, or every time Tamtey shifts to ease the pressure from her ribs, or when the cold draft changes directions.

His thumb rubs absent patterns along her bicep. He keeps his eyes forward. Tamtey pulls the shawl closer, knees up to block the cold.

He doesn’t register pulling her closer into his side, the warmth of him sating the chill in her bones. She smiles, small, tired. Grateful.

Sleep doesn’t welcome her.

Despite the heaviness in her eyes, the sag in her shoulders, or how weighty her limbs feel, sleep doesn’t occupy her mind. The cave is too quiet, the coldness of the stone seeps through the moss, the ground is too hard, and the air is too thin.

Everything screams at her that this isn’t right.

She wants to go back to his camp, where it’s warm, and familiar, and doesn’t smell metallic.

Everything feels wrong.

So’lek’s arm remains around her. Not holding her down, not restricting her. Just an anchor. A tether. Keeping her here. In reality.

So’lek is too still. Too rigid. His tail flicks, slow, deliberate, before stilling it completely. His thumb keeps drawing circles over her arm, featherlight. Her hand rests on his chest, knuckles paling from the tight grip on his vest.

“What now?” she asks. Thumbs a strap on his vest.

“First, you rest,” he answers, voice rough. He looks down, just enough to catch her eyes and gives her a pointed look, as if to get his point across. “Then, we find the others.”

She swallows, nods shakily.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither does he.

Instead, she lifts the hand from his chest, timid at first, giving him time to pull away, to stop her from crossing into uncharted territory.

He doesn’t stop her, but he does stiffen a little more, if that’s even possible, before he slowly relaxes against her touch. Palm cupping his cheek, warm, nailbeds packed with dirt and soot and dried blood.

The thumb on her bicep stops briefly, then resumes its gentle ministrations. Her own follows suit over the curve of his jaw, the apple of his cheek, the swell of the underside of his eye.

His free hand catches her wrist, thumb pressing into the pulse point.

He doesn’t pull her away.

He just holds her there, like she’s the only thing anchoring him, the only steady thing reminding him to stay in the now. Her heart does a little flutter.

Her fingers fall away, pointer-finger grazing the sharp line of his jaw.

Her thumb brushes the underside of his bottom lip, lays in the corner of his mouth. Then he tilts his head—only slightly, barely there, barely noticeable, enough for Tamtey’s breath to catch, for her thumb to press firmer, for her heart to lurch, for blood to rush to her face.

She can’t hear over the loud thump, thump, thumping in her ears.

She tilts her head, too.

Slowly, like she’s approaching a wounded animal.

Her eyes flutter, fall to his lips, then slide back up to So’lek’s gaze, only to find him staring at her mouth. The grip on her wrist loosens and shapes into the form of a cradle instead.

When he moves a centimeter forward, Tamtey moves an inch.

Until there’s nothing left but the ghost of his breath scattering across her mouth in gentle puffs. When he glances up, he has that look in his eyes.

Like he’s fighting a battle with himself—with fate. A battle he’s already lost from the start.

Like taking a knife to a gun fight.

Then, So’lek swallows.

“Tamtey.”

“Don’t ruin it,” she whispers.

Kissing So’lek isn’t… at all what she expected. It’s somehow better. Softer. Warmer.

He kisses her wholly, like he’s afraid she’ll slip away again. His fingers tighten around her wrist again. Instinctive. He holds her there, kisses her like he’s afraid to give too much too fast.

He pulls away before she can exhale against him, before she can register the warmth of his skin on hers, before she can close her eyes and breathe him in. The tail-end of a whine dies in her throat as he presses his forehead to hers and breathes out a controlled breath through his nose.

The hand on her wrist cradles the side of her neck, thumb stroking the hollow of her cheek. His eyes close briefly, like he’s taking his sweet time taking everything in.

The feel of her lips on his, the smooth flesh beneath the pad of his thumb, the warmth of her neck where his fingers mould, the pressure of her forehead against his, the coolness of her breath across his mouth.

He pauses, keeps his eyes pinched like he’s convincing himself this is real—she is real.

“I See you,” he whispers roughly.

There’s a hitch in his throat.

I See you.

A pressure behind her eyes.

I See you.

A tremor in his hands.

I See you.

Warmth in her chest.

She swallows thickly. “I See you.”

So’lek kisses her again, a little harder, a little deeper, consuming her. She feels lightheaded as her mouth works against his, tongues sliding together, breaths shared.

Her hand slides up and tangles into his braids, trying to pull herself closer. There’s no space left.

His hand cradles her nape, thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw as he coaxes her mouth open wider with his tongue.

She fists his hair, tight enough to pull a groan out of him, for his fingers to twitch against her neck.

She moves before she can overthink it.

He snatches her by the waist and helps her straddle his lap, her hands steadying herself on his shoulders, lips still moving.

Her palms slide up his chest and over his shoulders, into his hair, fisting the braids.

Her hips roll automatically, slow circles, feeling him through thin layers of fiber. He growls like he’s in pain, head tipping back, hands falling to her hips, eyes snapped shut as his breathing turns ragged.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he drawls against her mouth.

