#I want to share because I have never seen a POV like this and who knows. maybe someone else is going through it tonight

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 5

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability, mentions for Rafayel stories, and myths, violent imagery and arguments.

Word Count: 5456

Written: 9th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Rafayel is so hard to write for a lot of reasons, but also is one of my favourite characters in any story because he's just... contains multitudes. I also feel like he's the one who struggles most with all these other people in MC's life. I also feel like he's so fixated on pain, and struggle, that he forgets kindness can be offered to him with no price. Anyway, I enjoyed working on this bit a lot even though it was hard. Enjoy! Also as a side note, the song of choice I can only partially explain, Rafayel out of all the boys makes me think of regency romance on a level I truly cannot explain. (even though he doesn't have a dancing scene... YET!!)

Now Playing: All I Want, by Kris Bowers

Masterlist AO3

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Rafayel loves you. That is never in doubt. He finds himself bitter and aching that there is so much you have shared that only he remembers.

Sometimes it comes out in harsh words or lies. Even though he knows it is unfair to punish you, when you can't control it.

Mostly, however, he tries to enjoy moments with you. Hoping that something will spark, and you will look at him and see long years of history.

Remember his longing and his love in all its forms.

Remember all the facets that make him up. Perhaps it's cowardice to want your memories to fill in the blanks that he is too scared to tell you. Blood on his hands, heart offered up. He does not want to see your expression change. For you to fear or hate who he is… who he can become.

He thinks about beautiful blue seas, and the breath stolen underwater.

When he finds himself thinking of the beach he waited at, every year, he pushes himself into his work.

Now, he spends most of his days at your side. In case you need him. He watches closely, because he's used to you hiding your struggle from him. When you're sick, you've hidden it, he's reminded you that you're not a superhero. As much as you put on a brave front for every kid that sees your hunter reels.

Rafayel has watched this version of you for a long time, before he finally met you again. Properly.

He has seen so many renditions of you, no matter who you have been… he has loved you. He has and will love you for eternity and beyond, even if it might be easier not to.

Rafayel has finished most of his work for his exhibit, as he stares at the final piece that is missing something that he cannot find.

Sun blends with sea, as the tides recede. As silver bones are left behind to bleach.

He stares and stares and nothing comes. Just that vague, irritating feeling of incompletion.

"You're going to burn a hole in it, fish."

"Sylus, leave the man alone, he's actually working."

Rafayel huffs… and therein lies his other problem. Your consortium of bizarre attachments. If he were less observant, he could pretend they see you as a friend only.

But he is a man who can kill another, who can plan his revenge, who can hide in plain sight. Who is capable of sneaking up even on the N109 Zone Leader.

So he can see and he can't ignore. He also can't ignore that they comfort you as well.

You have teased him for being childish, and he thinks the irritating feeling in his gut, that demands he steal all of your time, that you are his bonded partner, confirms such a claim. He is not possessive of a lot… your heart is his.

He tries to ignore the doctor and the crow. Staring straight ahead, hoping that answers will come to him, but he cannot. He can feel their presence and it is on the edge of his consciousness. Poking at it.

Like he is a crab on the beach and a child wants to watch his pincers clasp.

"Maybe you should take a walk, get some fresh air."

"Do you want the fish to suffocate, Doctor?"

"Truly, you are incapable of not prodding at others aren't you?"

He huffs this time, turning his face to look at the two. Zayne is typing on his laptop, barely looking up to converse, while Sylus is on his tablet, glasses on the end of his nose.

The two look eerily similar like this.

Rafayel tries not to compare the doctor to the crow, it's unflattering. At least the doctor can heal your wounds.

When he speaks though, his irritation comes out in the snippy tone he takes, "Your opinions are noted, dumb crow. Then swiftly discarded."

The man does that irritating little laugh he does, that is more a puff of air than a real laugh. Like it's too much effort to feel anything, and Rafayel wants to pluck his feathers.

How you can tolerate him, he'll never know.

At least the hunter is quiet…

Still, he wants to get out of here, they make it harder for him to think, and he can't make progress like this. So he stands, shrugging at them and heads towards the door, as he goes to make through he almost collides with you and Xavier returning from the hospital. He isn't surprised when you move out the way just in time, you're a hunter and your training has made you capable. Still as he greets you, you hesitate, before tugging at his shirt before he can leave.

He looks down, your hand holding onto the fabric, not tough enough to tear, but enough to halt his movements.

"Are you alright, Raffy?" 

It shouldn't surprise him that you notice the tick in his jaw, or the stress under his skin. It isn't the first time, and you've shown many times to have been able to pick out when his mood has dropped. You're observant as part of being a hunter, you're careful, you pay attention. You're smart.

You care.

About him, about his mood… about his life. His irritation settles, soothes at the edges, and his smile is easier, "I need some fresh air. Want to come with?"

You hesitate and he watches the fear enter your eyes. Wavering. You walk between the hospital and the apartment when you don't take Zayne's car, but that's the extent of your journeys. He wants to pull you by the hand… make you see the sea with him.

"Where are you going?"

"Whitesands."

It's far enough removed, very few people visit it, and he will get a walk somewhere familiar. Perhaps it's familiar enough for you to follow him.

He extends his hand, carefully, trying to keep the need from bubbling to the surface. If he could take you away far from here, he would. Take you to everything he's ever seen, so he can see it with new eyes. Yours.

Your hand stretches out, and your fingers tremble, before you finally take his, "Alright, if it's quiet." Your request is one he'll happily grant. Both of you alone, he can't think of a better way to spend his time.

The walk is kind to him, as they head towards Whitesand Bay, he gets to keep your hand in his, listen to the song of the world, and watch as your steps become lighter. You stop staring down at your arm and checking around you, eventually focusing on the sky and him.

As feet crunch on white sand, and approach the edge of tides. You let go of his hand to walk a little further out, and he watches. As you crouch, as you reach fingers to the water.

Rafayel paints everything he thinks is beautiful, tragic, or brings pain to his soul. You hurt him too, in ways he aches for. Like he is placing his hand in a burning flame, and holding it there, because the longer he holds it, the closer he gets to what he craves.

Like there is an answer there, waiting over the edge of agony. If he tumbles after it, he'll find what eludes him.

There's a feeling in him that wants to drown you with him. He could swim out, with you in his arms, and pull you under. On the edge of the question of life, before he gives you the means to breathe alongside him. He's warned you of the nature of sirens, and you've looked him in the eye and told him you don't fear him.

