1-800-crazy - Tumblr blog

1-800-crazy · 3 days ago

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Machiavellian

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

Simon's got a bit of a crush on 141's new secretary, and it's making him do crazy things. He can't help but get infuriated when he learns you're seeing a doctor on base. He knows it's wrong, but you know what they say...drastic times call for drastic measures.

Contains: simon POV, American!reader, moderate stalking, obsessive!simon, pining and yearning, drinking, unprotected piv sex, oral sex, (f receiving), very brief breeding kink, simon is a lovesick puppy with an emphasis on the sick part

Word Count: 10.4k

Simon wasn't sure how much more he could take.

As much as he loved the sound of your laugh, hearing you laugh because of something another man said was driving him insane.

Ever since you'd replaced Meredith, 141's previous secretary, he'd been plagued with...less than appropriate thoughts of you.

You were a sweet young thing, much too beautiful to be flitting around a big military base like this one. Though you had no military experience, you had filled Meredith's shoes and then some. You were always on top of their paperwork, were a great liaison between the gruff and sometimes grumpy 141 and other departments, and you never forgot their coffee or tea preferences.

At first, he had tried to simply ignore how his gut tingled when you smiled up at him, prompting him to ignore you in an attempt to get over this annoying little crush he seemed to have developed. He knew deep down it was different than how Gaz and Soap felt, both men shameless in the way they flirted with you. Always feeding you cheesy pickup lines that made you roll your eyes and laugh.

He tried to convince himself he was just a man, and staring at your bottom in the skirts you wore around the base was merely instinct. How was he supposed help himself from noticing the color of your bra through one peephole where the buttons in your blouse strained against your breasts? But as time went on, he couldn't ignore how his hands got a little clammy when you'd draw a smiley face on the paper cup you left at his seat, tea made just the way he likes it.

What's worse was Simon knew that he wasn't getting any type of special treatment from you, that you were sweet and even little flirtatious with plenty of other people on the base. Which is what started to drive him mad in the first place. He chastised himself for wanting something as silly as to be the only one getting your little notes and small smiles in the hallways.

He also knew that you were fucking one of the base doctors, Dr. John Carter.

Well, technically he didn't know, it's not like either of you told anyone. But he wasn't stupid.

The guy made up any excuse possible to come all the way up from the med bay to personally drop off paperwork at your desk, always lingering and chatting your ear off until he was paged back. At first, Simon figured he could handle some scrawny, pretty boy doctor lusting after you. Hard to blame him really. But what made it worse is soon you were doing the same thing. You jumped on any reason to go down to the med bay.

Which is where he was now, in the med bay, sitting with Soap as a nurse inspected the bruising welt on the man's arm, which Simon had given him on purpose because he knew you had volunteered to oversee the med student evals.

He watched, silently seething, as you helped him fill out a trainee evaluation from where you were perched delicately on the edge of his desk. Everything he said made you laugh, and Simon had to hold himself back when he watched Carter's eyes trail down to your ass as you walked out of the med bay, papers in hand.

Soap, always down to help his Lt., was giving empty answers to the annoyed nurse who was trying to help him with something he didn't really need help with. As soon as you were out of the room, Soap shooed the nurse away as politely as possible, standing with Simon as they followed out after you. Carter called out a friendly farewell to them and they both simply raised a hand in acknowledgement.

"What's yer plan?" Soap said lowly once the door clicked shut behind them.

"Dunno." Simon mused, "Have'ta think about it."

Soap offered a few options, none of which seemed fitting. Sure he wanted you all for himself, but they couldn't just kill the base's attending.

But truthfully? He had a plan in mind, just not one he ever thought he'd have to put into action.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

He laid in wait for a few days, scoping your apartment out to see what kind of alarm system you had. To his surprise (and dismay) you didn't have one. He tutted to himself, shaking his head as he picked the lock on your back door.

You were trusting a few easy locks and a deadbolt with your life. Eventually, when he moved you in to his house, you'd be perfectly safe.

Once inside, he tried his hardest to remain focused, but he couldn't help himself. He looked all around your things, figuring out your favorite foods, the products you used, the medicine in your bathroom.

He pressed his lips together as he read the label on your antidepressants, concerned about how much of your bubbly personality was a mask. He hummed in satisfaction when his eyes fell on your birth control, at least you were being safe. There were a few other things that caught his eye, your multivitamins and allergy medicine. There was so much he had to learn about you.

Gently closing the medicine cabinet, Simon reached in his pocket for what he came here to do. He slinked around your apartment, not making a sound even on your creaky wood floor, placing a few bugs around a couple rooms. He placed one in your living room, your kitchen, and upstairs in your bedroom. Once he was satisfied, he slipped out the back door, locking it as if he had never even been there. In a parking lot across the street, he was sitting low in the drivers seat of his truck, accessing the mics from the bulky old laptop he refused to get rid of.

He didn't have to wait long, as your car came rolling down the street about 30 minutes later. He couldn't see your apartment from his viewpoint, so the mic in the living room picked up you unlocking your door, he rolled his eyes at the first voice he heard.

"I just can't believe that." Carter said, making you laugh lightly.

"Come on John, you weren't exactly easy on him either." you mused.

The two of you talked about the medical evals from earlier that week, before you put on an American sports game. The sound from the TV muffled your conversation slightly, but Simon had accounted for that in his placement.

What he couldn't account for was when he felt that all too familiar twinge in his chest as he listened to you and Carter chat so casually. You and him were both American, and you were even from the same city. Which Simon had figured was a big reason you gravitated towards Carter in the first place, he reminded you of home. It was probably the only thing Simon was willing to concede that Carter bested him at.

But Simon was going to learn every little detail about you so that you thought of him as home.

He listened as the two of you were engaged in the sports game, cheering and groaning together as your team got the lead, lost it, and then got in back just in time to win the game.

Maybe he should learn more about basketball...

Unfortunately, Simon also had to listen to you and Carter having sex. He had placed the mic right at your headboard, so he heard every gasp, every moan, every squelch of your pussy around Carter's cock.

Selfishly, Simon had hoped you wouldn't sound like you were having a good time. Of course he wanted you to enjoy yourself, but with him not with Carter. But the doctor seemed to be putting his knowledge of anatomy to good use, with the way you were keening for him, whining out his name amongst a slew of curse words and pleas. Simon was mentally filtering out Carter's own words and sounds, only really wanting to hear you. He pondered replacing the mic with a camera, so he could learn what you liked and what you didn't like. But he would prefer for the first time he saw your bare figure to be in person.

As much as you sounded like you were enjoying it, Simon realized you kept having to repeat what you wanted. Where you wanted Carter to touch you, put his mouth on you, how fast you wanted him to go. You were begging him to keep pace, so close to your own finishing line, and Simon chuckled to himself when he heard Carter slowing down and making you groan.

Simon knew he could please you, without you having to think about anything but how he felt inside you.

He chuckled again when he heard the buzz of a vibrator, Carter whining out as he came, and your strangled orgasm came through the headphones.

Soon, you would't have to worry about that anymore. Not in his bed.

He begrudgingly listened to your light pillow talk, before Carter got his things together and left. You cleaned off in the bathroom, and he turned the volume up as you drifted off to sleep, your breath evening out as you dreamt.

Only then did he drive off, back to his own flat, grumbling to himself as he stepped under the hot water in his shower. As he leaned on the cool tile, he wrapped a fist around his cock, which had been screaming for attention since he heard you moaning in bed. Though he was alone, his cheeks still burned with a light tinge of shame as he cast his spend on the wall of his shower, your name falling off his lips.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

It had been two weeks, and Simon was growing tired of his routine. Not of you, he could never tire of you.

But the more he listened to you and Carter, he was growing restless. Not only was he sick of being unknowingly cuckholded, Carter wasn't even consistent in bed with you. Since the first time he listened to the two of you having sex, he learned that you didn't always finish. Simon could tell when you were faking it without even seeing your face. Carter never seemed to know, or maybe he just didn't care enough. Your pleasure was a happy byproduct and not his priority. If Simon had to listen to you turn that vibrator on after Carter was through the door one more time he was going to lose it.

The thing that was keeping him sane was that you never asked Carter to stay the night, even when he offered.

Simon hadn't needed to return past the threshold of your house, but his audible snooping provided him with so much information. So if you went out for a night, sometimes he'd slip inside and poke around. In his defense, most of his poking was innocent things, just to get to know you. Through your CD collection he learned your music tastes, ranging from country when you missed your mother, classic rock when you missed your father, and a mix of pop and hip hop in between. Through your bookshelf he learned your favorite books, a surprising mix of horror, romance, and celebrity memoirs. Through your TV stand he learned that you had a penchant for buying a physical version of movies instead of just renting it.

Simon was also learning your little habits. You hummed and sang while you cooked and cleaned, never doing anything without music to back you up. You cleaned on Sundays, always washed your face even when you came home drunk, and you had broken down and called your ex boyfriend about a week ago. He listened to you talk on the phone with your friends back home, telling them that despite being very happy here in England you still missed them.

Today he was happily lifting weights in the gym, absolutely buzzing. Even his team had commented on his good mood, one they so rarely saw from him at this point.

Last night he had listened in as you had a few friends over for a movie night, and they were asking how your job was going, all normal things. He rolled his eyes at how you talked about Carter, and how your friends swooned when you showed them a picture. But none of that mattered, it was what you said about him that had him on a high.

You had told them about all of 141, making him chuckle with your descriptions of his teammates. According to you, Price was handsome but strict in a fatherly way that sometimes made you feel like you were being babysat. Soap and Gaz were both hot and though they laid it on thick you were under the impression that it was all just teasing and they didn't really see you that way. Simon knew those two well enough that if you gave them the chance they'd fuck you right there on base. Hell, even Price would probably sink his teeth into you if offered the chance.

But when you brought him up that's when he sat up and really tuned in.

"He's so...big." you said, making them all giggle, "And he always wears this skull mask. I've never actually seen what he looks like."

"He wears one all the time?!" one of your friends asked, an annoying but familiar question. You took it in stride.

"Yeah, around base its usually just a black balaclava or one with a skull face printed on it. But the one he wears on deployment is like..a big skull plate right on the front. I've never asked but, I dunno, I think it's kinda sexy." you said, the last few words muffled as he pictured you raising your hands to your face in embarrassment.

His chest almost burst. Sexy.

"Not seeing his face is sexy??" a different one asked.

"Listen, like I said he's huge. Super tall, built like a truck. His arms are massive. With tattoos." your voice sounded so much sweeter when he was the topic on your tongue.

"And you have a super cute doctor who's basically in love with you." your other friend said. Before he got too angry at your friends for swaying you in the wrong direction, Simon had to remind himself that they only had your best interests in mind. As soon as you were his they'd know the best thing for you was Simon.

"And maybe if he was staying here then I'd be more open to putting a label on us." you said, making Simon's brow furrow. It was the first time he had caught any wind of Carter potentially leaving the base.

"Plus Simon has been so nice to me lately." you said, smile evident in your voice.

"Nice how?" a friend giggled.

"He's kind of got a reputation on base as a grump." you giggled, making him chuckle, "Like the new recruits are terrified of him. But he's so sweet to me. And he must be paying attention to my desk because he always brings me a hazelnut croissant from Tratoria."

Simon was happy you'd noticed his extra efforts toward you. You were right, he had studied your desk to know what your order from the coffee shop was. He started bringing you your favorite sweet treats, sitting next to you in meetings, making jokes under his breath for only you to hear. You were responding in kind, no more smiley faces on his notes, they'd all been replaced with hearts. Checking in with him while he was in his office, lingering at your desk long enough to walk out with him.

For the rest of the night, you and your friends talked about your love lives, but as your friends droned on he sat there grinning. You had noticed his soft spot for you, and it wasn't going unreciprocated.

While he grinned under his mask and put the weight plates away in the base gym, he recalled that you had mentioned never having a 'real' conversation with him, so he was going to fix that.

Hours later Simon's good mood was being tested by Price, who had thrown him a proverbial mountain of paperwork that would likely take him the rest of the damn day. However, when he heard a soft knock and looked up, the grin was back under the cotton of his mask as you leaned around the doorframe with a little crease in your brow. He waved you in and kept his eyes trained on your face as your heels clicked across the tile.

"How ya doin' in here? I heard Captain Price gave you a bunch of files, and I haven't seen you in hours." you said empathetically, your concern for him making his heart thump in his chest.

"M'fine, sweetheart." he sighed, leaning back in his desk chair with his arms clasped behind his head. He pretended not to notice the way your eyes darted to his chest, then further down to where his shirt was tucked into his cargo pants.

The weight of your stare made gave Simon an idea, "Actually, walk with me?" he asked, making your eyebrows rise in surprise.

"Sure. Where to?" you said with a grin and he matched it, regardless of whether you could see it from under the mask. He stood up and rounded his desk, gesturing to the door.

"Just around the yard. Need some air." he suggested, and you eagerly fell in step next to him.

The two of you walked for 30 minutes around the yard, chatting casually, and it was the happiest Simon had been in years. He bit the bullet and asked if you had heard anything about Carter leaving.

"Oh, yeah," you nodded, "He's headed back to the states to work at hospital in Chicago."

You didn't sound happy about it, but you shrugged as if it was no big deal. After confirming that it was his last month on the base, Simon moved on and changed the subject.

One month, and then you would be untangled, unless of course one were to count your minor entanglement with Simon.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Over the next month, the two of you took almost daily walks, peppering each other with questions. One day you had come in a little late to the office, worrying not only him but everyone else on the team. That morning you had waved them off with an apology, but on your walk with Simon you confided in him that your neighbor had cornered you, pressuring you to go on a date with him now that he had noticed Carter wasn't coming around on the regular. It had shaken you, and infuriated Simon. He should have been there, but truthfully he had been listening in less and less now that he talked to you so much during the work day.

He offered to be your ride to and from work, and to his slight surprise, you agreed. You had been quieter that day, and he could tell you were still keeping something back about what happened with your neighbor. He had given you his phone number, and told you that if you ever needed him for anything, to call him.

Though you hadn't called him for any emergencies, the two of you texted as much as Simon could handle, as truthfully he wasn't the best texter. And after Carter was gone, you had started leaning on him more, and he was more than happy to be there for you. He'd gotten Soap and Kyle to invite you out to the pub after a quick mission, and you'd started to join them more and more after that.

It was almost amusing to watch men's behavior when you were out at the bar. You seemed oblivious to it but plenty of them paused to watch you walk in, lots had their eyes on you, and you couldn't head to the bar without someone chatting you up, something that seemed to annoy you when Soap teased you about it. You always rolled your eyes, laughing and waving him off as you settled on to the barstool on Simon's right. That's always where you stuck yourself, between him and the wall. Safe.

On the nights he knew you were joining them at the pub, he always drove, and never got drunk, that way he could have an excuse to drive you home. Tonight, you were supposed to be meeting them at their normal pub after you were out with your friends, so he had been nursing a pint for a while now.

"Oh Lt., you are in trouble." Soap laughed, nodding his head towards the door. Simon turned around and his eyes widened as they fell on you.

You had a big grin plastered on your face, hair a little messy from the breeze outside. The tight mini skirt that clung to your hips was a far cry from what you wore around the office, and Simon could feel the fabric of his boxers strain against his hardening cock as his eyes fell on the bottom hem that was dangerously close to your bottom. You scanned the busy room, eyes lighting up as they fell on Simon as you made your way through the crowd.

He had to let go of the pint glass in his hand before he crushed it, watching several men crane their necks for a better view of your ass as you walked past them. He was trying to remind himself he was trying to get you to love him and not be scared of him. No reason to crush anyone's skulls because they were admiring your beauty.

Yet.

Soap let out a whistle when you made it over, making you laugh.

"Why don't you wear this at work, aye?" he slurred, and you smiled, leaning on Simon's shoulder.

"Because I would get fired." you mused, sliding across his back as you tucked yourself into his side as always.

"You want a drink?" he asked you, surprised when you shook your head.

"I think I've had plenty for one night," you groaned with a light laugh, "I need to sober up."

He patted your knee, standing up anyway to get you a glass of water and some crisps. When he got back, you gave him another dopey smile and a soft 'thank you'. He felt his heart tug at the way you trusted him with your safety, something he did not intend to take lightly.

You all chatted and laughed for another hour or so, and you seemed to be sobering up and getting tired so he offered to take you home. You smiled and nodded, bidding the other guys goodbye.

Your arms were wrapped around his bicep on the short walk through the parking lot, a walk that he purposely made slower to drag it out as much as possible. If you had said anything he would have told you that he was walking slower to make sure your heels didn't trip you up. But he just wanted to extend any time you had on his arm. For the first time you had kept your grip on his hand as he drove back to your place, fiddling with his fingers while his hand rested in your lap. The casual nature of the touch making it impossible for Simon not to smile to himself under the mask.

He did as he normally would and walked you up to your door, watching your back as you unlocked it. But this time instead of giving him a hug or a kiss on the cheek before saying goodnight, you hesitated.

"You alright?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. His eyes fell to your lips where you were chewing on your lower lip in nervousness. You blinked a few times before deciding with a shake of your head.

"Yeah, no I'm - it's fine." you said, tripping over your words as you looked down at your feet but staying planted where you were. He didn't respond, put held his eyes on you. When you looked back up at him you reached out to hug him around his neck. His palms splayed across your back as you sighed into his neck. This hug was longer than the others he had gotten from you, and this time when you pulled back you held his face close.

"I really wanna kiss you."

It was barely a whisper, but it made his brain stop short. Your big doe eyes were staring up at him with a look of genuine of affection that Simon was not accustomed to being on the receiving end of. He didn't say anything, opting instead to lift the bottom hem of his balaclava up to his nose. His hand moved up from the small of your back to gently grip behind your neck, pulling you up towards him as he bent down a bit to press your lips to his.

Simon wasn't too proud to admit that he had been thinking about this very moment for months. He'd probably been thinking about it the entire year you'd worked for them. And now that he was in it, feeling the plush skin of your lips press on his it felt like nothing he had ever felt in a kiss before. Sometimes he'd wonder about that 'spark' that some people talked about feeling when they kissed someone, unsure if he had just missed it in previous kisses.

But here in this moment with you it all made sense. The feeling of your lips moving against his, the sound of the sigh you let out as you pressed yourself against his chest, it was all perfect. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place as you craned your neck to kiss him deeper. He smiled into your mouth as your fingertips tugged at the small amount of hair that was now sticking out of the bottom of the balaclava.

You had to be the one to break the kiss, because Simon would have suffocated to death if it meant he never had to detach from your lips. So when you pulled back and took a breath in and giggled at him, his brows furrowed.

"What?" he asked, unable to help the smile on his lips as you grinned. Your hand moved around to the side of his face, your thumb swiping along his bottom lip.

"I got my lip gloss on you," you giggled, making him roll his eyes.

"That's fine," he said, pulling you back up to him so he could kiss you again, "I'll get it at home." he said into your lips. The way you laughed into his mouth went directly to his groin, and this time he was the one to break the kiss as he tried to control himself. Though you were responding in kind to him, you were still drunk and in no shape for any type of sex. This time when you pulled back you just stared up at him.

"You have such a nice smile." you said, voice reverent and fingers still exploring his jaw, "You sure you don't wanna stay?" you added coyly, batting your eyelashes and tilting your head to the side. He almost groaned at your tone, clearly wanting him to come inside and fuck you.

You weren't making this easy.

But he was a man of morals, and he was not John Carter.

"Course I do." he said, his thumb rubbing at the skin above the top of your skirt, "But you're still drunk, my darling." he laughed at the way your bottom lip poked out in protest.

"Oookaaay," you sighed sweetly, drawing the vowels out, "You're missin' out though."

He cocked an eyebrow at you, though he knew you couldn't see it, "Oh?"

"Mmmhmm," you nodded, one of your hands sliding along his arm as he still held you in place, "I've been told I'm a lot of fun when I drink tequila."

"That's good to know," he said, leaning down to speak lowly in your ear, "But the first time I fuck you, you will have your head on straight. Okay?"

He smirked to himself when he heard your little breath, coming out in a huffed laugh. When he stood back up to full height, your pupils were dilated as you nodded up at him.

"Okay." you said, the obedience in your tone and demeanor making his mind go a little fuzzy.

He planted one more kiss on your lips, before the two of you said goodnight and he started to leave. He turned to make sure you were getting inside, both of your heads snapped up to an argument happening a few yards down the road. From what he could see, a man was in the street arguing with someone in an apartment, throwing things up at the windows and kicking bins around in the street. He looked at you and you were already looking at him, all flirtation gone from your eyes.

"Are you sure you can't stay? At least for a little?" you asked, your voice laced with fear. Once Simon heard the waver in your voice he already had his answer. There was no way he could leave while some drunk asshole was causing a problem on your street. You looked relieved as he didn't hesitate to walk back up to your door, gently pushing you inside as he followed you in.

"You don't have to stay long I-" you started, but he waved you off as he locked your door, frowning a bit when he slid the flimsy chain lock that added almost nothing to the actual lock on the door.

"M'not leaving now." he said, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he placed a quick kiss on your lips. He took a brief moment to savor the casual nature of the peck, satisfied that the two of you had finally crossed that particular line and he could take all the kisses he pleased from now on.

You nodded at him and asked him if he did intend staying the whole night, which he pondered for a moment. It was already pretty late, and neither of you had to be on base tomorrow. So there was really no reason why he would have to leave, nor was there any way he would be able to leave without knowing that you were completely safe. But if you kept telling him how much fun you were on tequila he was in for a difficult night.

"As long as you, young lady, remember that-" he started, and you rolled your eyes and groaned before interrupting him.

"Okay, okay," you said, waving your hand before heading through the living room and into the kitchenette, "I'll stop trying to fuck you. Fine."

As he watched you kick your heels off and pad to the fridge, he wasn't sure he'd ever heard you curse before. He followed you, his boots suddenly sounding heavy on the linoleum.

"You don't gotta stop," he said as you grabbed the water pitcher from the fridge and poured two glasses of water.

"No, no, no. You lost your chance Lieutenant Riley." you teased, and he sucked his teeth as he heard his rank fall from your pretty lips.

"Lieutenant Riley?" he questioned, caging you in against the counter as you turned back to him. You hummed in satisfaction as he pressed his lips on yours again, smiling into the kiss. When he pulled back, you handed him the cool glass in your hands, silently urging him to drink it.

"Unsure where you're gonna sleep though," you pondered, "I don't have a guest room, and that couch is way too small for you, but if you can't control yourself..." you trailed off, making him chuckle.

"I can control myself. Dunno if I can say the same for you, though." he laughed as your face scrunched up at him.

"Hmmm," you hummed, eyes looking him up and down before responding, "Maybe. I don't even know what you really look like. Maybe I don't want you to sleep in my bed."

This earned another laugh from him, but he knew that this day was coming sooner rather than later. So as he felt your eyes on him, he lifted his free hand up and gripped the top of the balaclava. He pulled it off, the skin on his face relishing in the cool air of your flat. He blinked down at you, your eyes wide. He didn't say anything, just cocking his head to the side to prompt a response from you.

"I want you to sleep in my bed." you said, your hands coming up to clasp the sides of his face as you pulled him into another kiss. He smiled against you and reminded you about control, making you groan, "You're so mean. It better be worth the wait."

"Oh it'll be worth the wait. I can promise you that." he chuckled.

After the two of your finished your water, you led him up the stairs to the second floor and showed him your bedroom, and he was mindful to act as if he had never seen it before. You left him alone as you went to wash your face, and as the door to the bathroom closed he peeked around your bed frame at the bug he had placed forever ago. He had listened to so many of your most intimate moments through this tiny piece of technology, and soon enough it would send the sounds of your first time with Simon to the recording device he had in his truck. Something he intended to come back to when he was away on missions, a reminder of his pretty dove back home.

He sat on the side of your bed, untying his boots and slipping them off. As he undressed down to his undershirt and pants, he chuckled softly to himself at how he was really here in this moment. Months of waiting, months of work, and the first time he'd in bed with you Simon was white knuckle-ing past your attempts at sex. He had sat back down you came back in the room, bare faced and absolutely beautiful. You smiled warmly at him before turning to your dresser, fishing some pajamas out of the bottom drawer.

"You want me to change out there?" you smirked, nodding to the hallway.

"Your house, love." Simon replied, feeling the way his eyes darkened as he eyed you. You shrugged and placed the pajamas on the top of the dresser. It felt like the world was moving in slow motion as he watched you peel the tight mini skirt off your hips, exposing the lacy blue thong that barely covered your ass crack. Your arms crossed as you lifted your top off, and Simon couldn't see the smirk on your face but he knew you were sporting one as you reached back to unclasp your bra.

"Y'could at least turn around." he heard himself say lowly, his words met with a giggle from you. You opted to pull your panties down unbelievably slow, bending at the waist so Simon had no choice but to watch the way the gusset peeled off of your pussy. By the time your hands were at your ankles, your rear was spread open just enough for him to admire both holes. They were practically screaming for Simon to reach out and touch, for him to sink his tongue into them.

When you straightened up, you continued his torture, turning around and giving him his first look at your naked frame. You let him drink in the sight of you, his eyes traveling over the swell of your breasts, your hips, thighs, everything he had never been able to see in your smart work clothes. Simon's cock leapt to attention when his eyes focused on the hard peaks of your nipples, each decorated by a silver bar pierced through them. There was a glittery piercing hanging from your bellybutton as well. When he met your eyes again you were still smirking, but this time you had an eyebrow cocked.

"What?" you asked innocently, making him try and swallow his saliva to lubricate his throat.

"You have your nipples pierced." he croaked out, making you giggle again.

"You know," you mused, stepping towards him and making his heart jump, "I'm not just some boring secretary who wears ugly skirts all the time." you crooned, settling between his spread legs and carding a hand through his hair. Simon's eyes fluttered shut at the touch, but he didn't dare let them close fully when your breasts were being presented inches from his face.

"I didn't think that." he said, voice coming out as nothing bit a whisper as he looked up at your smiling face.

"Better not have." you responded lightly, bending to kiss him briefly before standing back up and gently gripping his jaw in your hand, "And if you tell Johnny that I have my nipples pierced, you will never fuck me."

Now that made him laugh. You giggled along with him, turning and going back to the dresser and slipping the pajama set on and ending his show.

"He'd be drooling into a pool on the floor." he said as you made your way back to him.

"He would have fucked me." you teased, making him roll his eyes.

"True. But he's no gentleman." Simon retorted, not meaning for the words to come out as stony as they did. You hummed, pressing his chest back slightly as you climbed into his lap, making him lay back as you straddled his hips.

"That's probably true." you mused, and Simon relished in the feeling of your hands exploring his chest. He watched your eyes as you traced your fingertips lightly over the scars on his chest. After a few silent moments you gazed at his face and giggled again.

"What now?" Simon asked.

"Nothing," you said, leaning down so your face was above his, "There's just something sweet about big bad Simon Riley lounging on my pink sheets."

He rolled his eyes at that, but the sentiment did warm something in his chest. Now that he was here in your bed, no mask on, guard down for you, Simon realized that he had never been this way in his life, not romantically at least. The rest of 141 had seen his face on occasion, and he had a few little flings in the past, but nothing like this. No one like you.

So instead of saying anything, he reached up to cup your face with both his hands, pulling your face down to his so you were laying down on top of him while he kissed you. For a while he just held you there, and you seemed to have no intention of doing anything but be held. Eventually he moved you both onto your sides, wrapping his arms around you without breaking the kiss.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he murmured into your lips, greedily drinking in the sigh you let out as your fingers tightened where they were perched on his biceps.

"Don't say things like that to me," you groaned as he pulled back and frowned at you.

"Why not?" he questioned, his serious tone lost on you as you looked up at him longingly.

"Because I really want you to fuck me." you whined, the sentiment going straight to his already aching cock.

"I will baby," he crooned, "Just not tonight. I have morals."

"So you'll never fuck me drunk?" you asked, and he smiled at your little pout.

"Not for our first time." he said, shifting his body so he was perched above your flat frame on the mattress, "Like I said, the first time I fuck you, you will have your head on straight."

He kissed your pouted lips, moving to get up and out of the bed. You whined again, asking him where he was going, and as he told you he was taking a shower he couldn't help but smile to himself.

Simon had gone over this almost a thousand times in his head, this moment where he finally crossed the line from your friend to your lover. He had thought through every scenario his mind could conjure up, thinking of ways he could get you to depend on him, to need him. As he'd already proven there wasn't much Simon wasn't willing to do to ensure he steered you in the right direction, whether you knew it or not. He'd been prepared to tap your phone, follow your every step, go through your mail, or hack your laptop. Hell, when there was discussion of John Carter staying on base he was prepared to kill the man.

Nothing was going to stop him from having you.

But he hadn't expected it to be so simple. There was no convincing you, no need for added external pressure, none of it. And yet here you were, mewling for him like a pathetic kitten desperate for his affection. He'd been in countless upturned regions, been tortured for information, been through things and made decisions that would keep most people up at night. But turning away from you, lounged out and gazing at him from those pink sheets, was the single hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

You mumbled a direction, sleepily telling him where the bathroom was, not that he needed it. Simon hopped in the shower to douse himself in cold water, trying anything to quell the ache of his throbbing cock. Once he had calmed down, he dried off and put his clothes back on.

Back in the room, you had tucked yourself into your side of the bed, and had left the blankets open on the other side in invitation. Simon shut the light on your bedside table off before he climbed in behind you, wrapping his arm around your midsection to pull you close to his chest. You hummed sleepily, adjusting yourself a bit so you were peeking over your shoulder at him in the darkness.

"I don't think I've ever done this," you said, laughing softly, "Sleeping with someone before, y'know, sleeping with them."

Simon smiled, pressing a light kiss to your forehead before giving you a squeeze and wishing you goodnight. You turned back over, settling into your spot and bringing his hand up to your chest. You laced your fingers with his and it didn't take long for him to recognize your breathing pattern to know you had fallen asleep.

Sleep wasn't typically easy for Simon, but as your breath danced on his knuckles and his nostrils filled with the sweet scent of the perfume in your hair, he felt it creep up on him sooner than expected.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

When Simon awoke, he swore he was still dreaming. He wasn't the best sleeper, between nightmares and muscle aches he usually woke up a few times every night. But with you by his side apparently you were the perfect cure, as he had slept deeper than he could ever remember.

Cracking his eyes open was when he was convinced he was dreaming. The sun rays were shining through your cracked blinds and washing over the both of you, still tangled together amongst the soft sheets. You were still sleeping flush with him, but you were turned to face him now, cheek smushed against his bicep as the light danced across your face.

Simon had never laid his eyes on anything more beautiful.

So he laid there until you stirred. He drank in every second that passed, every shallow breath you took, focused so hard like he was memorizing the particles of dust in the air. With a deeper breath, you finally stretched as you woke up, not opening your eyes quite yet. You hummed to yourself when you reached out and your hands discovered his chest, finally opening your eyes to look at him. Before he could say anything, he watched a shy smile creep up on your features before you quickly looked away from him, making him lift an eyebrow at you. A small part of him was a bit concerned that you had sobered up and regretted the things you had said and done last night.

"Morning," he said, his voice still thick with sleep. You echoed him with a shy 'good morning' before sitting up and rubbing your eyes.

He quietly watched you, trying to study your body language before he asked what was on your mind. When you turned back around, he caught your eye and tilted his head a bit.

"What?" you asked, brows furrowing in worry.

"Why ya acting shy?" he asked, trying his best to sound playful, hoping he wasn't coming off accusatory. You laughed lightly, laying back down beside him before sighing and looking up at his eyes.

"Honestly?" you started, chewing on your lower lip before continuing, "I'm a little embarrassed."

"About what, love?" he said gently, clasping a gentle hand around your wrist and pressing his thumb on your pulse point.

"I kinda...threw myself at you, huh?" you laughed sheepishly, peeking at him as if to gauge his reaction. He offered you a soft laugh, pulling your body closer to press a kiss on the side of your head.

"You don't need to be embarrassed." he said softly, "Do you remember what I said to you last night?"

"Some of it." you said, brows furrowing in concentration.

"I told you that you have no idea how long I've wanted this," he said, moving his head so he was looking at you at you eye level, "And I meant it." he affirmed, satisfied when the crease in your brow softened a bit.

"So you don't think it was, like, completely pathetic?" you asked, and he smiled.

It was a little pathetic.

"No." he lied, pressing a gentle kiss on your lips as you giggled.

"Just don't tell anyone how desperate I was," you groaned, smiling up at him.

"Never." he nodded earnestly.

"Thank you." you sighed, "I would have to quit if Johnny and Kyle had that ammo on me."

Simon chuckled at that, aware that if he did share details of your behavior (and physique) with his team you would never hear the end of it. Price wouldn't tease you about those details he was sure, and Gaz would give up eventually, but Soap would be relentless. But if Simon had it his way, no man would ever know the beauty of your naked form ever again, even if it was just through his own word of mouth.

"They won't." he assured you, greedily taking yet another kiss from you. This time you held him there, and as you shifted your weight to tuck yourself as close to him as possible, something in Simon snapped. The feeling of you underneath him, kissing him so very needy, it was enough for him to move his own weight around so he was on top of you.

"I'm sober now. Scouts honor." you said softly, clearly not wanting him to pull away like he did last night. He laughed into your mouth and opted to bite your lower lip gently.

"Oh I know." he said, the desire rumbling in his chest obvious in the way his tone dropped. You whined at him as his mouth traveled from your lips down the column of you neck, smirking into you when he found a spot that made your hips buck up into him a bit. He bit you gently there, licking the skin to soothe the pain as your hands gripped his shoulders as if he was going to get up off of you and leave.

Simon moved his knee and brought your leg up with it, opening you up so he could settle his hips between your thighs. You opened up so beautifully for him, your obedience once again making his cock twitch. You were finally settled beneath him fully, hands cradling his face as your legs were wrapped around his hips to anchor him in place. Though he wanted so badly to rip your pajamas off you and devour you for breakfast, he stayed put, mesmerized when you moved his face back up to yours to kiss him.

The two of you stayed there for a while, lost in a deep kiss that had been brewing for months. It wasn't until you shifted your hips and rubbed against his crotch that he broke. His hands left your hair and moved your sleep shirt up and off of you, quickly followed by your shorts. Simon did not climb back over you like you thought he would, he was frozen in place by the sight of your glistening pussy, spread open and so fucking pretty. Lowering himself onto you, he heard your breath catch as you watched him descend on your sex, painting a long stripe with his tongue flat to catch as much of your flavor as possible.

The second your arousal hit his taste buds, he knew nothing would ever compare. No drink, no food, nothing would ever be this good. He ate you as if he was on death row being served his last meal, hungry and desperate for more. The sounds coming from you were music to his ears, spurring him on as he teased your clit with his flicking tongue, sucking it in and teething it every so slightly. The feeling of your soft, wet flesh in his mouth felt like forbidden fruit and he suddenly understood why Eve bit the apple.

Pulling back only to take another look at you, he watched your hole clench around nothing, so he obliged, inserting his middle finger and exploring your walls as he sucked your clit back into his mouth. You gasped, your hands somehow finding purchase in his buzzcut, hips bucking up into his mouth. He cursed under his breath at how tight you were, massaging every inch inside of you to gain the reward of more juices leaking from you for him to lap up. Another finger and you were moaning his name this time, and Simon could feel his cock wetting the front of his boxers at the sound of it.

He worked you open, pumping his thick fingers in and out of you, stretching you as much as he could before he even thought about notching his tip inside you. Simon's other hand came up to spread your lips open, allowing him better access to the red bundle of nerves that was making your thighs twitch when Simon so much as breathed on it. The way you were clamping down on him, your back arched and your hair messy, he knew you were close.

With his eyes trained forward on you, he watched your orgasm seize you, all your muscles going tense before you lost control of your body. Your tits were bouncing with how much you were squirming on him, and the way his name was coming from your mouth made him hum into you to cruelly overstimulate you through your peak. By the time he let you pull him off, you were panting, sweaty, and your eyes were glazed over as you watched him stand up.

He licked his lips, and sucked his fingers clean as he stood at the foot of the bed before you. He wished he could take a picture of you in this moment, and you were probably still in such a blissful high you might even let him. He finally took off his shirt and underwear, feeling a bit smug as he watched your eyes widen at the sight of his cock. Your lips parted ever so slightly as you watched it swing heavily between his legs as he climbed back on top of you.

"You're so big," you said hoarsely.

"I'll go easy on you." he assured you, planting a kiss on your lips as he lined himself at your entrance. All it took was the tip and your brows furrowed at the stretch. He planted his foreword on yours to watch your face as close as possible as he pushed in, you pretty features scrunching so cutely as he split you open. He fucked you with a few inches at first, adding more and more as he worked you open gently.

It wasn't easy, going slow. Simon wasn't used to slow. He was used to fucking, hard and fast and dirty. But this wasn't fucking, this was making love. And he intended to make love to you to prove that he was worthy of your affection, worthy of your time, worthy of your pussy.

You seemed to think he was worthy, clawing at him and begging for more as he slid in once again. "Fuck, please, Simon! I can take it I promise!"

Who was he to deny his woman?

So he sank into you fully, both of you relishing at the feeling. Your walls were pulsing a hypnotizing rhythm around his shaft, enticing him to plant his seed directly where he was sat at the door of your womb. Your face went blank for a moment, eyes closed in bliss as he let you adjust to his full length. When you opened your eyes and looked back up at him all Simon could hear were wedding bells. You were looking at him like he had hung the fucking moon, like he wasn't just some cold blooded killer, like he was a man.

So he fucked you like a man should. Deep and slow and passionate, one of his arms around the small of your back to hold your soft breasts flush with his chest and the other arm cradling your head so he could hear every hiccup and moan that left your sweet lips. Your hands were back around his neck, hips rocking with his as he sent his cock straight into your center. He'd listened to you so many times, but these sounds were new somehow, and it pleased him that he was making you feel like you'd never felt before. One long, drawn out whine in particular almost sent him over the edge.

"Y'like that baby?" he grunted in your ear, your head nodding immediately.

"God yes! Fuck, m'so full, Simon,"

"Takin' me so well, you were made for me."

Simon was sure of that. The way he was sliding in and out of your wet pussy so easily, you were practically sucking him back in. And fuck it felt good. Better than he could have ever fantasized about. You were wet and warm and fucking heavenly. Shifting slightly to angle deeper, your walls clenched down on him in desperation, another orgasm tantalizingly close. He didn't speed up, didn't switch positions, he just kept up the pace that had you whimpering like a bitch under him, begging him to keep going because you were so so close!

He only moved right as it crashed over you, shifting back so he could watch your face up close this time. You were such a vision, orgasmic pleasure suited your features so well. He'd give you 100 if you could handle it, just to see your lips fall open in that cute little 'o' right before you threw your head back and moaned his name. The pulse in your cunt had picked up, urging him to release his spend inside of you.

"G'na fill this pretty pussy up." he grunted, finally speeding up his rhythm to chase his own high. The want, the need to cum deep inside you was making him feral. You held on to him and talked him right to the edge, your pretty voice begging him to use you and fill you. He felt your eyes on him as he felt the rubber band inside him break, his balls flexing as they sent his cum through his shaft and out into your welcoming walls.

You whined out at the feeling, and he dropped to his elbows to cage you in as he fucked you through his release. Your fingernails were absolutely leaving marks as you clawed at his back, and the thought of being marked by you elicited a groan deep from the back of Simon's throat. Once his cum finally stopped flowing, he pressed himself down on top of you and lazily fucked into you as he gradually softened inside you.

He felt you sigh under him, followed by a soft laugh. "You were right." you said, voice slightly muffled by the muscle on his shoulder.

"About what?" Simon asked, lifting himself up to look down at you.

"It was worth the wait." you said softly, pulling his face down to yours and planting a soft kiss on his lips. The softness felt like it was eating Simon alive. He wasn't used to this, and his head was swimming with the knowledge that this wasn't the only taste he was ever going to get.

After a few nice moments of the two of you catching your breath, still tangled together, you groaned and tried to shove him off of you. You dangled the prospect of breakfast in front of him, laughing when he jumped on the opportunity and finally released you. Simon made a point to toss you his shirt, just because he wanted to see you cooking in it.

If you caught wind of his reasoning, you stayed quiet, slipping the garment over your head and smiling as you dug in your drawer for a pair of underwear. After slipping his boxers back on, he followed you down the stairs like a puppy.

You shooed him away once you were both in the kitchen, and knowing he'd be no help to you anyway Simon took a seat on one of the stools by the kitchen island. He let his mind wander, chuckling to himself over you pleading to not disclose your rendezvous with the other team members. They'd know he fucked you, that's for sure, but now that the topic was on his mind he wondered how much ribbing he was going to get. He could hear that stupid Scot's voice in his head, singing your name along side Simon's and an obnoxious

K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

"How do you like your eggs?" you asked, snapping him from his thoughts.

"Runny." he said, smiling at you like a fool. You nodded and made your way back to the stove, putting a new pan on the element to heat up some oil.

You finished making breakfast, offering him a tea in the middle of cooking eggs. As Simon leaned on the counter and watched you, his eyes zeroed in on your nipples poking through the soft fabric of his shirt. Seeing you cooking after listening to it for so long had his chest buzzing at the domesticity of it all. You were humming a song he didn't recognize, and as you were putting food on two plates he was suddenly hit with an unexpected and vivid image of you tutting around his kitchen pregnant. His balls twitched in his boxers at the thought of you swollen with his child, breasts heavy and full.

Simon had never considered children, not with this work and his upbringing. But he had also never found anyone that triggered a thought like that in his mind. But clearly his feelings for you were stronger than even he understood, because the thought of filling you up so much that it takes was so clear in his mind. He could almost hear you shuffling around, whining about your back and begging him to help you put your shoes on. Completely reliant on him.

The sound of you setting the plates on the table snapped him from his albeit perverted daydream. You grinned at him knowingly, rubbing his shoulder.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" you mused.

"Fucking you." he said plainly, relishing in the way your expression dropped into a shocked open mouth one before he walked to the table and sat down.

"You're insane." you said, shaking your head as you followed his lead and sat across from him. He smiled at you, popping a piece of sausage in his mouth. With the amount that he knew you preferred to cook vs order takeout it shouldn't have been a surprise that you were such a good chef. He complimented your skills anyway.

"It's just eggs and sausage." you said and he shrugged

"I'da burnt the fucker." he lamented, making you laugh loudly.

"I'll teach you, don't worry." you said, reaching out to pat his forearm.

After a while you spoke up again, softer this time, more serious.

"Thank you for staying."

"Course, sweetheart." he said, noting the way you smiled at the pet name.

"I mean it. You didn't have to," you said before smiling cheekily, "You didn't even know your reward was gonna be so good."

"No I didn't," he laughed, "But between that drunk cunt down the street and your neighbor I wasn't leaving. Especially with that piss poor lock y'got."

"Hey! Listen I rent," you giggled, "I can't just install a huge deadbolt because my - you don't like my chain lock." Simon didn't miss the way you stuttered over the possessive, but he decided to let it sit for a while. He let you eat for a while, lulling you into a false sense of security before he sprung something on you.

"You should be my girlfriend." he said, once again very plainly. You coughed into your orange juice, and looked at him wildly.

"Huh?!" you asked, making him smirk.

Simon repeated the sentiment, rewording it just a bit, "I want you to be my girlfriend."

You blinked at him, brows furrowed in confusion. He desperately wished he could read your mind to know what was going on in that pretty little head.

"I didn't know you did things like that." you said finally, eyes flickering from his face down to your plate.

"Did things like what? Date?" he asked.

"Girlfriends and stuff." you shrugged, pushing a piece of egg around with your fork, "I thought you just wanted...y'know."

"To fuck?" he offered, to which you nodded. He paused a moment, opting to just give you the flat out truth.

"I've never had an actual partner, to be fair. So you're not wrong." he mused, "But how I feel about you is different. It's more."

This seemed to settle you a bit, "Okay. I mean I really like you. Like a lot. So if you're sure that's what you want I'd really like to be your girlfriend, Simon. But I wanna make sure you really want that... don't want you do it just for me."

He smiled at your flustered expression, clearly a bit embarrassed at how you were rambling on. It was almost funny, how little you knew about his feelings for you. Those drastic measures still unnoticed.

Sure, Simon had absolutely no idea what he was getting the two of you into, but in his gut he knew it was right. He had a lot of learning to do, and a few HR conversations to have that were sure to make Price grumble.

But for now, he had you, a full stomach, and the morning light.

Taking your hand and bringing it up to his face, he brushed his lips across your knuckles.

"Oh honey, you have no idea what I'd do for you."

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1-800-crazy · 4 days ago

Text

BURNT OUT - batfam x neglected reader

batfam x neglected burnt out overachiever reader

a/n: this is my first post! i'm sorry my writing's crappy, it's my first time making a fic soooo im sorry if the paragraphs are long.

not proofread! sorry for mistakes

advice appreciated!

dividers: dollphoriax and saradika-graphics

Bruce never had to worry about his daughter, Y/N Wayne.

You were mature and quiet, and you knew how busy they were. You had to! You were still young, and you had your siblings and Alfred around. All of Bruce’s kids were pretty close, so you’d never have a problem fitting in!

The city was dangerous. With the Joker at large, arsonists and killers lurking in the alleyways, it wasn’t time for Bruce to focus on anything other than saving the city!

Once he was able to make it a better place, he’d play all day with you! Bruce would make sure Gotham was a safe and peaceful place before focusing on you. You’d understand. You always did.

That was how Bruce Wayne felt, for years after you moved in, always rescheduling his bonding time to another day.