She smiles easily. “I am resting.”

“This is not resting,” he huffs—the closest he’s ever come to a laugh.

“Don’t ruin it,” she hums.

So’lek grunts, a faint twitch of the corner of her mouth, eyes sliding open as his grip on her hips hardens. Not tight. Just firm. A squeeze to remind himself this is real—she is real.

He keeps kissing her, lips slick with spit, hands guiding her hips. Fingers digging into bruised skin.

He keeps kissing her until her thighs tremble and she can’t hold herself up anymore. Until he swallows the last of her moans and her body curls forward and curves into him.

Until their lips are raw, and red, and tender.

He keeps kissing her until there’s a fire in her lungs.

Tamtey is running out of breath.

[softeyam]

Patience, Sarentu

So’lek teaches you patience.

tags | so’lek x sarentu! Reader, afop, slow burn if you squint, eventual romance, short

prev. | next | ao3

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The RDA didn’t teach you this.

You’ve held deadlier weapons, understood them more than the wood under your palms. Understood metal better than the grass between your toes.

This is different.

You’ve been at it for hours.

Fingers raw from your bow string snapping against the smooth pads. You’ll have to put salve on them later, wrap them in healing leaves overnight to subdue the pain for the inevitable strain the next day. Just another reminder of the hard work you haven’t put in.

Your arrow lands almost aimlessly, sending a cascade of ripples through the water, no fish caught between the edges of the sharpen rock.

So’lek’s voice is firm and steady when he speaks like he knew you were about to protest.

“Patience, Sarentu.”

You squint at him across the stream, frustration tight between your brows. There’s a quirk to the corner of his lips, teasing, despite the mentor he’s supposed to be.

“So’lek,” You sigh, closing your eyes to calm yourself, “Can we take a break?”

You meet his gaze when there’s no response, watching as he stands from his spot, plucking your bare arrow from the stream. The water barely reaches his thighs as he wades through it, edges of his loincloth flowing with the current. He stops when he stands before you, handing the wooden arrow that should’ve snapped shots ago back to you.

Your voice is quieter this time, ashamed. “I can not do this. I am not like other na’vi.”

He shakes his head. “You do not know the way. That is what I am here for.”

You inhale deep when he presses to your back, warm skin against yours, chest nudging your back with each breath. His voice is close to your ear, cadence rumbling through his chest and vibrating against your skin.

“Aim.” Goosebumps bloom.

You do.

His right hand guides your fallen bow back into place, left hand wrapped around yours, pulling the string of your bow far. Time feels heavy as the two of you wait for a fish to swim by, dragging on with each breath as a reminder of his firm body against yours.

He steadies your arms, evening your shot out.

“You see it?”

You nod.

“Shoot.”

You do.

The pride is nothing compared to the way So’lek rumbles a praise when you strike through the Buoyfish.

[harry-potter-reader-inserts]

14 Days of Valentines: Sirius Black

— When Sirius Black's shameless flirting finally pushes you too far, your very public lover's quarrel forces him to admit he's been yours all along.

The common room had gone suspiciously quiet.

This was never a good sign where Sirius Black was involved, but it was an especially bad sign when combined with the fact that you'd just stormed through the portrait hole looking like you wanted to hex someone into next week, and that someone was currently lounging by the fireplace with studied indifference.

"Oh good," James muttered from his corner. "They're doing this again."

"Should we leave?" Peter whispered.

"Absolutely not," said a fourth-year you didn't recognize. "This is better than the Quidditch match."

You ignored all of them, your attention fixed on Sirius, who was very deliberately not looking at you. He was sprawled across the best armchair—because of course he was—looking unfairly attractive in the firelight, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he examined his fingernails like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Really?" you said, your voice dangerously sweet. "You're going to pretend I'm not here?"

"I'm not pretending anything," Sirius replied lazily, still not looking up. "I'm simply choosing not to engage with someone who's clearly having a moment."

"A moment." You laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "Is that what we're calling it when you flirt with everything that moves?"

That got his attention. His eyes snapped to yours, grey and stormy, and there was something dangerous in his expression—the look he got right before he did something reckless and brilliant and utterly infuriating.

"I wasn't flirting," he said, his voice cool in a way that meant he absolutely was lying.

"Really. So batting your eyelashes at Marlene McKinnon during Transfiguration was what, exactly? Academic interest?"

"I don't bat my eyelashes."

"You absolutely bat your eyelashes. You batted them at Professor McGonagall last week to get out of detention."

"That's different. That's strategic."

"Oh, so flirting with Marlene was strategic too?"

Sirius stood, and the movement was fluid, predatory. Several people shifted uncomfortably. When Sirius Black and his temper both stood up, smart people got out of the way.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?" he asked, too quietly.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm stating facts. You flirt with everyone. Marlene, that Ravenclaw prefect, the girl who works at the Three Broomsticks—"

"So?" His eyes flashed. "I'm friendly. It's part of my charm."

"Your charm," you repeated flatly.

"Yes. My charm. Which, if I recall correctly, is what attracted you to me in the first place." He stepped closer, and you held your ground even though your heart was hammering. "Or have you forgotten? Because I remember quite clearly you saying something about how my 'insufferable confidence' was somehow appealing."