You should, though, he knows. You should fear the ocean's grasp as well as his own, because he wants your heart for his.

As you turn your eyes back to him, soft smile tugging the scar on your face, his heart thunders and then stills. Flames and agony. The need to touch and hold it in his hand… Lit against the contours of your face, and the glimmer in your eyes.

His inspiration is always closer than he thinks.

—-----

Rafayel dislikes your companions.

The prince gets to spend all of his time with you, working together, protecting each other. Where Rafayel had to convince you to be his bodyguard, just for a fraction of that time.

The doctor is who you trust with your injuries and your wounds, he is who you go to when something hurts. You hid your sickness from Rafayel before now, so he didn't doubt your capabilities.

The crow… the crow gets under his scales. Like a tick. Biting and bleeding and ruining his skin. Yet you trust him, a man who built all his life on violence. Who has blood on his hands. Who is open about his sins… While he cannot tell you for fear of the look in your eye changing.

It is safe to say the crow is his least favourite. The one who grinds at him most, who plucks and pulls. Like a hook in his upper lip. He dreams of drowning the man… he would if the look in your eyes didn't stop him.

So he hates them, he thinks. The anger and irritation and the childish petulance. He wants your attention and he fights for it, he wants you to trust him most. It took too long to gain entrance into your home, reminding himself that time builds strong bonds. That he should be patient. He did not want to scare you, to startle you. Like you are a small fish and he is a bigger… hungrier beast.

There is no peace when they are around, and normally pain brings him inspiration, an answer on the end of a paintbrush. A vision in the agony.

Whatever feeling they inspire is not pain, and it brings him no art to create, no feelings to share in blues and greens. Nothing to show for it.

He has thankfully, however, finished his final piece. So there is a relief in him, even as the crow looks down at him, eyebrow raised.

Rafayel ignores the man, looking straight ahead, signing his work. Paintbrush steady. Steadier than the racing heart in his chest.

He will not lose a game of chicken with an overgrown bird.

So when the crow turns to walk away, he is relieved, and so smug, until he hears a crunch. Looking over quickly, and staring down at the floor.

"Ah, what a shame."

One of Rafayel's paintbrushes snapped in half by the stupid crow's foot.

He levels a glare at the man, "Are stupid crows clumsy too?"

"Are all fish messy? Your things have spread across the apartment."

"I'm working!"

"Quite diligently I see, despite galavanting off to the beach. Inspiration was it?"

The look on the crow's face is too level. It's too calm. He does not respond to the rise of Rafayel's voice. He does not flinch at the glare in his eyes. He does not move, from where his foot is still on his brush.

It is a feeling of irritation that burns and scorches where it stands.

He has to tolerate and bite his tongue. He has to think and be careful. He has to share, where he does not want to share.

You are his heart, why does he have to look at the eyesore in his vision, and think about his hands on you too.

His anger bubbles and froths and overflows. A pot that has been left, and forgotten. You will forget him too, in favour of a crow! A stupid. Foolish. Irritating crow.

He stands and presses forwards, fangs bared and sharp. He is a predator of the seas. This man is nothing. He is a god of the tides. This man is a petty criminal.

Rafayel knows you better, he has seen more incarnations than this man can even comprehend, and he dares to play at favour?

"If you wish to be drowned, crow, I am happy to oblige."

Eyebrow quirks at him, a look in his eyes that Rafayel can't make out, but it glitters and twinkles, "I'd love to see you try, fish, but I'm afraid you couldn't hope to kill me."

"I am more than willing to try."

"Then you'll simply be hurting your 'beloved bride', wouldn't you?"

He snarls, a low noise in the back of his throat, hand reaching out to grab at the man's throat. To snap it, bite through it, to cut his voice permanently, he isn't sure. It will hurt, and he will deserve it. For calling you what he cannot. Too many memories that you cannot hold in your heart.

The crow steps forwards, as if daring him to try. To wrap his hands around his throat and twist. To slice his throat open with a dagger. To see. To show him if it's true.

"Raffy?" Your call comes from the side, stumbling in, voice wary.

His hand hovers, he debates. Thinks for a moment. Stares at the crow's adam apple as the man swallows his laughter down. The dare is there, waiting for him to take… and they both know he won't.

So he rips his hand back, offers you the kind of smile that shakes at the foundations, "Hey cutie, I was just going out for the exhibit."

You open your mouth to speak, and he shakes his head, grabbing his canvas. Lifting it far too quickly to be safe, and turns on a heel, "I'll see you later."

The speed he leaves the apartment leaves the door frame shaking behind him. Heading out, running from the place. From the crow's dare, from the wary look in your eyes.

From the inadequacy… the guilt… the irritation. The pain.

What lurks over the abyss could just be nothingness. A world where you don't want him, or need him. Where without your memories you do not look at him, hear him call you his beloved bride, and love him as you once did. Where his bond with you is not enough, and he simply has to experience the heart that cannot beat for anyone but you.

That he has lied and hidden and kept from you for too long, that a criminal with blood on his hands who does not hide… claims your heart for his.

His heart…

There is pain behind his art and in his soul. A reminder that he cannot always be with you in every life, and he prays this is not one of them. An alter of suffering that he would cut his chest open at, if you would always look at him.

—--

You cannot stop thinking about the look on Rafayel's face.The agony in his eyes as he'd darted from the room. You'd asked Sylus who had shrugged, "I broke his paintbrush." But not explained further.

You'd seen Rafayel break his own paintbrushes in his studio, stepping on them, falling over them. Resulting in a trip to the hospital because of how messy things were.

You help Sylus clean up some of the mess, containing it in a corner with the rest of Raffy's things, hoping it would alleviate some of the feeling you can't seem to shake in the air. A stagnation. It feels like decay, and you can't open enough windows to air it out.

If Sylus decides not to share, he won't. You've known him long enough, pried at his secrets enough, that you don't waste the strength anymore. He shares what he wants, when he wants to.

So you abandon the effort and go about your day. It drags. Waiting for time to pass, working through your exercises, before you have to leave.

As the time approaches, the clock hand moving, it begins to click harder. The sound impending.

You think about other exhibits, the amount of people, the noise…

It cuts through the excitement, the peace of the wait, the boredom.

You pause as you're getting ready, staring at the prosthetic arm flexing in front of you. The movement of metal fingers, the clear indication of your injury… your failure.

You're going to see Rafayel. A man who people will be looking at. Commending.

Taking photos of.

Do you really want to be stood next to him like this? To draw attention to yourself and him?