Alfred watched. Silently at first, and then started to suggest ideas to Bruce and you. Trying to make him interact. Unfortunately for you, Bruce kept pushing it away. More paperwork, more villains, more danger.

You slowly withered away. Pulled back. You stopped going to Bruce for advice and instead went to Alfred to rant about boy trouble. You didn’t try to catch Bruce in the hallway to ask him to come with you to the mall. It was a risk, after all.

He was quite popular; he couldn’t be spotted by the paparazzi with another child. Even if you knew him longer than other children in the Batfamily.

Slowly, you stopped interacting with Bruce. Bruce was okay with that. He didn’t need a distraction, he had too many papers to sign. Too much trouble with Damian. Bruce pushed away any other feelings he had about it, after all, you still had your other siblings!

Despite Bruce believing that was true, you couldn’t believe the same.

First was Dick, the eldest, who would be around really often, despite not living at the manor. He was the bright smile of the family. The golden boy. Dick was the one who kept the family together, kept relationships between the family strong. He was nice to everyone!

It’s too bad that his real smiles were reserved for the others, especially Damian. When you first came to the manor, he was the one who greeted you. He smiled brightly, walking you up the stairs to your room. After you found your room, he left shortly after.

All other interactions with him were mostly one-sided, with him giving a polite smile and a “Later, baby bird. I gotta take Damian out to training. Next time, yeah?”. You never really got a chance to talk to him after that.

The second oldest was Jason. You first met him when he was a happy person, with a cheerful aura. He was tolerable, and you could talk to him freely about school and your hobbies. When he died, you were heartbroken. Your only friend died, only shortly after you met him! You cried for him months afterwards. Once he came back, you tried to reconnect, explain how much you missed him, and show him how you’ve changed too - but he shot down those attempts, putting a wall between you both.

After many more tries at climbing and breaking down his fear and anger, you gave up. He wasn’t the well-mannered, happy person as before. All of his happiness was replaced with anger and coldness.

Following Jason, we have Tim. He was intelligent, using his detective skills to quickly solve cases with Bruce. When he first came, you tried to learn more about him, though he wasn’t really interested in you. He always had another case, like Bruce. More leads, more information - it was never-ending. He ran on coffee and cereal. You quickly realized he wouldn’t pay attention after you tried to talk to him about a movie you watched with Alfred.

Steph and Cass mostly ignored you. They had no real reason to interact with you. Steph was constantly caught up with her relationships with the other members of the Batfam, so she never had the time or thought to check in on you. Cass would only give a simple shake of the head, or, on bad days, she’d just walk past. You didn’t really know how Cass felt about you.

Finally, there was Damian, the youngest and the other blood child. When you went to greet him after learning he was another biological child, you were excited. You had something to connect with him! You quickly learned he wasn’t so happy about it when he pulled his sword out, aiming it toward you.

Damian considered you a rival, another opponent to being the strongest.

After he decided you were no real threat and really just a nuisance, he resorted to using Titus or his sword to scare you away, and if he couldn’t do that? He’d instead make comments under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. You didn’t want to interact with him after that, instead avoiding him like the plague.

You tried to be cool, perfecting skills that you’d later give up on - you first tried singing and theatre, performing in plays and musicals in front of large audiences, and then there was painting! You learned to paint, joining competitions and contests before burning out. The final thing you tried was sports. You figured they would catch more attention, because it was something physical - but that belief was crushed after no one but Alfred came to your games.

Alfred was always there. You appreciated him. He saw you for who you were, not only your achievements and accomplishments. He was like a grandfather to you. He baked with you, asked you about school, and even sat and read with you when he finished cleaning. Alfred was always there. He always understood.

So when Alfred got sick of seeing how everyone ignored such a treasure, he decided he’d take it into his own hands to get you the love you need - even if you didn't know you deserved it.

Dick was having a pretty good day. He had a good patrol last night, with little to no problems at all! Some drunks were walking the streets last night, which was causing a bit of a nuisance, but they were easy to sort out.

And to make it better, after he finished patrol, he was able to grab a quick bite to eat from a fast food restaurant before going home and getting a good night's rest.

Despite all of this, and his wonderful day, he still felt... weirdly hollow. Like he was waiting for something. Dick wasn't quite sure what he was missing.

Today, he decided to swing by the Wayne Manor - which he did a lot - to see his family!

But, when he got inside, he felt... disappointed? Dick was confused. He had no reason to be - after all, he had dropped in on Tim and Bruce, said hi to Steph in the hallway, and even gave Cass a wave! It couldn't be Jason; he was still out on a mission for Tim. Dick sat at the long table in the dining room.

"Master Dick?" Alfred's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Is something wrong?" He continued.

Dick gave a dismissive grin, waving his hand in a playful shooing manner. "No, not at all. It was just... I feel like I'm forgetting something."

Alfred let out a humm, continuing to wash some dishes. "Well, Master Dick, I do have something that may connect to that."

Oh?

Dick leaned in, interested. "And that is?"

"It was the young master's birthday yesterday!" Alfred replied, gesturing to a nearby calendar.

"Who, Damian? Damian's birthday passed a while back-" Dick furrowed his brows, leaning back again.

Alfred shook his head, sighing. Alfred then spoke, simply saying your name.

Oh! Dick smiled in delight. A face had popped into his head, of his baby bird, you! He could still picture your cute young face and how, when you'd smile, you'd been missing teeth. (So what, if the picture in his head was blurry and dated?)

Dick gasped, a smile spreading across his once puzzled face.

"Oh, right! I knew that." He sprang up, going to search for you.

Dick most definitely did not know that. He hadn't even brought a present! But, luckily for him, he would just bring you out somewhere. You had once asked him to go with you to some Chinese restaurant, but he didn't have time - he was helping Damian! That's okay, he could repay you now.

After a while of wandering through the long halls, he decided to check upstairs, passing Damian.

Though Damian does say something to him, Dick is far too focused on his current task to listen. He runs up the stairs and continues to look in the rooms.

When you guys finally start talking again, he'll remember your room every single time, he promises! You are his baby bird after all.

Finally, he comes across a room that he doesn't recognise. This must be it!

Your room was big, but not as big as the others' rooms. You had every inch of it decorated, like you were trying to make it seem more lively. Most walls were covered in posters and drawings, or there were awards and trophies on the shelves. Each award had different things engraved on it. Singing, dancing, performing, you even did some art!

Oh, baby bird, you're so talented! Dick's eyes get wider each time he reads another trophy.

But you weren't inside! That's too bad. Maybe you went out since you weren't in any other room.

Dick looked closer at the walls, noticing photos taped messily above your bed.

And even though he scanned them, searching for all his might -

He couldn't tell which one was you.

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1-800-crazy · 8 days ago

Text

One | Unclipped | Butterfly

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 3.2k

Warnings - Angst, misogyny, sexism, death in childbirth (mentioned), minor injury

|| series masterlist || next ->

They say wings are a gift from the Mother. A divine inheritance. A blessing. A symbol of freedom, strength, and flight.

But I often wonder if the Mother ever meant for someone like me to bear that gift.

Born into a warrior's camp where honour is earned through bloodshed and brutality, I was never meant to survive—let alone soar.

My cradle was a battlefield, my lullabies the clash of steel and the roar of Illyrian warriors training beneath a grey, unforgiving sky.

I came into this world not in celebration, but in mourning.

Because my birth was the price of a life.

I am the daughter of Lord Devlon, Commander of Windhaven—one of the most formidable war camps in all of Illyria.

His name is spoken with equal parts fear and reverence, his reputation carved into the bones of those who dared challenge him.

They say he is merciless. Unyielding. A creature carved from granite and war.

But there are older whispers too, quieter ones, nearly lost to time. That once, long ago, before his soul calcified into stone, he had been something else entirely. Gentler. Almost...kind.

That softness was her doing. Lyra. My mother. His mate.

Their union had defied Illyrian tradition, not one forged for politics or power, but for love. Love, in a world that scoffed at the word.

Lyra had melted the frost in Devlon's heart, taught him warmth, gave him reason beyond the battlefield.

She bore him three strong sons—Kalel, Torin, and Ruben, each one a warrior in his own right. And then... me.

A daughter. The mistake.

My mother died the day I was born. She gave her final breath so I could take my first.

And in doing so, she shattered whatever fragile remnants of kindness my father had left. I became a wound he refused to acknowledge, a walking, breathing reminder of everything he had lost.

The only thing that saved me from having my wings clipped, like every other Illyrian female before me, was the promise he made her as she lay dying.

With her last breath, Lyra made him swear. Our daughter will fly.

So he kept his word. Barely.

Not out of love. Never love. Only duty. Only guilt. Only because some piece of that broken male still flinched at the thought of betraying his mate's final wish.

But keeping my wings intact did not mean shielding me from cruelty.

Not from him. Not from my brothers, who looked at me and saw only the empty space where our mother should have been.

To them, I was the thief of her light. The shadow that stole her warmth. The reason the world turned cold again.

I grew up in a place that saw my wings as an offence, my existence as a stain on a once-proud legacy.

I was not cherished. I was tolerated. Scrutinized. Broken in ways no blade could manage.

But still—I fly, and maybe the Mother never intended her gift for someone like me but I'll take it anyway.

Because these wings... they may not have been meant for me, but they are everything to me. More vital than breath. More sacred than life itself.

There may be three people my father despises more than me. Three someones who've managed to twist his scowl into something downright murderous.

Rhysand, the newly crowned High Lord of the Night Court. Cassian, his General, Illyrian-born and battle-forged. And Azriel, the Shadowsinger, his Spymaster, a phantom cloaked in silence and steel.

Their arrival was never subtle.

Like storms rolling in from the mountains, they brought a quiet kind of chaos into Windhaven, unbothered by the sideways glances, the sneers of disapproval, or the thick walls of tradition they walked into.

"Lord Devlon. Always a pleasure." Rhysand's voice rang out through the mess hall, firm, smooth, and laced with just the right amount of sarcasm to send my father's temper flaring.

I couldn't help it. I perked up from my shadowed corner, spoon paused mid-air, lips twitching in a grin I didn't quite manage to hide.

My father caught it, of course. His eyes cut to me, sharp and seething, and I forced my expression back into obedient neutrality.

But the damage was done.

Two more sets of eyes followed his glance, Cassian's, warm and gleaming with mischief, and Azriel's... Azriel's were something else entirely.

Cassian winked. Azriel offered me that barely-there smile of his, the kind that made something flutter in my chest before I could stop it.

Despite everything my father had tried to instil in me, distrust, disdain, even fear, I couldn't bring myself to feel it for those three.

Not for the High Lord, not for the winged warlord, and definitely not for the Shadowsinger.

There was something magnetic about them, a kind of effortless gravity that pulled others into their orbit.

Each of them was power wrapped in wit, layered in strength but more than that, they were... good. In ways most Illyrian males were not.

They never spoke down to me. Never mocked my presence or questioned my uncut wings.

Over the years, they'd treated me with respect perhaps even camaraderie. I couldn't tell if it was pity or genuine kindness, but I took it anyway.

Because in a world where most looked at me like I was a mistake, they looked at me like I mattered.

"High Lord," my father ground out, voice dripping venom, "the pleasure is mine."

Cassian turned back to their conversation, voice low and amused, but Azriel's eyes didn't leave me.

He watched me, not with judgment, not even curiosity. Just... watched. Like he saw things others didn't. Like he heard the things I never said out loud.

And for a few seconds, I didn't look away either. I couldn't.

Azriel was night incarnate. Quiet, unreadable, devastatingly beautiful in a way that crept under your skin and stayed there. Everything about him was shadow and restraint and danger stitched into silence.

Then my father's voice snapped the spell. "Come here."

I blinked, startled, my hand jerking slightly as my spoon clattered against the side of the bowl. I set it down quickly and stood, already moving before my thoughts could catch up.

"The High Lord has asked how the training of the girls is progressing," Devlon said, voice dripping disdain. "I thought—what better girl to ask than my own daughter."

There was weight in his tone. A warning buried under the politeness. Lie. Or suffer.

I glanced at Rhysand, then Cassian, then Azriel—still watching, silent as ever. My throat tightened.

"Training is going well," I said, summoning a smile I didn't feel. "The girls are... improving every day."

I didn't dare look at my father again, but I felt his subtle nod. Felt the breath I'd been holding leak out of me.

A half-truth, at best. The reality was far grimmer, most girls were barely allowed to train at all.

My father resented Rhysand's order to educate and strengthen the females in the camp. He called it weakness, an insult to our traditions. An affront to the Illyrian legacy.

To him, a female with a sword was more dangerous than one with wings.

Rhysand smiled at me, graceful and knowing. His gaze lingered a moment too long, and I wondered just how much he saw beneath the words I'd offered him.

"Thank you," he said.

"Of course." I dipped my head and returned to my seat, to the bowl of stew that had gone lukewarm and unappetizing.

The conversation resumed, my father slipping back into his posturing. But even then, even as the noise around me returned to a dull, grating hum one gaze remained fixed on me.

Hazel eyes, deep as twilight. Azriel.

I didn't look up again. Not after lying. Not after the shame sat heavy in my gut. But I felt him watching.

And gods help me... I wanted him to.

After choking down the last of that lukewarm stew, I made my way to the armoury, already bracing for war. Not the kind waged with blades and blood, but the kind fought in barbed words.

The kind I never truly won.

Sure enough, they were already there. My brothers.

The three Devlon sons the camp liked to praise, admire, and fear. Sons he called warriors. Sons he trained himself with brutal devotion and blind pride.

They lounged like predators after a hunt, laughing loud and carelessly beside piles of discarded armour and blood-crusted blades.

The mess was deliberate. It always was. A performance of power. They left it for me like a gift, one they knew I'd never dare refuse.

Kalel, the eldest, sat like a king in a war camp throne. Stone-faced, merciless, his every breath carried the weight of the warrior he'd been sculpted into.

He rarely looked me in the eyes. He remembered our mother best. Which meant he also remembered what I'd cost him. Her.

To him, I was the blade that slit her throat.

Torin, the middle one, lounged at Kalel's feet like a wolf awaiting scraps. Always seeking favour. Always grinning at someone else's pain.

He was cruel in a way that didn't require blood. Sharp-tongued, gleefully petty, a master at digging in where it hurt most. If Kalel was ice, Torin was flame.

And then there was Ruben. The youngest. Silent more often than not. He rarely spoke, rarely struck but he never stopped anything either. And maybe that hurt most of all.

Because sometimes, when no one else was looking, I thought I saw softness in his eyes. Something buried. Something terrified.

Each of them was strong. Hardened. Illyrian forged and fire-tested. Sons Devlon could be proud of.

Not like me. Never like me.

"Get to scrubbing, Leech," Torin sneered, tossing a pair of blood-soaked daggers in my direction with an exaggerated flick of his wrist.

One clattered at my feet, the other slid across the floor like a threat.

Leech.

The name they'd crowned me with when I was still too young to understand it. A parasite, a thief of life. The thing that stole our mother and clung to the world in her place.

I clenched my jaw and picked up the daggers, moving past them toward the cleaning supplies, ignoring the sting in my chest.

Of course, Torin couldn't resist.

As I passed, he shouldered me—hard, slamming my left wing into the stone wall with a thud that echoed across the armoury. Pain lanced through the membrane, hot and fast. My wings flared, rustling with the shock of it, but I didn't cry out.

"Watch it," he hissed, as if I had stumbled into him.

I turned slowly, rags in my hand. "Real mature."

Wrong move.

Kalel's voice cut through the air like a drawn blade. "I know you're not talking back."

I met his stare. Cold. Distant. Full of the kind of fury only grief can rot into.

I thought about the dagger in my hand—just for a second. How easily I could toss it into his thigh. How satisfying the scream would sound.

But I swallowed the urge like bile and turned away instead.

I grabbed the rest of the supplies and walked out without another word, my shoulders tight, my jaw tighter.

Let them stew in their cruelty. Let them rot in it.

My destination was clear before me, Emerie's small, weathered shop tucked just beyond the training rings.

Clutching the daggers and battered cleaning supplies in my hands, I threaded my way through the steady rhythm of grunts, clashing steel, and the heavy thuds of leather and muscle meeting.

The camp was alive with its usual brutal symphony.

Then, something caught my attention, a flicker in the corner of my vision that made me stop.

There, half-hidden in the creeping shadows of a low stone wall, stood a young girl. She was barely older than the youngest apprentices, her figure small and slight, but her eyes were fixed fiercely on the group of males training in the dusty ring.

Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line of determination that pulled at my heart.

It was a raw, aching blend of vulnerability and fierce yearning. A silent plea to belong, to be strong, to be seen.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth despite the weight in my chest. I took a step closer, hoping to offer some warmth, maybe even a word of encouragement.

But the moment our eyes met, the girl's expression shattered.

Her breath hitched, and before I could even smile properly, she spun on her heel and fled, disappearing into the shadows like a whisper.

Of course.

She expected cruelty. She expected the sharp edges of rejection that I knew all too well.

What she didn't know was that all I ever wanted was to encourage her, to show her she wasn't alone.

I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth and pressed forward, my pace quickening until I reached Emerie's shop.

I dropped the daggers and cleaning rags onto the worn wooden bench with a clatter born from frustration.

"Brothers again?" Emerie asked, sliding over to make room.

"How about every male within ten feet of me," I muttered darkly, sinking down and beginning to clean the bloodied weapons.

She snorted, eyes twinkling with dry humour. "No lies were told."

I sighed. "I just wish the girls didn't all run from me like I'm some kind of disease."

Emerie didn't pause in her work. She flipped a now gleaming dagger between her fingers and met my gaze. "They run not because of you," she said gently, "but because of your father."

"They see those beautiful wings on your back," she continued, voice soft but steady, "and they grieve the loss of their own."

My eyes flicked to her clipped wings dragging along the dusty floor. If my father was cruel, hers was something monstrous.

Her words settled on me like heavy stone. I felt the familiar pang of loneliness, the weight of expectation, the sharp sting of isolation.

"Someday," I murmured, almost to myself, "you and I—we're going to do something incredible for these girls. We'll show the males that we're stronger than they believe. More resilient."

Emerie smiled, eyes sparkling with hope and quiet determination. "Someday."

We let the conversation drift into lighter moments, sharing small stories and laughter as the sky shifted colours—fiery gold bleeding into dusky violet.

The camp's harsh noises softened into the hum of nightfall.

When I finally rose to leave, I promised Emerie I'd return—this time bearing lemon tarts, smuggled from the kitchen under the guise of the boss's daughter privileges.

The weapons were all cleaned, their cold steel gleaming under the fading light.

The training rings, once filled with the clash of blades and grunts of exertion, now lay silent and empty.

From the mess hall drifted the loud, raucous laughter of drunken males, carefree and unaware of the quiet moments unfolding elsewhere in the camp.

I hummed softly, the tune slipping out without thought as I made my way to the camp's edge. The familiar pull of the open sky called to me, and without hesitation, I leapt into the air.

The wind caught my hair, wild and free, whipping it around my face.

My heart surged with the rush of flight, that exhilarating blend of adrenaline and peace that only soaring above the trees could bring.

Below, the world shrank, the twisted branches, the dusty camp and all that mattered was the rhythm of my wings cutting through the cool evening air.

I danced among the treetops, weaving effortlessly between branches, the fading sun casting long golden beams that glittered like magic against my skin.

For those precious moments, I was unbound, no weight of expectation, no scornful glances, just the pure, soaring joy of flight.

When I finally touched down softly at the camp's edge, a sudden movement in the shadows startled me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," came a familiar voice, low and calm, with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Azriel stepped into the fading light, those dark eyes locking onto mine with a quiet intensity that sent an unexpected warmth rushing through me. I felt my cheeks flush before I could stop it.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to jump like that—I just... post-flying bliss," I blurted, heart still racing from the flight and the sudden company.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and easy, like a secret shared between just the two of us. "You always fly with a kind of grace most don't. It's... captivating."

The compliment caught me off guard.

Even after all this time, his words still found ways to catch me unprepared. I looked down, pretending to examine a loose thread on my sleeve.

"It's my favourite thing to do," I said quietly, as if confessing a secret—though he already knew it. He always had.

Azriel stepped a little closer, the faint scent of pine and earth surrounding him. "Mine too," he said simply, his voice almost a whisper.

I found myself holding his gaze, the silence between us stretching comfortably, filled with things we didn't need to say. There was always an ease in his presence, a quiet understanding, that made my chest feel lighter.

"You ever get that feeling—like the world pauses when you're in the air?" I asked softly, eyes tracing the fading glow on the horizon.

He nodded slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's freeing."

My heart skipped. "I get that."

Azriel's gaze dropped to my wings briefly, then back up to my eyes. "You belong in the sky. More than most."

I laughed softly, the sound mixing with the breeze.

"Butterfly," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

I blinked, surprised, unable to hide my curiosity. "Huh?"

He grinned, a playful glint lighting his hazel eyes. "You fly like one. Light, graceful... delicate but strong. It fits."

The word hung between us, sweet and unexpected.

"Butterfly, huh?" I repeated, the corner of my mouth twitching into a smile. "I could get used to that."

He leaned just a little closer, voice low and teasing. "I hope so. It suits you."

Before I could say more, the harsh voices of my brothers cut through the moment, gruff laughter and heavy footsteps too close for comfort.

I swallowed hard, stepping back, the weight of their cruelty settling again. "I should go," I said quickly, already moving away.

"Of course... butterfly," Azriel called softly after me.

Just as Azriel's shadow swallowed him, and the warmth of his words still lingered in the cool evening air, the unmistakable sound of footsteps approached behind me.

Torin's mocking voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Better not think he means it."

I stiffened, already knowing exactly where this was going before I even turned.

Torin jabbed his elbow into Ruben's ribs. "Say something, little runt."

Ruben hesitated, glancing nervously at Torin before speaking, his voice low but biting. "Shadows don't mate with dirt. Not with someone like you."

He shot a quick look to Torin, searching for approval, and Torin's satisfied smirk told him he'd said just the right thing.

I met their cold, dismissive gazes. Torin's eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, Ruben's flickered with reluctant agreement.

I bit back the sting, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Maybe he sees something you don't."

Torin laughed harshly. "You're deluded if you think any of those Night Court fools would ever look twice at you."

Ruben shifted but didn't speak further, his eyes flicking to Torin again.

Torin stepped closer, voice dropping to a low, threatening growl. "And if Father ever got wind of this—" He let the threat hang heavy in the air. "You'd be in for it. Big time."

I felt a cold weight settle in my chest.

Of course my father would have an issue with it,he'd never allow me to be associated with the Night Court, let alone Azriel.

I turned away from their bitterness, from their judgment, pushing it down beneath the fragile hope Azriel's words had sparked in me—like the first flutter of a butterfly's wings at dawn.

No chain was strong enough to hold the wings I was born to fly.

A/n - First part of a new series!!

I love butterflies, so finding inspo images for this was an absolute dream :)

I want to clarify that Azriel and reader already have a bit of an established dynamic. They know of each other, they're civil, there's the occasional flirting—you'll see it unfold.

As for Devlon... I honestly don't think he'd care enough not to clip her wings but for the sake of this series, let's just say she's made it through unclipped x

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

Butterfly tag list - @tele86 @cubanfire @queenoffeysand @anothergojostan @hyruledemigod20 @booksstarryskies @cassie-at-college-blog @secretsicanthideanymore @thisfireheart @ogscoobydoobysnacks @dracosdiaries @fuckingsimp4azriel

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1-800-crazy · 9 days ago

Text

My Heart — Part One

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic slight yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, a bit of trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

next.

New York never felt like home, but it became the closest thing you could hold on to.

You’ve built a life here — tall, untouchable. You’ve shaped it with your own hands, your own colors, your own breath. Nothing about it belongs to the Waynes. Not the apartment nestled above a quiet coffee shop in the Lower East Side, not the canvases drying in the corners, not the framed articles about your exhibitions, not the soft hum of the city seeping through your open window at dawn.

You’ve never liked the quiet.

Which is ironic, considering how desperately you’ve built your life around it.

It follows you now, trailing after you like a shadow, as you pad barefoot across the creaking floorboards of your apartment. Your studio smells like turpentine and old coffee, acrylic paint staining your fingers, charcoal smudged beneath your fingernails. The city hums below you—cars honking, people yelling, life happening. But up here? It’s quiet.

You carved out this life for yourself—a life apart from Wayne Manor’s echoing halls, the Bat‑family’s midnight discipline, the nosey of Alfred, even your father’s distant pride. You’d rather have these narrow, straight streets than that cavernous mansion filled with ghosts.

Eye to eye, the portrait looks at you, analyzing, judging. It's almost like you are the prey, and she is the hunter. Huntress. Hadn't that been your name once? That stupid nickname that only your family knew about?

With that, you decide that that piece is never going out to life.

Here, you’re Y/N Wayne, and people know you because your paintings make them feel something. They know you because your words drip off pages like slow, sticky honey, because the chords you compose linger like ghosts. They know you. Not her.

Not the Huntress.

Not the child who spent her teenage years leaping across rooftops in desperate silence.

Not the kid who wanted, so painfully, to be seen.

“Y/N, are you listening?”

You blink, eyes pulling away from the list of upcoming press engagements your manager slid across the table. Ms. Morley — always Morley, never her first name — has her arms crossed, her expression calm but expectant.

You offer a polite, measured nod. “Yes, I’m listening.”

Her mouth twitches, something between a sigh and a smile. She’s used to this version of you: distant, composed, pleasant, but just far enough away that she’ll never get in.

“This showcase is the most important event of your career. You know that.”

You do. You know it in your bones. You’ve spent a decade painting your way here, clawing through the cement of your own insignificance to find something — anything — that could be yours.

It’s a refined gallery in SoHo. Exclusive, prestigious. People from the Met will be there. Patrons from across the Atlantic. Journalists whose words can either fold you into legend or erase you like you never existed.

“This is the kind of night that defines an artist,” Morley continues, sliding her tablet toward you, the event details highlighted in sharp white. “And the kind of night the press eats up.”

You keep your back straight, your breathing steady. “I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, thoughtful. “We need your family there.”

The name curls in your stomach like bad wine. You lower your eyes to the tablet, as if rereading the date will change what she’s about to say.

“They should be there. All of them.”

Your throat dries, but your voice doesn’t falter. “They won’t come.”

“Maybe not. But the invitation matters. Publicly.” Her fingers tap softly against the glass table, a steady beat. “Their presence will shift the entire narrative around you. It gives your work weight in their circles. It’ll make people pay attention.”

People already pay attention. That’s why you moved here. That’s why you don’t sign your paintings with your last name. That’s why you carefully, deliberately, separated yourself from the empire back in Gotham.

“I don’t want to invite them.”

Morley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s not unkind, but she is immovable.

“You don’t have to want it,” she says simply. “You have to do it.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that part of you — the small, broken part — still wants them to come. Still craves to be seen. Still aches for Bruce’s approval, even now, even after you’ve stopped asking for it.

You press your fingers together, folding them tightly until the knuckles burn.

“They won’t come,” you whisper.

“They might surprise you.”

They won’t.

You’ve lived your entire life in the spaces they didn’t bother to fill. You remember what it felt like to sit in the Manor’s library, waiting for Bruce to come home, waiting to tell him about your mission, about how you stopped a robbery on your own. You remember how the words curdled in your throat when he brushed past you, eyes already on the next crisis, the next son, the next city to save.

Dick was the golden child. Jason was the loud one, the troublemaker, the broken boy everyone wanted to fix.

You were just… there.

You grew up alongside them, but you were never that much with them. Of course, your older brothers are much of your favorite part of your childhood; Dick teaching you about gymnastics before he became Robin. Jason being just one year older than you, close as nail and dirt before he died. You two became heroes together.

He, the second Robin. You, the only Huntress. You remember the night you saved a group of hostages from a deranged gunman. Sixteen, trembling, adrenaline high — Dick found you afterward, mascara bleeding, but alive. He didn’t say much. Just put his arm around you. That was the only time you felt he believed in you, briefly.

You remember, too, being a child in the manor: cold corridors, even colder glances, father absorbed in his mission, brothers leaving home, returning with scars. Your own scars—emotional, silent, winding through your teenage years.

You weren’t the strategist like Tim, or the quiet weapon like Cass. Your mind wasn't as fast as Barbara's. You weren’t the prodigy like Damian. You weren’t even the spirit like Stephanie.

You were just the girl who tried. The one who stayed polite. The one who made her own costume, patrolled the streets no one cared about, picked up the pieces the rest of them left behind.

The one they forgot to love properly.

It's not that they don't love you. A small part of them must have to love you, as you love them, as much as you hate them. Your father loved you, once, you surely remember that; and he did love you, you were sure of that, just not as much as you really wished.

You spent your teen years similar to the image he gave. Spoiled, charming. The public loved you, still does, you are more than confident of that. Intelligent, sporty, an artist. Someone who loved Gotham, despite all.

“I’ll send the invitations,” you say at last, voice steady. “One for each.”

Morley gives a small nod of approval. “Thank you. It matters.”

You offer her a polite smile, but inside, something crumbles, quiet and familiar.

When the meeting ends, you walk back to your apartment in the gray afternoon haze, the memory of rain clinging to the pavement. You don’t want to write to them. You don’t want to remember.

But you do. You always do.

You sit at your desk — the one you built yourself, the one with the scratches from moving it too many times — and you pull out eight envelopes.

One for each of them.

You start with Bruce. The paper stays blank for a long time. What do you even say to the man who shaped your entire life by not showing up to it?

You remember him in fragments — his voice, his scent, the way his cape would brush your shoulder when you were little and you’d sneak into the Batcave just to see him. His soft smile when you rested by his side in the couch. You remember the big parties he threw at every single one of your birthdays, but you can't remember enjoying them.

Father, I’m showcasing a new collection in three weeks. You are welcome to attend if you wish. It will be at the Holburne Gallery, in New York. I imagine your schedule is full, but I wanted you to have the information.

You hesitate.

I hope you’re well.

That’s all you write. That’s all you can.

You sign your name — just your first name — and fold the letter carefully.

You seal the envelope, knowing he probably won’t come. Knowing that if he does, he’ll stand at the back of the room like a stranger. Knowing he won’t say he’s proud. But you send it anyway.

The eldest of your siblings was next. You adored Richard. He had been the one you had most envied and admired at the same time. You were always just a step behind him. Always the little sister, never the partner.

Hi, Dick.

I’m presenting a new collection soon. It’s in New York. I thought you might like to know. You don’t have to come, of course. But you’re invited. Hope you’re well.

You sign it.

You try not to think about the Christmas he forgot to call. The birthday he skipped. The voicemail he never answered.

You and Jason always understood each other in a way that didn’t need words. Which is why the silence between you now feels like betrayal. His death had been . . . harsh on you. And then he came back. Nothing like the boy you remembered. Nothing similar to your rebellious yet sweet brother.

Jason, You can leave early. You’d probably hate it.

You sign it.

You remember when you were kids, and he called you his “annoying little shadow.” You remember the first time he died. You remember visiting his grave every week, even when no one else did.

You remember when he came back, and didn’t call you.

Cass was the quiet one, but she was always the first to notice when you were drowning. She never said much, but she looked at you like she saw you, and maybe that’s why her absence cuts the sharpest.

Cass, There’s an exhibition. In New York. In three weeks. I think you’d like the paintings. They’re about what we don’t say. I’d like it if you came.

You don’t need to say more. She’ll understand.

She always did. You understand a bit less than her, but you were the first who learned sign language for her, and you resent her a bit when your father's eyes look at her.

Tim was younger than you, merely by two years. The brilliant one. The one who could solve everything except the rift between you. You don't really remember a time where you two actually got along. You were too hurt by Jason's death when he arrived. When your father replaced him.

There’s a show. I don’t know if you’d want to come. It’s not your scene. But you’re invited.

You almost don’t send his letter.

But you do.

You and Stephanie were always too similar in the worst ways — the loud, overlooked ones who made themselves easy to forget.

But you liked her.

Art show. New York. Three weeks. Come if you want. There’ll be wine.

You sign it.

You remember the time she hugged you after a mission and told you that you were her hero in her eyes.

You remember that you stopped trying to be a hero that time.

Duke and you really don't know each other that much. You call him your brother, because in a way he is, but you are not really sure how much of a sister you are to him. If he calls you that or simply by your name. Probably the latest.

I’m having a show. You’re invited. You don’t have to come. Just thought you should know.

It feels strange to write to someone you barely knew. But he’s family. Whatever that means.

Damian was the hardest of them all: your blood, his blood, all the same. You share some gestures, gestures you both have from Bruce. You carry on your veins the same liquid that runs through his. He carries with his twisted hate to you. You do with tangled love.

Damian, You probably have already read the other letters by now, but I thought you should be sent one too. I formally invite you to the presentation. Please, don't bring knives or any weapon if you are going to come.

You sign that one with less happiness.

You write one more. For Alfred.

Alfred, I would love it if you came to my show. It would mean everything to me. You’re the only one I really want there. There is a painting dedicated to you. Hope you can see it with your own eyes and not in a photo.

You hesitate. You seal it.

For the first time all day, you allow yourself to feel the weight of it — the years you spent chasing them, the ache that never quite went away. The child in you still wants them to come. Still wants to believe they’ll show up.

But you know better.

You send the letters anyway.

Wayne Manor has never really been quiet.

Not in the honest sense.

The walls hum, always. The distant rattle of the grandfather clock, the soft padding of Alfred’s shoes against marble, the slow groan of old staircases. Even when no one is speaking, the house breathes.

Dick’s never minded that. Silence always had a weight in this place. And right now, it sits heavy on his shoulders as he drags himself down the long hall, wiping dried blood off the side of his chin with the edge of his sleeve.

The night had been rough. Long patrol in Blüdhaven. Longer arguments with Bruce over the comms. His knuckles still ache from where they met a thug’s jaw a little too hard, and his ribs burn with every breath.

He wants nothing more than to shower, crash in his old bed, and pretend—just for tonight—that the world isn’t asking him to carry it.

But as he turns the corner toward his room, something sharp cracks against the wooden floor down the hall.

It’s faint. Small. A box, maybe.

Dick pauses, body tense out of habit, head tilting toward the sound. No one should be up here. Damian with Titus, outside; Jason god knows where, Cass deeply asleep, Tim’s probably holed up somewhere with three screens on, and Alfred—well, Alfred would never let something fall.

Curiosity edges in, overtaking the tiredness. Carefully, quietly, he turns the knob. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a space frozen in time.

It takes him a second to realize where he is.

The walls are bare now. The bed is made, but unused. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few scattered photo frames, one or two stuffed animals slumped in the corner, a cracked mug filled with stiff, dry brushes. It’s not as full as he remembers — a few boxes stacked neatly in corners, the bed made with precision that screams “Alfred.”

But what gives it away—what pulls the air straight out of his lungs—is the pale pink ribbon draped over the desk chair, with “Y/N Wayne” written in the soft, looping scrawl he remembers.

His sister’s room.

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not the warm, cluttered mess it used to be. He remembers tripping over sketchbooks here. He remembers her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands smeared with charcoal, beaming at him as she shoved a half-finished drawing in his face.

He hasn’t stepped foot in here since…

God, when was the last time? Her high school graduation? No, even before that.

The faint smell of old books and faint perfume lingers — something subtle, floral, long faded. On the floor, near the desk, a box has fallen open. Papers, notebooks, and loose photos spill across the hardwood, an unintentional mess.

Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Alfred’s gonna kill me if I leave this here,” he mutters to himself, crouching down.

He starts gathering the scattered pages, stacking them neatly back into the box. Some papers are doodles — quick pencil sketches of rooftops, city skylines, birds. Some are old school essays, a few folded letters never sent.

Something flicks against his thigh. A small, thick card. He picks it up absently, ready to tuck it away—until his eyes land on the handwriting.

His name.

“For Dick” written in familiar, elegant cursive letters.

It’s an invitation. To a theater. The date is from years ago—2016. He flips it, heart thumping unevenly.

Hi Dick!! I know you’re busy but maybe you could come????????????Please. I got a solo part this time! I’d really like if you saw me play. It’s Saturday at 7pm. I saved a seat in the front row for you, just in case. :)

It’s signed simply: Y/N ❤

Dick’s stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

He doesn’t remember this.

He doesn’t remember any of this.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the rest of the papers. More invitations spill out — to gallery showings, poetry readings, little charity events. Some directed to him. Others to Bruce. Some marked for Cass, Steph, Tim.

Names written with hopeful, awkward loops. Names underlined, circled, doodled with little hearts or stars. All gathering dust in a forgotten box, untouched, unopened.

He can only vaguely remember you at galas, tucked behind the grand piano, fingers gliding across keys while the adults talked business. He remembers your drawings stuck to the fridge when they were younger, Bruce pinning them up absentmindedly like they were grocery lists. He remembers thinking you’d be an artist one day.

But he doesn’t remember these shows. These letters. These invitations.

And he missed them.

He missed you.

His throat closes around the guilt rising fast and sharp in his chest. He runs his thumb over the soft paper of the invitation, reading your bubbly handwriting again and again, as if somehow, maybe, he’ll remember being there.

Maybe, if he reads it enough, the memory will appear.

But it doesn’t.

The silence wraps tighter around him.

The box is still half-full. Beneath the papers, beneath the scribbled notes and dried-out pens, there’s a small stack of worn journals, their corners frayed from years of use.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not fair to read them. But he’s already failed you in so many ways.

His fingers hover over the top one. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then pulls it into his lap and opens it. It feels like an invasion. It is an invasion. But the guilt is heavy. The ache to understand her, to know the sister he most knew once, roots itself deep.

The pages are filled with your handwriting — messy, cramped, sometimes smudged with faint water stains. He thinks it's not water.

The first page is a sketch—a rough, childish drawing of a girl in a cape, standing next to a tall figure with a sharp cowl and a billowing cape. The girl is grinning. The figure is not.

The words underneath: I’ll make you proud someday.

“Shit,” he breathes softly, staring at the faded paper.

“I made a new piece today. I wanted to show Dad but he’s busy. Always busy. It’s okay. Jay says that’s just how he is. But maybe next time…”

Dick’s stomach knots.

He flips further.

“I sent Dick that invitation today. I hope he comes. I’m nervous. It’s dumb, I know, but it matters to me.”

His vision blurs, breath catching.

The pages bleed with more.

Frustrations. Dreams. Lonely nights in the Manor while the others trained or patrolled. Quiet resentment tucked behind polite words. The slow, steady heartbreak of being overlooked — not hated, not ignored on purpose, just… forgotten.

“I think if I’m good enough, they’ll come.”

“I think if I save enough people, Father will see me. Not just the mask. Me.”

He flipped to another entry, years later.

“They forgot again. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just try harder next time.”

His throat burned.

Another.

“It’s not that they don’t love me. I know they do. They just don’t see me.”

“Maybe I was never supposed to be seen.”

Dick grips the pages so tightly his knuckles go pale.

He reads until the words blur, until the guilt curdles into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually, he shoves the notebooks back into the box, his chest aching with every inhale.

His feet move on autopilot.

The halls blur past.

Bruce is in his study — where else would he be at midnight — reading files, probably preparing for tomorrow’s crusade, like always.

Dick doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open, the box balanced in his arms.

Bruce barely glances up. “Dick.”

He drops the box onto the desk with more force than necessary. Papers spill slightly, the old invitation landing near Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s eyes flick down. His brow furrows. He picks it up.

The silence stretches.

“What’s this?”

“Her room,” Dick snapped. “Her life. All the things we missed.”

Bruce’s hand hovered over the box for a second, as if touching it would burn him. “Y/N’s?”

Dick folds his arms, jaw tight. “You ever remember getting that?”

His father studies the invitation. The date. The handwriting. Something flickers across his face — not recognition. Regret, maybe.

“I… no,” Bruce admits quietly.

Dick’s teeth grind.

“Yeah. Me neither.” His hand slams against the side of the box.

“These? They’re all hers. Invitations. Shows. Letters. You know where I found them? Gathering dust in her old room. You know what else I found? Journals. Years of them.”

Dick’s voice cracks, low and bitter. “She wanted us there. All of us. You. Me. The others. You ever wonder why she left, Bruce? Why she never came back?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t,” Dick warns, pointing a sharp finger. “Don’t give me some crap about her ‘needing space.’ I read it. I read every word. She wasn’t asking for space. I thought patrols, missions, saving the world — I thought it was enough. I didn’t realize I was walking right past her the whole time.”

“She made her choices.”

“She didn’t choose to be invisible to us.”

Bruce flinched at that, just a flicker, but Dick caught it.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

“She distanced herself,” Bruce said, softer now. “She left.”

“She left because we gave her nothing to stay for.”

The words cracked in the air like gunfire.

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Bruce’s gaze drifted to the box, to the memories packed haphazardly inside. His fingers traced the edge of the cardboard, lingering.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” Dick cut in, voice tight. “None of us did. That’s the problem.”

Damian heard everything.

It wasn’t hard, not in this house. Wayne Manor was old — creaking floors, thin walls, ventilation shafts that turned into hallways for sound. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t argue where the walls carried every word like a confession.

From his place crouched in the shadowed corner near the study entrance, Damian listened.

Dick’s voice came sharp and raw, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.

“…Your daughter. My sister. The one we’ve all been too damn busy to notice.”

Damian’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Your daughter. My sister.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

Because no one ever included him in sentences like that. Not when it came to you.

His sister.

His daughter.

As if you weren’t his, too.

You are.

More than them.

You’re his only blood sibling. His only biological sister, even if the “half” in front of that always tasted bitter. It never mattered to him. Not the technicalities. Not the lineage arguments. Not the fact that you were gone before he ever got the chance to prove it.

You’re his sister.

His.

The others forget that. Dick forgets that. They all do.

He pressed further into the shadows, arms crossed, watching the tension unfold between Grayson and Father like a slow-burning fire.

He didn’t make a sound when the box hit the desk, when the contents scattered like broken memories across the wood. His eyes narrowed as papers slid free — letters, notebooks, old invitations — all marked with your name, your handwriting, your quiet, forgotten hope.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what this was about.

You.

It always circles back to you, doesn’t it? Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. He’s thought about you more times than he’ll admit. Even when he pretends not to. Even when he wears his indifference like armor.

When he was younger, maybe ten, he’d wander the Manor searching for you.

Father told him you were away. Grayson said you were busy. Todd didn’t answer the question. Drake looked uncomfortable every time Damian asked. And Alfred?

Alfred always hesitated before replying.

“She’s finding her own way, Master Damian. Some paths are quieter than others.”

But your absence wasn’t quiet. It screamed.

You were a gap in the family photo. A missing piece at the table. A chair left cold at holidays Damian never liked anyway.

And the worst part?

You were the only sibling he wanted to know.

The others? They were fine. Useful, even.

But you?

You were supposed to be his.

His sister. His blood.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

Dick’s words echoed, and Damian’s throat constricted.

No, Father didn’t.

No, the others didn’t.

No, he didn’t.

But he has his reasons. Reasons the others wouldn’t understand.

You were already gone when he arrived. When the League sent him, when Talia made the arrangements, when Father reluctantly opened the doors of the Manor to his assassin-blooded, anger-wrapped child — you weren’t there.

They told him about you in passing. In clinical, detached terms.

“Y/N? She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Y/N? She’s in New York.”

“Y/N? She’s not part of this.”

But you were. You always were.

Even if they didn’t see it, even if you didn’t want to be, you’re a Wayne by blood. And his only sister.

The Huntress.

He knew the stories long before he saw the evidence. They spoke about you — the siblings, Father, even Alfred and all the fucking villains he has encountered — like you were a myth stitched into Gotham’s history.

The vigilante who walked away.

The Huntress with the flawless reputation.

The sister who vanished before Damian could measure himself against you.

But he did, anyway.

He watched the tapes. Studied the case files. Collected every fragment of your old life like it was a puzzle only he deserved to complete.

He mimicked your movements when no one watched him train. He sharpened his stance, just like yours. He mastered the same grappling techniques. He replicated the calculated grace you carried on rooftops — the footage never lied, and neither did the ache of admiration buried deep beneath his ribcage.

No one had to tell him you were better.

He knew.

You’re the only one he compares himself to. Not Drake. Not Todd. Not even Grayson, for all his accolades.

Only you.

His sister.

His blood.

It’s why he’s always hated how distant you’ve stayed. How effortlessly you carved your place outside the family — like you didn’t need them. Like you didn’t want him.

You never came back.

You never called.

You sent birthday letters, even to him. You once sent a present: a beautiful robin, carved with your hands, created by your heart, an exquisite sculpture he stills has in his room, right next to where he sleeps, and no one can touch it. No one.

He knows he shouldn’t resent you for it. You never knew him. You were gone before his feet ever touched Gotham soil. But logic rarely softened jealousy. And the hollow, possessive ache in his chest when they whispered about you never faded.

It burned brighter, seeing your name scrawled across those invitations.

It twisted cruelly, hearing Dick’s broken anger crack through the room.

Would you even recognize him as yours? As your brother? As your blood?

He doubted it.

Still— still, a flicker of want buried itself deep in his chest, like a thorn impossible to pull free.

You should be here, not in New York.

You should’ve stayed.

You should’ve seen him, known him, claimed him as yours before the others did.

Possession tasted ugly in his mouth. But it was all he had left of you.

He slipped away from the doorway before they noticed him. His steps were soundless, as always. The halls felt colder as he walked. The Manor’s walls whispered memories that weren’t his — childhood laughter, quiet piano keys, the soft scratch of pencil on paper — echoes of a sister he never got to grow up beside.

You were a ghost here.

But to him?