"That was before I realized it came with a side of flirting with anything with a pulse!"

"Oh, that's rich coming from you," Sirius shot back, his voice rising. "You spent all of last week studying with Remus. Studying. With your head practically on his shoulder."

You stared at him. "Remus is your best friend."

"Exactly! My best friend, who you were getting very cozy with—"

"We were translating runes!"

"His hand was on your back!"

"He was pointing at the textbook!"

"This is amazing," James whispered to Peter. "They're both completely mental."

Sirius ran a hand through his hair—his tell, the thing he did when he was frustrated and trying not to show it. "The point is, you don't get to be jealous when you—"

"I'm not jealous," you interrupted.

"You're absolutely jealous."

"I'm not—" You stopped, because you were jealous, and you both knew it, and lying about it was pointless. "Fine. I'm jealous. Are you happy?"

Something shifted in his expression. "Ecstatic. Finally, some honesty."

"Don't do that," you snapped. "Don't make this about me when you're the one who can't go five minutes without making eyes at someone."

"Making eyes—" He laughed, sharp and incredulous. "I wasn't making eyes at anyone. I was having a conversation."

"You were leaning in. You do this thing where you lean in and smile and—"

"And what? Exist? Breathe?" He stepped closer, into your space, close enough that you could smell him—smoke and something woodsy and entirely Sirius. "Tell me, exactly what am I allowed to do? Should I stop talking to people? Stop smiling? Walk around with a sign that says 'taken' so everyone knows I'm yours?"

"That's not what I—"

"Because I will," he interrupted, his voice dropping low, intense. "I will do all of that and more if it means you'll stop looking at me like I'm one foot out the door. Like I'm my father, or my mother, or any other Black who's ever disappointed someone."

The common room had gone completely silent.

"That's not fair," you said quietly.

"Isn't it?" His jaw was tight, and there was something raw in his eyes now, something that looked dangerously close to hurt. "You think I don't notice? The way you tense up when other girls talk to me? The way you watch me like you're waiting for me to prove you right, to prove that I'm exactly the careless, heartless person everyone expects me to be?"

"I don't—"

"You do." He reached up, his hand cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "And it's driving me mental because I have spent months—months—trying to show you that you're different. That this is different. And you still don't believe it."

Your throat was tight. "You can't blame me for being careful."

"I'm not blaming you for being careful. I'm blaming you for not trusting me." His other hand came up, framing your face, and his voice cracked slightly. "I don't want Marlene. I don't want the Ravenclaw prefect or the girl from the Three Broomsticks. I want you. Difficult, jealous, brilliant you, who challenges me and calls me out and makes me want to be better than the name I was born with."

"Sirius—"

"I'm not finished." He leaned his forehead against yours, and you could feel him shaking slightly—adrenaline, anger, something deeper. "I flirt. Fine. I'm charming and I smile too much and I probably lean in too close when I'm talking to people. But none of it means anything. None of it has meant anything since the moment I kissed you behind the greenhouses and you told me I was an arrogant prat before kissing me back."

Despite everything, you felt your lips twitch. "You are an arrogant prat."

"I know." His smile was crooked, fragile. "But I'm your arrogant prat. And I need you to believe that."

The fight drained out of you all at once, leaving something tender and aching in its place. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "I just—seeing you with her, laughing, looking like you did when we first—"

"Hey." He tilted your face up, making you meet his eyes. "I look at everyone like that because I'm a magnificent bastard and I can't help being naturally charismatic."

You snorted.

"But," he continued, softer, "I only look at you like you're the only person in the room. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Ask anyone." He gestured vaguely at the common room, which was still watching with rapt attention. "James. Peter. Random fourth-years. They'll all tell you—I'm completely gone for you. Pathetically, embarrassingly gone."

"It's true," James called out. "He's insufferable about it."

"Talks about you constantly," Peter added.

"Made me listen to a twenty-minute analysis of the way you laugh," Remus said from the stairs, looking amused. "Twenty minutes."

Sirius shot them all a glare before turning back to you. "See? Witnesses. I'm obsessed with you. It's a problem."

You couldn't help it—you laughed, and his whole face softened.

"There it is," he murmured. "That laugh. Twenty minutes is not enough time to properly appreciate it, for the record."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you're jealous. We're a matched set." He kissed you softly, briefly. "But for what it's worth—I get jealous too. I just hide it better."

"You tried to hex that Hufflepuff who asked me to Hogsmeade."

"Tried is a strong word. I succeeded. He just didn't notice because I'm subtle."

"Subtle," you repeated, shaking your head. "Sirius Black, you are many things, but subtle is not one of them."

"True." He grinned, pulling you closer. "But I am yours. Completely, catastrophically yours. Even when you're being mental and accusing me of things."

"Even when you're flirting with half the school?"

"I wasn't—" He stopped at your look. "Fine. I'll try to be less friendly."

"Don't," you said, surprising both of you. "Don't change. Just... maybe occasionally remember that I'm the one you're going home with."

"Home," he repeated softly, and something in his expression cracked open. "Yeah. You are."