An icy chill runs up your spine, and you stop. You have to get these clothes off. You have to cancel. You can't go.

You can't be there.

You feel the chain on your ankle, it tugs and it pulls, and it drags you back. The beast that settled, has woken up. It is hungry and it is angry, and it is laughing at you for trying.

A mistake, this was a mistake. You made a promise to someone you care about, and now you're going to hurt him. Either way, you're going to hurt him. Make him look stupid. Make him hate you.

You're going to break this fragile peace. Bring that agonised look into his eyes again.

Take from a man who gives you so much. Love, affection, kindness, warmth, acceptance, joy.

You are ripping all those things from his hands, and returning nothing.

"Kitten?" You stumble, when the voice startles you out of your thoughts. Falling back onto the bed, looking up as Sylus enters, not bothering to wait for an answer. Ever since your mission had gone wrong, he has been far less hesitant. If he could ever be said to be hesitant.

When he sees you sitting, tears in your eyes, he approaches you, kneels in front of you. Hands on your knees. Soothing your skin. His skin is so warm, it's like a brand. You almost pull away. On fire, itching, hurting. He notices your flinch and pulls his hands away. The relief of the cool is intense, and you choke on the feeling.

You're the mistake. Too fragile to be touched. Too useless to be helpful. Too much work.

He takes in your rumbled clothing. The shirt half pulled off, the jacket thrown away from you, the trousers unclasped. You are shivering, and shaking, and while you can see his hands twitching. Yearning, needing to soothe, he knows he can't. So he tries to speak, hesitant now, "Don't you like them?" You think about the time he spent, finding things with Rafayel that are easier to wear. Clasps that can be done easier with one hand, or buttons bigger for your unsteady metal fingers.

Things that require the least amount of struggle. If he could not find them, he had them made.

The two of them, you think as you try to fight through the fog, are dangerous.

You shake your head numbly. "I can't go."

It doesn't require much more from you, even without his eye, Sylus reads people. He reads you. He's said sometimes he cannot understand the workings of your mind, but he improves everyday. It is terrifying to be seen by him. Terrifying for him to look under the rough exterior, to the rougher interior.

You wait for the moment that he realises you're not worth it.

"You'll be with us." He starts, and you look down at where his hand twitches towards you, then back. "You won't be alone."

You haven't been alone, you think. In all the time you've spent with this. This weight, first on your back, then on your ankle. They have come to find you. Looking.

Just like Caleb did.

Is it enough? This could be that wakeup call.

"Rafayel wants you there, he's excited to see you." It is odd. It is hearing Sylus say 'Rafayel' and not 'fish', that jolts you back. Just like the moment you saw them in your kitchen, arguing. Just like when you saw them all walk through that door when the blanket was your only defence.

It is a realisation of how odd this is. How bizarre they are.

It almost makes you hiccup a laugh. The idea of Sylus speaking for Rafayel. You think about how warm he is to you, how he takes your hand easily.

I will always want to look at you.

"What if it's too much work?" You finally manage, the agony lightening so you can speak, no longer tearing at you. Though you can feel the creature on your ankle. Tugging. Like a dog with a chew toy.

"The important things are worth it."

Important.

Learning to use your prosthetic is hard. Learning to trust is hard.

It was with Caleb, it is with all of them. It is a constant struggle. A constant weight. To try.

They catch you, with a security net. Give you space to breathe, so you can stand back up again.

You think about what you want, think about what will make you happy… what is worth living for.

It is the reason to keep getting up.

You want to see Rafayel's work, you want to see the people you care about. You want to keep your promise to a man who values you. A hesitant shaky hand takes Sylus' where it hovers. The way you can watch him heave a sigh, the tension in him easing, as he clasps yours between both of his. Tight, but not suffocating. He grounds you, and it doesn't burn.

"What do you think, Kitten? Do you want to try?"

Sylus has never belittled you for tears, or made you feel your emotions are a mistake. When you are drowning, he offers a hand. When you anger and hurt, he is there, either to join you in your hurt, or to help appease it.

He offers you a choice, and he means it. If you truly do not want to, you know he will accept it. If you want to, he will help.

"I want to try."

He nods, pulling you up with him, to stand, straight into his chest. So that you can feel his uneven heart beating against you. "Then let's get you ready."

—-----

He should never have left so early. He should have stayed with you.

Rafayel left the apartment in frustration and anger and now he stares at his phone, hoping to see your name pop up.

It is an agitating feeling. To be stood on the edge of the cliff and not know if there's water below.

He has forced himself to listen to Thomas, to go through the motions, to ensure his exhibit is set up correctly. He has sat under too bright lights, feeling himself drying up, as he waits. As the clock hand moves, as he thinks, and he struggles.

If he keeps running, will you stop chasing him?

As his exhibit starts, he checks again, only to see a message from the doctor, 'Good luck today'. He doesn't respond. He stares at it. It's unsettling. He doesn't want the doctor to wish him good luck. He doesn't want his comfort.

He doesn't need it.

Even when his agitation settles a moment, and he hides it from Thomas who asks him why he's smiling. He's not.

That doesn't mean anything.

He does not wave at Xavier as he walks through the door, milling around the paintings quietly. Avoiding the bigger crowds. He tries not to think about the fact that he's come to see.

It doesn't matter.

As time passes, Rafayel fidgets.

Stares at the door.

Fidgets.

Stares at the door.

He walks around the room, passes Xavier, who hands him water quietly, then walks off. He stares down at it, but he's parched, the crowds are tiring him out, the people are talking like they understand him, and he just wants to be somewhere else. So he downs it, and lets the relief of the chill settle in his throat.

He talks absently to people he doesn't really care to listen to. Thomas gives him a talk about doing his duties.

Irritation settles in his stomach. He doesn't care about his duties. He cares about seeing you.

He checks his phone, and is relieved, though irritated, when he gets a message from the crow, 'We're on our way'. He sends back a thumbs up, though it is through a shaky hand. Excitement makes it unsteady.

It is when he is not staring at the door, when he hears your voice behind him. "Raffy?" Pulling away from where he is avoiding Thomas' lectures, he takes you in. Your hand is grasped in the crow's, eyes darting around the room. You're wearing your prosthetic, a dark blue jacket over your shoulders, painted with green and blue flowers. Flared trousers and a light shirt. He absently thinks that the crow's style isn't too ridiculous, if it means you visit his exhibits like this. Like one of the flowers in a garden he wants to take you.