You were a benchmark. An obsession. A sister in absentia who still defined him in ways the others couldn’t.

In the privacy of his room, Damian closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched toward the small, hidden stash in the drawer — your old case files, outdated footage, grainy photos from years past.

A shrine built out of frustration and longing.

He flipped one of the photos over. It was you, half-hidden in shadow, your Huntress uniform sleek and sharp, posture flawless. Untouchable. Perfect.

He envied that version of you. Admired you. Resented you. Wanted you here.

It was unfair, how easily you left. How the others pretended they could move on. How you carved a life far from Gotham, far from him, with your paintings and music and words that never found him.

But it was more unfair how badly he still wanted to follow you.

His sister.

The only blood sibling they shared. Not that anyone ever reminded you of that. Not that you ever stayed to show him what that meant.

“She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “My sister. My blood.”

And he wasn’t letting you go again.

That's when he remembered Alfred's words. Your favourite brother had always been Jason. Closest to you: in age, in relationship, in language. That had made him burn before. But not . . . He saw clearly where he could get you again.

Who could.

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1-800-crazy · 13 days ago

Text

lonely simon 'ghost' riley/lonely reader

you, who grew up being everyone's friend, but nobody's first choice. people have always politely tolerated you, nothing more. there are no new messages on your phone when you return from month-long deployments. you can't really remember celebrating your birthday outside of drinking at dingy bars with your colleagues. but there is not much to do apart from take all of it. smile until the corners of your lips ache from the strain, go to sleep in a cold room, sit just outside of the little circle that your friends make when they talk. you suffocate in the loneliness, but you'll say that there's it's the only way you can breathe.

but simon notices. it's all he does, considering the vacancies in his life. he's more acqainted with isolation than you are, so much so that it has woven itself into the fibres of his soul- irreplaceable, irremoveable. it would unravel him if the threads were plucked out. he is solitary, not because he has no choice, but because he choses to be. so why does he hate that seclusion when he sees it on you? you don't think you are seen, sitting one of the emptier corners of the room, but you are the first person he looks for in every new place he enters, every corner he attends. simon knows your name, even though you barely know his- and it is the most company he can offer before he has to stop himself, even in spite of the pinprick discomfort that pains all the wrong parts of his head and chest when he sees you alone. because he doesn't want anyone else to make a new hole in his heart, does not want anyone to try intefere in the cavity that johnny had left. a monument in his head that will be left untouched by time, by everyone else, by the other memories that have left their marks on his body.

but one day, simon sees you in the infirmary. bandages tight around your wounds, glass of water on the table still undrunken. the singular plastic chair next to your bed is painfully empty, and he decides that the right time to fill it is now. now, more than ever, because you are bearly breathing because without having someone to lean on, you may not be able to walk again.

you wake up to gloved fingers intertwined with your own.

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1-800-crazy · 14 days ago

Note

i just discovered this account and i am OBSESSED with your writing!! if you’re feeling crazy im craving an azriel one shot where the reader is fae (bonus points if she’s an archeron sister and his mate but they don’t know it yet) and she gets kidnapped by an enemy to try and lure azriel out, but of course he saves the day and they figure out they’re mates :) and extra bonus points if there’s just enough angst to make us nervous he won’t get there in time and then they accept and celebrate the mating bond at the end accordingly 🙂‍↕️

Straight to you- Azriel x fem!reader

Summary: Kidnapped and alone, she didn’t know he was already hers.

Warnings: angst, violence, mentions injuries, blood, happy end

A/N: wow! what an emotional yet beautiful ride this was. Thank you anon for the request, I hope it's to your liking🫶

See masterlist

The first blow stole the air from her lungs.

Before she could scream, a rough hand clamped over her mouth, the tang of dirt and sweat filling her senses. The world tilted--boots skidding across cobblestones, her shoulder slamming into a wall hard enough to spark white behind her eyes. She kicked, twisted, but there were too many hands, too much strength.

A strip of coarse cloth yanked over her eyes, knot biting at her skull. Darkness swallowed her whole.

Her wrists were bound before she could form a coherent thought, rope scratching the skin raw. The only sounds were her ragged breaths and the heavy boots dragging her forward, etc step echoing off stone as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Cold. Gods, it was cold. The damp air smelled of mold and rust--of places no one came back from.

She fought to keep track of turns, to memorise the path, but every jolt and shove blurred together until time itself seemed to vanish.

A door groaned open. She was pushed inside, the floor beneath her knees wet and sticky. The blindfold didn't come off.

A voice slithered out of the dark, low and grating. "We need to get to the Shadowsinger," it said, and she could hear the rotting smirk in the words. "Seems capturing one of the Archeron sisters will do just fine."

The pieces clicked with sickening ease.

Of course. She wasn't the prize--she was the bait.

But the revelation didn't stop there--it pulled her backward, years and years, to where this all began.

Azriel had been the only one she could truly call a close friend.

From the moment the Cauldron had dragged her under, lungs burning, bones stretching, senses sharpening into something new, she’d been reborn alongside her two sisters. Elain’s sobs had been soft, Nesta’s silence sharp, but Y/N… she’d stared at her hands, her reflection, her glowing, strange eyes, and felt a thrill deep in her chest. She was immortal now. She had centuries ahead of her to do, see, and be everything she’d once thought impossible.

Being reunited with Feyre, her high lady older sister, had only added to the joy. There had been so much to catch up on, so many moments stolen by months of separation. And after the war--their war--there’d been peace. There had been laughter and dinners in Velaris, quiet mornings watching the city stir awake.

It was in those months after the fighting that she and Azriel had found friendship in each other--not in some grand moment, but through small, consistent ones. A nod across the River House dining room. A conversation on a balcony that stretched until dawn. Training sessions where he corrected her stance with the faintest touch, shadows curling lazily around her. Somewhere between the first sparring match and the first time she made him laugh--really laugh--he’d become her confidant.

For a while, she'd been happy. Truly, blindingly happy. Until her two sisters also found their mates.

It had started subtly: Nesta canceling their weekly sister sleepovers, Elain showing up late and distracted. Then came the excuses, the absences, the drifting away until those nights vanished altogether. No one suggested reinstating them Not even Feyre. No one seemed to notice their absence but her.

Y/N wouldn't lie...it hurt.

One night, she’d confided in Azriel, words spilling out in the quiet of his private balcony. She told him about her fear of never finding her mate, of always being the odd one out. That she felt invisible in her own family, the forgotten sister standing in the shadow of brighter flames.

Azriel had tried to make her laugh--murmuring something about how she was hardly alone, seeing as poor old him had gone 538 years without a mate. But when her voice broke on the next joke, he’d simply sat there with her, shadows curling close, listening as the night turned into morning.

They'd become closer after that.

That was, up until now.

Because now, all she felt was like a burden.

Because of her, her family--and especially Azriel--would be in danger. Or maybe...maybe no one would come for her at all. She was the overlooked one, the forgotten Archeron sister. The one whose absence barely made a ripple.

Y/N smiled sadly beneath the blindfold. At least being an outcast would work in her favor for once.

Azriel rolled the stiffness from his shoulders as he made his way toward the River House dining room. Another long day of hunting down leads and extracting information had left him with the familiar ache in his muscles, the metallic tang of blood still faint on his gloves. Dinner with the others wasn't exactly his idea of unwinding, but Rhys and Feyre insisted on having everyone together tonight.

He slowed without meaning to as he reached the last bend in the hallway. The sound of raised voices spilled toward him--urgent, sharp. The loudest was Feyre's. "...it's not like her- "

Then her name.

Y/N.

Azriel's pulse jumped.

He was moving before the thought fully formed, shadows coiling tighter around him as he burst into the room. Chaos met him on the other side. Feyre stood at the head of the table, eyes bright with worry, Rhys at her shoulder with a hand on her arm as if to keep her steady. Elain's voice broke from where she sat, fingers wringing in her lap.

"She promised she'd be back by the afternoon," Elain said, looking from face to face as though someone might have an answer. "It's well past sunset now--hours past--and she's still not here."

Nesta was pacing near the hearth, arms crossed, her jaw tight. Mor leaned against the wall, uncharacteristically silent, while Amren's sharp gaze cut between them all. Cassian sat forward on his chair, elbows on his knees, tension rolling off him.

"You're certain she went to the market?" Feyre pressed.

"Yes," Elain said, nodding quickly. "She told me this morning. Just to pick up a few things."

"Maybe she got lost on the way back," Rhys said, though his tone hel little conviction. "We should send someone to check- "

Azriel's voice through, cut steel-edged. "Where exactly did she say she'd be in the market?"

The room stilled. Nesta stopped pacing, turning to face him. "Near the fountain. At the far end by the spice vendors. That's her favourite place to visit."

Azriel's eyes went to Rhys. The High Lord's answering nod was all the permission he needed.

He was moving before anyone could say another word, shadows streaming after him, wings flaring in the tight hall. His mind was already spiralling into places he didn't want it to go--every sick, twisted possibility clawing to the surface.

Please be fine, Y/N. Please be fine.

he streets near the fountain were nearly empty now, lamplight spilling in golden puddles across the cobblestones. Azriel's shadows slithered ahead, searching every dark corner, every rooftop. His gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and searching--until a faint thread of scent brushed past him.

Y/N.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he followed it, the shadows pulling him down a narrower street. The scent grew stronger--until it stopped.

There, in the middle of the cold, damp road, lay a basket.

Her basket.

He recognized it instantly--woven with pale wood and lined with soft cream cloth, the one Elain had given her last Winter Solstice. Its contents were scattered across the stones as though dropped mid-step: a loaf of crusty bread, two small jars of honey, and a folded length of deep-blue silk that caught faint moonlight.

People had walked past it without pause, stepping over the mess. To them, it was nothing.

But to Azriel, it was everything.

He knelt beside it, the world narrowing to the sight of those familiar items strewn where she must've stood. His shadows darted out, seeking more of her trail, but came back empty. No scents but hers lingered--not a whiff of the ones who had taken her.

His stomach turned cold. They'd masked their scents. Professional. Deliberate.

Azriel's vision blurred for a moment as his jaw clenched. Slowly, carefully, he gathered the items and set them back into the basket, fingers brushing over the worn handle. His hands were steady only because he forced them to be.

In his mind, the faces of her captors--whoever they were--were already being built from shadows and rage. He would find them. He would destroy them Piece by piece.

It was certain now. She'd been taken.

Azriel straightened, the basket in his hand, and let the rage settle into something colder. Sharper.

Hold strong, Y/N.

Because he would find her.

No matter what.

She had no idea how long it had been.

Minutes, hours--it all bled together in the suffocating dark. Every second felt like an eternity, yet Y/N guessed it had only been a few hours since they'd dragged her here.

The blindfold had stayed on.

They hadn't wasted any time before the pain had began.

A blow to her ribs that stole her breath. The sharp sting of something--metal?--raking across her arm. A boot pressed cruelly into her back when she fell to her knees. Questions hurled at her in voices dripping with malice, each one sharper than the last.

“Tell us about Rhysand.”

“I don’t know anything- ”

A fist to her jaw.

“Where is the Illyrian commander? Where is Cassian?”

“I- please, I don’t- ”

A sharp twist of her hair, forcing her head back.

“What about the Shadowsinger?” A pause, a hiss in her ear. “We know you’re close. Tell us where he is.”

She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. "I don't know anything!"

The blows kept coming, punctuated by jeers that cut deeper than any strike. "Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

"You think you're important, little Archeron? You're nothing but a pretty face playing at power."

"You're right, I'm not the High Lady. Not the Lady of Death. Not even the Seer. So please, let me go!"

She begged. Gods, she begged. Tried to make them see she wasn't what they thought she was. She wasn't Feyre, the High Lady with raw, untamed power. She wasn't Nesta, forged from fire and steel, death in a woman's skin. She wasn't Elain, with visions that could alter the course of war.

She didn't even know what she was.

Whatever 'gift' the Cauldron had given her, if any, had remained silent all this time. And yet they didn't care.

"Your sisters would've fought by now," one sneered. "You? You'll break like glass."

"Maybe we should start taking pieces of you. Send them to Rhysand or Azriel one by one until they answer."

Her chest heaved under the weight of their words, the pain thrumming through every inch of her body. For the first time, she truly began to wonder if she'd make it out alive.

"They want to lure us in," Rhysand said, voice cold enough to frost the air.

Azriel set the basket down on the table. The cream lining was smudged with dirt, the blue silk stained from where it had fallen to the road. “This was hers. I found it near the market fountain. Her trail stops there—no scents but hers.” His jaw tightened. “Whoever took her masked themselves. They knew what they were doing.”

Elain’s hands flew to her mouth, a choked sob breaking loose. She shook her head over and over, whispering, “No, no, not Y/N…” The sound cut through the room like a blade. Mor was at her side in an instant, guiding her toward the door as Elain’s sobs grew ragged, the sound fading only when the door shut behind them.

Nesta’s eyes were sharp and burning, her fists clenching at her sides. Feyre stood stiff, eyes twitching in restrained fury, while Cassian cursed low and vicious under his breath. Amren leaned back in her chair, silver eyes glittering like sharpened steel.

"We don't know who has her, or where," Rhys said, scanning the room. "But if they took her in broad daylight and masked their scents, it's calculated. And if they've gone after her specifically..." His gaze flicked to Feyre.

Feyre's voice trembled, just slightly. "Poor Y/N. The Mother knows what they're doing to her right now."

Azriel's hands curled into fists before he could stop himself. The thought alone--the idea of her in pain, in fear--sent a hot, slicing fury through his chest. His shadows rippled sharply, betraying what he didn't say aloud.

"We can't waste time," he said, each word clipped. "Every second we sit here, they get further."

Rhys gave a single nod. "Agreed. Azriel, Cassian--you'll take the skies. Amren and Nesta, start running the perimeter with anyone available. Also inform Mor. Feyre and I will reach out to our contacts in the city."

Cassian was already halfway to the door. Nesta moved toward him, but her gaze lingered on Azriel. "Find her," she said. It wasn't a request.

"I will," Azriel promised, the vow low and lethal.

As the others moved into motion, his mind was already a map of possibilities--every dark corner, every smuggler's route, every enemy who might dare to try this. But under it all was one clear, unwavering thought:

Hold on, Y/N. I'm coming.

If only he'd known how hard it would be to track her.

Two whole days had passed since Y/N vanished without a trace. In all his long centuries, Azriel had never faced such a challenge as finding her. The bastards who'd taken her were professionals--silent, careful, leaving not so much as a footprint to follow.

His shadows were gone, every last one, under his orders. They were scattered across the Night Court and beyond, creeping through the other courts, combing alleys, forests, docks, tunnels.

And still, nothing.

Azriel hadn’t slept. Not truly. Every hour was spent searching--questioning informants in the slums, scouring every black market and smuggler’s den, slipping through enemy borders without permission. His patience, honed over centuries, frayed more with each dead end. Fury ate at him from the inside out, each passing moment sharpening into the same relentless thought: what if he was too late?

The others were no better. Feyre spent her hours in council and in the skies, her expression hardening more each day. Rhysand was gaunt from exhaustion, spending countless hours raking through the minds of anyone even remotely suspicious...only to find walls or emptiness.

Elain sat for hours in her garden or the quietest corners of the River House, clutching Y/N’s scarf as though it could tether her to a vision. But whatever she tried, the threads remained dark, unspooling into nothing.

Nesta had taken to constant movement: searching the city, flying with Cassian, stalking into every place that might offer a whisper of information. Cassian rarely left her side, his own worry showing in the way he watched her when she wasn’t looking.

Mor and Amren hunted leads in their own ways--Mor slipping into dangerous places where her name still carried weight, Amren leaning over maps and sending out messages through her own web of contacts.

The River House had become a place of hushed voices and quick glances, everyone bracing for news that never came.

Azriel was in Rhysand’s office with Cassian when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the shelves. Nesta stalked in, eyes bright and dangerous.

“I think I have a plan,” she said, voice low but sharp. “One that might work.”

Time had become a cruel, shapeless thing.

The interrogations didn't stop. Not once. Every few hours--though it could've been minutes or days--they came for her again. Always the same questions.

About Azriel's job.

His secrets that they were so sure he'd shared with her.

"We've been tracking you for a long time, little mouse," one whispered in her ear, the smell of alcohol and something else--something disgusting--blocking her nose. "So we know how close you've been with him. Close enough for him to share his secrets with you."

Then came other types of questions:

His missions.

Where he went when the rest of the Inner Circle didn't see him.

His every move.

She told them the truth. Over and over. I don't know. But the answer never changed their methods.

With each passing minute, the fragile thread of hope she’d been clinging to frayed thinner. At first, she’d tried to hold on--imagining Feyre’s wings blotting out the sun as she landed, Nesta’s steel gaze cutting through chains, Azriel’s shadows spilling into the room before he cut down her captors. But those images came less and less.

Now her mind wandered into darker places.

What if no one was coming?

What if they couldn’t find her?

What if she simply… disappeared?

At some point, they’d torn the blindfold from her eyes. The light in the room had been dim, but it still burned after so long in darkness. And then she’d seen them.

Three faces--if they could be called that. All warped, ugly, monstrous. Their skin looked stretched too tight, their eyes too small for their skulls. She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize anything in them except hunger.

The questions had kept coming. Her begging had stopped.

"I do not know," she murmured again, her voice a rasp. She barely flinched when the slap came, her head snapping to the side.

Her wrists and ankles were bound in heavy chains that dug into her skin, the weight pulling at her shoulders and hips. Every breath was a reminder of the bruises painting her ribs. One shoulder hung at an odd angle, dislocated from when they’d slammed her into the wall earlier.

The pain had dulled to something constant, almost background noise.

It was the anger that burned brighter.

At herself--for being careless.

At her captors--for thinking they could break her.

At life--for making her the one who always seemed easiest to take.

She swallowed, straightened as much as the chains allowed. If this was the end, they would not see her beg again.

Not now. Not ever.

"No."

"No!"

Azriel blinked, and Nesta's shocked, furious glare was met with identical expressions from Rhysand and Cassian.

"What?!" Nesta barked. "But- "

Rhys cut her off, his voice sharp. "You cannot just use the Mask to call the dead to you and command them to search for Y/N!"

"Well, why the hell not?" Nesta snapped. "The Dread Trove is mine! I can do whatever I fucking please with it, can't I?"

Rhysand let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Look...I know you're desperate to find Y/N before it's too late- "

"Watch it, Rhysand," Nesta shot back, eyes flashing.

He didn’t stop. “-we all are. But summoning the dead is extremely dangerous. I understood it during the war, but now? You can’t just summon thousands, if not millions, of dead skeletons, to one place. It’s not just about control. You’d risk catastrophic collateral damage. The dead might not stay contained. The laws of life and death aren’t forgiving.”

Cassian crossed his arms, voice low and steady, though edged with worry. “He’s right, Nesta. It’s too dangerous. The risk to everyone--even to the Night Court--is enormous.”

Azriel’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Heat pooled in his chest, sharp and relentless.

“Are you two even hearing yourselves?!” he barked, voice booming over the office. Both Nesta and the others froze mid-gesture. “Y/N IS LOST! GONE! And yet here you are, rejecting a perfectly logical plan because of what? Too many dead roaming our court?!”

He stepped forward, the shadows around him pulsing like living things. “We should be doing EVERYTHING we can to find her. Every possible path, every option! And you’re sitting here squabbling over what could happen if we take a chance? Do you even understand what’s at stake? She’s not just missing--she’s in the hands of monsters who are professionals at keeping her hidden, and we are running out of time!”

His voice dropped to a low, trembling growl, fury mingling with fear. “Do you even hear me? Do you even hear what I’m saying?!”

Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t wait. He spun on his heel, shadows curling tight around him as he stormed toward the balcony.

“You can argue all you want!” he snarled over his shoulder. “I don’t care about ‘too dangerous’! She’s all that matters right now!”

With a powerful leap, he vaulted over the balcony railing, wings unfurling and catching the wind in a rush of motion. In an instant, he was gone, streaking into the night, the city lights blurring beneath him as every ounce of his being focused on one truth: he would find her. No matter what.

The nights were endless, the city below him a blur of streets and rooftops, shadows stretching and curling with every step. He hunted tirelessly, gliding from court to court, village to village, through forests and along cliffs where smugglers and thieves might hide. The wind tore at his cloak, the stars offering no comfort. Each street corner, each dark alley, was a potential lead, and yet, every time he followed one, it dissolved into nothing.

Sleep had abandoned him. Food, water--he barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was finding her.

And with every failed attempt, every lead that came to a dead end, the anger at himself grew. He should have seen it coming. He should have been faster. How could I have let this happen? The questions clawed at him relentlessly.

Her face came unbidden to his mind--the tilt of her head when she laughed, that spark in her eyes when she’d figured something out before anyone else. The way she’d lean slightly into him during training, a silent trust he hadn’t been sure he deserved. The quiet moments at the River House, the way she had confided in him, sharing her fears and her hopes.

He remembered one night after the war, sitting on a balcony with her, her voice barely above a whisper as she told him she felt forgotten. He had laughed softly then, hiding the weight of his own solitude behind teasing words, shadows coiling around them like silent guardians. That had been a simpler time.

Now, those memories were knives in his chest, reminders of everything at stake--and everything he might fail to save.

Every whisper of movement, every trace of scent, every shadow that shifted in the corner of his vision became a possibility. He followed them all, tortured by the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was too late.

Yet he refused to stop. He couldn’t. She was out there somewhere, and he would not rest until he had her safe, until he had torn her from whatever hell she had been thrown into.

Azriel’s wings beat the cold night air, and his shadow stretched long and furious across the land. Every heartbeat, every pulse, every whispered memory of Y/N drove him onward.

No matter how long it took.

No matter what it cost.

Time blurred. Hours felt like days. She had no sense of the sun, no clue whether it was night or morning. The only constants were the pain and the voices.

The interrogations never stopped. Questions spat at her again and again--about Rhysand’s power, about Cassian’s defenses, about Azriel’s missions. What does he do when he disappears? Where does he go? Who does he kill?

Every time her answer was the same, low and rasped from exhaustion: "I don't know."

The slap would come before she could even draw her next breath. Or the punch. Or the boot to her ribs. Her body was already a map of bruises and bleeding welts. She wanted to cry, but even her tears had run dry. Instead, her silence only made them crueler.

One of them leaned close, his breath rancid as he snarled, "Useless little sister. No wonder your family barely remembers you exist." Then he turned toward his companions and sighed frustratedly. "We should've taken a more useful sister. It's been four fucking days and Azriel still isn't within our reach. Nor do we have any intel on them."

Another male, the one without his left eye, looked at Y/N in disgust and then back at him. "So...what should we do with her?"

All four heads turned towards her as their 'leader' spoke with a smirk. "We kill her and send her body back in pieces."

Her chains rattled as she shifted, her body aching from the cold stone beneath her. Every inhale was a battle, every exhale a reminder of how fragile she felt. Hope had begun to slip through her fingers like sand.

Her lips trembled, but she forced the corners upward into a bitter smile. Maybe being forgotten would work in her favor, just this once. If her family wasn’t dragged into this because of her--if Azriel wasn’t dragged into this--then perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to simply… fade away.

The thought twisted like a knife in her chest. And still, she sat there in the dark, body broken, voice hoarse, bracing herself for her death. The next reminder that she was prey, caught and waiting.

The war room was drowning in silence. Four days. Four days without a trace, without a whisper of her, and every passing hour scraped Azriel raw. His shadows hissed and clawed, restless, angry, unable to find what he needed most. He stood by the window, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned, his gaze fixed on nothing.

And then-

A choked sound tore through the room.

"Elain?" Feyre's voice was sharp, alarmed.

Azriel turned just in time to see her collapse to her knees, a strangled cry ripping from her throat as her hands clutched at her chest. Her eyes glazed--gone white, pupils swallowed by a light that was not of this world.

"Elain!" Nesta was already there, gripping her sister's shoulders. Cassian crouched low beside her, panic flashing in his eyes.

But Rhys's face went deadly still. "No one touch her."

"She's- she's- " Feyre's words faltered as she looked at her sister.

Azriel's heart slammed against his ribs. His shadows went utterly silent, curling tight against him like they knew. A vision.

Elain's body trembled, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She muttered something no one could understand--fragmented words, broken syllables. Then her head snapped back, a cry ripping from her lips that sounded like pure agony.

Nesta shook her again, desperate. "Elain, damn it, tell us what you see!"

Azriel's chest was a cage, every inhale sharp and shallow. He forced the words out, steel and prayer entwined. "Please...let it be about Y/N."

Rhys' eyes narrowed, already reaching out with his power, steady but tense. "It has to be."

And then Elain's voice broke through the storm of fear--ragged, trembling, but clear enough to freeze the blood in Azriel's veins.

"I see her."

The room erupted, voices overlapping--Nesta demanding where, Feyre begging how, Cassian and Mor swearing--but Azriel’s vision tunneled. His heart thundered as he moved closer, every muscle taut.

“Where is she, Elain?” His voice was low, lethal, but underneath--pleading. Tell me. Give me something. Save her.

Elain’s eyes flicked toward him, though she couldn’t possibly see him. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as her lips trembled, shaping words that would seal their path.

"They're going to kill her."

Her mind was slipping. Threads of memory and hallucination weaving together until she could no longer tell which was which. Her mother’s soft humming. The way sunlight used to filter through the trees when she was small. Azriel’s unreadable hazel eyes watching her too closely. Cassian’s booming laugh. Elain’s gentle hands brushing flour from her cheek.

It all bled together, comforting and cruel, reminders of a world she wasn’t sure she belonged to anymore.

Her body had long since given up screaming at her--numbness had taken over, the ache buried so deep it was almost easier than fighting. It was a miracle she had lasted this long without food, without water. Another cruel gift of being High Fae. Endurance meant only a longer stretch of torment.

Her head lolled to the side, breath shallow, vision blurred with shadows and stars she couldn’t quite blink away. Maybe--maybe if she closed her eyes, she would see her mother again. Maybe she would be waiting. Y/N had always been her mother’s shadow, her little echo. Out of all three sisters, she was the one who had clung to her mother’s warmth the most.

At least think of nice things before it ends.

Her thoughts were severed by the cold bite of iron, the sound of chains scraping against stone as they fastened her to something solid--a boulder, jagged against her spine.

Through the haze she caught the sight of them. The males. Her captors. Standing before her now, blades glinting in the dim light. Predators circling the inevitable end.

Her chest rose once, twice, on a deep inhale that tasted like blood and metal. Slowly, she let her eyes fall shut, surrendering to the darkness. If this was her last moment, she would meet it with calm, not tears.

The scrape of boots drew nearer. The hiss of steel raised.

And then-

The first blow came. A sharp, tearing agony as the sword plunged into her lower stomach.

Her body arched against the stone with the impact, a choked sound strangled in her throat. The pain was fire, white-hot, merciless.

But she did not scream.

Not this time.

The cave was filled with screams before the soldiers even realized what had descended upon them. Shadows erupted like a living storm, snuffing out light, searing fear into every corner. And at the center of it--Azriel. His siphons flared blue, his wings slicing the air, each movement a promise of death.

He had thought, in those endless nights searching, that maybe he’d hold back when he found them. That maybe he’d just incapacitate the bastards so he could take his time later, wring every secret out of them with a blade. But then… he saw her.

Y/N.

Chained, bleeding, body too still. A sword protruding from her lower stomach, crimson staining the stone. Her eyes were half-lidded as if she had already started to drift away.

And Azriel snapped.

He didn’t fight. He slaughtered. Silent, efficient, merciless. Every male who had laid a hand on her was cut down before they could even lift a weapon. Shadows pinned one against the wall as Azriel drove Truth-Teller through his chest. Another tried to flee--his wings were torn from his body before Azriel slit his throat. Not even screams had time to form

Nesta’s fire flared cold and deadly as she ripped through two more, her blade singing with death. Cassian was a whirlwind of brute force, slamming one into the rock hard enough that bones cracked like twigs.

And then--silence.

The three of them stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping, shadows hissing low and restless around Azriel. His siphons pulsed like a heartbeat gone wild. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the sight of Y/N, broken and barely breathing.

“Cauldron damn them,” Nesta breathed, her voice shaking with rage as she dropped to her knees beside her sister. Her hands hovered uselessly, trembling as she whispered, “What did they do to you, Y/N…”

Cassian’s eyes were burning, fists clenched, chest heaving with fury. “Monsters,” he spat. “Fucking monsters. They’ll never touch you again, I swear- ” His voice cracked.

Azriel didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving, already kneeling, already sliding trembling hands beneath Y/N’s limp body. Blood--her blood--soaked his leathers instantly, hot and suffocating, and he thought he might vomit from the sheer terror choking him.

“Stay with me,” he whispered harshly, pulling her against his chest as carefully as he could. His shadows curled around her, frantic and protective, as if they could hold her soul tethered to her body. “Y/N. Please. Stay with me.”

Her lashes fluttered weakly, her lips parting. A broken breath escaped before she whispered, barely audible, "Azriel...is that you?"

His heart stopped.

And then-

The snap.

It ripped through him like lightning, a tether locking tight around his very core. A bond. A truth. His mate.

Azriel froze, staring down at her in shock, even as her faint, disbelieving gasp echoed the same realization. His mate. His mate.

A thousand emotions warred in him a once: fury at fate for making this moment their beginning, guilt so sharp it could tear him apart, and desperate, desperate hope that she would not leave him now. Not when he had just found her.

He had never had a mate. Had never thought he would. And now--now the Cauldron had given him Y/N, only to try to rip her away on the very same day.

Her trembling hand rose weakly, brushing his chest before her lips moved again, shaping two soft, broken words.

"My mate."

And then her body went limp in his arms.

Two days.

Two entire days since they had dragged her broken, bleeding body back through the wards of Velaris. Two days since she had slipped into a deep, unmoving unconsciousness. Two days that had stretched longer than any of the centuries Azriel had endured before them.

The memory of that return still clawed at him. Feyre’s scream as she caught sight of Y/N in his arms, raw and keening, enough to shake the walls. Rhysand’s immediate roar of command, summoning every healer in the city. Elain stumbling ahead of them, pale and trembling, whispering prayers under her breath as she guided them through rooms. Mor’s sobs, her hands slick with Y/N’s blood as she tried to help stanch wounds that would not stop bleeding. Amren, uncharacteristically silent, her ancient eyes glittering like steel as she barked orders no one dared disobey.

And him, Azriel, who had refused to let anyone pry her from his arms until the healers forced him to. Who had not left her side since. Not once.

He’d braced himself for it, the words he dreaded most. Too late. Nothing we can do. She won’t wake. Every time the healers stepped out of her chamber, he expected it. Every time they sighed, every time they whispered, his heart split further, until he was sure there was nothing left to shatter.

But the words never came.

Still, the silence was its own torment. Her breathing shallow but steady. Her pulse faint but there. He should have felt hope. Instead, Azriel felt only self-loathing.

He had failed her. He had let them take her. He had spent days chasing shadows while she had been chained, beaten, stabbed. He had let himself believe that she would be safe, that he had time. Stupid. Blind. Weak. He had promised himself long ago he would never let someone in only to fail them. And now, the Cauldron had cursed him with a mate he did not deserve.

Maybe he never should have had one at all.

Azriel sat in the dim chamber, shadows curling around him like mourning veils, head in his hands. The scent of her blood still clung to his leathers, even after scrubbing until his skin was raw. It lived in his lungs, choking him, each inhale a reminder of how easily he could lose her.

And if she never woke? If she slipped away before he could ever tell her--before she could even truly know--what she was to him? His chest caved with the thought. He wouldn’t survive it. Not this.

The door burst open.

He shot to his feet instantly, siphons flaring, shadows hissing.

Mor stood in the doorway, breathless, wide-eyed. “She’s awake,” she blurted, not sparing another word before she spun and dashed down the hall.

For a heartbeat, Azriel just stared, the words refusing to register. Awake. Alive. Moving.

Then it hit.

His shadows shrieked with a sound like wind snapping through trees, and he was already moving, heart hammering so hard it hurt, thoughts a blur. Awake. She’s awake. Please, Cauldron, let it be true. Please let me not be too late. Please-

He ran, faster than he’d ever run without flight, hope so sharp it was painful, tearing through the fog of despair that had bound him for two endless days.

The room was packed. The entire Inner Circle crowded around the bed, voices hushed, faces taut with relief and fear alike. Feyre sat perched on the edge, both of Y/N's hands held tightly in hers, her High Lady composure cracked by the tears streaming freely down her face.

Azriel barely saw them. He pushed past bodies, ignoring Cassian’s hand on his shoulder, ignoring Amren’s sharp look, ignoring Elain’s soft sob. His entire world narrowed to the small, fragile figure lying beneath layers of blankets.

Her.

Y/N’s eyes were half-lidded, her skin far too thin, but they were open. Open, and finding him, and--Cauldron help him--she smiled. It was faint, pained, but it was there.

She didn’t move much; every shift made her wince. One arm was tightly bound against her side in a sling, her dislocated shoulder still healing. The bruises had not yet faded from her throat, her cheek, her temple. She looked broken. And still, she looked radiant to him. Alive.

Feyre was whispering something, voice trembling with joy and relief, but Y/N’s gaze didn’t leave his. Slowly, weakly, she slipped one hand from Feyre’s grasp, her fingers trembling with the effort. She lifted it slightly, beckoning him forward.

Azriel’s knees nearly gave out. He moved to her without thinking, sinking down at her side, so close now that he could see every flutter of her lashes, every shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her hand brushed his jaw, then settled against his cheek. Her skin was fever-warm, her touch barely there, but it undid him.

“My mate,” she whispered, so soft it was almost a breath.

And Azriel...Azriel broke. Centuries of restraint shattered in an instant. His head bowed, his shoulders shaking as tears burned and spilled, as his hand rose to cover hers against his cheek. He didn’t care about the audience, about the Inner Circle watching in stunned silence. He didn’t care that they were seeing him unravel, seeing him feel. All he cared about was her.

He forced himself to lift his head, to meet her gaze through the blur of his tears. “No,” he choked, voice breaking. “No, not yet. Don’t- don’t accept it yet. You’re not well enough. Not like this.”

But she shook her head, slow, weak, stubborn as ever. Her lips curved faintly in a smile that was both fragile and defiant. “Please,” she breathed, voice rough with pain, “I’m… well enough.”

The bond between them snapped taut, a golden thread pulling tight, and Azriel felt it--the certainty, the recognition, the eternity. His soul locked with hers, and there was no undoing it now. Not that he would ever want to.

He pressed his forehead gently to hers, shadows curling protectively around them both. “I’ll always be by your side,” he swore, voice low, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “I’ll never leave you again. This will never happen again. Do you hear me, Y/N? Never.”

Her lashes fluttered, a tear slipping free. Her hand squeezed faintly against his cheek, and her lips curved once more.

“I hear you.”

And though her voice was faint, though her body was weak, the bond between them thrummed with strength, with promise, with the beginning of something Azriel had never dared hope for.

For the first time in his life, he let himself believe.

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1-800-crazy · 17 days ago

Text

A Song for the Silent {An ACOTAR Fan Fiction} - Part 2

plot summary: Raised amid the harsh brutality of Illyria, Kallista has never known kindness. Only survival. When her abusive father sells her to an Illyrian war camp, the warriors’ cruelty seems endless, until Cassian rescues her and brings her to Rhysand’s townhouse. There, surrounded by the most powerful fae of the Night Court, she is offered safety, healing, and a promise of peace she’s never dared to believe in. Among them is Azriel, the brooding shadowsinger whose watchful eyes unsettle her as much as they draw her in. But as fragile trust begins to take root, the darkness of her past waits, ready to reclaim her. Can she truly call this place home—or will the shadows drag her back under?

Series: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

pairings: azriel x oc

word count: 5,393

TW: mentions of rape, mentions of violence, mentions of abuse

Chapter 2: The Gift of Choice

The next morning, Kallista woke to sunlight streaming through partially opened curtains. For moment, she felt that familiar fear that accompanied her first waking breaths. Then reality set back in. She was in the Night Court, in the High Lord’s townhouse. She was safe, maybe.

Her body ached less today. Her fae healing had faded her purple bruises into a sickly yellow-green. Her ribs only mildly protested as she got out of bed. That she chalked up to Madja’s healing skills. The woman was impressive. Kallista found herself looking at the shadowed corners of her room. None of them moved the way they had last night. Azriel wasn’t here. A twinge of disappointment ran through her and she quickly pushed it away. She barely knew him, she didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust any of them. Though Azriel had understood her. No one had ever understood her in her life.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. “Come in,” she called, quickly grabbing the knife from under her pillow. She hid it behind her back as the door opened.

A petite female with golden-brown hair and warm brown eyes entered. She carried a tray laden with fresh pastries and tea. Her smile was so genuine and kind that Kallista felt her grip on the knife loosen.

“Good morning,” the female said, stepping further into the room. Each movement was carefully measured as if she were afraid Kallista would skitter away like a frightened bird. “I’m Elain Acheron. I hope you don’t mind me bringing you breakfast. Cassian mentioned you might not be quite ready to come down and dine with all of us.”

Acheron. She must be The Cursebreaker’s sister. And the one who had made the soup Cassian had brought her. Kallista studied her face. Her face held no hint of deception or a hidden agenda, just earnest concern. She was beautiful; there could be no other way to describe her. Her skin was unmarked by violence or labor. She looked like she hadn’t known a day of hardship in her life. Not like Kallista who had only ever known what it was like to be abused by the world.

“You made that soup,” Kallista said, unsure of how to talk to this girl.

Elain’s face brightened. “I did! I’m not a very good cook, but I’m learning. I just figured you would like an easy meal after…” She trailed off clearing her throat. “Did you like it?”

“Yes. It was very good. Thank you.” Kallista lowered her hand with the knife though she kept it hidden behind her back.

Elain smiled, setting the tray down on a small table near the window. “I’m glad. After you eat, there are some dresses Feyre and I picked out for you. They’re ours, but we figured at least some of them will fit you.” She motioned to the tray of food. “I thought you might like something sweet. The berry pastries are from a bakery down in the Rainbow. Azriel loves them.”

The corner of Kallista’s lips twitched. The thought of the large, intimidating shadowsinger having a weakness for pastries made her want to laugh. “Is Azriel here?” She couldn’t stop her curiosity.

“No, he left before dawn. Rhysand sent him away on business.” Elain kept her face neutral showing no indication of what that business might be. Though Kallista had a pretty good idea. “But he asked me to make sure you ate before he left. He said you guys had an interesting conversation last night.”

The fact that he had thought of her made her chest warm. “He was stalking me in the shadows,” Kallista said.

Though, she supposed she shouldn’t call it ‘stalking’. It was more like curiosity. He had said he wanted to make sure she was alright and she believed he actually meant it. These people were so kind. It was unnerving. What did they want from her?

“Don’t mind him. He’s very sweet. Just a little broody.” Elain clasped her hands behind her back noticing Kallista’s wary gaze on her as she had moved throughout the room. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I promise I’m not scary. I’m a Seer. At least that’s what everyone says. I can’t really control it.”

Seers were rare and Kallista was sure she had never met one. She had heard whispers of all 3 Archeron sisters being Made, turned from human to fae. Maybe it had given all of them rare abilities, dangerous ones. It made Kallista even more cautious about her new surroundings.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Kallista said, letting the knife drop onto the bed behind her. It was useless anyway she was starting to realize. What good would it do against these people with incredible power she could barely understand? But Elain, for all intense purposes, seemed absolutely harmless.

Elain’s eyes flicked to the knife but she said nothing and the smile on her face didn’t waver. “Would you like to try the pastries? I can leave you to eat in peace if you prefer.”

The smell of pastries made Kallista’s stomach growl. She had never eaten fresh baked goods, only smelled them from afar.

“You can stay.” She surprised herself with how Elain’s demeanor had put her slightly at ease. Plus, being alone made her feel even more anxious.

Her words seemed to please Elain. She pulled out a chair for Kallista before sitting in another by the window. “The one with the red berries is my favorite. The baker puts a little bit of lemon in the dough.”

Kallista sat and reached for the pastry Elain recommended. The first bite tasted like heaven on her tongue. Flavors intertwined in ways she had never experienced. The sweet berries, the crisp dough, she never knew food could be enjoyed for more than just sustenance to keep from starving.

“This is incredible,” she murmured between bites. She couldn’t hide her amazement.

Elain’s face lit up. “I’m so glad you like it.”

Kallista felt a weight settle uncomfortably in her chest. She had been denied a world like this. A world full of flavor and leisure and adventure. She had only ever known scraps and survival. She pushed the thought away by reaching for another pastry. This one looked like it was filled with custard.

“The yellow one has vanilla cream,” Elain offered helpfully. “It’s Cassian’s favorite, though he’ll never admit it if you ask him. I only know because Nesta gets one for him every time she goes to the bakery.”

Despite herself, Kallista found her mouth quirking upward again. These people seemed so…normal. They were the most feared people in Prythian as far as she was concerned. Yet Elain talked about them like family, complete with knowing their favorite foods and gentle teasing. It was a far cry from Illyria and it’s brutality where she had always been one bad interaction away from unhinged violence.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Elain said, her voice gentle. "Madja is quite remarkable. She's helped all of us at one point or another."

"What's it like?" The question slipped out before Kallista could stop it. "Living here, I mean."

Elain's expression softened, and she seemed to consider the question carefully. "It's wonderful and terrifying and complicated all at once," she said finally. "Everyone here is so fierce, so protective. Sometimes it feels like being wrapped in armor made of love. I was scared at first, of them and other things. But everyone—Rhysand, Cassian, and the others—they’re all amazing. I quickly understood why my sister loved them and now I do too."

"Their family sounds special," Kallista said, feeling something twist inside her chest. A longing for something she'd never had, something she'd never even allowed herself to want.

Elain nodded, her eyes bright. "They are. Though they drive me absolutely mad sometimes." She laughed softly. "Especially Nesta. Sisters, you know?"

Kallista didn't know. She'd never had siblings, never had anyone who cared whether she lived or died. The closest thing to family had been her father, and he'd abused her and sold her without a second thought.

"I should let you finish your breakfast," Elain said, rising gracefully from her chair. "The dresses are in the wardrobe. Feel free to try them on whenever you're ready. And if you'd like to come downstairs later, you're welcome to. But no pressure at all."

As Elain headed toward the door, Kallista found herself not wanting the female to leave just yet. The company was... nice. Different from what she was used to.

"Thank you," she called after her. "For the pastries. And for... being kind."

Elain turned, her smile warm. "Of course.”

Kallista watched as Elain slipped out the door, leaving her alone with her thoughts and a half-eaten pastry.

***

After finishing her breakfast, she approached the tentatively approached the wardrobe. The carved wooden doors opened silently revealing a collection of dresses in various fabrics and shades of violet, silver, navy blue and black. Kallista ran her fingers over the silks and velvets. She had never worn anything like them. Her clothes had always been roughly sewn, dirty and full of patchwork. At the camp, she had only been given something that might as well have been a potato sack with holes.

She selected a simple dress of deep blue, the color of the night sky. The fabric flowed like water through her fingers. It seemed almost criminal to put it against her rough and bruised skin. But she had nothing else, so she slipped it over her head wincing as her ribs protested the movement. The dress fit well enough, but a bit loose around the waist. She was too skinny and starved to be able to fill it out.

Kallista turned and looked in the mirror mounted on the wall. The blue of the dress made her skin seem to glow. And she was clean due to Madja’s heckling about keeping her wounds clean. She had been sure the old woman was going to scrub her skin off. Despite her eyes that were slightly sunken in from near starvation, she almost looked…pretty.

The thought made her uncomfortable. Pretty had never been a blessing in her world.

A soft knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. It opened slightly.

“Are you decent?” The voice was not Elain’s and Kallista found herself inching towards the bed where the knife still lay.

A head poked into the room decorated with a smile once it’s eyes settled on Kallista. This woman had the same golden-brown hair as Elain and was just as beautiful. But where Elain radiated gentle grace, this woman radiated a softer, more tempered grace diluted with quiet strength and the kind of power that didn’t need to announce itself to be felt.

“I’m glad the dress seems to fit,” said the woman, “I’m Feyre.”

The High Lady of the Night Court. Kallista's chest tightened as she took in the female before her. Feyre Archeron, the Cursebreaker, the one who had saved Prythian from Amarantha and later from Hybern. Power seemed to shimmer just beneath her skin, not threatening but undeniably present.

"You're the High Lady," Kallista said, unsure if she should bow or curtsy or fall to her knees. She had no idea what the protocol was for being in the presence of the highest position in the Night Court. This woman had impossible power that Kallista could never even dream to touch.

Feyre's expression softened, and she stepped fully into the room with the same careful movements Elain had used. "I am, but please, just call me Feyre.”

Kallista nodded, though every instinct screamed at her to grab the knife. It would do her no good regardless. This female could end her life before she could blink. But something in her blue-grey eyes reminded Kallista of Elain’s genuine warmth.

"The dress looks lovely on you," Feyre said, closing the door behind her. "That shade of blue brings out your eyes."

Heat crept up Kallista’s neck. She had never had a compliment that wasn’t tainted with expectations and the feeling of a hand running up her thigh. “Thank you. It’s…it’s beautiful.”

“Then you can keep it.” Feyre smiled brightly.

"Keep it?" Kallista touched the fabric with reverence. The thought of owning something so beautiful seemed impossible. "I couldn't possibly—"

"Please," Feyre insisted, her smile warm. "Consider it a gift. There are plenty more in the wardrobe if you find others you like." She moved to the window, giving Kallista space. “I wanted to see how you were feeling today. Your injures were close to fatal when Cassian brought you here.”