When he kissed you this time, it was slower, deeper, a promise and an apology and a claim all at once. The common room erupted in catcalls and applause, but neither of you cared.

"Still jealous?" he murmured against your lips.

"Probably."

"Good." His smile was wicked. "Means you care."

"Unfortunately."

"I care too, you know. Inconveniently. Distractingly." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "So maybe next time we could try talking before the dramatic public row?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

He laughed, bright and genuine, and pulled you down onto the armchair with him, ignoring the groans from the audience who'd clearly been hoping for more drama.

"You're impossible," he said, but he was smiling.

"And you're mine," you replied.

"Yeah," Sirius Black said, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I really am."

[andy-15-07]

In Your Honor

Pairing: Neteyam x Reader

Word Count:752

Request open!

A/n:Hey ma yawne 🤍 So in Romania it’s already midnight… which means today is my birthday 🥹🎉

I wanted to post something soft and special, and this fic felt perfect for that. Writing is one of the things that makes me happiest, and sharing these stories with you means more than you probably realize. Thank you for reading, supporting, and being here with me 🤍

I hope you enjoy this little Neteyam moment as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sending you all love, hugs, and good energy

You wake to quiet.

No soft movements. No familiar breathing beside you. No teasing voice telling you you’ve slept too long.

Just the forest, humming gently outside.

You frown and sit up. “Neteyam?”

Nothing.

You’re tying your hair when the entrance covering shifts.

“Ma yawne…” he says softly (my beloved).

You turn.

Neteyam steps inside, and for a moment, you just stare.

He’s wearing his ceremonial beads. Fresh paint marks his cheekbones. In his hands is a small bundle of glowing flowers and woven leaves, still damp with morning dew.

“…What is all this?” you whisper.

He smiles, slower than usual. Softer.

“Txon’it,” he says gently (happy birthday). “Today is the day Eywa gave you to the world.”

Your breath catches. “You remembered.”

“I could never forget,” he replies.

He steps closer and offers you the flowers. “I picked these myself. Kiri helped. She complained the whole time.”

You laugh quietly. “I wish I’d seen that.”

“She said, ‘If you fall, I am not explaining this to our  mother.’”

You cover your mouth, smiling.

Neteyam watches you like the sound alone is worth everything.

“I wanted today to feel different,” he says. “Come with me.”

The forest path feels almost enchanted.

Soft lights have been tied to branches. Small glowing seeds line the ground like stars. The air smells sweet and clean.

You slow. “Neteyam… what did you do?”

He avoids your eyes. “I asked for help.”

Lo’ak suddenly appears from behind a tree. “By ‘asked,’ he means ‘wouldn’t stop talking about you.’ Happy birthday.”

Neteyam groans. “Go.”

You laugh as Lo’ak disappears again.

The path opens into a clearing.

And you stop.

Flowers. Woven lights. Soft moss arranged in a circle. A small fire burning low and warm.

Jake, Neytiri, Kiri, Tuk, and a few close clan members are already there.

Neytiri steps forward first. “Txon’it, ma tsmuke,” she says gently (happy birthday, child). “Eywa ngahu (may Eywa be with you).”

Jake smiles. “Happy birthday.”

Tuk runs up and hugs you. “Neteyam made us help all morning!”

“He took it very seriously,” Kiri adds fondly.

You look at Neteyam. “You did all this?”

“For you,” he answers simply.

You sit by the fire, warmth and laughter surrounding you. Food is shared. Small gifts are placed in your hands. Stories are told.

But Neteyam is quiet.

Eventually, he stands.

“I am not good at speeches,” he says.

Lo’ak mutters, “Liar.”

Neteyam ignores him and looks only at you.

“When we were young, I thought strength meant being first. Loud. Unbreakable.”

His voice softens. “You taught me strength is staying. Listening. Choosing.”

Your chest tightens.

“Today is your birthday,” he continues. “But every day you walk beside me feels like something I did not earn.”

He steps closer and kneels in front of you.

“Oel ngati kameie,” he says quietly (I see you). “I see your heart. I see the way you make our home warm. I see the way you make me better.”

He takes out a thin necklace of carved wood and a softly glowing stone.

“I made this for you. Not just for today. For every day.”

He hesitates. “May I?”

You nod, eyes shining. “Yes.”

He places it around your neck, fingers careful.

“It is a promise,” he says. “That wherever the forest takes us… you will never walk alone. You are my mate. My home. Ma yawne (my beloved).”

Your voice trembles. “Irayo (thank you), Neteyam.”

He smiles. “Irayo, ma tsmuke (thank you, my love). For being born. For being here. For being mine.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his.

Behind you, Tuk sniffles loudly. “Birthdays make me emotional.”

Jake clears his throat, amused.

Neytiri watches quietly, pride soft in her eyes.

Neteyam presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Come,” he whispers. “There is one more thing.”

He leads you to a glowing plant nearby.

“I asked Kiri to help me connect it earlier,” he says.

You understand.

You sit and take his hand.

“Would you thank Eywa with me?” he asks.

“Yes,” you whisper.

You connect.