"Cutie!" It is relief and it is the weight of hundreds of years that shed. He waited, he waited, and you came. He takes your hand away from the crow, not without giving a smug little smile, which receives him a smirk, and kisses the back of it. "You made it."

He watches your eyes glisten, he can feel the heat off your cheeks. Not all embarrassment, he knows some of it is stress, but it is enough. "You don't have to stay long." He promises, it doesn't matter how long you stay. You came. You came, no matter what.

You came, and he knows it wasn't easy.

The laugh you release, it trembles, like your hand, but it is accompanied by the small smile he is learning to draw with his eyes closed. "Show me your work?"

"I'll go find the prince, call me if you need me." The crow offers, he leans, kissing your temple, before he leaves. You blink after him a bit, touching where he kissed with your hand, pulling it from Rafayel's grasp, and then look at him. He glares after the man, but doesn't offer much of a response.

"Come on then cutie, you're mine." He doesn't look as he grabs your hand, and he knows he is grinning at you. Pulling you forwards with him, darting to where his art calls for you.

He doesn't notice the chill in your hand, until he eases his fingers over it. Feeling grooves and edges. He almost releases when he realises he has grabbed your prosthetic, you are staring down at it with him.

Rafayel looks at you, tries to read the look in your eyes. It is soft, and awed and gentle. So he raises it to his lips, kissing the wrist. You tremble, blinking, before tightening your grip just a little.

It is the soft, warm look in your eyes, as you tug him forward a little bit more, a laugh bubbling out of you. "Come on Raffy."

He takes you around all of his paintings, and just watches you.

You don't offer him opinions or thoughts often, he has learned if he gives you space to look, you can tell him how you feel. What his art brings out in you. If he looks closely at your face, he can watch it. Trembling in your eyes.

As you flit amongst paintings, like a butterfly amongst flowers, tugging him along with you. He follows willingly.

There are moments when you stop, and your hand twitches out. Like you are holding back the urge to run your fingers over the paint. Tracing shapes, touching at his heart directly.

He wants to tell you that you can do as you please. That you are the one who he wants to understand him most. That his art, and his soul are yours to do with as you like. That you could tear images from his canvas, and he would still paint more for you.

Finally you find yourself in front of his struggle. Bleached bones on the beach, tides easing out. Leaving scars behind.

At the edges of the horizon, the sun rises again. Painting the once dreary sky in a rainbow.

You are the sunrise that greets him, that reminds him that time moves forwards. That there is something to see after the night.

That tomorrow has a chance for better than today.

You bloom like a flower before his eyes, a sight he could never have seen beneath the waves. A reminder of why he came to visit the surface every year. A reminder of all the wonders of land that he idolised as a child.

"Beautiful." Is exhaled, and he is unsure if it was you or him. The twinkling in your eyes, perhaps it was both.

Eventually he feels the strain in your countenance, the exhaustion, so he sneaks with you out of the exhibit. Escaping into gardens that are quiet, and closed to others. A locked gate has never kept him out of anywhere, however.

It is the quiet that settles you, and he settles alongside you. No longer wearing a mask he does not want for people who come to stare at his work. He pulls you amongst flowers, fields of lilies, and whispers of petals.

Secluded and alone. The way he feels best with you.

Lying down in the grass, to look up at the sky, stars twinkling.

It is with the view of the stars that you speak, voice tinged in a guilt he wishes to chase away, "I almost didn't come. I'm sorry Raffy."

His eyes turn to you, to read the draw of your lips, the pain in your eyes, the way you tighten your grip on his hand. Cool metal against skin that reacts to you more than any other. Sensitive, aware.

Your touch will always alight his senses.

He knows the hesitation, he thinks about the way you wavered on the edge, hand extended to you as you feared to take it. He knows that you are adjusting. He regrets asking you to promise, to put that weight on your shoulders.

He is relieved you came. To see him, to stare at the workings of his heart, and yearn to trace it with fingers.

His patience and his need fight often. His awareness of pushing, his desperation. It is hard to balance.

"What changed your mind?"

You edge a little closer on the grass, so that the heat of him spreads over the sensors of your prosthetic. Alongside the gentle stroking of his thumb over your hand. "Sy told me you wanted me to be here… and I wanted to be here for you."

Rafayel's first instinct is the kind of reaction he's seen cats get to water. Hissing and jumping up. Shaking himself furiously.

There is great dissatisfaction at comparing himself to the demons.

There is greater dissatisfaction at the crow, helping him. In any way.

It is a feeling of being pulled back by the scruff of his neck, away from the abyss he seeks out. The fall into the ocean.

The agony on the edge of the conscious.

You poke his cheek with your other hand, then brush hair back and his heart settles its seething. "I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"That they care for you." It is whispered, and it is tentative, and he sees the worry in your eyes.

The fear at his arguments before. The anxiety that you are causing distress.

Forcing them. Making them clash in enclosed spaces. Like caged beasts.

It is the wary voice that calls out to him, tries to ask the question about the pain in him, the voices and the agony ripping and pulling and hurting. The pain that grants him no inspiration.

They care.

A message sent to wish him luck. A quiet presence bringing him water when he dries. A fool giving you the push to move forwards to lead your feet to him.

You have not stopped looking for him and at him, and he has been holding you like a toy he does not wish to share…

It is a feeling he isn't ready to digest or question, not when the stars are bright and you are safe next to him. It is one he will think about in days to come, as he watches the doctor help him clean. As he is offered a pillow the prince favours in order to sleep better.

When the crow argues with him, but gives him food that satisfies a hunger he forgets to appease for himself.

When you do not look at him any less. That he has not lost anything, he is not lesser.

It is a feeling for later.

To help paint canvas he wants to share one day, though pain is absent, and something else glimmers in the sea.

[pellucid-constellations]

Trial and Error (4)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the request: "Azriel with single mom reader? I feel like being a single mom in ACOTAR would be tricky as hell… reader comes from autumn court and flees to night court because she got pregnant out of marriage? 😯 the shame"

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Illness, Azriel's pov 👀

a/n: Someone sedate me at this point. Also I'm posting this earlier than planned because I am susceptible to peer pressure

Read part one | part two | part three | part five

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Azriel sat at the table for breakfast, his attention occupied by the window to his right. A plate of eggs, bacon, and toasted bread sat forgotten and untouched before him. To be honest, Azriel was unsure of how it even came to be in front of him. 

Cassian was saying something, the rest of the table humoring him with sleepy mumbles and raised brows. He was always so lively in the mornings, a sentiment not shared by the rest of the inner circle. 