"Better," Kallista said, though her ribs still ached. "Your healer is very skilled."

"Madja is a miracle worker.” Feyre turned back to face her. “I also wanted to make sure you understand that you're welcome to stay here as long as you need."

Kallista's heart stuttered. "Why?"

The question seemed to catch Feyre off guard. "Why what?"

"Why would you let me stay? You don't know me." Kallista crossed her arms over her chest, wincing slightly at the pressure against her ribs.

Feyre’s face held the understanding of someone who had had the world turn it’s back on them before. “Because all of us here know what it’s like to not be given a choice in what happens. To need a space to be safe, and to grow, and to have people who love you and care about you.” She gave Kallista a sympathetic smile. “My husband actually has turned the library of the House of Wind into somewhat of a refuge for priestesses who have gone through a similar trauma as you. But you’re not a priestess so we figured staying here would be more comfortable for you.”

Kallista’s breath caught in her throat. A refuge for women who had been brutalized by men. The concept seemed foreign. All she had ever seen were others turning blind eyes to her misery and laughing at her tears. “That’s kind of him. Isn’t he Illyrian too?”

“Yes, he is. Half-Illyrian, actually,” Feyre clarified, “But he doesn’t abide by the cruel culture of Illyria. He’s been working hard to snuff it out, but it’s not easy to change people’s minds.”

“I know.”

“I can take you to meet him if you like. And the others.” Feyre tilted her head slightly. “No pressure, of course. You don’t have to leave this room at all if you don’t want to. It’s your choice.”

Your choice. Kallista turned them over in her mind, testing their weight. She couldn't remember the last time someone had offered her a choice about anything. Her father had chosen to sell her. The camp leaders had chosen when she would service them, what scraps she would eat, when she would sleep. Even her own survival had felt more like instinct than choice.

"I..." she started, then stopped. What did she want? She had never thought about it before. But curiosity gnawed at her. The people she had met so far had been so kind, had healed her wounds and fed her and offered her comfort. They had talked about each other so fondly and with so much love she had never heard anyone talk with before. She had to see. She had to know if this was all real or just some elaborate game that would end in unspeakable torture like everything else.

"I think I'd like to meet them," she heard herself say.

Feyre's face brightened, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. "Wonderful.”

Kallista's hand twitched toward the bed. The urge to bring the knife with her was overwhelming, but she forced herself to leave it behind. If these people hurt her, a small blade wouldn’t save her. And if they didn’t….well, she wasn’t sure what she would do.

***

Azriel had spent the entire morning covered in blood. He had gone back to the Illyrian war camp Cassian had found Kallista in and slaughtered the remaining men who had hurt her. He had made it slow, had made sure they regretted every touch, every thrust, every bruise and cut they had put on her body. It had filled him with such satisfaction to hear their pleas and screams.

Rhys hadn’t even asked questions when he had returned to the townhouse covered in blood with eyes blazing. He had just told him that Feyre was talking to Kallista to see if she wanted to meet them all. So Azriel had quickly quieted his dark fury, washed and changed into more casual clothes. Now he was standing in the leisure room with Rhys, Cassian, Amren, Nesta, Mor and Elain with his back against the wall.

His muscles were coiled tight as a bowstring as he watched the doorway. Azriel could still feel phantom blood beneath his fingernails despite scrubbing his hands raw. The metallic scent lingered in his nostrils. Those males had deserved worse than what he'd given them. Far worse.

He folded his wings tightly against his back, trying to appear casual despite the storm raging inside him. Every instinct screamed to go to Kallista, to see for himself that she was safe. The shadows whispered around his ears, telling him to return to that camp and burn it to ash.

"Az, you're making the room darker," Cassian said, breaking the tense silence.

Azriel blinked, noticing the shadows had indeed gathered thickly in the corners of the room. He reined them in with a thought.

"Sorry," he muttered, uncrossing his arms.

"She makes you nervous," Mor observed, her red lips curving into a knowing smile as she studied Azriel's rigid posture.

He shot her a look that would have made lesser beings cower, but Mor just smiled, unfazed after centuries of his glares. Azriel's jaw tightened. He couldn't explain the restless energy that had plagued him since leaving Kallista's room the night before. His shadows had been agitated all morning, even during his bloody work at the camp. They'd whispered her name while he'd carved retribution into flesh.

Footsteps in the hallway made him straighten. His shadows coiled tighter around his wrists, responding to the sudden spike in his pulse. The scent hit him first. Lavender soap mingled with something new, something that made his blood heat and his heart pound. Then Feyre appeared in the doorway, and behind her...

Kallista.

The dress she wore of midnight blue that matched the starless sky made her pale skin glow. It sent a shock through his system he wasn’t prepared for. His shadows swirled frantically around his wrists. She was beautiful. The thought ambushed him, unwelcome and undeniable.

She looked healthier than she had last night, her bruises fading to a sickly yellow-green that still made rage simmer in his veins. Her eyes swept the room, taking in each person with careful assessment before landing on him. Something flickered across her face before she looked away.

"Everyone," Feyre said, her voice gentle but firm, "this is Kallista. Kallista, you’ve already met Elain and Cassian and Azriel. This is Mor, Amren, my husband Rhysand and my older sister Nesta.”

Kallista nodded at each introduction, her fingers smoothing the fabric of the dress nervously. Rhys stepped forward drawing Azriel’s attention away from his own thoughts. The High Lord's movements were deliberately casual as he approached Kallista, stopping at a respectful distance.

"Welcome to our home," Rhys said, his voice warm but not overwhelming. "I hope you've been comfortable."

"Yes," she answered, her voice soft but steady. She stood slightly behind Feyre as if she was using the High Lady as a shield. Perhaps she was.

Mor stepped forward, her smile warm and genuine. "We're so glad you're feeling better. That dress looks stunning on you."

Azriel watched Kallista's reaction carefully. A flush crept up her neck at the compliment, and her fingers twitched at her sides as if she wasn't sure what to do with her hands. The movement was slight, but he caught it, the way her right hand moved reflexively, searching for a weapon that wasn't there.

“You don’t have to lie,” she murmured.

Mor's expression softened further. "I would never lie about something like that. You truly do look beautiful."

Azriel felt his jaw clench as he watched Kallista shrink back slightly from the kindness. She didn't believe she deserved compliments, didn't trust them. The realization made the phantom blood under his nails burn hotter.

Amren remained perched on her chair, silver eyes glinting as she assessed Kallista with unnerving intensity. "You've healed quickly. Good. Weak things don't survive in this world."

Nesta shot Amren a warning glance before turning to Kallista. "Ignore her. She was trapped in a prison for fifteen thousand years and sometimes forgets how to speak to people."

Kallista's mouth twitched, the barest hint of amusement crossing her face before she schooled her expression back to careful neutrality. Azriel found himself studying that fleeting reaction, cataloging it like intelligence from the field.

“Could you not be a cranky old lady for five minutes?” Cassian drawled rolling his eyes.

Amren shot him a look so fierce Azriel saw him shrink back a little. “I’ll show you old lady—”

“Enough.” Rhys shook his head giving Kallista a look of apology before returning his gaze to his friends. “I would like my house to not be reduced to rubble by your antics.”

Kallista smiled faintly at the High Lord's words.

Cassian cleared his throat from where he lounged in his chair. "Would you like to sit? You're still healing."

Kallista's gaze swept the room again, taking inventory of exits, positions, potential threats. Azriel recognized the assessment because he did the same thing every time he entered a new space. She stopped when her eyes found his again as if she knew he understood what she was doing.

“I’m fine,” she answered, though Azriel detected the tension in her posture. Her body was angled in a way that put more pressure on her right side than her left. Her ribs were hurting.

“You should sit,” Azriel disputed, all eyes turning to him.

Kallista hesitated, her gaze flickering between the offered chair and Azriel. His voice had been gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. She moved carefully toward the empty seat beside Elain, each step measured to minimize the pain in her ribs.

"Thank you," she murmured as she sank into the plush cushions. Azriel could see the immediate relief that flooded her body.

Rhysand leaned forward slightly. "I'm glad you felt well enough to join us, Kallista."

She nodded once, her fingers gripping the arms of the chair. Azriel noticed the white knuckles, the way she held herself as if ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. His shadows stirred restlessly, wanting to comfort her somehow, but he kept them tightly controlled.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Kallista said. Her words were formal and stiff. Azriel was used to people not knowing how to act around Rhysand, but her look of caution with a hint of terror made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like seeing her so scared.

“No need to be so formal.” Rhys walked over to Feyre putting an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. “I wouldn’t know what to do with anyway.”

Azriel watched Kallista's posture relax fractionally at Rhysand's casual tone, though her knuckles remained white against the chair arms. The scent of her fear still lingered in the air. His shadows pressed against his mental barriers, desperate to reach toward her.

"How are you feeling today?" Rhysand asked, his voice carefully modulated to the same gentle tone he'd used with Feyre when she'd first arrived at the Night Court, broken and haunted.

"Better," Kallista replied, though Azriel caught the slight breathlessness in her voice that spoke of pain she was trying to hide.

“You worried us for a second there,” Cassian said.

Kallista's eyes flicked to Cassian. “I don’t even remember you finding me.”

"I'm not surprised," Cassian said. "You were unconscious when I found you. I wrapped you in a blanket and flew you straight here."

"You... flew me?" Kallista's expression shifted to something almost vulnerable, and Azriel felt his chest tighten at the sight.

"He nearly killed himself doing it," Nesta added, her usual sharp tone softened with a hint of pride as she looked at her mate. "Flew for hours straight through a storm."

Cassian waved a dismissive hand, though Azriel could see the pleased expression on his brother's face. “It would have taken too much time to contact one of you to winnow me here.”

Kallista's eyes widened slightly. "I didn't realize...”

"Anyone would have done the same."

"No, they wouldn’t have," Kallista said quietly.

The room fell silent. Azriel's shadows coiled tighter around his wrists, responding to the tension that radiated from his body. He knew what she meant. In Illyria, in places where power was the only currency that mattered, people looked away. They always looked away.

"Well," Mor said brightly, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "you're here now, and that's what matters. I should take you to look around Velaris. I know you’ve seen the view from your balcony.”

“I was telling her about the Rainbow,” Elain chimed in, “We should all go together. You can even see the bakery where I got the pastries this morning.”

Azriel watched Kallista's face carefully. Her brow furrowed slightly, as if the concept of wandering freely through a city to look at art was foreign to her. Which, he realized with a fresh surge of anger, it probably was.

“I’d like that.” Though Kallista’s voice held a note of uncertainty.

Azriel's shadows writhed against his control. He wanted to tell her she could go anywhere she wanted, see anything that caught her interest. That she was free now. But the words stuck in his throat, too intense, too revealing of the protective instincts that had been clawing at him since the moment he'd first laid eyes on her.

Amren leaned back in her chair, silver eyes still fixed on Kallista with that unsettling intensity. "What did you do before the camp?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. Azriel felt his entire body tense as he watched Kallista's face go carefully blank. Her knuckles went from white to bloodless against the chair arms.

"Amren," Rhysand said quietly, but Amren waved him off.

"It's a simple question. And we all want to know. Might as well get it over with."

Azriel's shadows pressed harder against his mental barriers. He could see the way Kallista's breathing had become shallow, the slight tremor that ran through her hands. Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to redirect the conversation away from whatever painful memories Amren was prodding.

"I lived with my father," Kallista said finally, her voice flat and emotionless. "Until he sold me."

“And you’re full Illyrian?” Amren pressed, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating through the room. But Azriel knew better. Amren knew exactly what she was doing.

“Yes.” Kallista’s eyes had gone blank.

“Where are your wings?”

Azriel saw Kallista’s jaw tick. “That’s enough, Amren.” His voice was so menacing even Amren bothered to look up at him though her expression didn’t change.

To his surprise, Kallista answered, “My father cut them off.”

A horrified silence fell over the room. Azriel felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. Her wings. Her father had cut off her wings. He had known of Illyrian females having their wings clipped so they couldn’t fly, knew they still did it secretly in some families though it had been outlawed. But to cut them off fully? He felt nauseous. Taking away an Illyrian’s wings…it was worse than death. It severed their connection to the sky, to freedom itself. Not to mention the agonizing pain.

The others stared at Kallista with varying expressions of shock and horror. Even Amren looked taken aback, her silver eyes widening slightly.

"When?" Azriel asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“100 years ago.” Kallista’s gaze met his, and the emptiness he saw there made his chest ache. “After my mother died, I tried to run away. He wasn’t kind to her. I knew what he would do to me without her around to stop him. He caught me and made sure I couldn’t do it again.”

Azriel's shadows darkened, spreading across the floor unbidden as his control slipped. The rage that had been simmering all day threatened to boil over.

"I'm sorry," Rhysand said, his voice thick with emotion.

Kallista shrugged, the movement stiff and practiced. She absentmindedly put a hand to her back where her wings should have been. "It was a long time ago."

Each syllable carved deeper into something vital in Azriel’s chest. He would find her father and what he would do to that bastard would make his morning’s work look like mercy. His shadows writhed and twisted and he didn’t try to contain them. They spilled across the floor in dark tendrils, seeking her out. They slowly curled up her arms brushing against her skin like a cat rubbing up against her leg.

Kallista froze, her breath catching in her throat as the dark tendrils coiled around her arms. She stared at them, and for a moment, Azriel feared she would recoil in horror. Instead, her expression shifted to something like wonder. She lifted her hand slightly, watching as the shadows followed her movement, responding to her. They dared to nip at her cheek and she smiled slightly.

"I'm sorry," Azriel said, his voice rough. He tried to call the shadows back, but they resisted, clinging to her like they belonged there. "They don't usually... behave like this."

"It's alright," she whispered, as they continued to wrap around her like a protective hug. “They’re…warm.”

Azriel felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he rarely experienced. His shadows had never disobeyed him like this before, never shown such blatant interest in another person.

"They like you," Elain said softly.

Kallista looked up, meeting his gaze across the room. The emptiness in her eyes had receded, replaced by a tenderness that made his heart stutter in his chest.

Rhys’s voice sounded in Azriel’s head. Now I see what you mean.

"Is that unusual?" she asked.

"Very," Rhysand answered before Azriel could form a response.

Kallista's fingers traced along one of the tendrils as it wound around her wrist. The shadow seemed to purr under her touch, and Azriel felt an echo of the sensation of her hand as if she had run it across his own skin. His breath caught and his body shuddered as a wave of pleasure coursed through his veins. His wings twitched involuntarily.

Mor cleared her throat, breaking the strange spell that had fallen over the room. "Well, this is fascinating, but perhaps we should give Kallista some time to settle in before we overwhelm her with magical shadow creatures."

Azriel gritted his teeth, fighting to maintain control as the sensation of Kallista's touch on his shadows continued to ripple through him. The connection felt intimate in a way that left him exposed, as if she were tracing patterns directly onto his skin rather than his shadows. He had never experienced anything like it.

"Perhaps that's enough for today," Feyre said gently, though her eyes remained fixed on the interplay between Kallista and the shadows with obvious fascination.

Kallista's hand stilled against the dark tendril. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Azriel said quickly, his voice rougher than he intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."

But his shadows finally responded to his mental command, reluctantly withdrawing from her skin and slithering back across the floor to pool around his feet. He felt their absence like a physical ache, as if part of him had been torn away. The shadows themselves seemed agitated by the separation, writhing restlessly around his boots.

Kallista’s face fell slightly and that tension once again came back to her body. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” He had to leave. It was slipping, that carefully controlled hold he had on himself was slipping. Slipping where? He didn’t know. But he wouldn’t let it out here. He wouldn’t scare them, he wouldn’t scare her. Without another word, he slipped out of the room feeling all the eyes on him as he left.

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1-800-crazy · 17 days ago

Text

A Song for the Silent {An ACOTAR Fan Fiction} - Part 1

Series: Part 1, Part 2

pairings: azriel x oc

word count: 4,443

TW: mentions of rape, mentions of violence, mentions of abuse

Chapter 1: A Fragile Promise

The darkness cracked open like an eggshell, and Kallista surfaced from unconsciousness with a gasp that felt like swallowing shards of glass.

Silk sheets whispered against her skin as she struggled to focus on the unfamiliar ceiling above, painted with intricate gold patterns that seemed to dance in the flickering candlelight. This wasn't her modest quarters at the training grounds. This wasn't anywhere she recognized. The air carried the scent of expensive oils and something else, something masculine and cedar-warm that made her pulse quicken despite her confusion.

Her body screamed in protest as she tried to sit up. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry, every bone aching with a deep, persistent throb that spoke of serious injury. The memories crashed over her then, brutal and unforgiving. The Illyrian camp, the sound of tearing fabric, hands that gripped too tight, pain that had consumed everything until blessed darkness took her.

She forced herself to inventory the damage with clinical detachment. Bruises painted her arms in shades of purple and yellow, expertly wrapped bandages covered what felt like deep cuts along her ribs, and her left wrist was immobilized in a precise splint. Someone had tended to her with skill. Someone who knew what they were doing.

The thought should have comforted her. Instead, it sent ice through her veins. Who had found her? And what did they want in return? She was nothing, a pleasure slave to the Illyrian warrior camp her father had sold her to. And she had been able to do nothing about it.

Kallista swallowed hard and tried once more to rise, gripping the edge of the mattress for leverage. Her legs trembled beneath her weight, refusing to hold. She collapsed back onto the bed with a muffled cry, pain lancing through her ribs.

Footsteps approached from beyond the ornate door across the room. Steady, purposeful strides that made her heart hammer against her bruised chest. Kallista's gaze darted around for a weapon, anything to defend herself with, but even the delicate crystal vase on the nightstand seemed impossibly far away in her current state.

The footsteps stopped outside the door. A pause, then the soft click of the latch turning.

Kallista forced her breathing to steady, though each inhale sent fire through her ribs. She wouldn't show fear. Wouldn't give whoever entered the satisfaction of seeing her cower, no matter what they intended to do with her. She'd endured too much already to break now.

The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a tall male silhouette backlit by the hallway's golden glow. Broad shoulders, powerful wings folded tight against his back. Illyrian. Her pulse spiked as memories flashed…cruel laughter, the weight of bodies pinning her down.

But this wasn't one of her attackers. This Illyrian male carried a wooden tray laden with steaming food, and as he stepped into the light, Kallista recognized him with a jolt that made her bruised ribs ache.

Cassian. The general of the Night Court's armies. The legendary warrior whose prowess was whispered about even in the remote camps where she'd been held.

"You're awake," he said, his deep voice gentler than she would have expected from someone of his reputation. "That's good. You've been unconscious for three days."

Three days? Kallista tried to process this information as he approached, every muscle in her body tensing despite the pain. She pressed herself against the headboard, ignoring the protest of her injuries.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Cassian said, stopping a respectful distance from the bed. He set the tray down on a nearby table, the aroma of rich broth and fresh bread making her stomach clench with unexpected hunger. "You're safe here."

Safe. The word seemed foreign, a concept so distant she barely remembered its meaning. Kallista's eyes narrowed, searching his face for deception.

"Where am I?" Her voice emerged as a rasp, her throat raw from screaming or disuse. Perhaps both.

"You're in the High Lord's townhouse in Velaris," Cassian said, his hazel eyes steady on hers. "Rhysand's personal residence."

Kallista's breath caught. The High Lord of the Night Court? She'd heard whispers of him in the camps, of his ruthlessness, his power, the way he'd slaughtered his enemies during the war with Hybern. And now she was in his home? She scanned the room again, noticing for the first time the subtle luxury that surrounded her, the midnight blue draperies, the silver constellations woven into the carpet.

"Why?" The question came out sharper than she intended, laced with suspicion.

Cassian's expression softened slightly. “I found you when I was checking in on the Illyrian warrior camps for Rhys. You were half dead, bloodied and bruised. I took you despite the protests from the general of the camp saying you were sold to them. When I told Rhys and Az what those warriors did…” His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the tanned skin. "Let's just say they won't be hurting anyone else."

Kallista wasn't sure how to feel about that. Relief, perhaps. But mostly numbness where vengeance should have been sweet.

"No one will touch you here," Cassian continued, taking a tentative step closer. "This house is warded against anyone who means harm. The only people who can enter are Rhys, Feyre, Azriel, Mor, Amren, Nesta and Elain. Our family.”

Family. The word hit her like a physical blow, unexpected in its tenderness. Kallista had no reference for such a concept. Not the kind he spoke of with such quiet reverence. Her father had sold her for coin and a political favor. Her mother had died when she was too young to remember warmth or protection.

"I don't understand." She hated how small her voice sounded, how the words cracked at the edges. "You don't know me. I'm nothing. A slave."

Something dangerous flickered across Cassian's features, gone so quickly she almost missed it. "You're not a slave. Not anymore. And you're not nothing."

The certainty in his voice made something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She studied his face, searching for the lie, the angle, the inevitable demand that would come. Men like him, powerful and legendary, didn't rescue broken girls without expecting payment. She'd learned that lesson carved into her skin.

"What do you want from me?" The question came out harder than she'd intended, but she needed to know. Better to understand the terms now than be blindsided later.

Cassian's brows drew together, confusion replacing the gentle concern. "Want from you?"

"Payment. Service. Whatever you call it." Heat crawled up her neck despite the chill that had settled in her bones. "Men don't save women like me out of kindness."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Cassian's hands clenched at his sides. “I don’t want anything from you. And I have a mate who would threaten you within an inch of your life if you suggested otherwise.” His smile was warm and humorous as he spoke about his mate.

Mate. The word ricocheted through Kallista's mind, carrying implications she hadn't considered. Of course someone like him would be mated. Probably to some powerful High Fae female with perfect features and deadly grace. The kind of woman who belonged in places like this, who understood the intricate dance of court politics and never had to calculate the cost of survival in heartbeats and bruises.

She studied his face again, noting the way his expression had shifted when he mentioned his mate. There was something fierce and protective there, but also... fond. Amused, even. As if the thought of this female threatening anyone brought him genuine joy.

"She sounds formidable," Kallista managed, her voice still rough.

"You have no idea." Cassian's grin widened, and for a moment he looked younger, less like the legendary general and more like a male thoroughly besotted with his partner. "Nesta could probably take down half the Night Court's enemies with nothing but a withering stare and some carefully chosen words."

Despite everything, the pain, the confusion, the bone-deep wariness that had kept her alive this long, Kallista felt her lips twitch. Almost a smile. The expression felt foreign on her face, muscles unused to the movement.

Cassian noticed. His own smile softened into something warmer, less overwhelming. "There. That's better."

He gestured toward the tray. "You should eat something. Madja, our healer, said you'd need to rebuild your strength."

The aroma of the food hit Kallista again, making her stomach clench painfully. How long had it been since she'd eaten? Before the attack, certainly, and then three days unconscious... Her body suddenly felt hollow, aching with hunger, but wariness kept her still.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking," Cassian said, his tone light but his eyes watchful. "Though I can't promise it's any good. Elain made the soup, and she's an excellent cook, but I carried it up here, and I've been known to ruin perfectly good food just by looking at it wrong."

Kallista's gaze shifted between the steaming bowl and Cassian's face.

"I can taste it first, if that would help." He reached for the spoon.

"No." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. She swallowed hard. "That's not necessary."

Still, she made no move toward the food. In the camps, meals had often come with conditions. With expectations. With hands that wandered while she tried to eat the meager portions they allowed her.

Cassian studied her for a moment, then did something unexpected. He moved the small table closer to the bed, within her reach, and then backed away several paces, giving her space. He settled into a chair near the window, far enough that she'd have plenty of warning if he tried to approach.

"Take your time," he said. "No rush."

The soup smelled of herbs and root vegetables, rich and hearty. Her stomach growled loudly enough that she knew he must have heard it. Humiliation burned her cheeks, but hunger was winning the battle against caution.

With trembling fingers, Kallista reached for the spoon. The first taste made her eyes close involuntarily. Salt and thyme and something sweet, maybe parsnip, warming her from the inside out. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten something prepared with such care.

"Good?" Cassian asked, but didn't move from his position by the window.

She nodded once, already dipping the spoon back into the bowl. The bread was still warm, crusty on the outside and soft within. She tore off a piece, using it to soak up the broth.

"Elain will be pleased. She's been fussing over that soup for hours, adding this and that, making sure it would be gentle enough for your stomach but nourishing."

Kallista paused, a spoonful halfway to her mouth. "She made this... specifically for me?"

"Of course." Cassian said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, to prepare special meals for strangers. "Everyone's been worried."

Everyone. The word felt foreign, impossible. The idea that multiple people had concerned themselves with her well-being was so alien that Kallista couldn't quite grasp it.

She ate in silence for several minutes, each bite easing the hollow ache in her stomach. When she'd finished half the bowl, she found herself slowing, the exhaustion of even this small effort making itself known.

Cassian seemed to notice. He stood, but didn't approach. "You should rest more. Your body's been through hell."

"The others," she said, suddenly remembering what he'd said about a family, about people who were curious. "They'll want to know who I am."

"They can wait," Cassian said firmly. "Rhys and Feyre understand, and they'll keep the others at bay until you're ready. No one will bother you until you feel up to it."

Kallista set the spoon down, suddenly overwhelmed by the simple kindness of it all. In her experience, kindness always came with strings attached, with debts to be paid. Yet here was this male, this legendary warrior, treating her recovery as if it were the most important thing in the world.

"Madja will be back this evening to check on your wounds," Cassian continued, moving toward the door. "She's the best healer in Velaris—cranky as a wet cat sometimes, but she's patched me up more times than I can count."

"Thank you," Kallista managed, the words feeling rusty in her mouth. When was the last time she'd had cause to thank anyone? "For the food. And for..." She gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the enormity of what he'd done. “And…my name is Kallista.”

Cassian paused at the door, his expression solemn. "You don't need to thank me for basic decency, Kallista." The way he said her name, not as a possession or an object, but as a person worthy of respect, made something tight in her chest loosen ever so slightly.

"Rest," he said again. "You're safe here. I promise."

As the door closed behind him, Kallista stared at the half-eaten meal, at the luxurious room around her, at the bandages on her wrists. Safe. It was a word she'd stopped believing in long ago.

But for the first time in years, a tiny, fragile part of her wanted to believe it might be possible.

***

Shadows moved where they shouldn't have.

Kallista stared at the darkened corner of her room, breath caught in her throat. She had fallen asleep and woken up in the middle of the night and it had settled heavily around the townhouse, but this darkness was different. It breathed.

She pushed herself up against the headboard, ignoring the protest of her healing ribs. Cassian had said she was safe. Maybe she was just seeing things in the dark. Old instincts died hard.

"Who's there?" Her voice emerged steadier than she felt, one hand sliding beneath her pillow for the small knife she'd stolen from the dinner tray Madja had brought when she came to see about her wounds.

The shadows peeled away from the wall like a living thing, coalescing into the form of a male. Tall, broad-shouldered, with magnificent wings folded tight against his back.

Kallista's fingers tightened around the knife. Another Illyrian. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her expression neutral as her eyes adjusted to make out his features.

"You won't need that," he said, his voice low and rough, like stone grinding against stone. He nodded toward her hand beneath the pillow.

Kallista didn't move. "You're Azriel, the shadowsinger.”

He was as well known as Cassian. The spymaster of the Night Court. Shadows seemed to cling to him, whispering around his shoulders and fingers like loyal pets.

"I am." He remained utterly still, watching her with eyes that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. "Cassian mentioned you'd taken a knife."

Heat crept up Kallista's neck. “I didn’t know anyone had noticed.”

Something that might have been understanding flickered across his face. He didn't approach closer, didn't try to persuade her to relinquish the weapon. Instead, he simply stood there, a statue carved from shadow and steel.

"Is there a reason you're in my room in the middle of the night?" Kallista asked.

"I was checking the wards." His gaze swept over her, clinical and assessing. Not the hungry look she was accustomed to from males, but something more detached. "I heard you wake."

"So you decided to lurk in the corner?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something that suggested he might remember how to form one. "Force of habit."

Silence settled between them, neither uncomfortable nor comfortable. Just... waiting. Kallista studied him as he studied her, this male who commanded shadows and secrets. There was something different about him compared to Cassian. A stillness, a coldness that wasn't cruelty but something else entirely. Restraint, perhaps. Or isolation.

“I was making sure you were okay,” Azriel admitted, hands in his pockets, “Your attack was so brutal, Cassian, who has seen centuries of war, was shaken when he found you.” Something dangerous lurked beneath the surface of his voice. “Your scars suggest this wasn’t the first time.”

The knife felt suddenly heavier in her palm. Kallista forced her breathing to remain even, measured. “I had been there for a month.”

He leaned against the wall, deceptively casual. "Tell me about the Illyrian camp where Cassian found you."

"There's nothing to tell. It was a camp like any other."

"With males who felt entitled to take whatever they wanted."

Her heart stuttered. "Most Illryian warriors are like that."

Azriel's expression remained unreadable, but she caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "Not all of them."

The certainty in his voice made something twist in Kallista's chest. She wanted to argue, to tell him about the years of evidence she'd collected, the catalog of cruelties she'd witnessed and endured. But exhaustion weighed heavy on her bones, and this conversation felt like walking across broken glass in bare feet.

"Why does it matter?" she asked instead. “Didn’t you kill them?”

“Not all of them.” His shadows stirred restlessly around his shoulders. “And there might be others like you. Other camps where females are being sold and brutalized.”

Kallista's grip on the knife loosened slightly. “It’s a pretty common practice amongst the poor people in Illryia. War camps will pay handsomely for a pretty face.” A humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “They paid my father five hundred gold marks for me.”

Azriel's shadows darkened, swirling more aggressively around his scarred hands. She noticed them then. Brutal scars that spoke of torture, not battle. Something about those hands made her heart squeeze in her chest.

"Your father," Azriel said, the words careful, measured. "He was the one who sold you?"

"Who else?" The bitterness in her voice surprised even her. "He needed the money. I was an asset to liquidate."

Azriel remained silent for a long moment, his face unreadable in the darkness. But his shadows betrayed him, writhing and hissing as if they carried his rage for him.

"You should know," he finally said, "that Rhysand has outlawed the practice of selling females to the camps. It's been forbidden for fifty years."

A coldness washed through her. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still happen.”

“I’m not surprised.” His voice had roughened further. "The warlords who run those remote camps often flout his edicts, believing themselves beyond his reach."

"They are beyond his reach," Kallista said. "No High Lord has ever cared what happens in those mountains."

Azriel pushed away from the wall, his wings adjusting slightly. "Rhysand isn't like other High Lords."

She studied his face, searching for the lie, for the fanatical gleam of a soldier blindly following his commander. But all she found was a steady certainty that made her uncomfortable in its conviction.

"You believe that," she said, surprised.

"I know it." His shadows pulsed once, as if in agreement. "Rhysand is different."

Kallista shifted against the pillows, her ribs throbbing. The knife was still in her hand, but it felt less necessary now. Something about this male with his shadows and scars made her believe he understood more than most what it meant to be powerless.

"The males who hurt you," Azriel said, his voice dropping even lower. "Do you remember their names?"

The question caught her off guard. "Why?"

"Because I want to know who to find."

A chill ran down her spine at the casual way he said it, as if he were discussing the weather rather than hunting down Illyrian warriors. "I thought they were dead.”

"Some. Not all."

Kallista swallowed hard, memories flashing unbidden behind her eyes. Hands holding her down. Laughter. Pain that had nearly broken her completely. “I don’t know their names.”

"I understand." Azriel's voice gentled, though his shadows continued their restless dance.

Kallista found herself studying his face more intently, noting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the way the shadows seemed to caress his skin like old friends. There was something almost hypnotic about the way they moved around him, as if they were extensions of his will rather than separate entities.

"Your shadows," she said, surprising herself with the observation. "Do they ever stop moving?"

Azriel glanced down at his hands, where tendrils of darkness wound between his scarred fingers. "Not often. They're... restless creatures."

"Like you?"

The question slipped out before she could stop it, too personal, too presumptuous. But instead of taking offense, Azriel's mouth curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile.

"Perhaps."

Something in his tone made her chest tighten, a recognition she couldn't name.

"You should try to sleep," he said, straightening from the wall. "Healing takes time, and rest helps."

Kallista hesitated, the knife still clutched in her palm. Sleep seemed impossible with the memories that had been stirred up, but exhaustion pulled at her bones like an anchor.

"I'll try," she finally said.

Azriel nodded once, a barely perceptible movement. "If you need anything, someone will hear you." His shadows enveloped him completely. One moment he was there, solid and real; the next, he had melted into the darkness as if he'd never existed at all.

Kallista stared at the empty corner where he'd stood, a strange emptiness settling in her chest. The knife in her hand suddenly felt foolish, unnecessary against someone who could command darkness itself. She slipped it back beneath her pillow anyway.

***

Azriel slipped through the shadows between realms, letting the darkness carry him away from Kallista's room. The journey took mere seconds, though he traversed the entire width of Velaris. The shadows deposited him on a secluded balcony overlooking the Sidra, the river's surface glittering with the reflection of stars.

The cool night air did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside him. His shadows coiled tightly around his scarred hands, agitated by the rage he kept carefully controlled. Five hundred gold marks. The price of a female's freedom, her body, her life. The casual way she'd mentioned it, as if her own worth could be quantified in coins, had unleashed something primal in him.

He flexed his fingers, watching the shadows dance between them. The camp where Cassian had found her was just one of many. How many others suffered the same fate even now? The thought burned like acid.

"I thought I might find you here."

Azriel didn't turn. He'd sensed Rhysand's approach even before the High Lord had spoken.

Rhys moved to stand beside him at the railing, his violet eyes reflecting the starlight. “You went to her room, didn’t you? To make sure she was okay?”

Azriel's jaw tightened. "I wanted to see her for myself."

"And?"

"Her father sold her. Five hundred gold marks." The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

Rhysand's silence stretched between them, heavy with implications. When the High Lord finally spoke, his voice carried the lethal edge that had once made enemies tremble. "We need to find him."

"Her father?" Azriel's shadows writhed, sensing the violence in his thoughts. "He's likely long gone by now. Men like that don't linger after a transaction they know is illegal." He'd seen the clinical way Kallista had spoken of her sale, the practiced numbness that came from accepting the unacceptable. It wasn't resignation. It was survival. He recognized it because he'd worn the same armor once.

"These other camps," Rhys said, leaning against the railing. "We need to investigate them."

Azriel nodded once, sharply. "I've already started. My shadows are gathering information from the most remote regions of the Illyrian Mountains."

"Good." Rhys stared out at the glittering river. "This goes beyond just enforcing my edicts. If there are others like her..."

"There are. She said it’s pretty common for poor Illyrian men to sell their daughters to war camps.”

"I want them shut down," Rhys said, his voice deceptively soft. "All of them."

Azriel's shadows coiled tighter around his wrists, responding to the darkening of his thoughts. "Consider it done."

They stood in silence for a moment, two males forged in different kinds of darkness, united in their disgust for what had been allowed to fester in their territory.

"There's something else," Azriel finally said, the words emerging reluctantly. "Something about her..."

Rhys turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in silent question.

"My shadows react to her." Azriel flexed his scarred fingers, watching the darkness twist and curl between his knuckles. "They seem... drawn to her somehow. I've never felt them respond to someone this way before."

"Interesting." Rhys studied his spymaster's face. "In what way?"

Azriel struggled to articulate the sensation. It wasn't something he could easily explain, this strange pull his shadows felt toward the female. "They're... curious about her. Almost protective." He frowned. "It's unsettling."

"Your shadows have always had their own intelligence," Rhys said. "Perhaps they sense something about her that you don't yet understand."

The thought had occurred to Azriel as well, though he wasn't ready to examine it too closely. His shadows had been his companions for centuries, his tools, his weapons, his curse. They whispered secrets to him, showed him hidden truths, but they had never before seemed to develop an interest in a particular person.

"She took a knife from her dinner tray," he said instead, changing the subject slightly. "Sleeps with it under her pillow."

Rhys's mouth quirked. "Smart girl."

"She doesn't trust us."

"Would you, in her position? We’re strangers and you, me and Cassian are Illryians.”

The question hit closer to home than Rhys could have known. Azriel remembered all too well what it was like to be at the mercy of others, to sleep with one eye open, to assume the worst of everyone. "No," he admitted. "I wouldn't."

"Give her time.” Rhys patted Azriel on the back.

Time. He didn’t know if he could. They way his shadows reacted around her, the way he reacted around her. It had never happened before. It scared him in ways he couldn’t explain and didn’t even know if he wanted to try to. Azriel knew how he could bide his time though. By finding every one of the Illryian soldiers that had hurt Kallista and rip their intestines out with his bare hands. And he would have fun doing it. The thought made his shadows writhe with pleasure.

“I’ll start the investigation tomorrow,” Azriel said finally meeting Rhys’s eye again.

The High Lord knew that look in his friend’s eyes. Rhys had seen it countless times and it was never there without just cause. If he was a different man, he might feel bad for the fate that awaited those soldiers. But he didn’t feel one ounce of sympathy. “Good.”

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1-800-crazy · 22 days ago

Text

a ticket to the sun. [chapter i]

masterlist

mafia au | simon ghost riley x strip dancer/ sex worker oc cw: attempted and described sexual assault, threatening the oc, lot's of fucking flashbacks and angst, vomiting.

A few hours prior

“Martini, you have a premium member booking you tonight.” James exclaimed from the end of the room. You look up at him, half expecting him to have a stern expression on his face as usual but he’s smiling. It makes something queasy inside your stomach. On usual days, you aren’t booked by anyone— maybe once or twice a month if your regulars get a bonus and want to spend it on their pleasure.

The lights glitters around, yellow and bright lights lining the ceilings. You find yourself confused at his statement, premium booking. That’s a new territory for you.

“Premium?” you ask, lashes fluttering as you look around the room,searching for Rebecca, who was applying glitter over her lids and touching up her makeup. She’s the best in this game, the dance and the tease. For once you focus your vision on her and try to observe any flaw or short-comings from her.

None that you can find for now.

“They didn’t book Rebecca?” the surprise in your tone isn’t missed as James reads you your customers. “No, they requested for you specially” he mutters, fingers skimming through the list of names and time of your schedule. “You’re packed t’day you know?” he mutters, brows furrowing in concentration.

James is an interesting person here, at The Icarus. He’s average looking but with a charming personality and easy going on everyone. Here, he’s the navigator of all the fifty dancers and workers, assigning them their clients the time slots and fixing schedules.

“Thanks” you murmur when he hands you your list. It’s packed indeed, no getting in pants today, you notice. “You better doll yourself up Martini” he calls, looking up at you, “Your makeup is halfway done, do you need any help? I can assign Maria, she’s having a break—” his sentence is cut short as his phone rings up.

Ponting a finger at you, indicating he’ll talk to you later he leaves the room murmuring into his phone.

Rebecca is the best of all the dancers, probably she’s off limits as a sex worker— because she gets enough customers by her dances, doesn’t really need to sell her body. And surely Lovelot does comply with her because she brings in a good number of customers.

The Queen of The Icarus, Rebecca.

Four regulars and one premium, you read through your list.

It’s quarter past seven and your shift will start around nine. Most of your regulars have ordered you for two hours at the most, but the premium one— four hours.

You frown. It’s against the client's policies, James doesn’t let people book his women for four hours. The max they can extend is two. You look around the room, four other girls around you bustling as they get ready, fixing hair and dabbing lipstick.

Rebecca turns her head towards you, leaning back on her chair, her hair bouncing against her shoulder as she did such. She was somewhere from Cuba, accent heavy when she talked, “Aye, Martini! What did James say?”

She’s wearing a green coloured lingered, studded with diamonds and it makes her look absolutely amazing. “Said that I have a premium booking” you chide in, smiling back at her. Even if the Icarus is the place where you sell your body, the workers here are kind, sweet in their own way.

“Ah, well good luck, do you want help with makeup?” she gets up from her seat, heels clacking against the linoleum floor as she walks beside you, her eyes blinking at the list. “Seems you are booked,” she mutters, brows scrunching up.

“Any tips to impress this customer? Has he ever booked you?” you ask her, settling on your seat and starting to re-do your make up. “Ah, well let’s see who is this premium customer” her fingers skim along the list, brushing against the name.

Makarov

“I’ve never heard about him,” she spoke, soft lips in a pout as she concentrated on the name, “But I’ve heard about him” she looks back at you, brown eyes, blinking— dollish in a way. “He’s a no-friend to my regular client, Mr. Price” she shrugged, keeping the paper back on your table and settling herself before you.

You laugh, hands covering your mouth to suppress the giggles, “Not-Freind? What is that supposed to mean?” you ask.

“Aye, you know! Not-Friend, not a good relation with Mr.Price!” she chirps up.

“Come on let me help you with make-up” she grins, pushing your hair back into a bun.

“So what do you think about shimmers?” her eyes twinkled

The shifts go by pretty soon, the customers being regulars to your advantage, you know what pleases their senses. The Icarus is a place where you have found home, perhaps you would like to think such. You look around your room, pink and blue lights glowing as they illuminate your skin, a sweet colour with vibes.

In some other universe, you think whilst you clean yourself up for your next customer, you’d live the quiet life of a college girl without money being a headache for you. There are moments in your life, where you fall down the rabbit hole, skin in the abyss of your dreams, or once when they had been dreams but now are just… memories.

By the time you clean up nicely and fix your hair, there is a knock at your door.

“Yes? Come in!” your voice is soft, almost coying, in the state men like. That’s business, you’re business and oftentimes your body is the source to it. You put on your lip gloss, smacking your lips before you turn your gaze to the door.

To your surprise (perhaps horror) it’s a stranger.

“How can I help you sir?” You presume this is your new customer, someone you don't know yet. Your fingers tuck a small stand of stray hair behind your ear as you flutter your eyes. He looks at you, a small and studious man you’d think, gruff in his face. Nothing that could stand out except his eyes, sharp and piercing. Cruel, as if they had seen enough horror to commit them to his senses.

“Are you Blue?” he asks, locking the door shut, spiking your heart-rate up. You blink at him, mouth open agape.

Blue, the name scribbled down on your birth certificate, and your death certificate too. Some sort of curse you placed upon yourself a decade ago, foolishly albeit. Your name, real name on his lips made your skin go cold— some kind of parasite crawling over it.

“I think you have got the wrong person sir, I– I— am Martini.” there is that childish crack in your voice, the one that isn’t lost to you, the one which makes him smile wider at the fear that oozes off you in rivulets. “If you think you’re good at pretending, then you’re horrible at it girl.” He hums, his tone laced with malice that cuts deep through you. He has an accent, it’s not Europen— something else, someone else.

Russian?

You stare at him, the way he takes a seat on the chair near the door, so calmly in front of you, wiping the dirt between his fingers off with his white handkerchief. His face has gone back to normal, a calm composer he has been wearing since the past five minutes.

“I’m not here for some, you know? Jokes or getting my dick wet with your cunt.” He begins, voice unwavering as he maintains his eye contact with you, grey orbs drilling through you, unblinking. You can feel precipitation cling to your neck, a slow dribble down the column of your throat. You don’t think you have enough nerves to face him, to tell him to go away. You’ll lose your job, you're sure of it.

“Let’s cut the chase short. I’m here for something worse,” he pauses, eyes looking around the room. “Nice room you got here Blue, but I must say it does little to conceal your past from you.” His voice is corroded like a knife, rusty as it pierces through you. Jagged cuts that make you choke on your blood, a lot too much rust filling your senses.

“I’ll let you know,” it’s still wrong, the way he entered here, invaded a space you could have called yours in some sense. Your lips tremble, but you bite it to keep them shut, “Something about Ace and some Spade,” he murmurs, loud enough for you to hear, but still you feel like there is cotton in your ears. “And involving a lot of my money.”

“I— I’m sure you’re mistaken—” you choke out a sob, a little too out of your reality to realise there are tears streaming down your face, rivulets of jet black cascading down your cheek. The back of your hand comes up and wipes your cheeks, a broken whimper leaving your mouth. This might be some unconscious reaction that had been buried, so you think.

The glitter smears across your eyelids and cheeks as your brows pinch together, lips trembling as you try to breathe. But you can’t, something is lodged in your throat, the lights of the room blur into white as you try to blink your vision clear.

“I know you remember Ace, a good man” he continues, standing up and pulling out a spare handkerchief from his breast pocket, this time not to wipe his hands though. He walks in front of your bed, in front of you— crouches down enough to come face-to-face and smiles. It’s devoid of any real emotions you’d like to believe. It is— just an amalgamation of rage and some stupid greed for power.

His hand holds your jaw, soft for a while; but eventually gripping the soft skin until you could feel the pain blooming underneath. You let out a choked sound, eyes wide, still not trashing. His other hand came up, wiping your tears and snot off your face.

“Poor little girl, aren’t you tired of running away from the real world?” he tsks, the fabric running over your skin, “I’m here to settle a few scores, if you know?” he smiles, all insanity plastered to his mouth like plaque. It irks you, makes a croaked sound erupt from your throat.

“Sushh..” he murmurs, his breath hitting you. Something inside your chest convulses, you bite your lips, nodding, it’s involuntary in its nature.

“You know me, don’t you?” His voice tips the edge of something dangerous, something she heard years ago. You don’t nod, but murmur a yes, broken and chipped with fear. And Makrov smirks, “Knew you’d remember me pretty thing.”

“We have some scores to settle, especially after your brother pulled off that stunt.” he hummed, fingers digging into your soft flesh. Your pulse had spiked to the point where you felt nauseous, bile rising up to your throat. “Some nerves, dogs that your kin was” he murmurs, pulling his hands back. Your fingers curl onto your lap, the glittery material of your lingerie pinched between your fingers.