Warmth flows through you. Light. A presence that feels like approval.

When you disconnect, Neteyam exhales softly.

“Eywa knows you,” he murmurs.

You smile. “She knows you love me.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “She probably knew before I did.”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“Txon’it,” he whispers again (happy birthday). “To the one Eywa gave me.”

And surrounded by forest light, family warmth, and his steady presence,

you know this is exactly where you belong.

[andy-15-07]

Your Father’s Son

Pairing: Neteyam x Reader

Word Count:1217

Request open!

Jake notices it in the small things first.

The way Neteyam automatically shifts his stance so his body is between you and everyone else when you’re holding the baby. The way his hand never stops moving when your son is in his arms,slow circles on a tiny back, thumb brushing little shoulders, fingers checking warmth without even looking. The way his voice changes.

Softer. Lower. Like he’s speaking to something sacred.

Jake is sitting near the fire, repairing a strap, when he sees you approach with your son balanced against your hip. Neteyam is already on his feet before you’re halfway across the clearing.

“I’ve got him,” Neteyam says immediately.

You raise a brow. “I wasn’t struggling.”

“I know,” he answers, already reaching out. “But I want him.”

Your lips twitch as you carefully pass your son into his arms. The baby makes a small sound and immediately settles, cheek pressing into Neteyam’s chest.

Jake watches Neteyam’s shoulders drop.

Just a fraction.

Like this is where the tension goes.

“There you are,” Neteyam murmurs. “I was looking for you.”

Your son blinks up at him, then curls his fingers into the beads at Neteyam’s neck.

You smile. “He missed you.”

Neteyam’s mouth softens. “I was gone too long.”

Jake clears his throat lightly. “It was an hour.”

Neteyam glances over. “That’s long.”

Jake snorts. “You’re going to survive.”

Neteyam doesn’t answer. He’s too busy adjusting the cloth at the baby’s back, tucking it more securely, checking his ears, brushing a thumb across his cheek.

Jake goes quiet.

He’s seen warriors with children before. Seen men become fathers.

But this,this is different.

Neteyam sits beside you, angling himself so the baby is shielded from the light breeze. You lean in automatically, resting your shoulder against his.

“He wouldn’t nap,” you tell Neteyam. “He kept turning his head like he was looking for something.”

Neteyam murmurs, “You were looking for me, hm?”

The baby makes a tiny sound, half yawn, half agreement.

You laugh softly. “See? You’re his favorite.”

Neteyam glances at you. “No. You are.”

Jake looks between the two of you, something tightening quietly in his chest.

“You’re not even trying to deny it,” Jake remarks.

Neteyam finally looks up. “Deny what?”

“That he’s got you completely,” Jake says.

Neteyam’s grip on the baby shifts, protective. “Good.”

Jake blinks. “Good?”

“Yes,” Neteyam replies simply. “He should.”

You turn to Neteyam, voice gentle. “You know he’s going to grow up and run away from you, right?”

Neteyam frowns. “He will not.”

“He will,” you tease. “He’ll want to explore. And climb things. And ignore you.”

Neteyam looks down at his son. “Then I will walk behind him.”

Jake’s breath leaves him slowly.

That answer,so natural, so certain,hits somewhere deeper than he expects.

Jake sets his work aside and leans back on his hands. “You didn’t say things like that when you were younger.”

Neteyam looks up. “What did I say?”

Jake thinks. “You said you’d be first. Strongest. The one everyone followed.”

Neteyam considers that. “I was wrong.”

You glance at him. “About what?”

“About what comes first,” he says.

The baby squirms, making a small protesting noise. Neteyam immediately rocks him, gentle and practiced.

“Shh… I know. I know. I’m here.”

Jake watches his son calm another life with nothing but his voice.

Jake swallows.

“You’re different,” Jake says quietly.

Neteyam’s brows draw together. “Different how?”

“Steadier,” Jake answers. “But… softer.”

Neteyam doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t defend.

He just nods. “I want him to know both.”

Jake looks at you. “And you?”

You tilt your head. “Me?”

“You two,” Jake clarifies. “The way you move. The way you handle him. It’s… easy.”

You smile faintly. “It wasn’t at first.”

Neteyam lets out a small huff. “No. I was terrible.”

Jake lifts a brow. “You? Terrible?”

Neteyam glances down at his son, almost sheepish. “I was afraid to touch him.”

Your voice softens. “You shook the first time you held him.”

Neteyam exhales. “I thought I would break him.”

Jake’s lips twitch. “That never really goes away.”

Neteyam looks up, surprised. “It doesn’t?”

Jake shakes his head. “No. You just learn to live with it.”

Neteyam absorbs that in silence.

The baby fusses again, a tiny crease forming between his brows. Neteyam shifts him higher, murmuring nonsense sounds, brushing his thumb between his little eyes.

“There. There. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Your son quiets almost instantly.

Jake watches it happen.

Again.

And again.

“Hey,” Jake says suddenly.

Neteyam looks up. “Yes, Father?”

Jake hesitates.

Then he says it. “You’re doing good.”

Neteyam freezes.

The words seem to land somewhere he wasn’t expecting them.