Azriel was typically one of the more responsive people, but his shadow was late today. It had been a few weeks of sending one out to check on you every night, and this one was late. The rest of them swarmed around his feet in anticipation. 

“Az?” Mor’s voice had him breaking his stare from the window. “What are you looking at? You’ve been checked out all breakfast.” 

Azriel cleared his throat and readjusted in his seat. “Nothing. Just distracted.” 

She snorted. “That’s an understatement. You’re been distracted for weeks now. What’s been going on with you?” 

“Nothing,” Azriel repeated. He picked up his fork despite his stomach protesting, the nerves twisting it to the point of unease. 

“Hate to concur, Az, but you have been rather absent. I think this is the first time you’ve had a meal with us this week,” Rhysand chimed in. 

From beside him, Feyre shot her mate a look. 

Azriel, feeling eyes on him, glanced to his left to find Cassian leering at him with narrowed eyes. His brother leaned his head back and hooked his arm over the back of his chair, analyzing Azriel amidst his lax posture. 

Azriel rolled his eyes. “What?” 

With his tongue pressed into his cheek, Cassian let out a disbelieving huff. “You’re seeing someone,” he concluded. “Who is she? Why haven’t you said anything?” 

“I’m not seeing anyone. Why would you come to that conclusion?” 

“You answered that way too quickly to be believable.” 

“Azriel, are you seeing someone? There wouldn’t be anything wrong with that,” came Mor’s soft tone—trying to play the opposite side of the coin. 

“No, I—“ 

“He is. I know he is.” Cassian, with his assured pestering. “And don’t think I don’t notice how Rhys is being silent here. And Feyre. The only two people in the room that can read minds.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Feyre defended. 

“Yeah!” Nyx yelled, quick to defend his mother. “Nothing!” 

But Nyx’s interference only made Cassian turn his attention to the small child and knock his head to the side. 

“Nyx—“ Cassian began. In response, Nyx shoved a fork full of eggs into his mouth. “Azriel’s been taking you to school an awful lot, hasn’t he?” 

“Mmhmm,” Nyx nodded. 

“And he’s been going to all of your school events?”

Nyx nodded again, this time with a mouthful of juice. 

“Does Azriel talk to anyone when he’s at your school?” 

“He talks to Ms. Fern.” 

Cassian let out a barking laugh and turned back to Azriel with a wide grin. “Ms. Fern? Okay, Az, if that’s what does it for you. You should bring her to the house.” 

Although he felt an immense pride for Nyx keeping his secret (because Nyx had seen him talking to you countless times) a strange, hot anger licked at the bond hanging loose in his chest. 

He wasn’t seeing Ms. Fern. The reasonable part of his mind told him that it was better this way, you would feel safer, but the unreasonable side wanted to knock Cassian across the room.

You were so much better than Ms. Fern. The teacher didn’t “do it for him” and never would. It was insulting to you. 

Azriel ground his teeth. He knew this reaction was more borne from the fact his shadow hadn’t returned and the worry he was feeling was paralyzing, but reasoning with himself did nothing. 

“I will not be—“ 

Sick, sad, help. 

A whisper at his ear made Azriel rein in his words. 

Alone, alone, alone. 

Azriel snapped his head to the side to find his missing shadow whisking down to join the rest, the hoard of them now rising to leave. To get to you, he realized. He had to— 

“What is it?” Rhysand asked. 

Azriel could feel his talons scratch along the barrier of his mind, but there was no time to let Rhysand hear what he’d heard. In one fluid motion, Azriel was up from the table and out of the house, his wings spread wide behind him as he flew to the outskirts of Velaris where you resided. 

One of the first things he would suggest after he got you to trust him was for you to move. 

He’d already reinforced your locks and checked your neighbors, but you were still so far and that side of Velaris wasn’t the best. 

He’d ask you to move into the House of Wind, but he knew that’d be pushing it. Obviously. 

His back ached as he pressed his wings further, desperate to make it to you. He flung his body one way and then the other to dodge buildings as he went, flying low to save time. Luckily, the streets were barren this early. 

But it wasn’t early enough for your shop to be closed, an all too alarming fact when faced with the “closed” sign on the front door. He yanked on the knob anyways, but the door wouldn’t budge. 

He cursed himself for ensuring their stability. 

He started knocking next—soft at first and then with a blistering urgency. He knocked and knocked and was moments away from flying up to your window and possibly scaring you off for good when the door wrenched open.

You looked beyond disheveled, bone-tired, and frankly gaunt as you stared up at him with an incredulous gaze. Your gaze softened a fraction when you saw it was Azriel beating down your door, but a tinge of irritation remained hazing your eyes. 

“Azriel, we’re closed for—” 

“Are you okay?” he rushed out.

Since the open house, Azriel had been more open with his vies to take care of you. If he were being honest, the intrinsic need to protect you and Melanie was overwhelming and he was barely scratching the surface of all he wanted to do, but you became guarded any time he got too intense. So, he walked you home and asked you about your family and he didn’t care if he got a stonewall in response. 

But right now, you did not look well. 

Right now, there was no Melanie peaking behind your legs as you stood at the apothecary door. 

So, right now, Azriel didn’t have a mind to be subtle. 

“Where is Melanie? Are you hurt?” he asked before you could formulate a response. 

He watched your knuckles pale as you gripped the door. You breathed in deeply. “Mel has been sick all night. I’m not sure what it is and I’ve been trying everything. I’m about two seconds away from calling a healer but…” 

Azriel knew that tell—the way your eyes shifted and your expression pinched. 

More people. 

Anytime you were confronted with introducing more people into Melanie’s life, you crumbled. 

“Let me come see her,” Azriel requested, the tension leaking from his voice into a softer tone. Now that he knew the two of you weren’t dying, there was some relief. Some. 

You shook your head, pressing your lips into a firm line as you deflated. “I don’t want to get you sick. I think I'm already a lost cause, but you—you have important things to do.” 

If only you knew how important you were to him. 

Azriel felt his fists clench at the defeated look in your eye. “If you’re sick, you can’t take care of her. Just let me come in. Let me help, y/n.”  

“Azriel…” 

“Please. Let me take care of you.”

He wanted to take the words back as soon as they left his mouth, afraid of you drawing back in fear, but they were already lingering in the space between you. Azriel decided you must have been truly exhausted because your only reply was a pained sigh followed by your door swinging open to let him in. 

You didn’t even send him a sidelong glance. 

Azirel’s hand twitched as he followed you up the stairs to your apartment, the urge to press his fingers along your back stifling. 