There are moments you refuse to revisit in your memories, most of them wiped clean. You don’t really remember much of what had happened, eighteen and sweet— perhaps a little too innocent for the world. Your workers would still call you innocent, the way you always helped others even if you lacked cash. Just some co-workers crying and ruining their eye make-up and it had you pitying them.

You don’t think your life would come back to a full circle. With him here.

You don’t remember him, but you remember his fingers, the similar way he groped your jaw, spewing threats at you. You can feel his voice thudding through your skull, taking you back somewhere your mind had concealed you from. You don’t feel the bile rise again, feel your chest constrict as a warbling whimper pushes past your lips.

“Aw, don’t cry.” he murmurs, his hands now snaking behind your head, fingers curling through your hair.

Romantic, in a mocking sense, reverent in a mocking sense. Faux in his true nature— Makarov promises you with his threats. “You owe me something, money. Good amount that too albeit.” he sneers, fingers tugging at your roots sharply and angling you head up as he rises to his full height.

“You owe me money, and you’ll give me my money. By any means girl” his voice contains the hatred he has contained for you, you can’t recall. You remember his fingers digging into your skin, you don’t remember why and where.

You’re a blank slate in here, with nails scratching down your skin.

You don’t remember, but he’s the same one to taint you again.

“The only catch is, you won’t earn your money from The Icarus, too good for a filth like you.” he murmurs, pulling your face close to his. You eyes trail his features, fear still reeking off your expression and you can find the smug satisfaction he’s basking in. “You will earn it by either,” his other hand drags down the waistband of your lingerie, it makes you squirm, fear— fear fear fear.

You feel his fingers drag between your skin, trying to force himself and it hurts, an ache blooming the same again. You want to curl away, push himself off you, but he had you plaint in his hands. A meat between his maw.

“There, there… don’t worry. Wont hurt you there until—”

You sob, finger curling over his hands, “No– Pl-Please—” it’s fear that builds you, it’s fear that has raised you. You are reminded of your mother, when you were in pre-school, taking a drag of her smoke while she did taxes. You remember your mistake, spilling the apple juice over her notebook. It hadn’t earned you a beating, but something worse.

But anything your mother did can’t be worse than this. Perhaps you may fear him, this man, Makarov— you remember him over your mum’s body, wiping the blood off his face while she lay lifelessly on the floor, blood pooling around her neck, the floor staining.

“No I won’t” he smiles, all teeth, like a predator spotting his prey, “I’m not that low, my men are, perhaps I was when I was younger.” he grinned, pulling his hand out and wiping it clean. “Not a good man, girl. I’ll track you down anywhere your brother hides you” he pulls away, a little slap on your cheek as he did so.

Not enough to sting, but enough for you to flinch.

“Better get me some money, we’ll have some arrangement right?” he smirks, a grin that churns your insides again. You suppress it, breathing in with flared nostrils. “A good sum around hundred and eleven thousand grands.” he mutters, “Take as long as you can, or we’ll have other arrangements… You won’t like.” he mutters.

You could still feel his fingers over your cheek, eyes burning as you hear a small thud. The door he entered through now remains closed, you take a look around the room, your head spinning, pink and blue making your blood run in rivulets inside your chest.

You find yourself getting up, with no particular sense of destination as you did so, grabbing your overcoat that lay over the chair beside the door.

It feels like ouroboros, eating yourself— being eaten torn flesh to flesh. Something snaps at the back of your head, synapses reacting widely at the interaction you had with him, Makarov. Something new bleeds into you, as you stumble out of your door. The small room that you built for your work, a somewhat respite where you were Martini, not blue now tainted by a past that never seemed to stop clawing at your back.

You look around the dimly lit hallway, gasping. There is no one, maybe someone at the end but everything seems to morph into that horrible lullaby, it echoes at the back of your head, pounding pain that makes you sob.

What scares you even more is how every-other colleague is avoiding you. It doesn’t seem fair, the way they are avoiding your gaze and walking past you.

Or is it your head?

Feeling the bile now crawl up your throat, you rush to the roof. Heels clack along the iron stairs, the door being pushed open as you try to breathe in some fresh air. Push out the dirt from the past, your lungs inflated and aching as you cry. You don’t think you’re capable of crying with sound as your throat aches.

Your stomach lurches again as you hunch over the corner of the room, throwing up whatever you had. Emptying your stomach but nothing seems to come out. Your lungs ache, as you take a second gulp of air. That’s when you hear the roof door opening, a low thud of boots against the cement and smell of cigarette in the air.

Your eyes focus themselves to clear up, the air weaving through your hair and face, spit sticking to your cheeks and vomit too. You gulp, feet aching and the adrenaline that rushed through your draining away from your veins, eyes growing heavy. A man, leather jacket, smelling strongly of blood— you think he heard you as he turned back.

“You lost?” he says, his voice scratches your brain, eyes blinked and brows pinched together. You nod your head in a no, observing if this man is of any threat. Even if he is, you cannot do anything to save yourself from it. You’re sure he can see the state you are in, tears and make-up smudged, swollen eyes with tears.

“Everythin’ a’right Miss?” he questions again, flicking the butt down the roof, facing you now. You open your mouth, close it, like a fish out of the water— on the verge of gasping.

“D-do you h-have any? W-water?” you ask, taking a huge gulp of air in, taking shaky steps towards him.

It’s long before you realise that you’re collapsing into him, face pressed against his warm chest as you sob, choke— any kind of pain that you could express. He’s saying something, but you feel you’re under water. His hands are pushing you and holding you up.

Your senses seem to have left you completely as you shriek as he did such.

“No! No— Please— Don’t they are going to catch me—” you sob, a gurgule leaving you smudges lips as you try to press yourself closer to him, “Please! They are going to—” you choke, coughing and hunching over as you vomit all over him. The bile burns your nose and eyes, choking on vomit and the acidic taste as your knees give up.

You cannot make out, but your eyes flutter shut, still vomiting as your body goes plaint.

The last thing you see is the flickering lights of The Icarus.

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1-800-crazy · 25 days ago

Text

Medical Prodigy: Chapter Three

Synopsis: In which a young medical genius gets kidnapped and somehow becomes a doctor for Gotham's most dangerous villains

Pairing: Yan!Platonic!Batfam x Neglected!Underground Doctor!F!Reader, Yan!BatVillains x Doctor!F!Reader

Warnings/Reminders: May contain dark themes, fem Reader, child neglect, mentions of violence, mentions of blood/bleeding, language, Batfam being delulu, bad writing (😔), age gap, Reader is around 18-19 years old in the current timeline, slight panic attack(??)

Chapter Guide: Masterlist, Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two

Damian always believed he was above emotional connections. He was raised that way.

They were nothing but a liability that stood in the way of one’s true potential. A burden that he, the son of the Bat and heir to the Demon, shouldn’t bother to bear.

Then, there was you. His sister.

You were long gone by the time he first stepped foot in the manor. Missing, he soon learned.

What kind of Wayne would let herself be kidnapped? And by puny little criminals of all people. Surely, Father taught you how to defend yourself? Even five-year old him could take them down in a second. Why couldn’t you?

You were weak, he concluded.

The moment those words came out of his mouth, Todd almost killed him.

The man was known for being violent, sure but Damian never saw him that determined to spill blood. And despite the lack of words from the others, he could tell they were equally triggered at how Damian belittled you.

That made him confused, irritated even. From what he’s heard, none of them were even close to you, excluding Jason.

So he started learning more about you. Who you were to this family. What makes you special.

Your room reminded him of a scholar’s. A den of knowledge.

It was impressive, he’ll give you that. From basic human anatomy to detailed notes that involve manual and instrumental techniques to treat injuries and diseases that were incomprehensible even to him. Damian had seen and met geniuses both in his time as Robin and back when he was League member but they were nothing compared to this.

He thought that was it. This family was grieving the loss of a significant and useful tool.

But that was until he found your journals.

He would occasionally see Dick sulking inside your room while reading them. He found it pathetic. A grown man in tears after reading a teenage girl’s diary? How embarrassing.

But from the moment he read them himself, he understood.

Love.

Damian wasn’t completely unfamiliar with it. Despite her tough and cruel ways, his mother loved him. And when he arrived here in Gotham, his father and ‘siblings’ grew to love him too, regardless of their rough start.

However, never in his life has someone taken that love and devoted it to their life’s work. Every minute you wasted on studying, every ink spent on these pages was because you loved them. You were brilliant and excelled because you wanted them to see you and love you as much as you loved them. Hell, you even kept track of their health records.

Suddenly, anger brewed inside Damian.

Anger at you for being so naive. Anger at his family for taking you for granted and having the audacity to mourn about it once they lost you.

They didn’t deserve the right. Not when they ignored you for years. Well in the very least, you had Todd for a significant time.

Damian could feel himself turn green at the thought.

If he had met you then, would you shower him with love too? Damian wouldn’t admit it but he wanted that. Longed for you, his sister. His blood.

He had spent his life training to be the perfect assassin, to be ruthless and to show no mercy. He devoted himself to it just as you devoted yourself to learning. Just once, why couldn't he have this?

Because you were gone, he reminded himself.

Nonsense.

You were a Wayne.. He’ll find you, one way or another. You’re his as much as he’s yours. You belong here with him.

But for now, he’ll settle for what you have left behind. To learn you. So once you come back, he’s worthy enough to be called your little brother.

“If you wanted to hide something, you could’ve done a better job than this, Drake. It’s like you wanted someone to find out.”

Damian muttered under his breath, ejecting the flash drive and taking it out. He then tucked it in his pocket before heading out.

“Time to pay her a visit..”

Struggle.

That was all Jason Todd did for most of his life. Especially when his deadbeat father went to prison, leaving him alone with his drug addicted mother. He did what he could to keep them fed and stole car parts to earn money. And he continued that life even after his mother died.

He met you after a few days when he was taken in by Batman. Small, innocent and full of joy.

Jason hated you.

You were the only daughter of Gotham’s richest man. Spoiled and oblivious to what others face in the real world. You weren't even aware about their double life as crime-fighting vigilantes. You didn’t know what struggle was. He didn’t bother to hide his disdain, always shoving you away and scowling at you.

Yet you still kept following him like a baby duck, staring at him with those googly and eager eyes.

It was during one of his months of training as Robin. He was bruised up after a hectic session and he found you staring at him by the door, holding a first aid kit. He didn’t know why he didn’t bother to stop you. He was probably too tired to protest or maybe the curiosity inside him won against it. He almost laughed at how badly you patched him up, fumbling for the bandage before you managed to wrap it around his sprained ankle.

“I saw our grandpa’s books about healing people in the attic so I thought maybe I could try it.” You chirped, looking proud of your work.

“Our grandpa..?” Jason repeated, making you nod.

“Mhm! Our Grandpa Thomas! You’re my brother now so he’s your grandpa too.” You said it so casually that Jason couldn’t help but stare at you in disbelief.

Jason was an angry and reckless person.

His parents knew that. Bruce knew that. You knew that but in spite of it, you called him family. Your brother.

He should’ve let it go, ignored it. But it drilled into his mind, thawing away the frozen walls surrounding his heart. He started letting you in and spent time with you. He listened to your crazy rants about what organ does this and that.

You weren’t what he thought you were.

Not the spoiled brat that unknowingly walked over Gotham’s lower class with her designer doll shoes. You were a child, like him, looking for someone to see you and accept you as their own.

That was when he decided he’ll be just that for you, as you are for him.

Jason Todd has never been more thankful that you’ve never known struggle. And he’ll make sure you never will.

Jason wants to kill someone. Preferably Batman.

He just returned to Gotham and took up the mantle of Red Hood, now controlling several gangs all over the city.

Not only did he find out that he was replaced, you were kidnapped and been missing for almost a year before he arrived. And the fact that no one was actively searching for you made him rage, taking it out on everyone he meets.

If he hadn’t left that day to look for that woman, you still would’ve been here by his side, safe and protected. Regret rained down inside his chest with a cloud of guilt and thunder of madness. Who knows what could’ve happened to you by now?

Were you trafficked? Kidnapped for ransom? God..are you even still alive?

He retraced your steps and found the bastards that took you.

Anger and grief took over his whole body that night and he tore apart their limbs, one by one. He relished in the sound of their cries, their bloodcurdling screams echoing throughout Gotham city as he bathed in their blood. All for you. Not as Red Hood. Not as Robin. But as Jay, your big brother who failed to protect you. And not even Batman bothered to stop him.

Jason pushed his way inside the small clinic, his red helmet still attached to his head. He was already seeing dark spots in his vision and whoever the fuck was this doctor, they need to hurry up-

“Holy shit..Red Hood, right? You seem roughed up tonight.” That familiar, cheery voice was like a dagger to his chest.

He slowly turned around and there you were. For a moment, he saw eight-year old you, walking towards him with that bounce on your step and a grin that could put the sun to shame.

You were always like that when he came home. Looking at you now…was like coming home.

“You got cash tonight, big guy? As much as I would love to help, this is still a business after all.” You spoke, popping a candy into your mouth.

You look older. Your eyes are much dimmer now but it still has that same spark that would always light up when you see something that interests you. But you seem tired too. Have you been sleeping at all? It’s past midnight. You should be asleep by now-

“Hellooo?? Mr. Red Hood?” You took a few steps forward. He was about to reach out for you when he suddenly passed out, landing on the floor with a loud thud.

“Hey-! Don’t pass out on me! Mr. Hood? Come on! If you wanna pass out, you could’ve at least done it outside. Stop bleeding on my carpet! Where is Silas when you need him..?”

Jason gasped, quickly sitting up. He then felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen where his stab wound was. It was all stitched and covered up pretty nicely. He touched his face and realized his helmet was still on. He took it off and let out a relieved sigh, now being able to breathe properly. He was sweating terribly. Does this place not have AC-?

He froze when he heard the sound of glass shattering and quickly turned to where the noise came from. You were standing by the door, mouth agape with a shattered glass of water now before you. He tried to stand up but groaned from the pain.

“(nickname)..”

“J..Jay..but..? Wha..?”

It was your turn to faint.

“Damn it..!”

It’s been five minutes since you woke up and the two of you haven’t said a word. Jason cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence.

“..So you’re alive..?”

"..."

“I’m alive?! Why the fuck are you alive?!”

He flinched at your harsh tone. Christ, where the hell did you learn how to speak like that?

“Yeah um…that’s a bit of a long story.” He muttered out as he scratched his head, not knowing where to start. You crossed your legs and straightened up. “I have all day.”

He scoffed and shook his head. “I’ll tell my side of the story later after you tell me yours. Didn’t you get kidnapped?!”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And now, I’m a doctor.”

He let out a sound of frustration, burying his face in his palms.

“I’m being serious, (name).”

“That’s literally how the story goes-”

“You’re just being difficult.”

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

We took a 15-minute break, for the sake of his sanity.

You got up and began to examine him like he was a crime scene while he sat there just taking in everything that’s happening.

“You look different. Older, obviously. But there’s something off…and what’s with that white tuff of hair? Is it just me or are your eyes green? Did you really die?”

He tried to look serious, fighting the urge to smile as you went back to that adorable curious little kid that asked annoying questions.

The (name) he knew.

He couldn’t help it and he pulled you into a tight, bone-crushing hug. A minute flew by and he felt your arms wrapped around him as well, a sob escaping your lips.

“..don’t leave again.” You whispered against his neck.

“I won’t. Never again.” A promise. An oath. One he swore he’ll never break again.

In the warmth of their embrace, the years of grief melted away. Jason clung to his little sister tightly, his tears like a whispered promise. A vow to never let go again. And God help those who take her away.

“So…let me get this straight. There’s this magic green water that could basically heal anything, make you look younger and even resurrect the dead?”

You looked so excited, swinging your legs back and forth while you both sat on the edge of the rooftop. Jason’s lips quirk up into a smirk and nodded, confirming what you said.

“Don’t you understand how amazing that is?! It’s groundbreaking! Groundbreaking!” You emphasized, your hands up in the air making weird gestures.

“We could do a lot with that thing. It’s the next step of modern medicine! If we could just get a sample-”

“Hold on there, mouse. Maybe try and slow down for a bit, yeah? I’m not letting you go there. And ya definitely don’t want to mess with the league.”

You frowned in disappointment, making Jason feel a tad bit bad but he stood firm on his words. He just got you back and he’s not gonna lose you again because you wanted to experiment on Lazarus pit water. It made him go insane, who knows what it could do to you?

Thankfully, you didn’t pry on it further but knowing you, you’ll be thinking about it for days.

“So..why didn’t you go back?” He couldn’t help but ask.

If you weren’t being held against your will, why didn’t you come back to the manor? At least there, you were safe and not..working with all kinds of criminals. The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

You looked away, suddenly finding the cars on the road interesting. You hummed in thought and shrugged.

“I dunno…”

“(name).”

“Does it matter, Jay?” You snapped, furrowing your brows as you turned your gaze back to him.

“There’s nothing left for me there. Not when you were gone. Not when everyone acts like I don’t exist. I can’t even go to normal school or use the Wayne name to grab onto opportunities because Dad didn’t want anyone to know about me. I thought you wanted me to be a doctor? I’m one now! A great one at that. I can do whatever I want and I’ve practically grown my research to a large extent.”

“That’s not the point. Your patients are villains, (name)! No matter how much you think they need you, they could and will kill you if they wanted to. Why can’t you understand that?! Could you even imagine how devastated I was when I found out you were missing? huh? I tracked down those fuckers who took you and tore their limbs apart and fed it to the dogs-!”

Jason then realized how tight he was gripping your shoulders and loosened them. His lips trembled as he let out a shaky breath.

“You understand why I’m worried, don’t you mouse?”

"..."

“..I’ve done things, Jason. I've killed. I’ve dissected people. Dead and alive. I can’t go back now when I’m in too deep. Dad is gonna-”

“Bruce isn’t gonna do shit. And those people you’ve killed? The world would be better off without those petty crooks. Just come back.”

“..No.”

“No?”

You grit your teeth and push him away, getting up from the edge and backing away.

“You don’t understand. I’ve worked so hard..! You don’t just get to drag me back!” You were spiraling now. Jason followed after you, taking a few steps forward.

“Don’t.”

He froze and just watched as you scurried away, leaving him alone at the rooftop. He stood there for a few minutes and processed what just happened.

His jaw then clenched, veins popping out of his forehead. When the hell did you get so stubborn? Why couldn’t you just understand that he wants to protect you?

His mind went back to when you were rambling about what you’ve been doing for the last three years before his eyes glinted with dark intent, as if realizing what could be the source of your behavior.

…Silas, was it?

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was even holding once I got back to my apartment. I held onto the frame and closed my eyes, taking deep breaths.

..Inhale..exhale..inhale..exhale..

My eyes fluttered open and my chest went steady again. Damn it..so much for reunions. I hit my head against the wall and sighed, cursing myself internally.

My thoughts were then interrupted once I heard someone move inside the kitchen. I felt a pang of dread coil its way again into my gut as I slowly made my way towards the sound.

Taking out the gun from the one the bottom cabinets, I held it tightly and peeked inside, trying to see who was there. As I scanned the kitchen for intruders, I caught a glimpse of that familiar red and green color scheme.

Robin? Was it Tim? Did they find out?

I jumped out of my spot and aimed the gun at the intruder, only for it to fly out of my hands a second later. I blinked and looked down at the firearm now resting on the floor. Well, at least I tried.

“..tt... you could’ve done a better than try silly acts of defense such as that.” The boy scoffed, as if repulsed at the way I defended myself.

Wow, rude much?

I took a good long look at him, both wary and confused. I straightened myself up and finally spoke, still on my guard.

“Who the fuck are you?”

a/n: dont know whether or not i should like this chapter 🥲 hope ya'll enjoy!

Taglist: @shinning-stars ; @spiced-apple ; @yvanill4 ; @inayouboo ; @shqyou ; @lunar-celestial-artist ; @1abi ; @starsandshht ; @mentallyilldarling ; @misaki-kira8 ; @bloessom ; @amandjslpz ; @whoreforfictionalmen18 ; @cupid73 ; @neverano ; @ironsaladwitch ; @nonetookind ; @itsmossy ; @sad-girl09 ; @mys0cksrwet ; @vdkaredbullsblog ; @degenerates-posts ; @ratchetprime211 ; @yandereheros ; @marekmybeloved ; @panda7472 ; @senya-zimm ; @silveritydreams ; @cherriesherry ; @qc0rminix ; @vr00m-vr00m ; @otakusimp1 ; @time-shardz ; @alishii ; @rl800 ; @gluttonousriceflour ; @natllo ; @theall-seeingone ; @maskedvoyance ; @sereinitysmind ; @starssfall ; @ratatata-u ; @blapbloep ; @acreativeusername ; @chuuya-brainrot ; @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee ; @i-am-fork ; @tired-human09 ; @unclearblur ; @nymphzy0 ; @qardasngan ; @iamaunknownsecret ; @justwantsleepandcoffee ; @rae-codez ; @rebeccawinters ; @findingjaxx ; @cl0udii-m00n ; @wpdarlingpan ; @magdalenacarmila

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1-800-crazy · 1 month ago

Text

What Was Bought, What Was Taken

Eris Vanserra x Reader

summary: He asked for your hand like you were a favor to be traded. When the mating bond snaps in the Court of Nightmares, furious but powerless, you're taken to Autumn. word count: 5,310 content: [ coercion, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, mating bond, all warnings that come with Keir and the Hewn City, dead parents, mentions of abuse, keir is y/n's grandfather ] author's note: thanks anon for this request! sooo i didnt end up writing any smut for this. the tone it took on as i wrote just didnt have the vibe for that, and it wouldve felt really forced. also i felt a strange power imbalance when i tried; not something i’d usually shy away from writing but i think this was a really pretty piece and i didnt want to muddle it with dubcon yk ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

You walked fast—nearly jogged, if you were honest—through the narrow hallway that led to the Council Chamber, your heels catching against the smooth stone as you tried not to make too much noise. Your pulse was already high in your throat, pushed higher by the low, measured toll of the nearby bells. You were late. Again.

He was going to skin you alive.

Keir hadn’t said much this morning—just that the heir of Autumn would be joining him for “a conversation of mutual interest,” whatever that meant. You hadn’t asked questions. You’d learned by now that curiosity only invited irritation.

But still. Eris Vanserra didn’t come to the Hewn City for polite formalities. No one did. And Keir had been in a mood ever since the messenger confirmed the High Lord had set the meeting. He’d spent the morning stalking the halls like a male preparing for war.

Which meant you were walking in late to something very, very important.

You swore softly and slipped inside.

You hesitated at the heavy double doors of the Council Chamber, the low murmur of voices inside fading the moment you stepped over the threshold. The scent of burning incense mixed with cold stone filled your lungs. Your footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor as you moved forward, eyes deliberately fixed on the ground. As you crossed the room, the tension prickled at your skin.

“You’re late,” Keir’s voice was calm but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation.

The room quieted around him.

You stopped just shy of your chair, spine straightening instinctively.

You’d expected the reprimand. The public humiliation. He rarely missed an opportunity to remind you who held the reins.

Keir didn’t motion for you to sit. “Late,” he repeated, the word twisting with disdain. “As though your time is more valuable than mine. Than the court’s. Than our guest’s.”

You kept your gaze low, jaw tightening.

Keir rose slowly from his seat, not to tower but to command. His voice stayed even, deliberate. “I give you responsibility, and this is how you meet it? I allow you opportunities I would grant no other female. Not even your mother.”

You flinched.

“Do you think we can afford such carelessness?”

He didn’t wait for an answer—there never was room for one.

He turned slightly, gesturing toward Eris with an open palm. “Beron sends us his heir, a rare opportunity for diplomacy. And you walk in like a distracted servant girl, too absorbed in your own little errands to arrive on time.”

You felt the heat creeping up your neck.

“I bring you here to observe, to learn,” Keir continued, each word striking like a lash, “and instead, you’ve set an example I’d be ashamed to see from one of my lowest courtiers.”

Still standing, still silent, you braced yourself for the worst of it.

Keir waved a hand. “Apologize,” he said simply, resuming his seat. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself. You will not make one of me.”

Only then did you finally allow yourself to move.

You turned—slowly, deliberately—your movements stiff with the effort of keeping your expression blank. You didn’t rush, though your stomach twisted with the burn of humiliation. You kept your chin high anyway. You’d learned that from Keir: if you must be dragged, at least look like you walked of your own will.

You faced the heir of Autumn like you were stepping into a performance you hadn’t rehearsed.

Eris Vanserra.

He was exactly as you’d imagined—sharp angles and cool composure, seated like the chair belonged to him. His golden-red hair caught the torchlight, flickering like open flame, but his posture was still and unbothered. One ankle crossed over a knee, a single finger resting against the corner of his mouth. His gaze was unreadable. Not cold, but closed. Guarded.

He said nothing. Only watched.

And when your eyes met his—

Not gently. Not like the brushing of threads or a soft breath of recognition. It hit like a tether pulled taut all at once, yanked from the depths of your chest, snapping into place so violently it nearly knocked you back a step. Something inside you reeled, flinched—like a door long rusted shut had been forced open from the inside.

Your breath caught, too sharp, too sudden.

The world narrowed.

You felt it everywhere—like heat blooming low in your stomach, like your lungs weren’t your own, like your pulse had been dragged into rhythm with someone else’s. It was not pain, not exactly. But it was overwhelming. Terrifying. Your heart scrambled to understand what your body already knew: something irreversible had just happened. Something ancient and final.

It was as if an unknown magic inside you had reared its head for the first time in your life and whispered, there you are.

And he was the answer.

You couldn’t look away.

Didn’t dare blink. Not yet.

Eris’ posture didn’t shift. Not even a flicker of recognition across his face. He sat still as stone, gaze steady, unreadable. A master of silence. If his eyes were a fortress, his control was the outer wall—built stone by stone over years, and just as immovable.

But you—

Your face betrayed everything.

Your lips parted before you could stop them. Your breath stuttered once, then again, too shallow. The blood had drained from your fingertips and rushed to your throat. You felt your lashes flutter, a single blink too slow, too stunned.

And from the corner of your vision, you saw your grandfather’s head tilt—just slightly.

He had seen it.

And you knew, before you even looked at him, that he understood exactly what had happened.

The silence in the chamber stretched thinner than glass. A breath, then another. You could feel the air shift—not with magic, but with attention. Every gaze in the room was waiting. Watching.

Then Eris stood.

Not abruptly. Not with surprise. But like he had been planning to stand all along. Like your new bond had changed absolutely nothing.

You barely stopped yourself from stepping back. Your throat bobbed, dry.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He looked at Keir first, his expression unreadable. Not quite expectant—no, it was cooler than that. Measured. His eyes lingered a beat too long. Like he was assessing your grandfather, weighing something invisible.

Then he turned his gaze to you.

Slowly.

And for a moment—just a moment—you wondered what he saw.

Not the expression you’d failed to mask. Not the shock still ringing in your bones. But you. You. The girl your grandfather had hidden behind a hundred veils of courtly obedience. The girl who’d never, in all her fifty years, breathed real air or touched soil or seen the sun. Did he see that? Did he see a possession, or a person?

What does a male like that think when a bond snaps into place?

What does he do with it?

He turned back to Keir.

You braced yourself—he would speak now, you were sure of it. Would begin the negotiations, would play whatever game the two of them had arranged behind closed doors. You knew how this worked. You knew how your story was supposed to be told.

But he didn’t go to Keir.

He came to you.

You froze.

He crossed the room without hesitation, the distance vanishing beneath the sure, easy weight of his steps. And then he was before you—taller, closer than you’d ever expected.

His fingers found yours, gloved hand brushing bare skin. And without asking, without hesitating, he lifted your hand to his mouth.

And kissed it.

Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze never leaving yours.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You couldn’t answer. Your voice stuck behind your teeth, behind the shock, behind the weight of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure your lungs had remembered how to pull air.

Then he turned, your hand still in his.

As if you had already agreed.

As if your silence meant yes.

As if you were already behind him.

“I’d like her hand,” he said, gaze returning to Keir. “Formally. As mate. As future lady of Autumn.”

The words didn’t seem real.

You heard them. You understood each one. But they landed out of order, scattered, like someone had tipped your mind sideways and let your thoughts spill into a pile.

Her hand. Mate. Lady of Autumn.

Was this—was this a proposal? A declaration? A transaction?

Your heart was still beating too fast. Your palm still burned faintly where his mouth had touched it. The bond hummed along your spine and through each rib like a second heartbeat, louder now, more insistent, as though it was pleased with itself for being named.

But your body hadn’t caught up with your brain. You felt removed from it—like you were standing in the wrong version of yourself. The version that would have looked to her grandfather for approval. That would have nodded, smiled, curtsied, spoken her lines.

You weren’t smiling now.

He had asked for you. Claimed you. Not in metaphor, not in theory, not in the slow-burn romantic sense you’d once imagined while reading contraband books in the dim corners of your room.

No—he had asked for you like you were an estate: measurable, ownable, transferable.

You opened your mouth. You weren’t even sure what you meant to say. Maybe No, maybe What are you doing, maybe just your own name to remind the room you had one.

But whatever it was, it didn’t make it past your tongue.

“Vanserra,” your grandfather said smoothly, eyes narrowed just enough to reveal his doubt. “You expect me to believe you would bind yourself, your future court, to someone you’ve not yet had a full conversation with?”

His voice was amused. Skeptical. But not insulted.

Not dismissive.

And that, somehow, made the panic press tighter behind your ribs.

You’d thought—naively, maybe—that your grandfather would laugh. That he’d bristle with offense. That he’d dismiss Eris’s request outright, just for the insult of asking.

But instead, Keir was considering it.

That amusement in his tone wasn’t mockery—it was interest, cloaked in skepticism. Testing the weight of the offer. Looking for the angle.

Your fingers curled in on themselves slowly, like your body was trying to reclaim what had been taken, as if you could reverse it, undo it, pull back from the moment and make it a mistake someone else had made.

Eris didn’t flinch beneath Keir’s scrutiny. His stance remained relaxed—too relaxed. He finally released you in favor of clasping both hands behind his back, chin slightly lifted.

“Curious choice,” Keir mused, voice light with false interest. “Hardly the most advantageous offer on the table.”

A pause. Your face heated.

“I don’t make decisions I haven’t already considered in full,” Eris said. “And I don’t waste time asking for what I don’t intend to keep.”

A faint smirk touched his lips, but it wasn’t cruel. It was worse than cruel—it was calm. Certain.

“Let that be answer enough.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

That was the story, then. That was how they’d frame it. As strategy. As inevitability.

Your mouth parted again, and this time, words came. Shaky, quiet.

“I haven’t—”

“Be silent,” Keir said, without looking at you.

And just like that, your voice vanished again.

Not by magic. By command.

By obedience.

You looked at Eris then. You wanted to see something—anything—in his face. Doubt, maybe. Hesitation. Some flicker of recognition that this was wrong, or too much, or too fast.

But there was only stillness.

Keir leaned back in his chair with the ease of a male who had just found himself holding the sharpest blade in the room.

“And here I thought,” he said, almost idly, “you’d come to posture and circle, like every other male with a title to defend.” His fingers drummed once against the armrest.

Eris didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Keir let the silence settle before continuing, voice shifting—cooler now, more precise. “She wasn’t part of the original arrangement. Not in any meaningful way.”

You flinched, barely, at the word meaningful.

“She’s young. Inexperienced. Untried in court or politics. I wouldn’t call her… an asset.”

Your stomach turned.

“But,” Keir went on, tone sharpening, “it seems the bond has given her value. At least to you.”

He smiled then, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes.

“So let’s discuss what her hand is worth.”

It was like being stripped bare in the center of the room—like the torchlight itself was meant to spotlight your stillness, your silence, your helplessness. You didn’t know if they saw you blush or pale or tremble. You didn’t think it mattered.

They weren’t looking at you anymore.

Only at what you could buy.

“What do you offer, Vanserra?” Keir asked, gaze gleaming. “Because I can promise you, I don’t sell cheaply.”

The faint flicker of torchlight caught the sharp angles of Eris’ face, casting shadows that made him look almost carved from stone. His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest curve touching his lips—not quite a smile, but close. He leaned forward, his voice low, measured.

“You won’t find a more valuable alliance, Keir.”

He let the words hang between them.

“I offer the full backing of Autumn once I am its High Lord—its armies, its resources, its influence. A bond with me is a bond with the power of my court.”

His gaze flicked briefly to you, cool and appraising, then back to Keir.

“This union will strengthen your hold on the Hewn City, and send a clear message to any who would challenge you.”

He paused, voice dipping with a quiet threat.

“Turn away from this offer, and you risk everything Autumn’s power can undo.”

The room grew heavier with unspoken implications.

Your grandfather’s smile was thin but sharp. “Bold words. But fitting for the Vanserra heir.”

Keir leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he studied Eris for a long moment. Then, at last, he nodded slowly, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.

“Very well,” he said with deliberate finality. “The alliance is formed. The hand is promised.”

His gaze snapped to you, sharp and unyielding. “You have thirty minutes.”

The weight of his words fell like a stone in your chest.

There was no room for protest. No space to bargain or plead.

This was not a question.

This was command.

Keir rose from his chair, gathering his cloak with a casual authority that brooked no argument.

“Leave us.”

You swallowed hard, every nerve taut, as you turned on unsteady legs, the silent watch of Eris burning at your back.

The path ahead was certain. And terrifying.

You closed the heavy chamber door behind you with a muted click, but the weight of the moment pressed against your chest so hard it felt like stone. Your knees wobbled, breath shallow and uneven, as you leaned against the cold wall just outside the Council Chamber.

The words kept spinning through your mind, relentless: You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes.

Your mind scrambled to make sense of it all. You’d been dealt like a pawn, bargained over like a piece of trade—no voice, no choice, no say. And yet, beneath the shock and numbness, something deeper roiled.

Not just because Eris had asked for your hand without so much as a conversation, but because your grandfather had agreed so easily, like you were a thing, not a person. Like your life, your future, was a token to be wagered.

You hated the quiet calm in the chamber, hated the way Eris had kissed your hand like it was a prize, hated the way you’d frozen when you wanted to scream.

You wanted to yell. To fight. To rip the whole arrangement apart.

But mostly, you hated the emptiness.

When you finally reached your chambers, the door swung open to reveal the room you had grown up in—familiar, but suddenly stripped bare of comfort.

You stared around at your belongings. A handful of dresses neatly hung or folded, books lined on a shelf, a worn cloak hanging by the door. Nothing worth packing.

What was there to take with you when everything you were about to leave behind was all you’d ever known?

You sank onto the edge of your bed, hands clenched in your lap. The silence screamed louder than the council ever had.

You forced yourself to stand, to move, to do what you had to do.

First, you found your friends. You avoided their eyes at first, unsure how to explain what was happening—or how to bear the pity you already saw lurking there. But they hugged you tight, whispered promises and farewells.

Then, you made your way to the cremation grounds—an austere place carved into the stone, where your parents’ ashes rested beneath a polished granite marker.

You knelt, fingertips tracing the cool surface, and whispered a goodbye you hadn’t dared to say aloud until now. The names carved into the stone were tethers, memories heavy as iron.

They had never seen the surface. Never felt true sun, never lived anywhere but in this damn mountain. Born, bound, and buried beneath it. Your chest ached at the thought.

You closed your eyes, let the silence stretch—let it echo with everything you couldn’t give them. Everything they should’ve had. The dust of their memory settled quietly around you as you rose, a small flame of resolve kindling in your chest.

“I’ll wait, if you need more time.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as turn to look at him. His voice didn’t startle so much as settle—low and composed, like the rest of him. But still unexpected.

For a long moment, you just stared at the stone. At your parents’ names carved into it, slightly worn by time and your fingertips.

“I can’t say I expected you to be here,” you said quietly.

And then—because curiosity always got the better of you, and because something in you bristled at the fact that it was him standing there—you turned.

He was standing a careful distance away. Hands clasped behind his back, gaze on the marker like he owed it something.

“I would have brought flowers,” Eris said after a beat. “If I’d known.”

“They weren’t the type.” Your voice cracked a little. “Anything sentimental would’ve embarrassed them.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Practical, then. Like you.”

You bristled. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he conceded, meeting your eyes. “Not yet.”

Something in the way he said it—not with the arrogance you heard before, but something quieter, steadier—made your throat tighten.

“I’m still angry,” you admitted, folding your arms like you could hold the feeling in place.

Eris nodded once, slowly. “You have every right to be.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared at the stone again, at the faint lichen creeping over the edge. It unsettled you, how easily he’d said that. How quickly he’d handed you that piece of ground to stand on. You weren’t used to your feelings being named, let alone validated. It felt like a trick. Like something sharp might be hidden beneath it.

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” he said, voice low. “But it was the best way to get Keir to let you go.”

You glanced at him, wary. “You bought me.”

His jaw tensed. “No. I negotiated a release. From a court that would never stop holding this bond over our heads.”

Your silence stretched a little too long.

“I know,” he went on, quieter now, “that Rhysand wouldn’t have allowed me to set foot in the Night Court again if it meant keeping me away from you. Not if Morrigan had anything to say about it.”

You blinked.

And then—gods. Morrigan.

Your aunt Morrigan. Your father’s sister.

This was the male she’d been promised to. The male she’d “sullied” herself to escape. Your whole life, your family had cursed her name. Called her tainted. Faithless. A disgrace to her bloodline. Whispers you’d grown up hearing, sharp as knives tucked behind closed doors. That she’d betrayed her own. That she’d been ungrateful for the match.

But now… after having to stand in silence as you were bartered…

Now you finally understood.

What kind of cruelty had she been trying to avoid?

Surely not worse than what you’d seen in the Hewn City. Surely not worse than what you had endured under Keir’s thumb.

But the question clung like smoke, refusing to leave you.

“So this is it, then?” You gestured to the empty stone corridor. “This is how it starts?”

Eris didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he studied you, the weight of his gaze something you couldn’t quite avoid. And then, as if the weight of it had become too much, he said, “No. This is how it was forced to begin. What comes next… that’s something we decide.”

You believed him. And it infuriated you. Because believing him meant accepting that this—this loss of control—had been the cleanest option. That all the quiet fury in your chest had nowhere to go.

After a long pause, Eris stepped forward. “Take my hand,” he said quietly, extending his gloved fingertips toward you. His tone wasn’t gentle—merely firm, as if it carried the weight of inevitability. “It would be my pleasure to welcome you to Autumn.”

At those words, your heart lurched. You had never stepped beyond the Hewn City, never ventured to the surface where a world existed beyond cold stone and perpetual shadow. The thought alone made you shudder with both apprehension and a spark of fragile hope.

Before you could protest, Eris murmured, “Please. Trust me—even if you can’t fully do so right now.”

And then, his hand pressed to your arm. At his command, your surroundings began to shift. At first, it was subtle—a soft darkening of the edges of your vision, as though a veil were draped over the world. The corridor’s harsh, angular stone and the ever-present damp chill faded into a deeper gloom, the familiar replaced by an almost dreamlike dusk.

The subtle shift in sensation, like the brush of silk over your mind. The way color and texture pulled away from you slightly—not gone, not dulled, but… filtered.

Your stomach clenched.

“What did you do?” you demanded, already blinking hard against the strange dimness. “You glamoured me.”

“Yes.”

“Why—”

“I didn’t want it to overwhelm you,” Eris said, voice steady but not unkind. “You’ve never seen the sun. Not really. I thought easing you into it might be… gentler.”

It should’ve infuriated you. It did—for a breath. But even through the soft, unnatural dimness, you could feel something shifting in the air around you.

Your eyes dropped to the ground.

Leaves.

Thousands of them, scattered in every direction, mottled gold and rust-red and brown. Some crisp, curled in on themselves; others flattened by the damp, pressed into the dirt like forgotten pages.

The ground was dirt. Dirt.

And you were standing on it. Not stone. Not carved, cursed floors. Just—ground.

Your knees wobbled.

You tried to look up—to follow the drifting fall of a leaf—and froze again.

The glamour had begun to lift. Slowly, gradually, but it made all the difference.

Light filtered through in ribbons. Warm and golden, but not the artificial flickering of faelights or the guttering orange of torches. It hit the edge of your face and you jerked away, blinking rapidly, hand lifting on instinct.

You turned, staring at the strange, living world around you. Everything moved. Not like it did in the Hewn City, where the only shifting things were people and shadows and smoke. Here, even the air moved. The trees swayed. The grass trembled. Light dappled and danced without ever once flickering out.

There were no books about this.

Why would there be?

What need would any of you have to understand this, when you were never meant to leave?

The surface was spoken of in fragments, in dismissals wrapped in soft smiles. Your parents had told you once—when you were young and asking too many questions—that they’d gone up, years ago. That it was nothing special. More stone. More dark. Just bigger. Emptier. That the Hewn City was safer, more efficient. Cleaner. The lie had worked for a while. You were a child who still believed adults wouldn’t lie for no reason.

But you remembered their faces when they eventually admitted the truth: they’d never been above ground.

Not once.

But oh, how they’d wanted to.

They didn’t know what waited for them up here. Didn’t know what the air felt like when it didn’t cling. Didn’t know that cold could come from something other than absence. They didn’t know what it was to hear the earth breathe.

They never got to find out.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and uneven. The glamour loosened its hold over your sight like fingers unthreading from your hair, slow, gradual, calm. You were starting to see more, now—color edging its way in around the world.

Something darted between two tree trunks ahead. You flinched. It flapped.

A bird. Not like the crows some kept in the Hewn City—those clever-eyed, miserable things bred for messages and menace. This one was bright. Red all over. Smaller, rounder. It seemed… unnecessary. Beautiful in a way that served no purpose at all.

And the air. You hadn’t realized before—it was scented. Not perfumed, not thick with the smell of candles and sweat and opium or whatever poison the courts were drinking. This was sharp. Crisp. Like snow, but not quite. Like spice, but not any kind you’d tasted. It filled your lungs, slid into your mouth and over your tongue. It was—

Alive.

So was the cold. Not the heavy, hollow kind that leached from stone walls and seeped into your bones while you sat still for too long. This cold had movement. It brushed your cheekbones, bit at your fingers, made your teeth press together—but the sunlight, wherever it touched you, answered it. Like they were playing. Like they were supposed to exist together.

The light was almost fully clear now.

You squinted up, following the glow that filtered through high branches, and—

“Ow—fuck,” you muttered, jerking back a step.

Eris shifted in front of you before you could blink. “Yeah,” he said, amused. “Don’t look straight at the sun. Even mortals know better than that.”

You rubbed your eyes, half-glaring at him. “Thanks for the tip.”

But even now, blinking past the blur, the world stayed. The trees. The grass. The slow roll of clouds, and the strange freedom of air that didn’t sit stale and pressed against a ceiling. It was too much. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to do with it all.

A whisper, so quiet you weren’t sure at first if you imagined it: “Turn around.”

You did. Slowly. The way he’d said it—low, reverent—it pinned you still.

“And don’t make a sound,” he added, barely audible. “Just look.”

You turned.

And the world opened again.

A small clearing spread before you, rimmed by trees. And in it—movement. Dozens of them. More. Creatures you couldn’t name. Slender, long-legged, soft-eyed. Some with antlers that curved like branches, others smaller, delicate, trailing behind.

Eris leaned in close, voice barely more than breath. “The ones with antlers? Those are bucks—the males.” You watched as they stepped, and grazed, and flicked their ears.

“The others are does. And…” His smile warmed his words. “Looks like they’ve got fawns with them. Babies.”

They didn’t look real.

They looked like myths given flesh—gentle and silent and unreal in their serenity. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t remember how.

One of the younger ones looked up, ears twitching. It stared directly at you.

And for one impossibly long second, you felt seen in a way no one from the Hewn City had ever dared to look.

Not as something to be shaped. Not as a petulant granddaughter. Not as a tool.

Just… someone standing in the woods.

Alive.

The fawn blinked. Its ears flicked once more. Then it turned, unafraid, and trotted after its mother through the trees.

You didn’t realize your fingers had curled into Eris’s sleeve until he shifted to glance down at them. You let go at once, heart lurching, but he said nothing.

The clearing quieted again, the herd melting into the underbrush as if they’d never been there at all. But the stillness they left behind was different. Settled. And full.

“I didn’t think anything like that could exist,” you whispered, like the words might scare the memory off too. You looked back to where the deer had vanished. “They weren’t afraid of us.”

“No,” he said. “They didn’t need to be.”

A breeze stirred the trees, and sunlight flickered between the leaves like rippling gold. Somewhere overhead, a bird you didn’t know the name of called out—sharp and clear and free.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. Not because you were cold.

There was moss, impossibly green, clinging to the north side of the trees. Clusters of wildflowers pushing up through soft earth, in shades too delicate to name. A squirrel—tiny, absurdly fast—scrambled up a trunk nearby and vanished into the leaves with a rustle. Even the rocks here didn’t seem lifeless. Sun-warmed and dappled in lichen, they felt like they belonged to the scene, not just cluttered it.

And when you turned back, Eris was looking at you.

His smile was soft. Crooked. Lit not by torchfire, but something gentler. And his eyes—amber, bright as honey in the sun—sparkled with it.

You blinked at him. “What?”

He tilted his head, just a bit. “You’re smiling.”

You were.

Big and bright and wide and completely unrestrained. Not the practiced curve you offered at court. Not the polite, tight-lipped expression your family had called pretty when appropriate.

This was something else. A whole-body kind of smile. A laugh trying to form even though nothing had been said. And you hadn’t even noticed.

Heat crept to your cheeks. “Oh.”