“…I am?” he asks quietly.

Jake nods. “Yeah. You are.”

You see it,the way Neteyam’s throat works. The way his ears tilt back slightly. The way his grip tightens around the baby, not protective now, but emotional.

“I don’t always know what I’m doing,” Neteyam admits.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh. “None of us do.”

You add softly, “But you’re always here.”

Neteyam looks at you. “So are you.”

Jake looks between the two of you, the way your knees touch, the way the baby is cradled between your hearts like he belongs nowhere else.

“You know,” Jake says, voice low, “I used to worry about the kind of man you’d become.”

Neteyam stiffens slightly. “Worry?”

Jake nods. “Yeah. I worried the weight would make you hard. Or angry. Or lonely.”

Neteyam doesn’t interrupt.

Jake gestures toward the baby. Toward you. “I don’t worry anymore.”

Neteyam’s eyes shine. “Why?”

“Because I see who you chose to be,” Jake answers. “And who you chose to build a life with.”

Your breath catches.

“You two,” Jake continues, “you’re not just raising a child. You’re giving him something I had to learn late.”

You whisper, “What?”

“A home,” Jake says.

Silence settles, thick and warm.

Neteyam’s voice is barely above a breath. “I want him to feel safe.”

Jake nods. “He does.”

Neteyam looks down at his son, then back at Jake. “I want him to be kind.”

Jake’s mouth softens. “He will be.”

“And brave,” Neteyam adds.

Jake smiles faintly. “He already is.”

Neteyam glances at you, something steady and full in his eyes. “Because of us.”

You reach out, resting your hand over Neteyam’s where it supports the baby’s back. “Because of love.”

Jake watches that too.

The way you fit.

The way Neteyam leans into you without thinking.

The way the baby breathes between you like it’s the most natural place in the world.

Jake exhales slowly.

Your son shifts, eyes fluttering shut again.

Neteyam whispers, “Sleep, little one. I’m here.”

Jake stands, resting a hand briefly on Neteyam’s shoulder.

“You’re your father’s son,” he says quietly.

Then, after a beat, he adds, “And he’s lucky.”

Neteyam looks up, stunned.

Jake smiles.

And walks away.

You watch him go, then turn back to Neteyam. “You okay?”

Neteyam nods, but his voice is thick. “I think… I am.”

You lean closer, resting your forehead against his temple. “Told you.”

He exhales, eyes closing. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

You whisper, “You chose it.”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, then at your sleeping son.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I did.”

And Jake, from a distance, knows it too.

[andy-15-07]

hiiii r u stilling taking reqs for neteyam? i hope so! you write him so beautifully tender it hurts me. i especially love when you write him as a father because i love imagining his future bc. . . well yk :(

if so, i would love to see him with a daughter of his own. i think it would be an interesting dynamic since he grew up with sisters and maybe his daughter resembles his mate moreso than him.

Little Star of the Reef

Pairing: Neteyam x Reader

Word Count:1063

Request open!

The first time your daughter calls him Dad, Neteyam freezes so completely you think his soul has left his body.

She’s perched on his hip, tiny arms hooked around his neck, cheeks round with the kind of joy that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. Her curls,dark like yours,bounce as she laughs at something Lo’ak said earlier, and her eyes,bright, sea-glass blue,are all Neteyam. His whole face, softened and reshaped into a child.

And then she pats his cheek and says, clear as morning:

“Dad. Look!”

Neteyam blinks. Once. Twice. His ears lift like he’s listening for danger. “I,”

You cross your arms, trying not to smile too hard. “Go on.”

He looks at you, helpless. “She,she called me,”

“I heard her.”

He looks back at your daughter, and his voice drops into something careful, reverent. “Say it again, ma’ite.”

She grins like she knows she has him trapped. “Daaaaad.”

Neteyam’s throat works. He holds her a little closer, as if he’s afraid she might vanish. “Yes,” he manages. “Yes, I am here.”

Your daughter points toward the water beyond the marui. “I wanna swim!”

Neteyam’s entire expression changes,father-mode activating like a switch. “It is late.”

She pouts. “But I am not sleepy.”

Neteyam narrows his eyes in a way that looks exactly like Jake when he’s about to win an argument. “That is what all small troublemakers say.”

“I am not trouble!” she declares, outraged.

You murmur, “She absolutely is.”

Neteyam shoots you a look. “Do not encourage her.”

“I’m not encouraging,” you say innocently. “I’m observing.”

Your daughter gasps, clutching Neteyam’s neck like she’s been betrayed. “Mom! Dad! She says I’m trouble!”

Neteyam exhales through his nose, fighting a smile. “You are… a little trouble.”

She leans back to stare at him. “You too?”

He presses his forehead to hers gently. “Always.”

She giggles,then immediately remembers her mission. “Swim now?”

Neteyam shifts her higher on his hip. “Tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

Neteyam pauses. You see the exact moment he realizes she learned that word from you.

He glances at you,Really?,and you lift your hands in surrender.

“I did not teach her that,” you say.

His stare says: You absolutely did.

He turns back to her, voice softening. “I promise.”

She beams. “Okay!”