One step at a time, Azriel—you were only just letting him into your house. 

Any examination of your apartment abruptly halted as soon as his feet met the threshold of the sitting room. Melanie was lying on the couch looking worse for wear with a cloth along her forehead and a flush to her cheeks that did not sit well with the Shadowsinger. His chest caved in at the sight, a feeling that intensified when her small voice filled the space. 

“Mr. Azriel?” she croaked, attempting to lift her head. You rushed over to press her back down, running your fingers through her hair. “He’s always at my house,” Melanie said, turning to look at you. “Always.” 

You let out a breathy laugh as Melanie shut her eyes and began to softly snore against the arm of the loveseat. Azriel’s shadows rushed to the girl and brushed against her forehead and arms, offering the cool wind they provided. 

In a few steps, Azriel took a knee beside you. He looked at you first—at the way you hovered over your daughter with furrowed brows—and then let his gaze wash over Melanie. Against his better judgment, he wrapped his scarred fingers around her tiny hands. 

No poison, his shadows reported, although he didn’t expect it to be. She was feverish, hadn’t eaten since last night, couldn’t keep anything down; it was rare for fae to get so sick, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t concerning. 

Even more worrisome was the fever emanating from you. Azriel could feel the heat on his shoulder and he could tell you hadn’t stopped to rest. 

“I know a healer that can help. She wouldn’t say anything to anyone,” Azriel said after a beat of silence. 

You paused your fingers in Melanie’s hair. “Do you promise?” 

The sickness had worn you down, taking the fight and fear right out of you. 

“I promise on everything. I wouldn’t bring someone here that wasn’t safe.” 

Azriel called Majda. 

Majda arrived in a few minutes, much to your surprise. Azriel had gotten the door upon her knock, his eyes catching the way your knees shook as you went to stand. 

Majda kneeled in front of the couch where you and Azriel once were, her healing magic lighting up the room. Behind her, Azriel stood with you and he watched. 

He watched your worried brow and the way you picked at your fingers. He watched the flush on your face get worse and worse as your daughter’s illness gradually got you sicker. He watched the way you tracked each of Majda’s movements, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. 

He watched your body shake as it held you up. 

He watched his mate and saw how alone you were. 

Azriel reached up and tucked a hair behind your pointed ear, using the ploy to feel for the temperature on your cheek. You turned to look up at him and he felt the way his expression strained. 

“You should let her look at you too,” he said, voice low and calm.

You shook your head. “I’m okay. I’m fine.” 

“You aren’t.” 

You turned back to your daughter, looking on. 

Azriel no longer cared for the farce he’d been putting on. He stepped closer and let his palm rest on the small of your back if only to support you from collapsing. He saw you glance at him from the corner of your eye, but you made no move to step away. 

It took Majda 13 minutes to come to a conclusion. Azriel knew that because he had been counting. 

“Well, first of all, she will be okay. As will you, as I see you may have the same illness,” the older healer spoke, rising from the ground with a grunt. “It is most unusual—what ails you. Do you have Autumn's blood?” 

The fingers you had pressed to your mouth were abruptly dropped. You looked up to Azriel with panic in your eyes, a question clear in your expression. 

He hadn’t known where you were from, but he had guessed, and you were looking at him as if he knew—as if he knew and you wanted to know if it was safe for the healer to know as well. 

Azriel nodded his head and ignored the bittersweet feeling in his chest. 

He had wanted you to tell him when you were ready. 

“Yes,” you uttered, shaking your head much faster than you spoke. “We both are. Is that—does that have something to do with it?”

Majda offered you a thin smile. “You have Autumn fever. Something to do with the fire that lingers in your blood. Sometimes it does not align with the other courts and your body revolts. It will pass in a few days as most. Uncomfortable bugger to be sure, but nothing that cannot be managed.” 

You sagged against Azriel in relief, the shadowsinger catching your weight as your knees buckled. He pulled you closer to his front but didn’t feel complete until he guided you back to the couch and leaned over Melanie as she slept. 

“She’ll be okay?” you asked. 

Azriel thought the question was for Majda, but when he looked to his side you were staring directly at him, fear and fever in your gaze. 

He lost his breath and captured your face in his hands. “She’ll be okay,” he assured. You were so hot against his skin. “You will too. I’ll fix it.” 

Something righted in your expression—something softened. For the first time since he entered your house, you let out a full breath and allowed your eyelids to drop. It was barely thirty seconds before your head fell as well, your forehead landing on Azriel’s collarbone. He trailed his hand up to rest against your hair and placed his other on Melanie’s knee as he stayed beside the couch. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Shadowsinger,” Majda crooned. “That’s a whole lot of responsibility. A lot of secrets.” 

Azriel tightened his hold on you. “Do you have herbs that would help? To lessen fever or pain?” 

Majda hummed. “I will leave a few.” A pause. The floorboards creaked as Majda went to make her exit. “Heed my words, Azriel.” 

“I know what I’m doing—what I’m getting myself into.” He dropped his nose to your temple, listening to your breath as you slept. His shadows continued their mission of cooling Melanie’s feverish skin. 

“Do you?” 

Azriel considered the question, and no, he didn’t know. 

But he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

part five

[safination]

The Only Temptation

|Masterlist| Pairings: Alastor x Reader Tags/ Warnings; f!Reader, Demon! Alastor. Heats! Ruts! Alastor and Ruts! dual POV, Handjob, dirty talking, phone handjob, TLDR: Alastor's rut is being drawn out by a doe who is definitely not you, but weirdly enough or not so weirdly enough, he only seems to craves you. AN: Hello! I haven't posted in a while, but pshhh we'll just ignore that. Since I'm turning the big 22, this fic will also be 2/2. This is just 1/2 (Truthfully, I just ran out of time and decided to cut this into 2 parts.) Also, will you look at that! My first smut! Handjobs should count as smut right? And here I thought my religious ass would never make one of these. Oh, well. It goes without saying but I'm going to say it anyway: MINORS DNI

There’s a doe in the Hazbin Hotel.

You bumped into her as you were making your way to Alastor’s radio tower. There would be more of these types of interactions if you actively lived in the hotel like you want, but Alastor refuses to allow you to stay for too long with the excuse of it being safer to hide you away at home while he stays here.

There are ears on the top of this doe’s head. It reminds you of Alastor. They’re a bit cute – more than, ‘a bit cute’ if you were being honest. Downright adorable if you were really being honest. Spots trails over her shoulders and continue into her clothes.