Eris didn’t tease you for it. Didn’t smirk or say something sharp. He only studied you, as if trying to memorize the exact shape of it.

His voice was quiet when he spoke again. Not uncertain, exactly, but… careful. Like the words mattered more than they usually did.

“Would you…” He hesitated, just a beat. His gaze flicked away, then returned to yours. “Would you like to see more? Take a walk?”

He said it like he wasn’t sure if you’d want to go—with him, specifically. Because it hadn’t occurred to him, maybe, that someone might say yes to something like this. To him, like this.

The breeze rustled again, lifting strands of his hair where it had slipped loose from the ribbon at his nape. In the sunlight, it was all shades of flame—copper and gold, a glint of red. His coat had caught some of the forest too: a few leaves clung to the velvet near his shoulder, unnoticed. His collar was slightly askew.

He looked nothing like the High Lord’s heir here. Nothing like the snarling, coiled force you’d seen before.

He just looked… warm. And waiting. One arm extended in quiet offering, elbow bent like some chivalrous male out of an old tale. Like he meant to escort you, not lead.

You slipped your hand into the crook of his arm.

He didn’t start walking right away—just stood there a moment, like he was letting you decide when to begin. And when you finally did, your steps slow and quiet beneath the trees, he matched them without question.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The woods did enough talking for you.

“There’s no rush,” Eris said, softly. “Take it as slowly as you like.”

You glanced up at him, but his gaze stayed ahead, following the winding path.

“We’ve got nothing but time.”

It sounded like he meant the walk.

But you knew better.

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1-800-crazy · 1 month ago

Text

Please, don't leave me! - Azriel x Reader Part 1

Plot: Daughter of Day and Night, Hellion being your father and a Illyrian Warrior being your mother made you one of the most controversial people to walk Prythian. Hellion protected you for most of his life but with war on the rise it's getting harder.

"Father" you smile at Hellion as you walk into the sunlit dining room where he was sat reading a book from the library. You didn't know what the book was about, it seemed like one your father wouldn't let you get your hands on. That proved correct when he lightly closed the book at the sound of your voice and appearance in front of him.

"Hello, my little light. How are you today" he says placing the book down on the chair next to him.

"I'm well, I woke up in good time despite staying up last night to chart the stars! I knew you had that important meeting today" you smile softly taking a seat opposite him.

"We, have an important meeting" he says, sipping at the tea that the maids had given him earlier on as it wasn't steaming like the fresh one that had been placed in front of you was.

"Thank you" you smile kindly to the maids, Cerfel who'd also placed your fruit breakfast infront of you. "We father? I imagined i'd be staying here?" you ask, confusion across your face at the idea that your father wanted you there. Of course he'd trained you in all kinds of politics and warfare but he'd done so well keeping you away from official meetings that you assumed you wouldn't be invited until your father deemed you adult enough to deal with it despite being over 150 years old.

"Yes, we! Your mother will be attending the Dawn Court as Escort to the High Lady and her sisters and has requested that she see's you" he says, his tone a little clipped as if it was something he was dreading. And if you were being honest, so were you.

Your mother hadn’t reached out in nearly 100 years, so why now?

"Why? She barely acknowledges my existence" you say, stuffing some of the juicy cut fruit into your mouth, chewing whilst holding eyecontact with your father.

"I know, darling. Come let us choose a gown for you to wear today!" He says taking a step away from the table coming round to your side and holding a hand out for you. You take it with a sigh, before smiling and kissing his head.

"Thank you"

Once in your room you and your father, with the help of your maid go through potential options. Hellion however had his mind on one dress he'd had the seamstress make you for your 100th birthday. Sky blue in colour, golden accents coming down the bodice and silk fabric that fell down around you making it look like soft waves of water or clouds were surrounding you.

You put it on with help from your made who later starts to style your hair and give you bangles and rings only in gold and sky blue. After your daidem was placed on your head, sun shapes across the spikes pointing up.

"The true Princess of Day, you make me so proud!" he smiles.

Before you know it, your father is winnowing the pair of you to the Dawn Court Palace that he was very much acquainted with.

“Thesan” he smiles pulling the male in for a hug.

“Hellion, always a pleasure. But even more of a pleasure to grant us the presence of your gorgeous daughter” Thesan says, colour rising to your tan cheeks.

“Thank you High Lord” you say, bowing slightly to him which only elicits a laugh from him.

“No need to do that Princess. We don’t have such rash formalities for Princess’ here” he offers and you nod, before he directs you and your father to the main room where everyone already is waiting.

“We were late?” You whisper to him, to which your dad shakes his head.

“A high lord is never late” he says before strutting over to Kallias and Tarquin. You remain behind awkwardly shuffling. You could feel gazes on you which made the anxiety worse.

Turning your head you spot the night court. Their High Lord and Lady, Rhysand and Feyre who you’d spotted when you’d been trapped under the mountain, Cassian and Azriel, Feyre’s two sisters and finally your eyes land on your mother who is fussing about Nesta’s hair.

Rhysand was the first gaze that you caught, his purple eyes wide as he looked over you. He could immediately tell you were like him. Half Illyrian which meant you were both able to conceal your wings.

Then you felt Feyre’s gaze join her mates, obviously he’d said something to her, a gasp coming from her. Which led to Azriel being more attentive to what had gained his high lady’s attention.

He’d been watching Elain, entranced by her beauty yet again. But when his eyes landed on you the world seemed to slow down. All voices that were currently going on seemed to be drowned out and all he could focus on was you. Everything about you. He went to step forward but was stopped by Rhys who had been unfortunate enough to enter his mind just as Azriel’s thoughts became lewd.

She’s your mate? Rhysand’s voice entered his mind snapping him out of his bubble of joy after finding his mate after all this time. 500 years of waiting and here she was, as radiant as the sun during the day and as captivating as a moonlit night.

Yes

Az, I know you’ve waited longer than most, but you have to wait a little longer. Rhys offers and Azriels gaze snaps to his but before he could question it the meeting started.

You still had yet to look at him and Azriel could feel that the bond hadn’t snapped for you yet which frustrated him increasingly. Your gaze was solely on Cisca, Feyre, Nesta and Elain’s sworn protector.

The gaze wasn’t one he could pin and Azriel prided himself of the way he was easily able to read people. But you were like a blank when he looked.

And he kept looking at you hoping that finally your eyes would meet his.

The meeting ended, an agreement made between the courts. You’d gotten up, excusing yourself from your father walking out the room and down the corridor. Azriel sunk into his shadows following her as she left.

“Y/N” a voice calls and it almost makes Azriel loose concentration.

So that was your name, he couldn’t help but think to himself. He wanted to desperately test the word on his tongue to see how it would sound but he knew he had to remain quiet.

You stopped in your tracks, pausing but not turning to look at Cisca. Azriel was confused as to why Feyre’s guard was here talking to you.

As you turn round, and Azriel sees the two of you opposite one another his eyes widen. You’d of course taken after Hellion, after all he was a High Lord and carried the dominant gene, but what shocked him was the uncanny resemblance you held to this Illyrian woman.

“My daughter” she smiles confirming what Azriel had thought.

“Mother” his mate replies with all the angst in the world, a grit in her tone Azriel wished he would never hear directed at him.

“I - you’ve grown into such a beautiful young fae my dear. You are … glowing” she smiles before stepping closer. “Let me see them darling” she says and you knew what she meant, as you revealed wings that hadn’t been there before. Ones you’d hidden. They were long leathery ones like his that he hadn’t expected.

They were concealable like Rhysands where you were only half Illyrian.

“My daughter. I’m so so sorry my duty has kept me away from you. I’ve wished nothing more than to spend time with you. And … if you want the High Lord has given me permission to house you in the Night Court whenever you desire” she adds and you look at her with a frown.

“I never want to go to that place” you say venom in your tone.

“But - I thought I could make up for lost time. Please you have to understand Y/N, I’m under duty to Rhysand and his father before him” she says and tears brim in your eyes.

“I’m happy in the day court with the father who raised me when my mother dropped me on his doorstep unable to care for me! I’m happy with the man who raised me to be both compassionate and combative. The man who taught me how to break spells and curses, using the ability he gave me. Then man who stuck by my side whenever anyone would question my wings as a child because I didn’t understand how to conceal them! So no, I will not take up your late invitation. I don’t want anything to do with the night court!” You say, all while tears are streaming down your face.

“Y/N please” she begs, a horrible look of begging and panic on her face.

“Cisca” a voice joins the conversation and it’s your father who you run over to, his arms open and waiting for you.

“What are you doing?” He asks looking at the woman who once used to very much love.

“I just wanted time” she says, a sad twinge in her tone.

“I’ll talk to her, get yourself back to your court. Please Cisca” he whispers to her, pain in his own heart knowing how horrible it must feel. He wouldn’t probably go insane at the thought of you not wanting to be around him.

“Please promise me you’ll try convince her” she says, tears in her green eyes.

“Of course” he says before kissing her head swiftly ending the conversation. He then led the pair of you away out the corridor and back to where Thesan was.

“You can come out now Azriel” Cisca says making him curse under his breath before he rounds the corner from a dark spot he’d been hiding in.

“Im sorry” he apologises.

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1-800-crazy · 1 month ago

Text

Warm Hands and New Flavors

Azriel x Reader Fic

Plot: Reader is a new member of Rhysands court, being extracted from the Hewn City for her unique abilities. She can taste dishonesty, like metal in her mouth. She’s sent on her first mission with Azriel to obtain information at a ball, which has her reeling as their interactions are a little more intimate than she expected. (I know GIF is a corset but walk with me please).

No warnings that I can think of. Bad writing lmao

You had never been on a mission with Azriel, and to be honest, you are quite nervous. You were fairly new to working with the inner circle, and didn’t want to mess anything up. Especially in front of the Shadowsinger. You knew that you were very skilled at what you did, but that didn’t stop your anxiety when thinking about showing Azriel. Rhysan had pulled you because of your talents, being both very charismatic but good at obtaining information.

You had began using your skill set against Keir in the Hewn City. Your parents were nobles of the Court of Nightmares, so you found yourself sitting at Kier’s table quite often. You were able to discuss and listen in on his plans on a regular basis, being able to detect when the people around you were being dishonest about their plans. A particular skill set that you had aside from detecting lies, was being able to extract information. You were able to ask questions and obtain information in a way that people didn’t detect. This is where your charisma came in, as an interrogation was disguised as an engaging conversation. When nobles or Kier were up to no good in the court, you were able to detect their truths and their lies and act out against them. You really only rebelled against them because you knew that they were evil. You knew that their plans were simply to divide the Night Court, when in reality you knew that the Night Court should be united. Both the court of nightmares and the rest of the court. You didn’t know what was beyond your own little world, but you would soon find out when Rhysand caught on to your antics.

As a new member of Rhysands team, you had just started learning and training. Rhysand had already sent to you on a few missions with Cassian, and had even brought you to some meetings of his own. Most of your time here in the court had been used to extract information from conversations. Whether that be in Illyria with the women that were putting up with the males, or with allies in the war room.

Now, however, Rhysand wanted you to go on a mission with Azriel to the Winter Court. Kalias was throwing a ball for people from all over Prythian. He wanted involvement from all the courts to demonstrate a union among the High Lords. Although things have been going well between the High lords, Rhysand wanted to use this as an opportunity to learn from the other courts. And by learn, he means to use his secret weapon. You.

“Are you ready to go?” Azriel asked as he stepped into your room. You glanced up and saw his blank stare, his shadows coiling tightly around his shoulders.

“Yes! How are we getting there?” you prompted. You had sat down on the bench to begin lacing up your boots. Azriel’s eyes were fixed on you and the movement of your hands as he replied.

“I’m going fly us to Dawn, and then we will use the shadows to travel the rest of the way.”

You stood up and grabbed your pack, handing it to azriel to store in the shadows. He took the bag from your hand, your hands lightly brushing together. The contact made you slightly gasp, but also blush. His hands were so warm, you had heard about Illyrian body temperature, but still hadn’t gotten used to it. You looked down at his hands and he quickly retreated, putting his hands behind his back. You both walked toward the balcony of the House of Wind, and he picked you up bridal style.

His hands were just so warm, they felt so good on your slightly chilled skin.

“Hold on tight, we’re going to be flying for awhile.” And with that, Azriel shot off toward the sky, his powerful wings beating against the wind.

Upon landing in the winter court, you were greeted by one of Calus’ palace attendants. They led you and Azriel to two rooms, and informed you both that they would be connected by a bathroom in the middle. You both looked at one another and shrugged, before heading into your respective rooms.

Upon entering your room, you were hit with a sudden wave of nerves. This was your first opportunity to work with Azriel. You were pretty intimidated by him, as a lot of your work that you have been doing in the Hewn City overlapped with his skill set, I mean, you were spying and extracting information which were two of his specialties. You just didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the master, or seem like you were stepping on his toes.

This was your area of expertise too though. Rhysand wanted you to converse and interact with the various people from the different courts. Especially emissaries and Nobles. He seemed to think that they would be holding onto information that may be used to the Night Courts advantage. Although Azriel is really good at obtaining information, Rhys knew that you would be able to do this instantaneously. You are good at what you did because of your ability to converse with people and interrogate while making it seem like small talk. People engaged with you and shared information, whether that be truth or lie that would be for you to detect, but they revealed information to you nonetheless.

Azriel had already given you your pack, so now you were getting ready for the ball. You had already done your hair and makeup, but you were seriously struggling with putting on your dress (this is somewhat what I’m imaging https://www.instagram.com/reel/CwiaTbTIqp0/?igsh=YnU0eW01aTI5ZzM4) Rhysand had supplied it, but he must not have thought about how you would put it on. It had a million (or more) tiny buttons going up your back, which had steam coming out of your ears at this point. You were staring over your shoulder at your back in the mirror, about ready to rip the dress to shreds, when you heard slight tapping at your bathroom door.

“Come in” you shouted, knowing only one person could be on the other side.

“Are you almost ready?” Azriel said as he opened the door. His eyes landed on you and you heard a sharp, almost undetectable exhale. You were still standing in front of the mirror, probably looking frustrated. You felt your cheeks get rosy, embarrassed by your bare back on display and the fact the he was looking at you with his full attention.

“Yes actually, but I’m seriously struggling. I’m considering actually getting into a physical altercation with Rhysand for picking this dress. I can’t close it on my own. Could you help me?” You felt so stupid for asking, and even stupider for rambling in front of him. Gods why did this man make you so nervous. You could answer that, he was so attractive and his presence alone intimidated you… in a good way you thought.

“Of course” he whispered as he walked over to you. You turned around so that you could face the mirror. Watching from the reflection as he approached your back.

“May I?” He nodded toward your dress, and you silently nodded, tracking his every movement. For your first mission, this felt very intimate. You could feel his breath at the tips of your ears, he was standing so close. But what made it feel even more intimate is when you felt his warm hands at the base of your spine. It was something about those hands, their warmth, that had you leaning into his touch and blushing. He worked slowly, being gentle with every single button along your spine. You could feel his knuckles, dragging across the fabric as he worked his way up. You couldn’t help but just watch him in the mirror, occasionally catching his eyes as he looked back up at you, which made you avert then your eyes.

“Do you want me to tie this bit at the top too?” he said as he gesture toward the straps hanging at the front of your dress.

“Yes please, I would appreciate that” you breathed. This entire interaction was leaving you reeling. You had never gotten to work with this man, and now he was helping you get dressed. He tied the string at your neck, his fingers lingering just a second too long at the base of your neck, before he pulled away and put his hands in his pockets.

“Are you ready now?” He asked, making eye contact through the reflection. Your eyes narrowed at him.

“Wait, what exactly is the plan? I’m ready, but are we doing anything specific” You asked and he shrugged. The Spymaster, Shawdowsinger, this Illyrian warrior, shrugged at you. So… no plan?

“I was just going to let you do your thing. I’m intrigued to see how you operate. And in all honesty, we are just here to gather some intel, harmlessly. We can also enjoy ourselves while we’re here. Pretty low stakes mission. And, my only job is to introduce you as a new member of our court” he explained, and you had finally turned around at this point. He somehow felt lighter than all the other times you’d encountered him, like he was looking forward to this little mission he was assigned with you. But it still set you on edge, especially how he was interested in your methods.

“Easy enough. Training wheels I guess” you sighed as you walked toward your bedroom door to exit, Azriel in tow.

After conversing with some nobles from the autumn court, you discovered that Byron seem to be building up an army. For what? You didn’t know. But apparently, he had been rallying troops together, recruiting from the families of his ‘subjects.’ You thought that would be some good information to relay back to Azriel and Rhys. Azriel had left you to your own antics throughout the night. He knew that people would be more willing to share information with you if he wasn’t hovering over your shoulder, but you kind of wish he had stayed by your side. You liked his presence. It brought you a set of comfort as you explored this new world of spying/Intel gathering.

You looked around the room for Azriel, but he was nowhere to be found. At least nowhere that you could find him, so you headed to the drink table and grabbed a glass of wine. You took a slow sip, enjoying the flavors as they hit your tongue. Winter Court had some good wine, the rich flavor of plums were hitting your taste buds in all the right way. Your eyes somewhat rolled back when you heard someone say,

“The wine must be really good” Azriel smirked. You couldn’t believe your eyes and your ears. Everything you had heard about Azriel was at odds with the male before you. He was playful and gentle (at least with your buttons).

“Try some” you shot back, and he reached for your glass. You gave him a look that said “I’m not sharing” so he opted for a glass on the table. Azriel took a slow drink, you watching intently as he swallowed, tracking the movement of his lips and throat. What was wrong with you and being so acutely aware of this male?

“Do you like it?” You lightly shook your head, trying to rid yourself of any weird thoughts. Azriel nodded, taking another drink.

“Find out anything interesting?” He asked, causing you to look around. You didn’t want to discuss while you were out in the open, so you simply nodded and glanced toward the rest of the ball.

“I still have more people to talk to” you sighed. You had gotten that information, that came easily. The Autumn court folks easily shared their thoughts on Byron’s movements.

“I like watching you work the room” he admitted, and his compliment brought a taste to your mouth. But not metallic. It tasted… good, which had never happened before. Usually you could only taste dishonesty but this tasted sweet like… admiration or maybe something else. Something you liked.

“Why?” You couldn’t help the furrow of your brows and your head tilt to the side, truly confused by this notion.

“I don’t know. You just naturally engage with people, and they give you information so easily, almost like they trust you. Have you sensed any dishonesty tonight?” He asked, as he took ahold of your hand and led you to the dance floor. They were playing some slower music, but loud enough to mask the conversation you were having.

“Not yet, have any lies to share Shadowsinger?” You slide one hand into his, and the other around his neck. He slid one hand around your waist, the tips of his fingers nudging at your buttons. You couldn’t get over the warmth of his hands. It was so comforting.

“Hmmm… my favorite color is red.” He said, watching you carefully. You clenched your jaw, the awful taste of metal filling your mouth.

“I shouldn’t have asked” you cringed as he let out a soft laugh at your expression.

“Are you always this dramatic?” He questioned, a smile in his tone.

“No. That just tasted especially bad.” You both giggled, but you were still thinking about why it tasted so intense. He leaned in and whispered,

“Well, here’s a truth. You look beautiful. I hope you don’t kick Rhysands ass for choosing this dress” your mouth filled with that sweetness again, and your eyes shut in enjoyment at the flavor in on your tongue.

“What is it? Why are you making that face?” He questioned, which immediately made your face hot and palms sweaty. You didn’t want to answer, but felt obligated.

“When you compliment me it tastes so good” you said shyly. You didn’t want to explain further because you had no idea what was happening. He nodded like he understood, but you didn’t even understand.

“Does that happen a lot?” He pressed.

“No, this has never happened before.” You looked down at the movement of your feet, which somehow made you misstep. Azriel quickly caught you, bringing you in closer. You don’t know what you were doing, being so unprofessional. You couldn’t be swooning for Azriel. He was your superior, and you were new to the team. You needed to get your head in the game, and show him and Rhysand why they pulled you out of Hewn City.

Your snap back to reality was perfect timing, as the song ended. You pulled away from Azriel.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some more people to extract information from.” And with that, you walked away, ready to join a new group and learn.

Azriel watched from where he stood, already delighted by seeing you work. He was impressed with your abilities, not even the lie detecting ones. He was looking forward to working with you more, and knew your skillset would bring you to work with him more often than not. Too bad you seemed to avoid him the rest of the evening, even as the ball drew to a close and you headed to your respective rooms in silence.

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1-800-crazy · 1 month ago

Text

Wash.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had found his mate. Better yet, he had found his mate in the beautiful girl who had held his hands as a child and made him feel wanted. But a bargain kept you caged in a marriage with the nefarious man who had caused his scars, and while there was little he wouldn’t do to get you out, it was never as easy as that.

Word count: 9.5k (sorry)

Warnings: So much angst, yearning, an abusive relationship (physical, verbal/emotional), manipulation, arranged marriage, allusions to non-consensual situations, cheating sorta, also a bit suggestive and heated so minors dni with that aspect please <3

a/n: Inspired by Wash. by Bon Iver if you wanna take a listen <3 Also this lovely ask amid a blog convo about cheating hehe. Writing this was genuinely a roller coaster that I couldn't get off of and I loved it. I hope you love it too 🫶

Main Masterlist ♡

Air met the planes of your cheeks in tepid, sticky throes. The humidity of summer in the northeast camps was an unwelcome friend, greeting you on the mornings you could slip out and huddle on the modest patio you were allowed. On this particular morning, it was stifling. The air felt cemented in your lungs as you breathed it in.

You tugged the gauzy shawl closer to your shoulders, seeking comfort where you could find it. Tomorrow would mark ten years—ten years of this life you had neither asked for nor wanted.

The rickety chair in the corner screeched in protest as you sat, a harbinger for the shout that followed soon after. Damien usually gave you a few minutes of peace before he started shouting for your return. Today, he gave you only one. You braced yourself as heavy footfall paraded toward the front door. The wood was ripped from the hinges when the echo subsided.

His angry face was then the frame of your morning, his hazel eyes narrowed, his jaw a sharp snap against the humid wind. His gaze roved over your figure. With a harsh swipe of his tongue along the inside of his cheek, the Illyrian sniffed and remarked, “We’re out of firewood.”

Your lashes fluttered, and you brought your shawl closer to your body. “Alright,” you nodded. “I’ll cut more.”

“Now, preferably.”

The illusion of choice, as always.

So, you stood. You offered the briefest of smiles as you passed him to the side yard, the only figment of happiness you had mustered in the past few years. It was a pointless act, but one you felt necessary. You’d heard the tales of what happened to disagreeable women in this camp, and even more so, what happened to disagreeable women in this family. Damien’s brother had a wife once. She was no longer.

The camp you hailed from was rooted in more progressive tendencies, no doubt a product of the proximity to the bottom of the mountain. The closer you got to the bottom, the more time the High Lord and his General spent reforming laws and harsh rules. Of course, that hadn’t saved you from having your wings clipped at a young age, and it hadn’t saved you from an arranged marriage to spare your family’s noble title. You were married to a lord’s son now, and that meant your family could keep their high rank—that your sister had the freedom to marry who she wanted—if she ever wanted. The tattoo twining at your shoulder was a constant reminder of that.

You had a difficult time seeing the benefits of marriage as you brushed your hair back and set the wood to cut. Your hands were still raw from doing the same action just last night, but Damien refused to take part in “menial household tasks.” You’d had a maid at one point, but he sent her away in frustration. It had been a feat to find another.

You were three logs down when the axe fell from your hands with a sharp intake of breath, a cracking twig startling you just as much as the overwhelming male standing at the treeline of your yard. It took you a moment to connect the past to the present, the shadows now whispering at your wrists and fingertips a punch to the gut.

Azriel.

It was Azriel.

The Shadowsinger himself looked to have the same line of thought, shock and confusion clear in the tenseness of his shoulders. He was frozen there, as you were, just far enough away that you couldn’t fully make out his face. The blue of his siphons reflected on the sharp turn of his jaw, and you counted each glow down his body. The power he held should have frightened you, but fear had no place in your mind.

Azriel whispered your name across the yard, and you answered with a single step forward.

“Azriel?” you called out, voice a frigid strike in the otherwise stagnant air. “Is that you?”

You hadn’t seen him in… years—centuries. He was much changed from youth, but also so much of the same.

Azriel took long strides until only feet separated you. “What are you doing here?” he stressed, sounding pained. Sounding frustrated.

“What am I doing here?” you echoed, hands empty and useless, swaying at your sides. “I live here. What are you doing here, Azriel? This is Lord Damien’s—”

“I know who resides here. Why are you connected to this house? Are you working as the maid? Your family—”

“Wife,” you stuttered out, swiping your hands behind your back and squeezing your fingers. “I am Damien’s wife.”

That gave Azriel pause, a flicker of horror washing over his face. He took another step forward, but you glanced over your shoulder as he did, fear making an appearance as you considered your husband’s wrath if he were to see you. Azriel stopped, and then he seemed to wince.

“You’re married to him?”

Betrayal collided with the array of emotions swirling in your chest. Azriel was the one who left Windhaven, not you. Azriel was the one who said he would visit, said he would be back, and hadn’t. You breathed in deeply and tried to remember that Azriel was also the one abused by the family you were now tied to. The sympathy was there, but so was the hurt.

“Don’t do that,” you accused, shaking your head in defeat. “Don’t act like this is my fault. I had to marry him. You left and I couldnt—”

“Well, if it isn’t the bastard.” Damien’s voice was always just as cruel as you remembered. You closed your eyes as he edged in on you, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. You fought the urge to flinch.

“Damien,” Azriel greeted through clenched teeth. Your previous conversation was wiped clean from his expression, replaced by stoic regality and simmering rage. “Your High Lord requires information on the northeast camps. As you are now the lord in this area, it is your duty to send reports. Of which you have not done since your appointment four years ago.”

The switch that had flipped in him was jarring. You stared at your old friend and marked the position of power he now held.

“My High Lord? He is nothing of the sort,” Damien flippantly replied, bringing his hand down to yank you by your waist. “Does he not know I am married? Surely the High Lord understands marital duties as well as political ones.”

Azriel’s eyes flickered to Damien’s contact on your body, measuring the interaction in short glances and calculating stares. You couldn’t return the looks as you heard him get closer, your eyes glued to the twig-covered ground as something akin to shame settled. You braced yourself against Damien’s chest as he jostled you.

“My congratulations. That does not, however, abate your duties as lord of this camp. A title that you have earned based on birthright alone, may I remind you. A title you could lose if challenged, Damien.”

“Is that a threat, Azriel? From a bastard, no less? What, does it hurt to see your old flame so nestled into my arms?” Damien taunted.

Old flame felt like an incorrect title when it came to the friendship you and Azriel had harbored for each other. When your family would call upon Damien’s, you would always seek Azriel out. The first time had been a mistake, with you wandering into the basement when you shouldn’t have to find the boy alone—alone and made to be alone on purpose.

It had struck you the wrong way, and then you began sneaking around to go to him, begging your family to visit Damien’s under the guise of enjoying his company and not Azriel’s. You would bring him extra food, toys he wasn’t allowed, music boxes enchanted so only the listener could hear. When Azriel was finally kicked out of the home and sent to the training camps, you had been equal parts relieved and devastated.

You had only seen him sporadically since then—a few times when he was a teen in the training camps, another in his twenties, and the last in his 30s right after Rhysand had become High Lord. The memory of the last encounter made you close your eyes once more as Damien spoke again.

“Nothing to say?” he quipped, holding you tighter, pressing you to him until you were uncomfortable.

Azriel tracked the movement, his jaw clenched. Shadows wicked at his ears and fought on the ground by his feet, but his eyes remained cold and measured as he observed you. As he made a decision.

“Send the report,” he demanded, voice rough. “If you do not, we will sanction a challenge with another who will follow through.”

Damien scoffed out a laugh, and you flinched at the sound. Azriel breathed in deeply through his nose, and then he was gone. The echo of an insult falling from Damien’s lips was the last thing you heard before you pushed past him and escaped inside.

The reconciliation of your present truths with your past reality was a struggle. Two days after seeing Azriel, you sat with your palms squeezed together at the dining table, Damien’s parents surrounding a hearty meal you couldn’t bring yourself to touch. You hated it when they visited on an ordinary day, but now they were talking about Azriel and Damien’s run-in, and everything felt different.

Your world had shifted, and everything felt different.

But nothing was different—not really. Everything was the same, and Azriel had left despite knowing what he knew.

“That wretched boy,” Damien’s mother quipped, leaning back in her chair. “He never knew his place. Still doesn’t.”

Damien scoffed. “Don’t have to tell me. I still revel in the day my brother and I can repay the heinous way Rhysand and his lackeys treated us.”

Damien’s father hummed in agreement. The conversation shifted to hatred of the Night Court, and you detached.

You sifted through the complicated grief taking up residence in your chest to find reason. There was nothing to be angry at, in all honesty. Your relationship with Azriel had been brief—but, no that wasn’t right. It may have felt brief in the grand scheme of a fae’s life, but nothing about knowing him felt brief. Even as children, when everything felt of lesser consequence, your meetings with Azriel felt… so big.

Each time you slipped past your families to join him under the house had been purposeful—not pity-fueled, but because you liked him. Because you loved him in the way a 10-year-old could love. And then he had grown up and stalked by the windows of your house, peeking in and beckoning you outside to simply ensure you were okay. To check on you.

Knowing Azriel had meant knowing a partial ghost, but you had been okay with that. Something made you want to know him more than anything, and then he had vanished. He had promised to be back, and then he hadn’t.

And then he judged you for doing what you must to support your family.

You stared at the lick of your tattoo trailing along your collarbone.

Grief returned and became even more complicated.

You felt the pit in your stomach grow as conversation flowed and became heated. It always did when Damien’s family visited; the hate they harbored for so many filled the space with hostility. It wasn’t until they pushed away from the table and sent you an expectant look that you rejoined the present.

“We are going to the tavern for drinks. As I see you haven’t yet employed another maid…” his mother drawled, eyeing the table with distaste.

You perked up at the notion of them leaving. “Of course,” you nodded, beginning to gather the remnants of dinner as the three of them went for the door.

“Don’t wait for me to return,” Damien ordered.

The click of the front door sent relief coursing through you. You dropped the plates you had stacked and slumped against the table, a hand pressed to your chest. The thump of your heart steadied you, but it was beating too hard, too fast. This was more difficult now. The grief was stirring within you, and it was tugging, pulling.

Your fingers shook as you smoothed the front of your shirt and mustered the strength to move the plates to the basin. Magic had water running through your fingers and clearing the dishes; the feel of it was a welcome distraction. You could do this. You could pretend, just as you had done for the past ten years. There was only one distinct difference now, but that was your own problem. Your own weight to carry.

It wasn’t as if—

Movement beyond the kitchen window gave you pause.

You stared past your reflection set in front of the darkness, and squinted at the blue light shining by the trees. Something made you move, made you abandon your task without thinking. You rushed to the front door, expecting to make the trek to find the source of the light, but gasped as the man you sought stood at the foot of your patio stairs.

The wind from the swinging door brushed your hair back. Your lips parted in shock, but there was nothing to say.

Azriel did not fill the empty space. He simply looked upon you, gaze roving over your rigid stance in the doorway, fingers uncurling from his palms. You were breathing heavy, you realized, your shoulders heaving with each intake of air.

Azriel licked his lips and shifted his weight between his feet, his wings fluttering at his back. Shadows were straining at his feet, reaching and reaching to the two steps leading up to the patio.

You should say something. You shouldn’t assume he was here for you.

“Lord Damien is out for the night,” was the first thing that came to mind, your words breathless and tight.

“I know,” Azriel replied, his eyes locked on yours. “I hoped to speak with you.”

In the cloak of night, you were thrown back hundreds of years to your last meeting. It had been dark then, too, and Azriel had been hasty in his seeking you out. You had stood before him, as you did now, and said the few words to send him away.

“Come with me,” he had urged, hand outstretched and face pleading.

You hesitated now, clutching the door and looking over your shoulder to observe the empty house. “I don’t know what we would have to speak about,” you softly said. “I can try to persuade Damien to obey the High Lord’s orders, but you know how women are viewed here.”

Azriel took a fleeting glance behind you—where your wings would be. “That is not why I want to speak with you.”

You pressed your lips into a hard line. With one step back, you made space for him to come through, closing and locking the door behind you as he took your lead. It never took much for you when it came to Azriel.

He looked too big in the space—too wide and imposing. Azriel observed the sitting room, the ornaments unnecessarily gaudy for the station your husband held, and then peered past you to the dining room, the table still half set, the food still out.

“I didn’t know you would be here when I agreed to speak with Damien,” Azriel explained, eyes still locked on the remnants of your forced meal. “I didn’t know where you were. Over the years, I lost track of you. Not on purpose. With the wars and my role in court I—”

“Forgot about me,” you finished for him, tilting your chin up to keep his gaze as it shot to you. “It’s fine, Azriel. You didn’t have a duty when it came to me. I wasn’t your responsibility.”

He shook his head, brows furrowed. “That’s not it. I’ve never forgotten about you. I thought you didn’t want to be found after…”

“You know why I couldn’t go with you.”

“Because of your family, yes, but I could have—”

“I couldn’t just leave them, Az.”

At the tender way you spoke his name, Azriel’s shoulders dropped. “Is that why you’re with him now? Why you married him?”

“We didn’t have anything left. My father gambled half of the inheritance and blew the other half on leathers he would never use. And then he died with two daughters and no heir. They needed me to marry. This was why I had to stay.”

“And are you happy?”

His question hung in the air.

“Yes,” you replied, eyes firm amidst your lie. You clenched your palms closer together. “I am safe.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

Your responding laugh was an accident, the sound escaping you before you had allowed it. You looked down and clutched the back of a chair to your right, covering your lips with rigid fingertips. After a stint of silence, you reaffirmed the thought you had lived by for centuries.

“This is what I was born to do,” you said evenly. “I was born to marry for my family. I only know you, Azriel, because my parents had picked my betrothed before I could even speak. It was always going to be Damien; it was just a matter of when.

“We got lucky with our friendship, leaning on each other when we were young, but it ended there. It ended when I couldn’t go with you, and you know that.”

“I don’t believe that,” Azriel stressed, his footsteps echoing as they approached you. “I don’t believe it ended. I—I should have found you sooner. I should have looked.”

A bittersweet sadness filled you then, and you looked up to tell him that it was okay; that you were happy he had gotten away from this life that you were now stuck in; that you were glad your roles were reversed in so many ways. But as you found the gold speckling his irises, something struck you.

Your jaw shook with the weight of the connection. Azriel’s own expression widened then, and the tether snapped, binding the two of you under the oath of a God you didn’t know.

“I knew it,” Azirel whispered under his breath, and the elation that filled you was so utterly consuming. It felt good to give in to the feeling, your once assumed grief morphing into the bridge that connected you to your mate. You blinked and Azriel was only inches from you, his hand hesitating for only a moment before it covered yours on the back of the chair.

But just as quickly, the reality of your life came crashing down on you. You ripped your hand out from under his and paced the length of the sitting room.

“What?” you asked no one—maybe yourself. “I don’t understand.”

“We are mates,” Azriel offered as if that was actually your question. “I thought I felt it when I saw you again. I had to come back. I can’t leave you here.”

“I have to be here,” you rushed. You stopped pacing to look at him with watery eyes. “They… own my family. I can’t leave. And I haven’t seen you in—in 500 years, Azriel. This doesn’t—this can’t—”

Azriel’s features were drawn, pained. He licked his lips and his shadows pooled at your feet. “I can help your family. I can bring you to—”

He sounded as if he were underwater. Each word that fell from his lips was lost on you as you clutched at your chest, wishing you could dig in and feel the bond with your fingers. Each year of your life since he had left had been cloistered. And after your father had died, your fate had been sealed with no alternative.

A mate had been out of the question. A life outside of marriage had been out of the question.

When Azriel’s hand met your back, you breached the surface of your panic.

“You need to leave,” you stammered out, breathing in uneven puffs.

“What? No,” Azriel all-but demanded.

“Yes. I can’t think about this right now. You—I have a responsibility to my family. I can’t—you have to leave.”

With each unfinished thought, Azriel seemed to back down, worry trumping his urgency. He began speaking low, bending down to meet your slumped form. “Okay, okay. Take deep breaths. I’m sorry.”

The tender touch and low timber of his voice sent you back to the past once more, and panic was only stronger there.

“I can’t leave you here. Y/n—” Azriel stressed, his hands firm on your shoulders, shaking you slightly so you could understand. “Come with me, please.”

You covered your mouth with a shaking hand and felt a sob creep up your throat. You fought it back and gripped Azriel’s wrist where he held your shoulder even now. “Please leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” came Azriel’s tone of finality.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t just—Azriel, my family made a bargain. I literally can’t—I don’t—”

You looked at him and you knew you looked ruined, and so the Shadowsinger took a step back. And then another. With the notion of a bargain tying you to your position, several complications came into play. Complications that could cost you your life.

With a hint of defeat, Azriel still did not relent. He was steps away from you now, a horrified shadow hanging over his eyes as he said, “I’m coming back.” He reached his hand out as if to touch you and then curled it back to his side. When he left, a shadow remained by your knees as they sank to the ground.

It was a week until you saw him again. A week of feeling the bond, of living with your husband as your bargain chafed, of feeling the loss of the life that could have been.

It hurt now—to pretend.

Damien was particularly terrible as of late. His parents’ real reason for visiting your home last week was revealed at the tavern that night; something about his brother getting more of the family funds due to an upcoming wedding and Damien having to make up the difference. You thought he might have said something about needing an heir before anyone else, but you didn’t have the mind to fully listen.

Each day passed like a blistering winter, which was strange, as summer was in full motion and birds were loud by every window. You knew what each looked like as you stared out, your hours filled with household chores and stalking the treeline in the distance. Azriel shouldn’t return; nothing was here for him, but you wanted him to so desperately.

Getting used to the bond was difficult. It hurt. When you thought of Azriel and the lack of future there, it stung. Damien would touch you, and it would throb in defiance, but there was nothing you could do. Nothing anyone could do.

A week after the bond connected, Azriel was in the marketplace. You felt him before you saw him, the tether between you pulled taut and directing you. He was dressed down from his fighting leathers, unlike the two times you’d seen him before, his siphons still blaring and bright against the soft cotton of his daywear.

Your heart leapt in your throat when you made eye contact, your lashes fluttering as you calmed yourself. The marketplace was packed as it usually was in the late morning, so although you were panicked and he was imposing, the pair of you blended in on the street.

“Hello,” Azriel greeted, falling into step beside you as you passed the dried meats. “You look well.”

“Don’t be weird,” you chastised, tugging your basket closer amidst the bustle. “We never did small talk.”

“Right. Sorry.”

With your blood thrumming beneath your skin, you took a sidelong glance his way. He was just a step away from you, matching your pace with an easy grace you had watched develop as he grew up. His hair was swept from his forehead the way an Illyrian’s always was due to flight, and a subtle determination lined the softness of his face.

He was beautiful.

But he had always been beautiful.

In your dissection of Azriel, you missed the group of women sharing textiles in the middle of the street. You ran face-first into an older Illyrian’s back, a slew of apologies leaving you before you could ascertain any damage you had done. Azriel’s hand was on your dropped basket instantly, and then his other was on your back.

“Watch where you’re going, girl,” the older woman ordered, a sour look on her weathered face. She went to say more, but looked a few inches up to find Azriel’s face and abruptly stopped her tirade. She paled slightly, ushering her group from the streets.

“Perhaps I could persuade you to come somewhere private with me,” Azriel said by your ear. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble over camp gossip.”

“I take it you aren’t simply going to leave?” You asked the question, fully opposed to the idea even as you voiced it.

Azriel did not even humor your sarcasm. He kept your basket and kept you close as he directed you towards an establishment tucked into the deep corner of the farthest path in the camp. You never went here. You never went anywhere that Damien did not order you to go.

The bookkeeper’s office was quaint and completely empty when you entered.

“Do you know who works here?” you asked, looking beyond the front counter to subtly search the back.

Azriel placed your wicker basket on a small table and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. You caught the scars webbing his hands briefly, looking away just as fast. “I do. He’s away for a while.”

“I’m guessing that’s not a coincidence?”

“I know people.” Azriel watched you shift your weight between your feet and clutch your hands at your waist. “Tell me about your bargain.”

You knew that was coming. With a quick raise of your brows and a sigh, you leaned back until your shoulders met the wooden door. “I don’t have much to say about it. Damien’s family—” you eyed the Shadowsinger, not wanting to offend him with the wrong words related to his estranged kin “—didn’t trust that I would stay put. They called me ‘too headstrong for my own good’ and claimed I was influenced by the High Lord’s ‘women's propaganda.’ In order to access the money my family needed, I needed to bargain my compliance. My obedience.”

“Tell me the words exactly,” Azriel requested, his words low.

“In return for the monetary and noble support of Lord Damien, I bargain that I will remain a dutiful Illyrian wife to him by fulfilling my role in the household.”

The words had been ingrained in you, playing on a loop in your mind for the first few years of your marriage.

Azriel crossed his arms over his chest, the tendons flexing. “So no bargain of love.”

A laugh similar to the accidental scoff a week ago simmered behind your lips. “I do not love him. I am positive he does not love me. He is off at the pleasure hall at least once a week.”

“He lies with other women?”

“Thankfully.”

Azriel began speaking as the word only just left your lips. “May I—” He paused. Azriel looked to the floor with furrowed brows before finding you again, his expression open. “I left so quickly that night because I needed distance before I did anything rash. I needed to understand more about bargains before I could hurt you in some way. But now that I know what I need to, may I hold you? Only for a moment.”

The ask left you speechless, everything in your body and posture softening. You agreed before you realized you had and he moved before you finished speaking. He looked upon you first, face only a breath from yours, eyes seeming to memorize your every feature, and then he pulled you into his chest.

The overwhelming scent of him covered up the dust and paper and bleakness of the bookkeeper’s shop, and you buried your face into it, allowing yourself, even though you knew you shouldn’t. Azriel’s hands were gripping your back with an urgency you couldn’t replicate as you melted into him. For the first time in decades, maybe even centuries, you felt peace. You felt calm.

It was not only a moment.

With your hands at his chest, you balled Azriel’s shirt between your fingers and brought yourself closer. His nose pressed against the side of your neck, edging into your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut and felt him.

“I missed you,” he said so close to you. “I’m sorry.”

And you knew you’d already forgiven him—that you’d forgiven him for anything and everything the moment the bond flowed freely between you. The moment you felt the anguish and guilt that plagued him.

You didn’t respond, not wanting the moment to end, afraid that he would pull away at the sound of your voice. Shadows whisped through your hair and around your neck. Azriel’s breath was steady across your skin. In another life, this would have been commonplace, but in this life—your life—this feeling was rare.

Azriel ran a hand back along your head and pulled away—only slightly, only enough to see you. “You don’t owe me anything, not because of the bond,” he began. “But I want to get you away from Damien. Away from that family.”

“Azriel, you can’t—”

She hushed you, running his hand along your hair. “I can. There are workarounds to bargains and I know people.”

“You’ve said that,” you whispered, searching his eyes fervently. “But I can’t risk my family. I can’t risk dying from a broken bargain. I agreed to this.”

Conflict raged on Azriel’s face. His fingers trailed to the side of your face, brushing your hair away from your eyes and behind your ear, his gaze tracking his own movements. “I have thought about you so often since that day. I thought you didn’t want to see me again. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I told you to go. I made you leave.”

“I shouldn’t have listened.”

“There was no way for you to know it would end up like this.”

“But I did. I understood the connection between your family and his.”

“Well,” you began to reason, desperate to relieve some of the guilt eating away at the bond. You reached up and held Azriel’s arm as he held your face. “You couldn’t have known we were mates. That we would end up like this.”

A sad smile fell over Azriel’s face. “That shouldn’t have mattered.”

You puffed out a breath. A clock chimed from the back of the shop, reminding you that this was a stolen moment. “I can’t stay. I have to be back home soon.”

“Okay,” he affirmed. He brushed his hands along your skin a few more times, wherever he could reach, before he stepped back. “I meant what I said. There are ways around a bargain, and whatever help your family needs will be taken care of.”

You wanted to believe him.

“I know you meant it, Az,” was all you could offer in return.

Tensions were high at home.

And Azriel found you often.

Whatever money imbalance Damien was angry about meant that he didn’t want you in his sight for longer than an hour at a time, so he sent you out.

You went to the marketplace often; you sought after men crafting the random trinkets your husband wanted; you bartered for animals the house didn’t need. Your bargain required you to do as your husband said when it came to the household, and right now, he wanted you away from it.

Azriel followed.

He kept hidden until he didn’t need to, slinking into darkness in busier streets and walking alongside you in more sparse areas. And he would talk. He told you everything about his life now—the people, the work, even Velaris itself. You’d known about the city since its reluctant opening, but you didn’t quite know how marvelous its apparent beauty was. Azriel spoke of it so adoringly.

Talking to Azriel was easy, like talking to an old friend—because that’s what he was. But it was also different now.

You remembered talking to him in your youth—some underlying jitters and childhood crushes often present, but never at the forefront. Now, the bond was driving every interaction. You looked at him and your world shifted. You heard his voice, his laugh, and breath would halt. He would touch you, fleetingly, never so intensely as your embrace in the bookkeeping shop, and you wanted to melt. To end this farce of a life you’d been living with Damien.

And still, part of you felt wrong. You were married, even if it wasn’t for love. Even if you’d never wanted it and he was cruel and mean and unloving, you had still made vows.