Neteyam looks like he might cry.

Later, when she’s finally asleep,curled in her little hammock with her tail tucked and her breath warm,you and Neteyam sit at the edge of the platform, feet dangling above the sand.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then he says, very softly, “She looks like you.”

You hum. “The curls gave it away?”

Neteyam huffs a small laugh, then continues, “Her smile. The way she watches people when she thinks no one sees.”

You glance at him. “And what did she get from you?”

He hesitates, eyes fixed on your daughter. “Her eyes.”

“Mm.”

“And…” Neteyam’s voice drops further, almost shy. “The way she wants to protect everything.”

Your chest tightens. “She does?”

Neteyam nods. “Today, she tried to carry a shell as big as her head because she said it was ‘lonely.’”

You bite back a laugh. “Oh no.”

Neteyam’s mouth twitches. “I told her it was not lonely. She said, ‘You don’t know. You are big.’”

You snort. “That’s your child.”

He bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. “She is also your child.”

“Unfortunately for you,” you tease, “she has your stubbornness.”

Neteyam’s eyebrows rise. “Mine?”

“You.” You point at him. “Mr. ‘I am fine’ even when you have an arrow wound.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

Neteyam opens his mouth, then shuts it. “…Maybe.”

You lean closer, voice softer. “You’re a good father.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens, like the compliment hits somewhere tender. “I am trying.”

“You’re doing more than trying,” you insist. “You’re there. You listen. You kneel down to her height. You apologize when you’re wrong.”

Neteyam glances at you. “I am rarely wrong.”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

He looks back at your daughter again, and something in his expression steadies,like he’s found a place inside himself he didn’t know existed.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

“Of what?” you ask.

His fingers fidget with the edge of his armband. “That I would not know how. That I would be… my father when he was angry. Or that I would be… nothing at all.”

You reach for his hand. “Neteyam.”

He squeezes your fingers tightly, grounding himself.

“She called me ‘Dad,’” he whispers. “As if it is… true.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “It is true.”

Neteyam’s breath shudders. “Sometimes I look at her and I feel…” He searches for the word. “Too full.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s love. It’s annoying.”

He lets out a soft laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. “You make everything lighter.”

“Someone has to,” you say. Then, quieter: “You’ve carried enough.”

Neteyam tilts his head toward you. His forehead rests briefly against your temple, the way he used to do when you were younger and everything felt uncertain.

“She is brave,” he says.

“She is yours,” you reply.

Neteyam’s eyes close for a second. “She is ours.”

A small voice suddenly pipes up from the hammock, sleepy and indignant: “Dad?”

Neteyam’s head snaps up immediately. “Yes, ma’ite?”

“Bad dream,” she mumbles.

Neteyam stands so fast you barely see it,already moving to her, already gathering her into his arms with practiced gentleness.

He murmurs, “I am here. You are safe. Breathe.”

Your daughter clings to him, tiny hands fisting his chest. “Stay.”

Neteyam’s voice turns soft as ocean foam. “Always.”

You watch them,Neteyam swaying slowly, whispering nonsense comfort words, your daughter’s breathing easing as she sinks back into sleep against him.

He looks over at you, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“What?” you whisper.

Neteyam’s smile is small and real and stunned, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to have this.

“I understand now,” he says quietly.

“Understand what?”

He presses a kiss to the top of your daughter’s head, then meets your gaze.

“Why my mother used to look at us like we were her whole sky.”

You swallow hard, blinking.

Neteyam exhales, steady and sure. “This is my sky.”

And as he carries your little star back to her hammock, you realize something simple and breathtaking:

Neteyam Sully,who once held the world on his shoulders,has finally learned how to let it rest in his arms.

[andy-15-07]

You Don’t Have to Compete

Pairing: Neteyam x Reader

Word Count:778

Request open!

You didn’t mean to stare.

You really didn’t.

But it’s hard not to notice the way she laughs too loudly at something Neteyam says. Or how she leans just a little too close when he’s explaining something to her. Or how her hand brushes his arm like it’s an accident that keeps happening.

They’re standing near the practice area. Neteyam is helping her with her stance, correcting the way she holds her bow.

Patient. Calm. Kind.

The way he is with everyone.

You tell yourself that.

Still, your chest feels tight.

“Your elbow,” Neteyam says to her gently. “Lift it more. Like this.”

He demonstrates, moving behind her to adjust her arm. It’s quick. Respectful.

It still makes your stomach twist.

You look away.

You busy your hands with nothing, really. Picking at a loose fiber on your wrist wrap. Watching the ground. Pretending you don’t care.

But you do.

And Neteyam notices.

He always does.

When he finally turns and his eyes search the clearing, they go to you immediately. Not the girl. Not his bow. Not his brother.

You.

His expression changes the moment he sees your face.

He says something quick to the girl, steps back, and walks toward you without hesitation.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He stops in front of you. “That’s not true.”

You let out a small breath. “I’m just tired.”

Neteyam studies you for a second, then reaches out, gently taking your wrist and pulling you a little farther from the others.

“You’re quiet in the wrong way,” he murmurs. “Tell me.”

You hesitate.