What an itty-bitty doe. So ready to be devoured! (Part of you wonders if Alastor would appreciate the taste of a doe’s flesh. A surprise gift, maybe?)

You’ve never seen a doe in Hell before, but she’s not really important to you right now. So, you throw her to the back of your mind and make your way to Alastor’s radio tower.

All of Alastor’s senses are heightened because of that damn doe. It’s quite a predicament as rut season nears, and the pheromones being released place him in quite the difficult spot.

It gets worse when his ears catch upon a slight knock and . . . and the scent of you.

Alastor can’t describe what prickles his nose, but it’s the scent of morning coffee shared through one mug. He takes a deeper whiff and it becomes the scent of soft music playing through the radio as you dance around the room.

It seems that doe has unlocked something in him. The scent of you has never tasted like that until now. It brings out a hunger for you that goes deeper than normal.

The smell intensifies when the door clicks open, and that hunger strikes even deeper. It travels through the air, settling itself in his stomach. Alastor pierces the tips of his claws into his skin before he could fully lose himself.

It becomes worse . . . better? . . . when you remove your coat, hanging it on the rack. The scent becomes so strong that he’s enchanted for more than a second. Actually, it’s so heavenly to his senses that blood pools between his legs and settles into his thighs.

Alastor inches closer to the desk, hiding the way his cock has pitched a tent from just the scent of you. He pretends to busy himself with the buttons on the panel, even when the broadcast ended five-minutes ago.

You swat his hand away, and sit on the table. There’s deliberate care in the way you prop yourself, careful not to hit any of the knobs.

A small smile. “Hi.”

“Hi . . .” Alastor lays his head on your thighs, shighing into their plumpness as he swipes his thumb on your skin. Everything about you sends high frequency pitches into his skin. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Well, my dearest,” you begin, massaging the base of his antlers, “the purpose of a surprise if for it to be unsuspecting.”

The witty response to your statement dies in his throat. A groan of relief replaces it as you continue to massage his antlers. That annoying itch lessens when you press on the base just a little firmer.

That fact that it feels good to have his antlers scratched can only mean one thing . . .

“You’re nearing your rut,” you say, plain and simple, as if his unnoticed erection already isn’t an indicator. “Hmmm, it seems I picked a good time to drop by.”

Alastor leans his cheek a little bit deeper into your thighs. “It’s still too early.”

“Does it have to do something with that little doe I spotted earlier?”

Alastor isn’t getting used to your scent.

Usually, strong scents should fade into the background after some time. Usually. Alastor is constantly and painfully aware of the scent of heaven on your skin.

Everything about you is driving him up the wall. So much so, the Alastor stays limp in your hold, afraid that shifting will cause his already sensitive erection to brush against you.

“What a silly thought,” he says, even as his cock throbs uncomfortably in his pants. Alastor’s never been this hard before. That heavenly scent means he’ll have to send you away soon if his rut is hitting a little early.

How has he never noticed how good you smell?

“There’s no reason you have to go through this alone.” You pull on the ends of his hair. “Maybe there’s a reason why it takes you a month to calm down. Wouldn’t getting your satisfaction speed things along?”

“That’s out of the question.”

“You won’t know if we don’t try,” you say, frowning a little. “We can at least try, dearest. It wouldn’t hurt.”

Alastor allows himself to dream about it. It would be nice to have you to himself for a month, if his erection is an indicator. Your very presence is already causing a wet patch of pre-cum to spread. He’s so painfully hard that he can feel the beat of blood going through his veins.

Alastor would take you, hiding you at home. It’s purposely far from the prying eyes of the bustling city. There he would spend the next month burying himself into you. The hunger that gnaws on his belly will be satiated with the taste of the combined fluids dripping down your cunt.

No, that wouldn’t do. That would just be a waste of perfectly good cum. It needs to stay inside you if he’s going to defy a Sinner’s biology. Alastor would need to take every drop, and make sure it’s not wasted. He would fill you up until a large bulge would—

What is he thinking about?

Giving in to his instincts would do you more harm than good. You weren’t a doe, and that means your body isn’t meant to handle his rut.

“It’s not safe for you to be at the hotel at the moment.” Alastor is playing a dangerous game – one where Heaven has set its hat into the ring.

There’s a reason why he’s hidden the house from prying eyes. It’s much safer . . . or at least that’s the reason he’s giving you.

A small frown. “Then we can hide away at home.”

“I don’t appreciate having to repeat myself.” Alastor nuzzles into your thigh. “We have the same argument every season.”

“I see,” you say, and that’s a proper frown on your lips now. “I won’t be seeing you for some time then.”

“Now, now. Don’t frown, cher.” Alastor pushes your lips up into a bright smile. “You look absolutely ravishing in one of these.”

There’s a small smile that grows on your face.

You tilt his chin, and press a kiss on the edge of his smile. Alastor crosses his legs, digging his claws into them to try and regain any semblance of control.

“I think I would almost miss you, my dearest,” you tell him, showing off that cheeky, little smile. “It’s bound to get incredibly dull around here. It always does when you’re not around.”

Alastor barks out a laugh, pulling your face into his hold to stare into you. Just a little longer. That’s all he needs. “Flirting? That’s certainly a new tactic,” he says, swiping his thumb across your cheek. “I think I would miss you as well, cher.”

Alastor pulls off his bowtie in one swift motion, throwing it off somewhere irrelevant. It’s been hours, yet he’s still so painfully hard. It forced him to hide away in his room the moment you left. Changing into looser clothing helps, but every brush of his cock sends tingles up his spine.

His shadow crawls up the wall with a scowl. The thing zooms around, seemingly in a mood as foul as his. It disappears under the cracks of the door, and Alastor doesn’t have enough blood circulating through his brain to question where it went.

Maybe, the blood would be passing through his brain if it wasn’t pooling in his throbbing erection. It’s been throbbing all day long.

Damn that does.

Alastor should kill her; end the madness she’s bringing. If the hormones from her heat stop, then his rut won’t start for another few days, or maybe even a week if he’s lucky.

The delay of his rut means the delay of his departure. Alastor can keep you by his side for a moment longer. Just a little longer until the inevitable.

You can be by his side. You can stay with him. You can . . . you . . . you!

The scent of you invades his nose. It hits harder the more he inhales. But you shouldn’t be here. Alastor sent you away. He made sure you exited those hotel doors, and he kept his eyes on the horizon until he could no longer see you and then a little longer after that.