You’d never felt more at odds for so many reasons.

On a morning when Autumn was finally felt in a somewhat frigid breeze, Azriel sat by a tall tree with his knees tented. You were foraging that day, on a fool’s errand for an herb you were sure Damien had made up. Azriel had joined you as soon as you entered the forest.

“Come sit,” he prompted, eyeing the space beside him.

You sent him a glance. “You know I can’t. He asked me to find it, so I have to look.”

“And you have. You’ve looked enough.”

You gave up with a huff, stomping over and taking a seat in front of him instead of beside just to be defiant. With Azriel, it was the only time you were allowed to be so. You slumped your cheek against your fist and stared at the Shadowsinger.

“What is it?” Azriel softly asked, tilting his head to match yours.

“Nothing,” you drearily replied.

“Tell me.”

“It’s pointless.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I’m just confused. And I’m exhausted from this all. From being confused and from living by his hand. But it will pass.”

Azriel shifted forward on the forest floor, crossing his legs. “We’re still figuring out the bargain, but I promise, y/n—”

“I know, Azriel,” you finished for him, trying to tamp down some of the intensity. It was nice when things were easy. “I believe you.”

He reached forward then, bringing your hands into his lap. “Why are you confused then?”

The casual intimacy sent you on another private spiral. You stared down at your joined hands and felt the echo of your home a few miles away, looming over you in obligation. If you did anything to jeopardize yourself before things were squared away, people you loved would be implicated.

But it felt good to be held by him; he held you like you were to be revered, like you meant more than a useful bargain.

You used to hold hands when you were kids. After Azriel’s hands were burned, he had hated them. The fresh wrapping was always replaced by careful maids who loved him in their own way, and then you would come over and hold his hands in each of your palms, telling stories about heroes and fires and the magic of Autumn, because he wouldn’t look at them otherwise.

You wondered if he remembered that.

“I’m married, Azriel,” you began, still staring at your hands, unable to look away. “I’m—I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

His touch remained motionless in yours. He wouldn’t move away unless you did. He paused for several beats, trees rustling overhead. “You don’t have to do anything. I told you there were no strings to this. You don’t need to be anything because of the bond.”

You looked up. “But I want to be. I want to be something because of the bond. I want it to mean something. I feel…”

You couldn’t explain how you felt, not with so much taking up your every thought. Azriel squeezed your hands.

“You don’t have to know how you feel,” he whispered to you.

“Well, how do you feel then?”

Azriel’s lips parted, and he squeezed your hands in a way that felt unintentional. “It’s less complicated for me.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I feel like I want to protect you. Like I want to be with you in any way I am able. I look at you and it feels like home, just as it did when we were children.”

You kissed him then, and it was confusing, but it was also wonderful. His sound of surprise was muffled by your mouth pressing to his, and he moved back until he was against the tree once more, his hands finding your waist. You kissed him and moved your touch to his chest, allowing yourself to take this even though it wasn’t yours.

One of his hands reached to cover yours, to twine the back of your knuckles with his scarred fingers as your lips rushed to meet each other. You fit between his legs exactly, comfortable there despite the forest floor, despite the rest of the world being against you. And so you kissed him more, and more, and more.

It was only when you needed air that you moved back, and Azriel brushed your hair away in movements made harsh by the fervent mood. He heaved out a breath and caught every inch of your face in his view, his one hand still attached to yours over his heart.

“I am not confused,” Azriel admitted. “Not in the slightest.”

Having a secret offered you a feeling of power you should not have had.

You began to act brazenly when you shouldn’t, even in the small ways that wouldn’t have mattered in a normal Illyrian marriage. But this was not a normal Illyrian marriage, and Damien was not in his right mind as of late.

“I think you forget your place, woman,” Damien seethed, the kitchen scattered with the dinner you hadn’t gotten to make. “I didn’t ask for your opinion on the budget, did I?”

You fought to catch your breath, your back pressed harshly into the counter. Damien, while a vicious man in his own right, had never resorted to violence with you. He had never needed to; the bargain was a security he leaned on heavily.

As the ground beneath you lay messy with ingredients and pots, you worried for your safety for the first time in ten years. Your fear was met by an urgent tug on the bond hidden deep within your chest—a tug you needed to ignore.

You knew Damien wouldn’t be able to do anything—not really. Bargains were nuanced, so many unknowns were at play in your relationship, but you didn’t think he would wager his life over a few mindless questions.

You didn’t think, but Damien had wild eyes as he stared at you, his form almost shaking with rage. The Illyrian turned suddenly, his wings knocking into light fixtures and rattling the hinges on the cupboards. He reached into his belt by the door and hauled his money pouch at you next, the terrycloth smacking against your chest.

“Take it then!” Damien yelled, ripping the front door open. “Go buy whatever the hell you were droning on about! Go!”

You hesitated, measuring the space between him and the cracked door. It was dark out, and your coat was behind him in the closet. That thought came and went as Damien’s hands shook and whitened with their harsh grip.

“What? You don’t want to go and meet whoever it is you’re sneaking around with? Do you think I’m stupid? That I don’t hear things about my wife?”

In a low voice that frightened you more than the screaming, Damien pressed you to leave once more, and you were rushing out before he could change his mind. The door slammed behind you and the wind chilled your bones when you ran down the patio steps, but you kept running. The market was closed now, but you kept running.

You ran until the floor turned to packed dirt, alerting you of the camp’s center where businesses would be closing shop for the day, and then you ran until the tiny sign for the bookkeeper’s shop came into view. Your shoes got stuck in the divots of the uneven ground, but fear was propelling you forward.

Until it wasn’t.

Until a loud grunt fell from your lips as you collided with a sturdy chest and shadows invaded your senses. The loss of your vision was jarring at first, but it soon soothed you when Azriel’s low and steady voice met your ears.

He hushed you and pulled you close, his words accompanied by his lips along your skin. He told you you were okay, that you were safe. He was going to fix it, he said, and tell him what was wrong. It took several deep breaths before the shadows dispersed from your view, and seeing Azriel was enough to get the tears trailing down your cheeks.

You hadn’t cried since you got married.

The blubbering mess you became was a testament to that.

Azriel held you through it, and you were faintly aware that you were inside the shop you had run to. He must have led you in amidst your panic, a cover you now knew was desperately necessary. You wiped at your face over and over, but the tears only continued to fall, so Azriel took up the job. He pressed the heels of his palms against your cheeks when the wetness started to pool, shushing you to no avail.

Nothing he could say would fix this.

Your harsh sobs soon morphed into violent, hiccuping breaths that shook your body, but it gave Azriel enough space to speak again. He kept your face in his hands—in the hands you held until he loved them—and fought the burn in his own waterline as he looked at you.

“What happened?” Azriel asked for the fifth time—the first time you had heard it. “Did he hurt you?”

Your responding no was broken and took several attempts. You paired it with a harsh shake of your head and clutched the hem of Azriel’s shirt in between your fingers.

“He—knows,” you cried out. “He knows something. He—he’s been angry, but he was so angry tonight. He threw things. Said I’ve been sneaking around.”

Azriel’s features crumbled. He brought you closer and pressed a long kiss to your forehead. “My angel, I’m so sorry. This has been taking longer than anticipated. I should have known this would happen.”

“What has?” you hiccuped, each word separated by the pulse of your panic.

Azriel cooed softly at your tear-streaked face. “Come upstairs. You need water. And to sit.”

You didn’t even voice your confusion, allowing him to guide you to the back and up a rickety set of stairs that barely accommodated his wings. The top floor was furnished sparsely, but it looked rather lived in, with an apple half-peeled in the small kitchenette and rumpled blankets thrown over the couch.

“Have you been staying here?” you asked, taking the water he handed you in shaking hands as you glanced around the space.

“Sometimes. When I want to be closer to you. There… isn’t exactly a bookkeeper here.”

“But you hate Illyria. You hate staying in the camps.”

Azriel only gave you a sad smile in response, sitting beside you on the worn couch that was also too small for his wings. He watched you drink, watched you set down the class on the side table, and then clutched your knee beside his.

“I had brought your bargain and its terms to the Inner Circle in Velaris—to the High Lord and Lady. There were a few ways to work around wording. Harder ways and easier ones. We were going to try each if needed.”

“Has it been needed?”

“No,” Azriel soothed. “We’re still on the first, and it’s going well. But it has obviously agitated him, made him search for ways out, and that has led to you being unsafe. I’m sorry. I have never wanted that.”

You slid your hand over his, and he continued, “The shortest path has been to drain his funds. If he and his family can’t provide their end of the bargain, he either has to release you or deal with the consequences.”

“You mean death.”

“Yes,” Azriel confirmed. “It’s been a slow process, but he’s just reaching the end of his reserve. He’s turned to gambling, which was expected, but it has required more diligence from the team we’ve put in play. He can’t think anything is happening.”

“And what if this doesn’t work?” you whispered, playing his fingers against your thigh. “He knows I’m unfaithful now. He will make me add that to the bargain. He won’t let me—”

“I will challenge him to become Lord of the camp. In your bargain, you included his title and his noble protection. If this doesn’t work, I will do that.”

You looked at him in both trepidation and a deflated sort of hope. “Azriel, you can’t do that. This is everything you hate. It would complicate things so much for you, bring so many eyes back on you.”

“Do you think I care about any of that?” Azriel posed, pressing his forehead to your temple, his eyes closing beside you. “Look at what waits for me after.”

Tears were starting up again, this time with an undercurrent of disbelieving adoration. You squeezed Azriel’s fingers and remembered when you tried to forget him—when he felt whisked away in shadows, a figment of your imagination. You wondered if finding your way back to him was inevitable, if each barrier in your life had led to this.

An ache permeated your chest, and you decided the only way to make it dissipate was to kiss him, and so you did. You turned his face up to meet yours, and you kissed him as you had several times since the first, this time so private that it actually felt like something that belonged to you.

Your brazenness returned as you shifted your body to straddle his seat on the couch, his touch running under your blouse and skimming the hem of your skirt. You pressed further into his mouth then, hands framing his face, his body warm against yours.

When you pulled back for air, he wasted no time, his lips pressing to the sensitive skin of your neck. He kissed down to your chest and then back up to your jaw, his hands making their assent past your naval. He hit the band of lace at your ribs as your mouths reconnected, and you felt his touch escape back down, but this was yours. This wasn’t a secret you had to live in forever.

With unsteady hands, you gripped his wrist and brought his hand back up to your chest, a small moan leaving you when he stayed there. He let a gentle touch skim the tops of your breasts and kissed you harder when goosebumps were left in his wake. When you pressed him for more, urging him closer, Azriel left an inch of space between your mouths and whispered, “Not yet. Not until you’re fully mine.”

Embarrassment didn’t have time to reach you. Azriel cupped the back of your neck and leaned forward to kiss you more, every inch of him invading every inch of you. His wings unfurled behind him and splayed out on the couch; the wind from their wideness was welcomed against your heated face.

Azriel kissed you until you couldn’t breathe, and then he kissed you more.

The next morning greeted you with consequences.

You’d made it back home later on in the night, much to Azriel’s reluctance and poorly contained anxiety. He had begged you to stay with him, promising that he had sent word to his High Lord that the finalizations needed to happen immediately due to the escalating circumstances, and it would all be fine by the following night. But you couldn’t risk an entire day of unknown—not when you knew what was at stake.

You knew he wanted to keep you safe above all else, but this was how you assured that. Your bargain was jeopardized if you weren’t a dutiful housewife at his command.

You understood how Damien worked.

You could handle his anger when it fell before the backdrop of your mate—of Azriel.

With nervous energy prickling at your fingers, you pushed open the door to your room and made way to the main sitting area. It was likely that he was still asleep. He never woke up too early, and with his mood last night, he could have started drinking.

When a loud bang echoed down the hall, you no longer thought that true.

Timid steps guided you to the sound. You kept your hand against the wall for support, but that did little to comfort you when you saw Damien overhauling every inch of the house. Boxes lay at his feet, loaded with blankets and artwork and kitchen supplies. You watched in quiet horror as he watched you with a crazed look.

“Good morning, wife,” Damien greeted, slamming a desk lamp into another box. “For your next task, you finish packing the kitchen.”

The compulsion to follow orders tugged at you, but you knew its limits. You took a step toward the kitchen, but your voice was even when you asked, “ What’s going on?”

Damien kicked the box closest to him against a wall, lining it up with the others. “We’re moving. Far away from this camp that I never asked to lead and far away from whoever you’re screwing. I won’t have a whore for a wife. And this place has grown pathetic.”

Okay. This was fine. The entire house would take days to pack up, and Azriel had said things would be better by tonight. You pressed your lips together and nodded silently, intent on keeping him tame.

The action only enraged him, and you realized that while you used to understand Damien, you didn’t understand him in ruin. While he may have been easy to work around before, now he was on the verge of destitution, and you were not listening in the way he wanted. You backed yourself against the wall when he charged at you, his fist slamming above your head.

“Or, maybe, I don’t actually need a wife, huh?” Damien shouted in your face. You flinched when spit flew from his mouth, and his cheeks became a deep red. “Maybe you’ve outlived your usefulness—going around fucking whoever you want. You embarrass this family.”

With a shaking jaw, you fought to find reassurance. “Y-you can’t actually kill me. The bargain—”

“Do you not think my brother had a bargain? That his wife wasn’t tied under the same oath? Where is she now, y/n? And where is my brother?”

With each question, Damien banged his fist above your head. You flinched at the contact, pressed yourself further into the wall and brought your arms up to cover your stomach.

Damien and his brother had tortured Azriel. They had burned him for fun, just to watch what would happen. You had been foolish to believe he couldn’t hurt you—that he didn’t want to hurt you. You turned your head to the side when he came in closer, his nose a breath from your cheek.

“Right—that’s right. She didn’t cheat, but she was a bitch. Gotta make sure to work out the wording for my next wife to keep the bitch and the whore out of the marriage,” Damien spat out, pinning your shoulder to the wall with his free hand. His touch burned at your bargain mark. “Who were you fucking, huh? Who?”

“No one!” you cried, the tears from last night returning. “I swear.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Please, Damien, you don’t have to do this. I’ve been an easy wife. Women are progressing now; they won’t all agree to what I have.”

You were spewing nonsense, incapable of forming a coherent thought when his hand was so close to your throat. You’d thought about killing him yourself a few times, but your family obligations always stopped you. Now that you had Azriel, it was Damien’s brute strength that kept you from attacking. The only way you could have bested him in the past was to go after him in his sleep.

Damien was not sleeping now.

He clenched his teeth, and a vein formed at his forehead. And then, his hands slid down and wrapped around your neck. Only for a moment. Only long enough for the squeeze to become too much for three seconds before he was ripped from your body with the element of surprise.

You gasped for air as your husband was thrown into the far wall, his wings splaying out behind him as he grunted in pain. Cool licks of air soothed the burning in your throat, Azriel’s shadows comforting you when he could not.

His back was to you, his wings tucked into his shoulders as he stood between you and the man who had attempted to take your life. You were sure Azriel looked threatening, because fear was the first thing you noticed on Damien’s face—fear, and then disbelief.

“The bastard?” Damien accused, peering over your mate's shoulder to catch you. “You’ve been fucking my bastard brother?”

You shrank behind Azriel as his voice ground low, “You don’t look at her.”

“Oh? I don’t? I own her. I own every part of her.”

Azriel growled deep in his chest, his siphons blaring as he shoved Damien hard against the wall, his forearm pressed to his neck. “You won’t own anything if you’re dead.”

Through choked gasps, a haughty laugh spat from Damien’s mouth. “You can’t kill me. She needs me. I’m attached to her through the bargain.”

“If that were true,” Azriel gritted out. “You wouldn’t have been attempting to kill my mate.” Azriel shoved your husband against the brick of the wall, cracking his head back. “I tried to do this the diplomatic way, but you touched her. I should end you here.”

Fear began to creep back into Damien’s eyes at the mention of mates. He grappled at Azriel’s arm, but although he overpowered you easily, he was nothing compared to Azriel. Azriel pressed harder, his shadows pulsing from his body like rage incarnate.

“No, I won’t do that. I won’t make it easy,” Azriel hissed. Damien choked and scrambled. “You’re going to release her from the bargain, and then you’re going to live with the mess you made. With the pennies you have left. With the challenger fighting for your title.

“You will release her, and then you’ll be alone. With nothing.”

With each word Azriel spoke, Damien’s skin tinted an unnatural blue, his lips losing color. You held a hand to your mouth and gave in to the weakness of your knees, collapsing to the floor with shadows following you down. You shook as you went, the sound of Damien’s broken breath the only echo in your ears.

“Release her bargain,” Azriel demanded. A forceful shove that had Damien clawing at his neck.

His eyes were bulging in his panic, and he looked at you on the floor from beyond Azriel’s wings before choking out, “I release you from our bargain.”

He was pushed away and crumpled to the floor the same moment you felt the cooling of the bargain mark disappearing from your skin. You gasped and your hand flew to your shoulder, but Azriel was in front of you before you could reconcile the feeling with its meaning.

He held your hands in one of his, the other cupping your cheek as he kneeled before you. His scars sloped and dipped against the tear-sticky skin on your face, and you leaned into the touch in disbelief.

“Is it over?” you whispered.

At some point, Damien had scattered from the room, a box displaced from where he tripped as he fled the house.

“It’s over, angel.” His lips against your head. His forehead pressed to yours. “I’m going to take you home. Like I should have years ago.”

And later—months later—you would be home, living in moments that felt like yours. Velaris was home, but home was more than the bustling streets and star-lit nights. Somehow, you had known where you lived even when you felt lost. Even when Azriel was years away and you stared out to treelines where he didn’t exist.

He was always going to find you.

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1-800-crazy · 1 month ago

Text

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤!𝘫𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘤𝘸: 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵, [𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥] 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘫𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤, 𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘯! 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦! 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘤: 10.5𝘬

You can feel your skin tingling after you get out of the shower, but more than that you feel dirty even though your skin has been rubbed raw.

You don’t look at yourself as you get to your closet, looking for the perfect outfit. You frown when you thumb through racks of cropped shirts and tank tops. Your frown worsens when you can’t find any of your band tees from that time in high school.

Your room is cold, your skin pebbles in goosebumps as you slip into yoga pants and a shirt that hits about mid thigh.

You have errands to run today, you have to go out. It’d be the first time you do since that day.

Your friend Mary had been bringing you groceries for the last couple of weeks, and just after your trip you had a business trip that ate up about three months of your time.

That had been good, it hadn’t felt like everyone was watching you and could see what had happened.

Not that anyone could now. Your therapist says that’s normal thought processes for after a major assault, but that you can’t order groceries to be delivered to your house or have only online sessions anymore.

She says they can make you reclusive.

You don’t really see an issue with it.

Your hands shake as you pull down your band t-shirt, “You can do hard things.” you murmur to yourself, trying not to cry.

There’s a few differences today than on that day. The sun is out today, lots of clouds in the sky and there isn’t that smell of incoming rain. It helps that it’s different; that’s what you tell yourself as you get into your car and start towards the grocery.

“You can do this,” you tell yourself as you walk in, trying not to let the itchy feeling crawling up your back get the best of you. “You can do this.” Your throat feels tight the further you go into the store.

The air in here hums with something, something terrible. Something familiar and terrible and your chest squeezes tightly as you push yourself to keep going.

You don’t know how to stop noticing things like the pace of the other shoppers, their movement pattern, the way they smell. You can’t stop since that night two weeks ago.

You make it to the cereal aisle before the first tear falls and your knees buckle. Your collapse is slow, your knees hit the floor first, then your hands break the impact and then suddenly you’re sitting in the middle of the cereal aisle, lungs tight and your vision blurring.

You don’t notice someone trying to talk to you till a man crouches in front of you. Unintentionally you flinch, and the man steps back, keeping his hands to himself as your focus comes back slowly.

“Are you okay, love?” This man is different from the one on that day. He’s got dark waves that remind you of those squiggly lines, he’s a little smaller too.

You nod, open your mouth, try to say something, but your tongue can’t seem to work.

The man before you looks panicked. “Should I call an ambulance?”

You shake your head, a hand resting on your chest. The man nods then, putting a hand to his chest and inhaling long. You try to mimic it but your breath rattles in your chest.

The man before you panics again, “I’m gonna go get my friend. He’s a paramedic, trained in this sort of thing.”

The man rushes off, and as he stands you see that he’s taller than you anticipated.

When he comes back, it’s with a man much burlier than him. He’s also got curls, but they’re a little tighter, more like springs. You’re not sure you could fight him off if he tried anything.

“Hey lovie, I’m James. My friend Sirius said you’re having some trouble breathing.” You nod, eyes on his hands the entire time. “I think you’re having a panic attack.” You barely hear his words now, the blood roaring in your ears a little louder now.

He speaks to you gently, like he’s trying to subdue a wild dog. “That’s okay. Can you try again?” The man before you inhales deeply and you mimic him with a little more success. “Good.”

You take a few more, by the fourth breath your lungs don’t burn.

“Thank you.” you mumble, voice small and strained. “I’m sorry by the way,” you swallow hard, “for flinching.”

Sirius gives you a small smile. “You’re all good, doll.”

“Would it be strange if I got my medical bag and checked your breathing and heart rate?” James asks, noticing the tremble in your hands.

You stiffen where you sit on the floor, James steps back a little bit almost immediately. “Do you think that something could be wrong with me?”

James tilts his head, almost like he’s weighing what to say to you, “You had a very intense panic attack, your fingers are shaking and you weren’t taking in enough air for a little while so your lips are a little purple. It’s just precautionary, I promise.”

“Can we do it right here?” The grocery is getting a bit busier, there’s a lot of women here. You feel comfortable here.

James nods, “I’ll be back.”

Sirius keeps you company, he sits on the floor directly opposite of you, his long legs stretched to the side of yours. “Do you usually get them so fiercely?”

You shake your head, trying to determine if you should say more. “This one was sudden.” is what you land on, and it’s enough for Sirius to change the topic.

“Should I finish your shopping? It seems like it would be a wasted trip if you leave with nothing but a check up from a paramedic.”

You’ve never met men like this. It’s a little disconcerting.

“I just needed flour, milk and cereal.” You whisper and Sirius is standing immediately, taking your basket and looking around the aisle.

“Any preference?”

“Protein Weetabix and Shreddies.” Sirius laughs as he picks up both boxes.

“You’re the only other person I know who likes these.” You shrug, they’re both good.

James comes back before you can say anything further. Sirius goes to find the rest of the things on your list when James whips out the pressure monitor.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Your eyes burn as you nod. You can feel your heart rate climbing again.

James says nothing as he puts the strap on your arm. There’s a long silence that stretches the minute and a half it takes for the monitor to beep. “It’s good,” James says quietly, reaching into his bag for his stethoscope.

“It might be a little cold.” he warns, watching your reaction as he presses the stethoscope onto your chest. You tense up, breathing paused in panic. You will your heart not to stampede when he puts the plugs in his ear.

“Deep breath lovie.” you inhale long, chest burning as you hold it for a few seconds. “That hurt the whole way?”

“No, just at the end.”

James nods, packing his tools away. “That’s okay, pretty natural too.” He doesn’t comment on the riot that was your heart, and you’re grateful for it.

“I’m gonna give you my card just in case though. I’m with the NHS but I also take calls. If it’s an emergency and you want to avoid the ambulance, just give me a call.”

Sirius comes back just then, more things in your basket than you’d sent him for.

“Thanks James,” you take the card and stand, knees just a little shaky. “And thank you Sirius. Sorry to upend your shopping as well.”

“You’re welcome, call me if anything worries you about how you’re feeling though. I can get them to see you super fast!”

You don’t have cause to call James as the weeks go by but you remember the kind interaction every day.

He and his friend had restored your hope that humanity wasn’t a lost cause.

The hope is smashed when you leave your therapist’s office after a long session and a longer day at work.

Sure the woman had helped you to go outside without having a severe panic attack, but some days she could be the devil.

You know she’s just doing her job, but when her job entails making you relive the worst day of your life to help you remember who attacked you and work through the assault, you hate her guts and everything she represents.

“Fucking stupid,” you mutter to yourself the whole way from her office to the ice cream parlour at the corner.

You figure you deserve it after today. You also figure you’re getting a triple scoop with extra toffee pieces and chocolate chunks. Maybe even a pint of the damn thing to take home so you don’t have to leave your house for a while.

As soon as you enter the parlour, you smell a familiar scent and all the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your eyes scan the small shop quickly, and land on a familiar head of curls.

You’re not sure it’s him until he turns and you see his eyes. It was something you only remembered the colour of after you’d gone home. A sort of chocolate brown that had flecks of a golden yellow in just the right light. You also remember thinking they were kind.

“James?”

His face splits in a smile. “Hi lovie,” he’s got a pint of ice cream in his hand and a cup of toppings in the other. “How’ve you been?”

You shrug, “Okay, been a long week.”

James nods, “I know what you mean. But hey, it’s the weekend right?”

“Do you get weekends off as a paramedic at the NHS?”

James laughs, and you find the sound makes him seem even more gentle. You notice he’s got dimples then too. “Not really, but at least I don’t have the graveyard shift for another month.”

“Small mercies.”

“You get it, angel.” James looks to the door and spots someone he knows because his eyes soften a little. You turn and find him smiling at two women, one with blonde hair and the other a redhead. “Listen, me and some of my friends are having a little get together tonight, would you like to come?”

You look at the women before weighing your options. Maybe this is one of those sexual parties, they could just be part of a ruse. That second thought makes you feel a little guilty, but you can’t afford to just go off to places with men. You’ve learnt that lesson ten times over.

“I’m alright James, thank you. I’ve got a date with my tv and the ice cream I’m picking up.”

James nods, no disappointment flooding him. His smile remains soft, soft enough that his dimple you noticed earlier pokes out again. “Maybe next time, angel. Have a good night.”

“You too James.”

You get home and immediately text your friend Mary about James.

She squeals in a voice message she sends, “He’s cute for inviting you out, but what makes me like him more is that he didn’t push!”

You call her before she can send another message, “I’m so not ready to date yet though, Mary. It’s sort of scary how nice he seems.”

She understands what you don’t say. “If you bump into him again, you should bring him up to Sarah and see what she says.”

You flop back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling as you remember the fresh orange scent that had stuck to James.

“If I bump into him again, I should be worried I’m being stalked.”

You can’t see her, but you know your friend is cringing at her word choice. “You said he was leaving when you got there, that’s not stalking. Especially if he left without trying to get you alone.”

“I know, it’s just easier to keep this as a wrinkle in time and space related thing, rather than a thing that can fester and grow.”

She laughs, “Don’t make it sound like a fungus, babe.”

You can’t help but laugh too, “If it happens again I’ll bring it up to Sarah.”

“I think we should make a list,” your therapist, Sarah, says as you lay on her sofa. Sarah’s office smells like clean sheets and cotton, a scent that has always calmed you.

It’s so different to what you had smelt that night, no grease, no hot oil, no sweat. You’d never told her the smell of her office was why you’d chosen her.

Your eyes are shut as you lay down, regulating your breathing as you listen. “A list for what?”

You hear her move on the leather armchair across from you. “A list of places or things for you to do every time you go outside, so it feels like a journey.”

You forget that therapists remember every word uttered to them, and the subtle nod to The Lord of The Rings makes you despite yourself.

“To trick my brain essentially?” you say bluntly and Sarah laughs.

“Well, I’d prefer not to call it tricking.” She takes a breath, “It’s more like giving it a task to look forward to. It doesn’t have to be every single time, but on a day when you know going out may be hard, you can do something on the list. As a reward.”

You nod, opening your eyes and focusing on the swirling patterns on her ceiling. “There’s a few movies coming out that I could go to, and there’s that new bistro a few blocks from my apartment.” You say thoughtfully.

Sarah scribbles on her notepad, “Anything else? I remember you saying something about a new book and a new puzzle launch.”

You smile despite yourself. “Oh yeah, but I already ordered those two to avoid the entire day being spent in a line that wraps around the street.”

Sarah laughs again, “That’s fine, what about when they have their book club? You said you’d always wanted to join one.”

You sit up then, “Can we ease into that one? People like asking a lot of questions I’m not sure I can answer yet.”

She nods, writing something in her notepad. “Okay we can table that one for say a month into this little experiment. There was that gardening thing you wanted to check out too, for new flowers now that the sun has really set in.”

You nod, “Can I do something today?” You don��t want to over commit and you can do something that serves two purposes today if it would get you to where you need to be to be normal again.

She smiles, you know it’s progress in her book.

“What are you thinking about trying?”

It’s almost fate that James bumps into you as you enter the bistro right after you leave Sarah’s office. You remember his smell, which would be weird if you ever said it outloud. James had smelt like the supermarket air con and cardamom and orange on the first day you met.

Now he just smells like cardamom and orange, it’s a homey scent that reminds you of winter and being in front of the fireplace.

His hands come to your shoulders to steady you, “Sorry,” James’ tone changes when he makes out your face. Dimples popping out as he smiles down at you. “We seem to keep running into each other, lovie.”

He’s with his black haired friend Sirius this time. Sirius gives you a smile and a small wave from behind him.

“Sorry about that,” you say shyly, James’ hands don’t linger on your shoulders when you’re steady. “Are you just leaving or coming in?”

Sirius’s grin widens, “Just coming in, but we’re meeting another of our mates here.”

James nods, “We decided to be good friends and find him outside rather than have him do the walk of shame all the way to us.”

You furrow your brows, “Why would it be a walk of shame?”

James’ ears turn pink. Sirius answers for him, “We like to pretend that whoever gets there first, are a couple that’s being caught out.”

At your horrified expression Sirius laughs, loud and barking and you feel heat licking up your neck. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

He nods, wiping invisible tears from the corners of his eyes as James shakes his head.

“Sirius likes calling out to Remus, our mate, loudly and I like to spare him all the stares.”

You nod at James’ explanation. “Well, I’ll let you two go get him.”

Sirius nudges James as you start walking away, “Lovie?” James stops you with a sort of winded shout.

You turn, hair slapping your face when you do. “That’s not my name you know.” he shrugs, a timid smile on his face that looks a little out of place.

“What about if you had lunch with us?” He asks, a bashfulness about him that makes his burliness seem a lot less.

You frown, “But you’re with your friends.” James shrugs, not caring that Sirius is beside him when he responds.

“I’m sure you’ll be better company.”

You turn to Sirius expecting him to be aghast; he isn’t.

Their other friend comes up, and you freeze a little. He’s got silvery scars all over his face and hands and you’re horrified by what caused them.

“Is this the pretty girl you keep telling us about Jamie? The one you met in the ice cream parlour?”

His accent is a little different to James and Sirius’, but he still sounds nice.

“The same one from the supermarket too,” Sirius adds and you feel your stomach tense. He isn’t unkind about it and neither is their friend.

James groans anyhow, ears and cheeks ablaze as he covers his hands with his face while a chuckle stutters out of you.

“This is our friend Moony,” Sirius says and the man before you rolls his eyes.

“I’m Remus.”

Your eyes widen, “Like the myth.”

He nods with a soft smile. “Exactly like it, but I don’t have a twin brother to help me build an empire.” Remus gestures to Sirius and James, “Just these two dragging me around.”

“I won’t crash your lunch James,” you say softly, and James’ hands move down to his hot neck.

“You really won’t be crashing it.” he insists, but you shake your head gently.

“Have a nice time with your friends.” You watch his eyes soften. “With our luck, we’ll bump into each other tomorrow.”

“Have a good lunch, lovie.”

You tell him your name then and James blushes madly.

“You as well.”

Damn it, you have to tell Sarah.

You’re in your work parking lot the next time James and you cross paths. Your head is between your knees as your coworker, Mary speaks quietly to him. You make out a few words, ‘stalker,’ and ‘panic attack,’ are the only three that stand out.

You’d just been on your way to lunch, a panini and cappuccino calling your name, and then you’d smelt his cologne and froze.

He was standing there in the parking lot, leant on your car and your heart stopped. The grease and sweat had filled your lungs and stopped your heart when you looked up. He had that same sick smile on his face and your blood was cold when he tried walking up to you.

You had run back into the doors of your office, bumping into Mary. She was speaking to you gently, slow and soft all the while she kept her gaze on the man on the other side of the glass.

“I’ll ask Frank to escort him off babe, you don’t have to go through this again.”

You don’t remember nodding, but you had to have because Mary left to go get Frank.

Frank got him out of the parking lot, but by then your panic attack had set in and you were unresponsive to Mary’s questions.

The next thing you know, she was leading you to the curb and putting your head between your knees as the ambulance approached.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” You smell oranges and look up, eyes wild as they flit over James’ face. “Can I touch your back?”

Your ears are a little plugged up, but you can hear him even through the buzzing. You nod, a broken up motion but James smiles encouragingly.

You still flinch when James touches you, but he doesn’t take it personally. Your heart beat stutters and James can feel how ragged your breathing is.

He reaches into his bag, and hands a brown paper bag to you, “Deep breaths, lovie.” It’s easier with the bag, but your eyes follow his hands as they go back to his bag to pull out the pressure monitor.

James doesn’t fit your arm through it, instead his hand returns to your back as your inhales get longer.

“Better?” he murmurs, eyes on yours as you lower the bag.

“Yeah,” your voice chokes and tears spring to your eyes immediately. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”

James shakes his head, “You’re okay lovie, if you need a cry you can.” the tears roll down your cheeks hot and thick, but your breathing doesn’t worsen.

“Is he gone?” You turn to Mary who’s been behind you the entire time.

She nods, a sympathetic smile on her face. “Yeah, Frank escorted him babe. I’m sorry he showed up.”

You wipe your face roughly and turn back to James, “You have to check my blood pressure again right?”

He nods, “But it’ll be super quick.”

James doesn’t ask anything about the man, but you know Mary told him at least surface level information about him as to why you had the panic attack in the first place.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” you whisper, a little ashamed for even asking James. Still, you’re scared and you really, really don’t want him to come back.

“I don’t think so. Frank seems like a scary bloke.” you nod and he slips your arm through the monitor’s sleeve.

“It’s coming down, lovie. That’s good,” you let James take it off but you don’t try to get up yet. “I should’ve asked last time, but do you take insulin medication?” he already starts rifling through his bag.

You shake your head, James nods, putting the meter back.

“It’s strange that it was you responding to the call.” you say quietly, but James only smiles at you.

“No more graveyard shift, remember?”

That pulls a small smile from you and James feels heat spread in his chest suddenly.

“Are you okay with going to the hospital?”

You freeze up, you have a record there. You don’t want James to know what happened to you. Guiltily you think that and then you scold yourself mentally; nothing that happened to you on that night was not your fault and realistically you know that. It’s just that when moments like this happen, it’s hard to think that it wasn’t.

“Do I have to?”

James nods sadly, “Because this is the second one in about three weeks, I’d rather not risk just sending you home angel.”

Another round of tears fill your eyes. You know James is just being a good paramedic, he’s just doing his job. Still, you don’t want to go. You’d rather take the day off work and go cry yourself to sleep.

You take a breath to steel yourself, “Okay. Let me get my things.” you wipe your eyes and stand, giving Mary a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow Mary, thanks for today.”

She kisses your forehead, “Nothing to thank me for. Do you want me to come with?”

You couldn’t ask her to take the rest of the day off work for ten minutes in the hospital and then the walk home.

“I’m okay, Mary. I’ll go home after, and call you when I get there.”

She nods and watches you get into the back of James’ ambulance.

James sits across from you as you lay on the gurney, his head running a million questions but he doesn’t ask one.

He just lets you sit in the silence of the moving ambulance.

“Do you have a GP here?” he asks when the ambulance stops, and you nod.

“A Dr. McKinnon.” you sound distant, but James only nods relaying the information to the receptionist at the desk.

“Okay lovie, you’re all set. I can wait with you till she gets here.”

You sit on your hands while you wait, remembering Sarah told you that hiding your hands will help with the skin picking when you’re anxious.

James wants to fill the silence desperately, if only to keep his mind along with yours from spiraling. He can’t seem to come up with anything that would seem to work.

“Y/n?” You look up, shock flooding you when you notice Dr. McKinnon. “Oh honey,”

You shrug, “James said you have to check me out because I had two panic attacks recently.”

James explains how bad they were and when the first one had happened, and she nods. “Yeah we’ll just do a quick checkup and you can leave.”

You turn to James, “Thanks for bringing me here James, and for taking care of me again.”

“It’s all good lovie, you’re the last hour of my shift. I can walk you home if you want.”

You just nod when you notice Dr. McKinnon watching you with a smile.

When you’re in her office, you sigh, tears pooling in your eyes. “He came to my office.”

Dr. McKinnon shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I thought the police were handling it.”

You shrug as she presses her stethoscope to your chest. “I thought so too, but he came there and didn’t say anything. Just stood there and smiled.”

She sighs, long and hard. “I’m sorry they’re so fucking incompetant.”

When she finishes her check up, she gives you a couple of anxiety tablets and a bottle of water. “These are just for tonight if the anxiety doesn’t wane.” you nod, a few beats of silence passing between you, “Let James walk you home.”

You freeze, Dr. McKinnon shakes her head. “He’s genuinely a good bloke, I’ve known him my entire career here. He’s not pushy or invasive and he’ll just walk you home. Nothing expected from it.”

You look up at her, cheeks stained with tear tracks. “But-”

She cuts you off, “I wouldn’t push, but I know you’ve been going to therapy and Sarah’s been sharing the notes. In the last six months since it happened, she’s said you’ve genuinely been making great strides and that these last couple of weeks have been good. She said you tried going out last month and couldn’t make it past your front gate, but three weeks ago you went to the supermarket.”

“That was when I had my first panic attack. I smelt the grease and got scared.” You say dryly.

Dr. McKinnon nods, “But you made it out, and you kept making it out. I’m not saying there won’t be more days where it’s grueling, I’m just saying she and I are in agreement that right now, all progress barring today and that day three weeks ago has been positive and buildable.”

You sigh, you know she’s right and if Mary were here with you, she’d agree with Dr. McKinnon, because you have been making progress that’s stuck. Today was just a shitty day amongst weeks of great days. You know you can’t give up on yourself and you don’t want to.

Still, it’s scary to think you can trust someone only six months after everything has happened.

Dr. McKinnon perches on her desk across from you, “I’m not asking you to act like nothing happened and you don’t have things to work on still. I’m asking that you let yourself make a friend after all the things that have happened.”

When you say nothing, she levels you with a serious stare. “You deserve someone to show you that humanity is not all the way fucked. James is a diamond amongst lumps of coal.”

You give her a small nod, “Just make a friend.”

James’ hair is wet, curls dripping on his shoulders and dampening the material of his compression shirt. His shoulders are quickly hidden by a jumper he pulls over, red and gold and boasting of a college rugby team. He looks impossibly soft for a man as broad as he is.

“Can I walk you home? Or would you rather me call you a taxi?”

You smile, Dr. McKinnon’s words ringing in your ears. “We can walk, James.”

He gives you another smile, eyes bright as he lets you lead the way out of the hospital. “Do you think the ice cream parlour is still open?”

You look up at him in surprise. “Ice cream before dinner endorsed by a paramedic?”

James shrugs, a cheeky smile on his face. “It can’t hurt us so long as we eat enough protein and milk has loads of it.”

You and James are the two of four persons in the parlour, James insisting you get a table.

“What flavour angel?”

“It’s a mint chocolate afternoon.”

James nods, “I’m more of a double chocolate person myself, but I can respect it in this summer heat.”

You laugh, watching James leave to the register.

You pull out your phone and call Mary.

“I got a clean bill of health, anxiety tablets, and the paramedic is walking me home but we stopped at the ice cream place first. Oh and a request to let myself make friends.”

She lets out a sigh on the other end. “Okay good. Are you alright with him walking you? Because if you’re at the parlour I can meet you there.”

You turn to watch James let a mother and her daughter go ahead of him, kneeling to help the girl choose a flavour.

“No, I’m okay Mary. There’s no fire engine coloured flags going off. Just residual trauma flags.”

She sighs again. “Okay, do you think he likes you?” You laugh, Mary is the least subtle person you know and you love her for it.

“I don’t know. I think we keep meeting each other, and I think I’m starting to like meeting him, but I honestly don’t think I can handle that becoming anything more right now.”

Mary hums, “That’s okay. You can agree to be friends for right now, babe. Nothing has to happen overnight especially if you don’t feel comfortable with that.”

You only chat for a little bit more before you notice James coming back with two huge bowls of ice cream.

“James, this is more than a little taste.” you laugh as he sets the bowl before you. There’s waffle cone bits crushed into your ice cream and a few extra chocolate chips. His is the mirror image on chocolate ice cream.

He shrugs, “It’s been a day. We deserve this.”

You can’t argue with that logic.

Walking home with James is exactly like Dr. McKinnon had said it would be. Respectful and restorative of your faith in humanity; if only by 2%.

So far.

James walks on the outside of the pavement, and as it nears five thirty on your walk back, he sheds his jumper and hands it over to you the first time you shiver.

“We’re only a couple minutes from my apartment James, I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, “It’s only going to get colder, and getting ill would be a god awful way to end today.”

You try to have a stare off with James, but twenty seconds into it, you realise he’s never lost one. Staring at him like this makes his big brown eyes somehow softer, and wider and all the more beeseeching. It’s almost as if he can make them widen like a pair of cat eyes, and that fact is adorable if a little scary as you relent.

You’re rewarded immediately by James holding the jumper out to you and waiting for you to put it on. But what makes it worth it to lose, is the fact that his scent, that fresh orange and cardamom scent, envelopes you completely. You find yourself warm all over as you tug it over your head, loose hairs tickling your forehead.

“Thank you,” you’re bashful suddenly, trying not to make it obvious that you can smell him through his jumper.

James beams, dimples out in full force. “You’re welcome, angel. You look cozy in that.”

James doesn’t let his eyes linger on you for too long, but he finds even just glancing at you in his periphery has his heart beat speeding up.

He can’t tell Sirius this at all.

When you make it to your front gate, James stands with his hands in his pockets to the side as you unlock it.

“Angel,” he stops you as you walk through the garden gate, curls resting right on his browbone as he turns his body towards you. “This might be completely inappropriate and you can totally tell me to fuck off, I won’t hold it against you.”

You tilt your head, confusion written all over your face.

“Would it be so bad if I said I’d like for us to do today again, minus the part where I show up in the ambulance?”

His words flood out of him, almost like the dam was broken and he couldn’t force them to slow.

Your eyebrows crease, not sure what to tell him. Even though you suspect James is an absolutely nice guy, a gem to quote your doctor slash his friend, you’re terrified. You’re not sure if you can be hurt again, not like before.

“Would it be bad if I asked if we could just try being friends out for a bit?”

James shakes his head. “I don’t want to push you. I can be friends, lovie. I’d kill to be your friend.”

James sounds like an excited toddler at the playpark, and that makes you smile.

“I’d appreciate that, James. I just,” you have to be a little honest here, especially because you know Mary already started it. “I’ve got some things to work through right now, and I want to get that all behind me before I commit to anything more than a friendship.”

James gives you a soft smile, his brown eyes resembling pools of wet earth. Soft and safe.

“I don’t want to push you too far into anything you’re not ready or wanting, angel. I’m a million percent okay with friends.”

If you had a little courage, and didn’t have such a shitty day, you’d probably toy with the idea of giving James a hug. For now, it’s a passing thought.

“Okay, I’ll text you from the number on your card.”

He nods, “Perfect,” James leans on your gate. “Lock up, lovie. I’ll be looking forward to your message.”

You feel James’ gaze on you the entire time you walk to your door. It’s not predatory, it’s just there. When you get inside, you don’t see him move until you click all your locks into place.

God, why does Sarah, Mary and now Dr. McKinnon have to be right all the time.

Over the next couple of days, you and James go back and forth on the phone a bit just getting to know each other.

You learn that he, Sirius and Remus used to be roommates at boarding school, James was the star rugby player of the group but he studied sports medicine and then became a medic when he dislocated his shoulder and shattered his knee.

You tell James that you and Mary hit it off when you joined the office you now work at, that you used to be really good at languages but can hardly remember any of what you learnt and that you garden like crazy.

He had laughed at that, pointing out to you that he did walk you home and saw your flowers.

You blushed something fierce and were grateful that he couldn’t see it.

You had eased into meeting up with James, little walks near your neighbourhood and to the ice cream parlour and the bookstore on the corner.

“It’s so nice when summer feels like summer,” he says while you walk to the bookstore two streets down from your apartment.

You turn to him, sweat pooling on your upper lip, “Not when London gets humid like this. I’d much rather the rain.”

James shrugs, “I love summer.”

You give him a pointed up and down, eyeing the muscle tee he’s wearing. There’s a comment about his biceps on the tip of your tongue, but you withhold.

“You do seem the type.”

His laugh was loud, but still it sounded like him. Happy and bright. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, “You know what it means, James Potter. You like the outdoors, and things of that nature.”

“That makes me a summer bloke?”

You nod, happy when he pushes open the door to the bookstore and cool air hits your damp skin.

“A thousand percent.”

You always met him at the places, but with every time you hung out, you got more comfortable with James. To the point where the thought of being in an enclosed space with him didn’t scare you shitless.

At your first therapy session after going further than your venture to the bookstore farthest from your home with James, you spilled your guts to Sarah.

“I made a friend.” you start and she nods, “A male friend.” You’re in her office, on the floor as you twist the arms on one of the toggle toys she has in a box under the coffee table in the middle of the room.

Her eyebrows jump. “And how do you feel about it?”