Then, quietly, “She likes you.”

He blinks. “Who?”

“The girl you were helping,” you say, still not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s obvious.”

Neteyam glances back once, then returns his full attention to you.

“…Okay,” he says carefully. “And?”

“And it just,” You stop, frustrated. “It shouldn’t matter. I know it shouldn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just,”

Your voice lowers. “I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

Neteyam is very still.

Then, gently, “Look at me.”

You don’t want to.

He waits.

You do.

His gaze is steady. Warm. Confused in the softest way.

“Do you think,” he asks quietly, “that the way someone looks at me changes the way I look at you?”

Your throat tightens. “No… but,”

“Because it doesn’t,” he says immediately.

You swallow. “Neteyam, I’m not trying to accuse you of anything. I just… felt small for a second.”

His brows knit. “Small?”

You nod. “Like maybe I was just… one of many.”

Something in his face shifts.

He steps closer.

“You are not one of many,” he says firmly. “You are one.”

Your voice is barely there. “You talk to everyone the same.”

He tilts his head. “No. I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” you whisper. “You’re kind to everyone. You’re patient. You listen. You,”

He lifts his hands and cups your face, stopping your words without stopping you.

“That,” he says softly, “is not what I give you.”

You freeze.

“With them,” he continues, “I teach. I help. I lead.”

His thumbs brush gently along your cheekbones.

“With you,” he murmurs, “I rest.”

Your breath stutters.

“I don’t stand like this with anyone else,” he says. “I don’t look at anyone else like this. I don’t search for anyone else in every place I enter.”

You whisper, “You don’t?”

Neteyam’s forehead comes to rest against yours.

“I could be surrounded by the whole clan,” he says, “and I would still know exactly where you are.”

Your eyes burn.

“You don’t have to compete,” he continues quietly. “You don’t have to be louder, or prettier, or closer. You are already where I choose to be.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I feel stupid.”

He shakes his head. “You feel human.”

You close your eyes. “I didn’t like feeling that way.”

Neteyam softens even more. “Then next time… come to me sooner.”

You nod.

“I don’t want you carrying something that makes you doubt us,” he adds.

You lean into his touch. “I don’t doubt us. I just… needed you.”

His arms come around you fully then, holding you against his chest.

“And I am here,” he says into your hair. “Always.”

You breathe him in.

The tension eases.

After a moment, you murmur, “…She was leaning really close, though.”

Neteyam huffs a quiet laugh. “She was trying not to fall.”

You pull back slightly, embarrassed. “Oh.”

He smiles faintly. “But even if she wasn’t… it would not change anything.”

“…Why?”

His answer is immediate.

“Because I am already yours.”

And somehow, hearing it that simply makes your chest feel light again.

[andy-15-07]

requesting fluff of reader falling asleep in neteyam’s arms while he’s braiding their har and he whispers “i love you, i wish you knew that” 🥹❣️

While You Sleep

Pairing: Neteyam x Reader

Word Count:429

Request open!

The night is quiet.

Not silent,never silent in the forest,but soft. Alive in the way that means rest, not danger.

You sit between Neteyam’s legs on the woven mat, back resting lightly against his chest while his fingers move slowly through your hair.

He’s been braiding for a while now.

Careful. Unrushed. Separating strands, smoothing them, working with the same patience he uses for everything he cares about.

“Does it hurt?” he murmurs.

You hum faintly. “No… it feels nice.”

“Good,” he replies, softer.

His fingers are warm. Sure. You can feel the faint brush of his knuckles at your neck, the light tug when he weaves another section in.

You hadn’t meant to relax this much.

But the day was long. And Neteyam is steady. And your body knows him.

Your head tilts just slightly against his shoulder.

Neteyam notices immediately.

His hands slow.

“…Tired?” he whispers.

“Mm,” you murmur, eyes already heavy. “Just resting them.”

He almost smiles.

You don’t see it.

He shifts a little, careful not to disturb you, and draws you closer so you’re properly supported against him.

“There,” he says quietly. “You can rest.”

You don’t answer.

Your breathing has already changed.

Slower.

Deeper.

Neteyam watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest. The way your shoulders soften. The way your head settles more fully against him like it belongs there.

His fingers continue their work, but gentler now. Less about the braid. More about the moment.

He finishes the last strand and ties it off quietly.

Still, he doesn’t move you.

He just sits there, one arm lightly around your waist, the other resting near your shoulder.

You are fully asleep now.

Neteyam’s gaze traces your face,your closed eyes, your relaxed mouth, the faint part of your lips when you breathe.

Something in his chest aches.

Softly.

Full.

He lowers his head just a little, enough that his mouth is near your ear.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You don’t stir.

“I wish you knew that,” he adds quietly, even though you’ve told him you do. Even though you say it back. Even though he shows it in a hundred ways he never counts.

His thumb moves once, slow and gentle, at your side.

“You sleep like the world cannot touch you,” he murmurs. “And I think… I would tear the sky apart before I let anything try.”

He presses a light kiss into your hair.

Then he rests his cheek against your head, closes his eyes, and holds you while you sleep,

like it’s the easiest thing in the world.