You sigh, “Remember the paramedic who helped me in the supermarket?” she nods, “Well, it’s him. He was also the one to show up when I had the panic attack in the car park at work.” Sarah doesn’t interrupt you as you rehash every meeting you and James have had and how Dr. McKinnon told you that making a friend was also a good step in the right direction.

She speaks when you’re finished, “She’s right that making a friend is a step in the right direction, I just don’t want you to feel forced to be this man’s friend.”

You nod, mulling over her words. Your hands wind and unwind the toy, watching it spin with every movement.

“I don’t. It sort of got to the point where even if I didn’t think about him or think about seeing him, I would. I think this is the natural course.”

Sarah smiles. “It does seem like it.” When you nod happily, she asks, “What about being in other places? Like his car, or somewhere new to you?”

You pause on her sofa, “We haven’t tried it yet.” as you sit there winding up a new toy, a wooden one this time you think about your possible reactions to being in James’ car if he has one.

“I might freak out a little, you know with account of it being an enclosed space. But I don’t think I’ll be frightened that James would do something to hurt me.”

Sarah nods, scribbling as you set up three wooden mice to race across the table. “That’s amazing progress, Y/n. And I’m glad these things are happening on your terms.”

You smile, thinking about how James hasn’t made you feel weird, wrong or rushed you to anything. “So am I.”

James’ text interrupts your thoughts,

What do you think about lunch, angel? I’m off right now.

You’d been staring at your monitor screen for the last ten minutes, trying to figure out what the hell your supervisors were moaning about in the email thread.

I’m on lunch in ten minutes.

You message back, smiling when you see the three grey bubbles pop up immediately.

When you notice the smile, you smooth your features into something neutral.

You’ve only known him coming up on six months now, five months since you’d agreed to be just friends, and you’re trying hard not to let your feelings spiral too far before your brain is ready for more.

Oh what about The Bistro? They’ve got great coffee and pastries!

You laugh at the irony of a paramedic having an insane sweet tooth.

I’m not sure if pastries only would be smart after a 12 hour shift, I can meet you there!

James’ bubbles bounce furiously.

I don’t think so angel, I’ll come get you.

If that’s okay.

Your response takes a few minutes. You try to assess how you feel and if your anxiety is because of his suddenness or because you’re uncomfortable.

In the ambulance?

No, that would be a gross misuse of the government’s property, lovie.

His second message comes instantly,

I do have a car, I just prefer walking. Either is fine with me, angel.

You’re too kind. I don’t mind going in your car, the heat is demonic today and having the air con blasting on my face would be heavensent, James Potter.

You chuckle when he sends the red faced emoji to you.

I never should’ve told you about the summer house, if this is how you’re acting, lovie.

I’m in the presence of royalty, it’s called respect. Plus, you love it!

He only hearts your message, and that makes you smile wider than you have all day.

“I’m going out to lunch,” you stop by Mary’s cubicle and offer her a box of cookies you’d baked the day before.

“With James?” You nod, biting your lip to stop it from spreading when Mary smirks.

“Have fun, babe. Let me know when you get back.”

You nod, kissing her cheek as you head down to the lobby.

James is outside your office in five minutes later, leaning on the passenger side door with shades on and wet curls again.

“Won’t you get a head cold being out with wet hair?” You ask as you approach him, a smile breaking out on his face when you come into view.

“Nah, it’s mostly damp and the sun is killer today. Should be dry before we even get to lunch.”

James opens the door for you, smiling when you duck under his arm to get in. “If you’re sure, James. My mum always said that was the number one way to get ill and remain ill.”

His car starts with a low purr, and you can’t help but give him a once over as he pulls out of the parking lot.

James always looks good when you see him, but you especially like how soft he looks after work. Sure you know he’s exhausted, but he reminds you of a cuddly bear when he wears jumpers like the one he’s in now.

It’s a plain forest green and smart brown pants, but he still looks soft. It’s hard to pin the correct description.

“You smell like chocolate.” he says suddenly, chancing a look at you as he rolls to a stop at the red light.

“A new perfume, black cherry and chocolate.”

James nods, “It’s very good.”

You can’t help but flush a little. It’s been two months of you and James being friends and so far it’s been perfect. You like being his friend, but you can’t deny the fact that every time you see each other, that warm, gooey feeling spreads through you like it was made to.

“Thanks, James.” You don’t let the silence in the car swallow you up. “Are you really only getting a coffee and a pastry?”

James shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips, “No, their sandwiches are great.”

Conversation during lunch is easy, James let you recommend an iced coffee flavour to him, a blueberry syrup latte, which he loved, and you let him recommend a cappuccino flavour - maple syrup.

“Should we split that carrot cake?” you ask, eyeing the size of it as he brought it back to your table.

James frowns, “You ordered this, angel. It’s yours to do with what you like.”

God, your heart melts. James is so fucking kind you could cry.

“I want to share,” he smiles, dimple poking out a little.

“Then we will.”

Every time you lean in to cut a piece of cake with your fork, james is hit with the scent of your perfume and he swears there’s something else, some sort of spell they put in there with the notes of the perfume because he swears every time you lean in, he gets a little drunk on the scent of you.

James still lets you get the bigger portion of the carrot cake and the minute you reach into your purse he stills. “Angel, don’t even think about it. My mother would smack me silly if she could see what you’re doing.”

You shake your head. “It’s lunch, James.”

He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Exactly, lovie. And it’s on me, always.”

“But you let me pay for ice cream.”

He scoffs, “The first time we went for it I did not, I put the cash back into your purse. The outside pocket.”

Your eyes widen, “You did not.”

“I certainly did.”

You mutter something about him being insufferable under your breath, but James only laughs as he stands to cover your bill.

As James drives you back to work, you turn on his radio to find Breathless by The Corrs playing. “I love this song!”

He smiles, turning it up a little and sending his windows down, “It’s a rom com classic.” he explains and you just shake your head, wind whipping your hair as disbelief floods you at the existence of James Potter.

James parks, and then turns to you before you get out. “I have a question.”

You stiffen, “No good conversation starts like that,”

He tuts, correcting your train of thought immediately, “Nothing bad I swear! My friends and I, Sirius and Remus, and then two of our friends from boarding school, Lily and Pandora, go to my parents’ summer house for the weekend next week, and I wanted to ask if you and your friend Mary would like to come?”

You bite your lip as you consider the offer. “Just the weekend?”

James nods, “Yeah, it’s sort of tradition the weekend before the beginning of August we go and have the lake and house to ourselves for three days and just have a fun time with each other.”

“And it’s fine with everyone that you’re inviting me?”

James rolls his eyes affectionately, “I’m pretty sure if I show up without you, they’d kick me out of my own house.”

“I’ll ask Mary and get back to you. Is that okay?” James nods, reaching a hand towards your cheek slowly just in case you don’t want him to touch you.

When you don’t flinch away, James stores it away in his mind, and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“That’s perfect, lovie,” James pulls away before the smell of your perfume can intoxicate him further. “Text me when you get home.”

“Always do, James. Have a good ‘night’s’ sleep.”

He smiles, nodding as he watches you leave his car and walk back into your building. James drives with the windows up all the way to his apartment, the smell of you, black cherry and chocolate flooding his senses.

“You obviously have to tell him yes, babe!” Mary screeches down the phone as you FaceTime her that night.

You’re both doing your night time skincare, the only way either of you can do it at this point is on FaceTime with one another.

“But won’t that be a weird way to meet all his other friends?”

Mary blows a raspberry at your question, “You’ve met two of them already, and the girls seem like they’re cool. I already found their socials.”

Your jaw drops. “That’s a little scary actually, McDonald.”

“I just wanted to be sure they were real!”

You narrow your eyes at her, “You wanted to see if either of them was single, you little rake.”

She cackles but doesn’t deny the claim, making you laugh too.

“Plus I’ll be there the entire time, backing you up.” Mary says as she catches her breath.

You heave a sigh, “I know, but small confession,”

Mary already knows what you’re going to say.

You and James have been friends for nearing six months now, and the feelings are developing fast.

You feel guilty that he doesn’t know the reason why you can only be friends right now, even though it’s clear to both of you and everyone around you that you like each other.

“What is it, babe?”

You massage your moisturizer into your face as you weigh your words. “I know I’m not expected to tell everyone I meet the gory details of my life, but not telling James is making me feel like I’m lying to him.”

Mary studies you, reading all the panic and shame on your face. “Babe,” you look at her, something else shining in your eyes. “You’re not lying to him, and there’s no set time to tell someone about what’s happened to you. However, if you feel like James is someone who can know what happened and how it’s affected you, you should tell him. No one is going to judge you for that, certainly not that man with a heart of pure honey.”

You chuckle, a few sudden tears flooding your eyes. “He really is sweet, huh?”

Mary smiles, happy to see you happy. “He is.”

You text James that night that you’ll be at his lake house.

You can’t even pretend there aren’t excited nerves bubbling under your skin.

James delivers flowers to your work a few days before the trip and Mary giggles like crazy when she brings it up to you.

“Look at this!” she sing-songs, practically skipping towards you with the vase.

You look up from your laptop, “Are those yours? They’re beautiful, Mary!”

She scoffs, “Me? No, babe. These are from James!”

You freeze in your seat, not daring to reach forward as you spot the card in there.

“What’s it say?” you ask her and she grins, setting the vase down on your desk and plucking the card from between a few stems.

‘Happy six month anniversary to us meeting! Is that a weird thing to celebrate? It makes me happy though, knowing you. Love, James.’

Mary would scream if you both weren’t at work.

“He’s unreal.” you mutter and she’s inclined to agree.

“Let him know you got them! He’s so sweet.”

You send James a photo of the bouquet,

Thank you for the flowers, James. They’re beautiful!

His response is fast.

I’m glad you like them! I really am glad we met in the supermarket six months ago, angel.

I am too.

You’re not even embellishing that fact as you send the message.

As you’re the last person packing your bag to leave when your phone rings. Without thinking you answer it.

“Y/n Y/Ln?” A woman’s voice fills the speaker.

Your eyebrows knit together, “Speaking. How can I help you?”

“I’m calling from the police, we have the man who assaulted you in custody.”

Your heart stops beating and you’re sure you’ve been calcified where you stand. “Pardon?”

“Yes, a Mr. Luther. He’d been picked up for assaulting another woman, but this one he’d been dating for a little over two months. The description matched the one you had given us and the matter’s been addressed in court.”

This is a dream, it has to be. “Is the other woman alright?”

The lady on the phone moves around a bit. “She’s as well as can be expected. But when I told her this was his second attack, she said to pass on the news to you. He’s going to prison.”

Tears gather on your lashline immediately. “Oh my god.”

You never thought you’d have ever felt this sort of relief.

“Are you sure?”

The lady gives a small chuckle. “The judge ruled at midday, ten years no parole.”

“Thanks for the call.”

You walk to your car, shocked to your core. When you get inside you call Mary.

“Mary, they got him.”

“What? Are you serious?”

The tears fall then. “They got him. Ten years no parole.”

“Fuck yeah babe. That’s a huge fucking win.” Your heart feels so light. “Want me to come over with chinese takeaway and those mochi balls?”

You nod even though she can’t see you. “Yeah, we can watch Princess Diaries together.”

“This is so great, babe! I’m so happy for you!”

“Everything’s finally moving forward.”

You’re at your therapy session before the drive to the lake. You couldn’t fit in another day, so you had texted James to let him know that you’d be a few hours behind them.

You’re laying on Sarah’s floor, toggles surrounding you as you listen to her tell you about how much progress you’ve made and how the police having him in custody will only help your progress along.

All you can think about is James, and telling him. More than ever now that ‘Luther’ is in prison.

“I want to tell James about what happened. So that he can at least know why I want to take things slow with him.”

You’ve interrupted Sarah, but she’s only shocked. In a good way too.

“It’s your call. It’s something that happened to you, and if you feel like this friendship with you and James can go somewhere further, you can tell him as much or as little as you please.”

You nod, twisting the back on one of Sarah’s wooden ducks.

“But what if he thinks there’s something wrong with me now? I’ve read that sometimes others see you as ‘broken goods,’ which is nasty and unfair, but it could still hurt if that’s how he felt.”

Sarah hums, you can tell she’s weighing her words.

“Has James ever made you feel uncomfortable for just wanting to be friends?”

You shake your head, “He even sent me flowers the other day.” Sarah raises her eyebrows. “To commemorate meeting in the supermarket six months ago.”

“And did it feel like he was trying to insinuate something more before you were ready?”

You shake your head again.

“No, he never pushes for anything more than I’m willing to give.”

“Well then, I don’t think he’d think anything of you other than how resilient you are for going through something like that.”

You and Mary get to James’ lake house just before sunset and the house is gorgeous.

It’s a pastel yellow house with pink trim and beautiful flower bushes.

James is in the front garden, sitting in a porch swing with a beer in his hand and sunglasses over his eyes.

He looks every bit of the rugby player he bragged about being in college.

You try not to focus on his exposed thighs as you park or the hint of ink you see peeking under the hem of his shorts.

“You’re drooling,” Mary sings happily as you park.

“You’ll drool too, don’t think I won’t notice if you suddenly make nice with the girls.”

She only slaps your shoulder as you start getting out of your car.

“Let me help you angel,” his hand hovers near your back as you reach to open the back door of your car. When Mary steps out, James gives her a big smile, dimples poking out. “You must be Mary.”

She nods, “I am. Thank you for having us over.”

James shrugs as he lifts your duffel bag to his shoulder and takes Mary’s as well. “The more the merrier! Plus like I told this one, I think the boys would’ve beheaded me if I didn’t invite you.”

You roll your eyes, “Where is everyone?”

James grins, “By the lake,” he leads the way, you and Mary following behind him. “It’ll be warm now, so if you wanted to go for a swim you could.”

Mary’s all for it, but you’re undecided. You want to tell James before you lose your nerve. You also want to tell him that maybe you can start taking your friendship to a more romantic path, but maybe that would be too much at once.

“The house is beautiful James,” you murmur as you make it to the back. The lake is right there, a jetty extending so you can walk straight out to it.

“That’s all my mum, she’s got an eye for these kinds of things.”

Mary is in awe, more so when she steps onto the jetty and realises that you’ve been holding out on her.

All of James’ friends are just as gorgeous as he is.

“You made it!” Sirius is near you first, dropping his cards on the jetty and coming over to you. “James can’t stop talking about you, so I figured you had to come.”

You laugh, “He does?” you turn to James who’s red.

Sirius nods, “It’s endearingly pathetic, but this is James we’re talking about.”

James squeaks, “Siri, stop!”

Sirius gives you a look that says, ‘You see what I mean?’ and that makes your heart race even more.

You give James reprieve as you turn to Mary, “This is my friend Mary. Don’t let her play cards, she’ll hustle you.”

Sirius’ eyes glint with something mischievous that you know is reflected in Mary’s. “Oh yeah?”

Mary nods, “Introduce me to everyone before you lose whatever you’re playing for.”

James laughs, going around in a circle introducing you to his friends. The redheaded girl is Lily, the other one with curly black hair, is Pandora.

You know Remus already, and he gives you a kind smile where he sits on the jetty with only his legs in the water.

“You’re in the next round!” Lily says and you nod, watching as Sirius takes Mary’s hand.

“Prepare to lose your sweets, Sirius.” Mary says as she sits beside them, ready to take them for everything they have.

“You want a beer, Mary?” you ask as she sits, she waves you off.

“I’m sound, babe.”

You turn to James, “Would it be terrible if I asked to see the flower garden?”

He shakes his head, pushing his sunglasses up through his hair to look down at you.

“I had a feeling you’d want to.” James extends his hand to you, when you take it, it’s warm and a little weathered from all the years of rugby. Still, it feels nice.

As you approach the garden, the first thing you notice is the smell. It’s fresh and bright, and you gasp when you notice an orange tree in the middle of hydrangeas, orange and red daylilies, and even some hostas.

“This is gorgeous, James.”

He smiles at you as you let go of his hand to step a little further into the garden. James watches as you take care to step only on the mosaic stones his mum had laid down to be a path years ago.

“Do you think your mum could help me design mine?”

He chuckles, “I’m sure she’d love to.” It strikes him as odd when his palm tingles when you come back to hold his hand. “There’s the path to the front as well,”

“Lead the way.”

You end up sitting on the porch swing James was on when you first got there, legs curled under you as James brings two beers from the fridge.

“I have something I want to tell you.” you ask as he opens the bottle before handing it over to you.

James smiles, repeating your words from a few nights ago, “No good conversation starts like that, angel.”

You shake your head as you take a sip. “It’s sort of an explanation.”

James furrows his brows, “For what?”

You take a deep breath. James hears it rattle on the way out and wishes he could crush you close to his chest.

“For me, I guess.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, lovie.”

You shake your head, “I’m ready. It’s just hard.”

James nods, turning to face you completely. “Take your time, angel. No rush, no pressure.”

You take another sip of the beer and then sigh. “Nearly a year ago now, I was attacked on the way home from work. There was this man, I didn’t know him, and he just came up behind me and I’m honestly still not sure how I lost consciousness, but I did. I woke up in an alley, and I knew immediately what had happened. I didn’t remember much, just this slight description and the smell of grease.”

James is stiff beside you, desperate to pull you close and wrap you up so no one could hurt you again.

“That first day we met, was the first time I’d left my house since everything happened. That’s why I had the panic attack. My therapist had said I needed to get out before I never could.”

“Oh honey,” James murmurs, heart shattering in his chest.

“After that, honestly as bad as that day was, the day in the supermarket, I think it also helped.” You take another breath, “I could leave the house, still with panic but I could leave. My therapist kept making me go out, places close to my home to get used to it again. And I kept bumping into you.”

You smile at him then, the memory of bumping into him at the ice cream parlour vivid behind your eyes.

“It felt like it was the right thing to do. And then I had another panic attack at work.”

James puts the pieces together. “He was there. That’s who Mary was telling me about.”

You nod, “But he’s been put away now. Unfortunately, he attacked another girl but she could give them a proper description that matched the one I did and he’s in prison now.”

James nods, swallowing the last bits of his beer. “Can I hug you?”

You laugh, heart light as you note how soft his voice is when he asks.

You lean into him, “Yeah James.”

His hug is warm, even for the summer, but it’s comforting.

“I wanted to give you the preface as to why I could only be friends.” you say as you pull away. “But now that he’s gone I want to try to be something more than friends.”

James smiles sadly, his hands cupping your cheeks, “I’m glad you felt like you could tell me. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that, m’heart.”

You shrug, “It can finally be behind me now. And I want to try for something good after a year of all of that.”

James leans slowly into you, pressing his forehead to yours, “You’re fucking resilient. We can go at the pace you set, sweet girl.” His heart beat is in his throat as he looks at you.

You smile, tilting your head up just a little. Your lips brush James’. “Mary’s gonna be thrilled.”

James blushes, “She’s my number one fan?”

You shake your head, “No, I’m number one. She’s definitely number two though.”

James tucks your head to his chest as he laughs, his blush making him hotter than the weather. “C’mon let’s go to the lake. You need to cool down.”

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1-800-crazy · 2 months ago

Text

Get Around

Summary : After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wilsons’ best friend!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Honorary Wilson!reader lol. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.1k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky had been hanging around Delacroix more often—helping out with repairs, tagging along with Sam, awkwardly charming every older woman at the community center.

After a while, he asked Sarah out the old-fashioned way. They were mid-conversation on her porch after a neighborhood barbecue when he said, “Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Yeah. A date.”

She smiled, a little surprised he actually made a move. “Sure, Barnes. Why not?”

—

The coffee date was… fine.

Sarah looked good—she always did—but sitting across from her in a cosy little café, Bucky felt like he was going through the motions. She talked about her boys, the PTA, the plumber who still hadn’t fixed the upstairs sink. He listened politely, sipping his drink.

As the date went on, the silences got longer. Not the comfortable kind— the searching-for-what-to-say-next kind.

Sarah told a hilarious story about AJ trying to microwave a juice box. Bucky laughed but didn’t know how to relate. He talked about old jazz clubs in Brooklyn, and she smiled, but couldn’t picture it.

Now, he thought to himself, what on earth do we have in common?

She liked things like school pickups and meal prep and making sure her boys had clean socks.

He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.

By the time their drinks were finished, Sarah leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

Bucky let out a relieved sigh. “God, thank you. I thought I was crazy.”

“You’re sweet,” she said with a grin. “But you’re… not for me.”

“You’re way too… normal,” he joked, happy to go back to friendly banter.

“Hey! Normal’s not so bad,” she playfully slapped his arm, grinning. “Especially with two kids and a mortgage. I like normal.”

Bucky shrugged. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what normal even is.”

There wasn’t any bitterness between them, just a mutual understanding. They walked out side by side, still friends, no pressure. Bucky held the door open for her, and they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk.

“You’ll find someone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just maybe not a single mom who spends half her life arguing with a ten-year-old about screen time.”

“Mm. Modern dating’s rough,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, kicking a pebble. He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “I never had to do it before. In the forties, you danced with someone, got shipped three weeks later, and that was that.”

Sarah adjusted the strap of her bag. “Yeah, well, times have changed.”

“I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is,” Bucky sighed, plunging his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Come on. Everyone has a type,” She glanced at him. “What do you usually go for?”

He thought for a long moment, mouth half open, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem.

“I dunno… pretty? Smart? Likes reading and stuff?” He squinted. “You know. Someone who makes me feel like I’m not completely out of place all the time.”

Sarah blinked at him, then let out a laugh that was more affectionate than mocking. “You’re hopeless.”

“I said I don’t know!”

“So,” she started, gears already shifting in her head, “You want someone smart, probably a little intense, maybe a little weird— someone who could keep up with your nerdy ass and not try to fix you.”

Bucky looked at her sideways. “...Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all. Just not me.” She shrugged, before smiling to herself. “Lucky for you, I think I know the woman for you,” she said with a little sing-song voice.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You’re setting me up with someone else?”

She grinned, wide and smug. “Damn right I am.”

“After I just tried to date you?”

“Please,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “This is the South. Everyone’s dated everyone once. It’s how we weed out the bad matches and find the good ones.”

—

The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine, the kind of Southern evening that made time stretch out and slow down. Cicadas hummed in the trees like a constant chorus, and the porch creaked beneath. You sat curled up on the steps, legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped across your lap even though the heat hardly called for it. Sarah lounged across from you, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, her curls tied back, the porch light casting a halo around her.

“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence as she swirled the ice in her glass, “I went on a date with Bucky Barnes.”

You blinked. “Wait—the Bucky? Metal arm, might’ve killed a guy with a butter knife?” Sam has told you a lot about him, of course. But that wasn’t the same as knowing him.

Sarah nodded.

You sat up straighter, curious now. “Okay, and? Spill.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s... complicated. But nice. Weirdly funny. He loves old movies and books and he’s got this thing where he looks constantly exhausted by the existence of social media.”

“That’s… something.”

Sarah shrugged. “He’s trying. But it didn’t really click, you know? Not romantically, anyway. We kind of gave each other this look like, ‘Yeah, this isn’t it.’”

You took a slow sip of your tea, watching her closely. “So why are you telling me this?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, unhurried. And if you knew her— and you did— she was scheming. “Because you… you might be exactly his type.”

Your brow shot up. “You’re trying to set me up with the Winter Soldier?”

“No,” Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m trying to set you up with Bucky. Who happens to have a metal arm and a very unfortunate history of government-sanctioned murder. Besides, I think he’s your type, too.”

You made a show of pretending to consider it, lips pursed. “Pretty but did government-sanctioned murder is my type?”

She nodded without missing a beat. “A hundred percent. You like them brooding and bookish with just a dash of ‘might stab someone for you.’”

You laughed. “Okay, but what about Sam?” You leaned back to the wooden railing, running your fingers around the rim of your glass. “You really think he’s gonna be chill with Bucky taking two of the closest women in his life out?”

“He’ll freak,” Sarah finished, deadpan. “But if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have to know. If it does we’ll handle it. I’ll hit him with the ‘don’t get in the way of love’ speech. Maybe throw in some guilt about daddy watching from heaven.”

“That’s cold.”

“It’s effective.”

You chuckled, setting your glass down and leaning back, looking out at the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere near the bushes, and the stars were just starting to peek through the indigo sky.

You bit your lip, shaking your head but not saying no. You were picturing him now— this man you’d only ever seen in brief glimpses, standing quiet at the edges of cookouts, nodding along to conversations, sometimes slipping into laughter like he forgot he was allowed to enjoy things.

“Does he read?” you asked finally, glancing sideways at her.

“All the time. Sam said he annotates in the margins.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s annoyingly charming.”

“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.

You took another sip, thinking. “I mean... I’m not saying yes,” you murmured.

Sarah just chuckled. “But you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna wear.”

You shot her a look. “Shut up.”

But to be fair, she was right. You were intrigued.

Completely, undeniably intrigued.

—

Sarah picked the brunch spot—a sunny corner café with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that changed every week. It had string lights even in daylight and smelled like syrup, coffee, and cinnamon.

Bucky walked in five minutes early, as he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He scanned the room— and then stopped short.

“Oh,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything.

Because there you were, sitting by the window in a breezy sundress and sneakers, sipping coffee from a mug the size of your face. You looked up, spotted him, and smiled like you were in on a secret he hadn’t been told yet.

He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”

You hadn't really talked before, not properly. He knew you were close with Sam and Sarah, always laughing or deep in conversation with someone else at the Wilson gatherings. He’d noticed you, though— thought you were beautiful, but always just too out of reach.

“That’s one way to greet a date.” Your brow lifted, amused. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”

“No—I mean—hi,” he managed to recover, walking over. “I just didn’t know it was you you.”

“Sarah didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I thought I was showing up for a complete stranger. Not the Wilson’s pretty friend who always hangs out with the book club moms at barbecues.”

“Hey!” You defended yourself. “Mrs. Landry always has good gossip.”

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

—

You both sat a little awkward at first, but then he made a dry joke about how brunch menus had too many eggs, and you responded with a sass-laced quip about men being afraid of hollandaise. The banter just clicked.

Conversation flowed easy after that.

You teased him for calling the server “ma’am” like he was born in a different century (because he was), and he shot back that you flirt like it’s a contact sport— which you didn’t deny. He found out you liked old books and that you could, in fact, take him in an argument about which Indiana Jones movie was the best.

To your surprise, Bucky was funny. Not just in a dry, sarcastic way, but he was genuinely quick-witted. He told a story about a disastrous attempt to use a self-checkout machine (“It yelled at me, loudly, in front of children”), and you nearly choked on your coffee.

When you talked about the petty drama at your job, he listened with real interest, laughing in the right places, asking the right questions. It wasn’t like dragging someone through small talk; it felt… mutual.

“So…” you started as you took the last bite of your croissant. “how’s this date measuring up to Sarah’s?”

“Well,” he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t checked the time once.”

Your smile widened.

“She’s cool,” he added, “but… this is different. In a good way.”

“I’ll take that.”

–

By the time the check landed on the table, you both reached for it.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to insist on splitting. Don’t. Let me feel like a gentleman,” he said playfully, “Don’t steal my moment.”

“Oh, this is your moment?”

He leaned in slightly. “I’m trying to be charming, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, pretending to be pissed, “But only because you said ‘sweetheart’ like a noir movie star.”

He winked. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning now as he handed the check off, and thought, Sarah was right.

–

He walked you to your car, hands in his pockets, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. The sun was warm, the air smelled like honeysuckle and syrup, and you… didn’t want it to end.

“I had a good time,” you said, pausing at your door.

He stopped, looking at you like you’d caught him off guard. “Yeah… me too. More than I expected.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “More than you expected?”

“I just didn’t think it’d be… this easy,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

“Careful,” you teased. “I might start thinking you like me.”

He looked at you, eyes on your mouth, on the way you leaned back against the car door like you had nowhere else to be. “I do.”

You smiled, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time you saw each other. “So… what now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Would you wanna do this again?”

You stepped in just a little, your face tilted up toward his, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Definitely.”

“We should go to the new bar down the corner soon,” he suggested.

“Great,” you said, eyes twinkling. “Text me, and I’ll be there.”

He leaned in like he might say something else, or might kiss you, might do something bold— but instead, he just smiled.

You slipped into your car, started it up, and rolled the window down.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called.

He stepped back, looking unfairly attractive in the sunlight. “Yeah?”

You met his eyes. “You’re even prettier up close.”

And you drove off, leaving him standing there— watching you go like you were the best thing that had happened to him all week.

—

Three days later, you went on your second date.

“Are we sure about this?” Bucky asked, pulling open the bar’s door for you. For better or for worse, tonight was trivia night.

You stepped in, instantly hit with the scent of beer, wings, questionable cologne. “Nope,” you said cheerfully. “I’m mostly here for the nachos.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled, following behind. “I’m just gonna pretend I know things about pop culture.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if I trust your grasp on modern trivia.”

“I’ve been catching up,” he said, almost seriously if not for the slight curve on his lips. “Did you know there are nine Fast & Furious movies?”

“Ten, actually,” you said with mock pity. “Proud of you, though.”

He held a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I let you insult my trivia knowledge and I still pulled your chair out for you.”

You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”

“Just slightly bruised,” he said, sitting beside you as the host passed around answer sheets and sharpies.

–

You came in fifth out of nine teams.

“Honestly,” Bucky said as you both stepped into the night air, “I think we did well.”

“You thought Pluto was a planet.”

“It was,” he defended, “back in 1940!”

You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”

He walked a little closer, catching up. “Still,” he started again, “I had fun.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. ��We make a good team. Incompetent, but y’know.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly.

“So…,” you drawled. “Should we do something again next week?”

He leaned in close, pretending to think. “Only if you promise to educate me on planetary bodies.”

“Deal.”

—

The week after, you decided to go to a roller rink together.

“This is either going to be really cute,” you said as you laced up your skates, “or humiliating.”

Bucky was already upright, perfectly balanced in his skates, the annoyingly coordinated war-time ballerina that he is. He looked down at you with that stupidly charming half-smile. “So far, I’m voting cute.”

You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me fall yet.”

He offered you his hand. “Let’s see, then.”

You took it—gratefully—and let him help you up. Instantly, your legs turned into spaghetti and you clung to his arm with both hands.

“Oh fuck,” you cursed under your breath.. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

He laughed, gently snaking an arm down your waist. “When was the last time you did this?”

“Thirteen?” you guessed, “I had a much lower center of gravity. Also, zero fear of public scrutiny.”

“Well,” he said, guiding you slowly onto the rink like you were made of glass, “you can hold on to me.”

“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured under his breath, glancing down at you with a look that was far too fond for someone who’d just watched you nearly faceplant.

You clutched his arm tighter, still trying to get your legs to cooperate. “God, this is embarrassing."

“It’s cute,” he insisted. “You’re like a baby deer on ice.”

“I will push you into a wall.”

“You’d fall too,” he warned, “So it’d be mutually assured destruction.”

Eventually, you got the hang of not immediately dying, though Bucky still skated close, one hand lightly on your back or guiding your wrist like he didn’t want to be too far away. Every time you stumbled, he caught you like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, breathless from laughing. “You haven’t even faceplanted yet.”

“That’s because I’ve been using you like a human walker.”

“And I’m honored,” he said solemnly. “Touch me all you want.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. His hand was steady, and every time you squeezed in fear, it made his heart stutter a little.

As the cheesy pop music echoed through the rink and colored lights flashed over your faces, you tugged him down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it. “What was that for?”

You gave him a casual shrug. “You didn’t let me fall.”

His grin looked a little dazed. “I’m never letting go now.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like you’re catching feelings.”

He looked down at you, cheeks still pink from your kiss. “And if I was? You gonna push me into a wall?”

You leaned into him, still holding on. “No,” you pretended to consider, “You’re growing on me.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged you into another lap around the rink— this time, not as your balance support, but just because he wanted to keep you close.

—

The next time he took you out was two weeks later— Bucky needed to go on a mission, and thankfully, he came back in one piece.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes to a swing dance night— probably Bucky’s hopeful smile and the promise of watching him do footwork that didn’t involve combat boots and a rifle. But now, standing in the bar with a live brass band warming up and people in suspenders and retro curls twirling across the floor, you were very aware of two things: One, you were wearing a swing dress that flared when you spun. Two, Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.

“Wow,” he said as he stepped up to you. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully daring him to finish that sentence.

He blinked, still locked in on your dress. It was deep red with a fitted waist and a full skirt. Your hair was pinned just enough to look like effort without screaming it, and your lipstick was the exact shade of I-wanna-kiss-you red. “Like a dream.”

You laughed, smoothing your skirt like it might somehow make his gaze less intense. “You’re just saying that because the dress twirls.”

He offered you his arm, loving the way you fit beside him— like an old-Hollywood couple.

The dance floor was alive, buzzing with movement and people spinning and dipping under strings of lights. You clutched Bucky’s hand tightly as he led you out, equal parts excited and terrified.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you whispered.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s okay. I do.”

And he did. Oh, he really did.

Bucky danced well, probably because he learned to when it meant something—when music was a lifeline, when joy had to be stolen in smoky clubs when the world was falling apart. He was confident, never showy, and always aware of you.

You found yourself laughing, light and giddy, as he spun you out and back again. Your dress fanned like a flame, your heels sliding along the floor, and every time you landed in his arms, his stare lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” you asked, catching your breath.

He gave a small, wistful smile. “Brooklyn. You had to ask someone or you didn’t dance at all.”

“And you always asked?”

He shrugged, but the glance he gave you was shy. “Sometimes.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “What a player.”

“Well, I never found the right partner,” he chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Until now.”

Oh?

“Only took you ninety years,” you teased and squeezed his hand. When you leaned back slightly, the lights caught the silver of his dog tags beneath the open collar of his shirt. It was a reminder of everything he’d carried on his shoulders— everything he rarely said out loud. And you wanted, suddenly, for him to feel something new.

So you kissed him.

Right there on the floor, standing on your toes to press your mouth to his. His lips parted with surprise at first, then his hand tightening at your waist, his other sliding up your back like he couldn’t stop himself.

You weren’t trying to steal something from him—you were offering something instead. He kissed you back because he understood that.

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like he was falling in love— and trying, desperately, not to admit it.

—

A couple days later, you had your monthly catch up with Sarah.

Your porch smelled like beer, chicken wings, and dandelions. The boys were pretending to swordfight in your backyard.

Sarah stirred the ketchup pot with a wing. “So,” she said, already smiling like she knew, “how’s it going with our favorite ex-assassin?”

You tried to play it cool. You really did.

“It’s…” You took a sip from your glass to buy time. “Going.”

Sarah tilted her head. “That’s all I get?”

“Fine.” You let out a soft laugh, resting your elbow on the lap, chin in your hand. “It’s going… really well.”

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip like she was examining a case. “Are we talking awkward small talk and polite side hugs? Or—”

“He took me dancing,” you interrupted, like that alone said everything.

Sarah sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Bucky Barnes took you dancing?”

“To a swing bar with a live band and couples in suspenders and victory rolls. He knew all the steps.”

Sarah pretended to look disappointed. “The best he could do for me was coffee.”

You laughed, nudging her shoulders. “And he looked at me like— fuck, Sarah, like I was made of stardust or somethin’.”

“Oof.” She leaned back, hand over her heart. “You’re in it.”

“I’m not—” You paused, considering it. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”

“A little?”

“I kissed him,” you confessed. “On the dance floor.”

Sarah was quiet for a beat, her eyes turning warm. “Sounds like he’s falling for you.”

You toyed with the rim of the bowl. “I think it scares him.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”

You looked up at her, almost worried. “What if I fall first?”

“Then you fall,” she reassured, proud of her matchmaking skills. “He’ll catch you. Even if it takes him a minute.”

—

Across the world, Sam and Bucky were just finishing up a mission— low-level intel retrieval, some mild breaking and entering, nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before. Still, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood for someone who’d just spent three hours crawling through ventilation ducts and dodging motion sensors.

They were walking back to the jet when Sam finally said it.

“You’ve been smiley lately.”

Bucky scoffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got this weird, smug little grin thing going on,” Sam insisted. “Thought maybe you got hit too hard in the head back there.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

Sam nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s her name?”

Bucky stiffened for a split second, just enough for Sam to catch it.

“See, I know you,” Sam said, leaning forward now, laughing. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Bucky tried to play it off, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I’m... Yeah.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

Bucky groaned, already regretting it. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird! I’m just—who?”

“Drop it.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.

“I’m not talking about it,” Bucky gritted.

“Is it—? Wait.” Sam’s eyes went round. “It better not be someone from my neighborhood .”

Bucky shot him a look. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh my God it is someone from the neighbourhood!”

“Sam.”

“You’re dating one of the aunties??”

“No! Jesus.”

“Who then? Just give me a hint—”

“Fuck, it’s… early,” Bucky said, voice a little tight. “So just—drop it, okay?”

Truth was, he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Yet. Because once Sam found out—once he did the math and realised Bucky had dated his sister, however briefly, and then ended up dating you, his childhood best friend, the one who used to sneak popsicles to Sarah after bedtime and once helped him bury a broken Game Boy like it was a funeral…?

Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.

Sam, to Bucky’s immense surprise, let it go.

Kind of.

“Well,” Sam said after a long moment, trying to play it cool but still delighted, “Just a foolproof-Sam-Wilson-dating-tip: bring her over to yours. Cook for her. Ladies love that.”

Bucky side-eyed him. “What, like, from scratch?”

“Yeah, man. Light a candle, put on some Coltrane, pretend you know how to make pasta that isn’t out of a box.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but Sam could tell he was actually considering it. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“You never do, and yet, I keep improving your life,” Sam said in that annoying matter-of-factly way he always did. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky shook his head, fighting the urge to smile again as he started planning your dinner.

—

So he invited you to your apartment when he got back.

When he opened the door that night, you kissed him chastely on the corner of his mouth as a greeting. “Hey you.”

He tried to look casual, but blushed a little. You were in jeans and a tucked-in tank top, nothing dramatic, but seeing you again after three weeks of non-stop texting felt like a breath of fresh air.

You had since gotten comfortable in his place, exploring every nook and cranny, figuring what made this place so…. him.

It was tidy and lived-in, filled with small signs that he was figuring out what a home meant— books stacked on end tables, a couch with a cozy throw, a record player in the corner playing jazz like it belonged in another century.

You were now barefoot in his kitchen, sipping wine and leaning against the counter, watching him move around like he wasn’t nervously making sure he was making the pesto right. Bucky wore a plain black tee and trousers, sleeves pushed up, forearm metal plates rippling as he stirred something on the stove— pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread in the oven. It smelled good.

“I can’t believe James Buchanan Barnes is cooking for me,” you teased, swirling the wine in your glass.

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“What?” you defended, “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I’m just trying to impress you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying pretty hard, huh?”

He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”

You were chuckled as he stepped closer, reaching past you for the olive oil—but his hand hovered on the counter instead, palm pressed near your hip. His eyes flickered to your mouth and lingered, there, like it was physically impossible to look away.

“You look good here,” he mentioned, hands creeping closer to you.

“Here?”

“In my space.” He clarified, nodding. “You fit.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.

It started slow—his hand resting just below your ribs,—but it escalated quickly, the kind of kiss that made you forget the world was round.

Your hands slipped up under the edge of his shirt, palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped against your mouth, just a little, but didn’t pull back. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space between you.

Bucky kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been trying so hard to be careful and you’d finally told him he didn’t have to be.

You dragged your fingers up his sides, felt the way his body shivered slightly under your touch. He kissed you harder, tongue slipping against yours, his metal hand gripping your waist. Your back hit the edge of the counter and you arched into him, lips parting on a moan you didn’t mean to make—but it set a bomb off in him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open-mouthed and hot, and your hands found the hem of his shirt again, tugging gently.

“Wait—” you said, breathless, your head falling back a little, “Bucky—”

“What? Did I—?”

You laughed, one hand resting on his chest. “The stove.”

He blinked. “The—?”

You tilted your head toward the pot behind him, steam now visible, the faint bubbling sound definitely not part of the white noise.

“Oh, shit.”

He turned fast, fumbling with the knob, grabbing the towel and yanking the pot off the heat and turning off the oven while muttering curses under his breath. You leaned back against the counter, laughing.

He turned back around, hair slightly tousled, but not looking the least bit sorry. “We can heat it up later.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He stepped in close again, gently crowding you against the cabinets, one hand braced beside your head. “Dinner can wait.”

You didn’t argue. You just hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulled him in again. His hand hiked up your thigh as he sunk down, kneeling on the floor, pasta be damned.

You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.

—

After a good hour or so in bed, Bucky took you to shower. It was all steam and lazy kisses pressed to damp skin. You’d lingered under the spray longer than you needed to, neither of you in any rush to move, to pull away, to stop being tangled up in each other.

Now, you were perched on the edge of Bucky’s island kitchen counter, freshly showered, legs swinging gently, damp hair tucked behind your ears, wearing nothing but a pair of his briefs and his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder in a way that made Bucky keep glancing over like he was already planning to peel it back off.

He stood shirtless across from you at the stove, boiling a new batch of pasta after he’d abandoned the old ones earlier. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to the back of his neck, and his gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. His metal arm glinted in the light as he stirred the sauce one-handed, the other casually wiping at a stray droplet of water on his chest.

You tilted your head. “You know what?” you started.

Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised.

“I think I like sex better before dinner,” you finished your thoughts.

He let out the sweetest laugh, remembering how beautiful you looked underneath him on the couch earlier, right before he scooped you up, took you to bed, and placed you on his lap. “Do you, now?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, “Because the food’s not in there yet. It’s not, like… sloshing around.”

Bucky paused mid-stir, blinked at you, then chuckled. “Sloshing?”

You laughed too, unapologetic. “I’m just saying! Strategic timing is key.”

He turned back to the stove and shrugged. “My metabolism’s so quick it doesn’t really matter.”

You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

He turned to face you fully, spoon in hand, as he fed you a taste of the sauce. “But I’m glad we didn’t wait.”

You hummed in approval at the taste and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug him closer, gently. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “You, in my shirt…” He reached up, tugging the loose collar gently back into place over your shoulder. “Kind of ruins me a little.”

Your smile turned fond. “Good.”

He kissed you again, sighing as he pictured you thirty minutes earlier, mewling and begging on top of him, falling apart at the same time as him. He remembered pulling you close afterward, whispering praises and sweet nothings in your ears as you mumbled his name, content and so fucking pretty—

Knock knock knock.

The sound interrupted the kiss as you pulled away. The knocks were so confident, it sounded like the person on the other side knew Bucky was home.

You tilted your head, your fingers idly twisting the waistband of his sweats. “Who’s that?”

Bucky glanced toward the door, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Probably one of my neighbors. You were loud earlier.”

You swatted him. “Shut up.”

He just winked and went to open the door.

But his smirk vanished the second he saw who was standing there.

“Hey, tin man,” Sam greeted casually, breezing in like he owned the place, holding up a paper bag from that diner down the street. “I got fries, I’m bored, and Joaquin’s still in Miami, so I figured we could—” He trailed off, freezing.

Because he’d looked past Bucky.

And saw you.

You, still perched on the counter in Bucky’s shirt, hair damp, face flushed. Very clearly post-shower, post-sex, post-everything.

Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”

Your eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. Bucky winced.

Sam pointed between the two of you, voice rising. “You’re dating my childhood best friend?!”

You tried to recover, sliding off the counter like that would somehow make things better. “Okay, wait—”

“It’s not—” Bucky started, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear into the wall. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Sam gestured wildly. “It looks like she’s wearing your shirt.”

You looked down. Yep. Sure was.

You cleared your throat. “Surprise?”

Bucky groaned. “Look, Sarah set us up.”

“SARAH???” Sam yelped. “What does Sarah have to do with this?!”

You raised a hand like a student in class. “Okay, okay—context,” you started, “Sarah went on a date with Bucky. But it didn’t work out.”

Sam turned so fast. “YOU DATED MY SISTER TOO?!”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “It didn’t work out, man!”

“I can’t—” Sam paced in a tight circle. “You dated my sister, and now you’re—what—hooking up with our childhood best friend? An honorary Wilson? Are you working through my entire support system? Gonna date my mom next?!”

You muttered under your breath, “Don’t think they have tinder in the afterlife.”

Bucky gave you a look. “Not the time.”

You winced. “Sorry.”

Sam squinted at you both, still flabbergasted, still holding his fries like they’d betrayed him. “And how long has this been going on?”

You and Bucky exchanged a guilty glance. You opened his mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.

“… when did we get back from that Madripoor mission?”

Sam stared. “That was, like, two months ago.”

Then, quietly, Bucky muttered, “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Sam crossed his arms. “At the wedding?”

Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”

Sam shook his head, grumbling, “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.” Then he pointed a finger at you, suspicious. “And you. You were just gonna act like this is normal?”

You bit your lip, smiled sheepishly. “In my defense, I was planning to tell you… eventually. So stop pointing hot food at me and quit being dramatic. Sarah and I can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

Sam looked at his fries.

“…These are for both of you now,” he muttered.

And Bucky, hopeful, asked, “So we’re good?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, before you even could. And the way he said it made something in your chest flutter.

Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, maybe tell me before I walk in on my best friend looking like she just climbed outta your bed.”

You shrugged, plucking a fry from the bag. “Honestly, we never made it to bed the first time.”

“NOPE,” Sam said, backing toward the door. “I’m leaving. And you!” He pointed at Bucky “Next week. You’re explaining everything.” Then he pointed at you. “You. Bring wine.”

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And as Sam walked out grumbling, Bucky just shook his head, slid an arm around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Well,” you said, leaning into him, “that could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “He didn’t even threaten to punch me.”

“Yet.”

“Fair.”

—end.

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@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

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@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

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@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069 @silverdoragon

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