His shadow slithers back into the room, something in its hands. Alastor lifts his head from the pool of pillows and . . . and it’s your coat.

The scent of you lingers on it.

“Get that thing away from me,” he hisses even as his cock twitches against his underwear. “Go burn it in the fireplace.”

The shadow slithers closer, dropping the coat Alastor just demanded to be burnt. It’s never defied one of his orders before.

His shadow pushes it closer to his face, and all anger fizzles at his throat when the smell of you breaches his nose. It drives him crazy, but it brings some sort or soothing effect as well.

Did you forget it here?

Or did you leave this for him?

Alastor buries his face into it, even when he knows he should return the thing. Alastor isn’t a dense Sinner. He’s well aware of what will happen if he allows something like this to stay . . . but what if you really did leave it for him?

The cloth of his pajama chafes against his skin. It’s too warm, and the scent of your coat is a splash of gasoline in an already burning sea of flames.

The image of holding you plagues his mind. Despite the burning in his skin, Alastor wouldn’t care as long as it came from you. Burning would feel heavenly as long as it was you who held the other end of that matchstick.

The echo of your laughter bounces in his mind, and blood shoots straight down, fueling his erection even more. The cloth from his underwear brushes against it, and a tiny groan escapes him as it goes over the sensitive head.

Alastor’s had enough. It’s adding fuel to his already foul mood. He shreds his clothes off, tearing it with his claws. He lies in a pool of scrapped fabric, his dick springing forth.

The shadow scoots your coat just a little bit closer. Alastor inhales the scent, burying himself into it. It’s a fuel to an already burning flame, but it’s coming from you. So, how bad can it really be?

He shifts his legs, and the way his cock rubs against the silk sheets tears coaxes a moan from his throat. It’s debauchery. It’s sinful . . . but it feels too good. Wet patches of pre-cum stains his sheets.

Alastor trails his palms lower, running them through his stomach until he’s fisted his cock. He pumps his shaft through his fist, trying to find relief.

It’s not . . . It’s not working?

He searches his mind, trying to remember how your fingers would work him into his release.

How tight would you squeeze him?

Where would you start? Alastor should remember that much, considering it was your hand pumping his cock.

Right . . . The head.

Alastor rubs his sensitive head, swirling it around like you do, and fuck! It’s just a shitload of nothing.

His fingers are too rough. You know how to build him into cumming, but you’re not here right now. Haphazardly fisting his cock isn’t going to bring him anywhere.

The temptation to give up is there, but he’s been erect all day. Alastor needs to end this tonight.

Alastor massages the tip once more, but with more purpose, just like you do. A moan releases into the air. If he shuts off all senses, he can pretend that it’s your hand that’s—

His shadow holds up a ringing, landline phone.

Alastor looks at it, then at the hand still fisted around his cock, and the back at his shadow.

The shadow looks back at him.

Alastor squeezes himself, ignoring the shadow as he tries to build that same mood. “Throw it away.”

His shadow has a look on its face, and pushes the thing closer. Alastor’s about to destroy it himself when he realizes there’s only one Sinner who has the number to this landline – You.

Alastor grabs the receiver, ignoring the fact that he’s very naked, lying on a bed that’s stained with his pre-cum, and a very erect dick.

“Alastor!” The sound of your voice stuns him a little, even when he knew it would be you on the other end. “Alastor?” you call out. “Hello?”

It takes him more than a second to take the blood that’s throbbing his erection, and force it up his brain. “And what have I done to displease you, dearest,” he says, “that you would force me to use this blasted phone?”

“That’s what you say every single time you pick up the phone.” You chuckle a little. A small chuckle – that’s all it took to shoot the blood back down. “Yet, not once have you missed my call.”

“This is my punishment, not yours.”

“I’m calling to let you know I made it home with no problem,” you tell him. “And . . . I think I left my coat there.”

“Ah . . . yes.” Alastor swirls the head of his cock. Maybe hearing your voice would be the push he needed. “I’m looking at it right now.”

“Are you alright, dearest?” you say. “You don’t sound too good.”

“Just . . . a little tired.” His breath goes through the receiver, even as his claws dig through the pillow. It’s doing nothing for him – nothing at all. “There’s no need to concern that ridiculous head of yours.”

It’s silent at the other end of the receiver. Alastor can hear the gears turning in your head. You always were a bit too perceptive about him. “Did you run into your new little, doe friend?”

“That thing is not my friend,” Alastor hisses, still trying to pump his shaft.

“My apologies then,” you say, snickering. “I forget that you do not allow yourself the pleasure of friendship, but I’m starting to think that it’s not you who turns away from it.”

“Hilarious.” Alastor’s eyes twitch. Coincidentally, so does his dick. “Well, as lovely as this has been, I’m in the middle of something important. I’ll have one of the ink puppets drop off –”

“I think I left something important in my left pocket,” you say, and despite being miles apart, Alastor can hear your smile. “Could you check it for me, and make sure it’s still there?”

Alastor dips his fingers into your left pocket, finding what seems to be a small card. He flips it over, and this definitely is not a card. It’s a small, polaroid photo. It’s you in that picture. You’re wearing—

Actually, what you’re wearing doesn’t really matter. Alastor will take a look at it later. It’s probably something red. What catches his attention is the fact that your ass is pointed to the air. There are a myriad of bite marks and hickeys around your thighs, leading a path up to your glistening cunt.

“Do you like it?”

Alastor blinks at it for a second . . . and then, another second . . . and its laughter that echoes around his room despite how the picture rushes blood down his already throbbing cock. The need for relief grows stronger.

“Did you take this for me?” Alastor wheezes, eyes bulging in different directions. Tears fall from his eyes as he laughs. “How ridiculous of you, dearest! You’re propped up like a stretching cat.”

“That’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for,” you say, chuckling. “However, I am glad that you’re enjoying it, one way or another.”

Alastor shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, and glances at his painfully throbbing erection. “I’m in quite the predicament because of you.”

“Oh!” You sound a bit too delighted. “So, you’re—”

“As a rock.” Alastor pokes his dick, hoping it would do something.

“How amusing!” Your laughter rings into the receiver. Alastor revels in it, enjoying the sound. “You’re eerily responsive tonight. Shall I send you more?”

Alastor rolls his eyes at you. “Take responsibility for what you’ve caused.”

“Al, I already did my portion,” you say. “I can’t exactly do the next part for you, unless you drag yourself home.”

“And what do you expect me to do with this?”

Alastor swears he can hear the way your eyes roll at him. “I think you know what to do.”

“Don’t mock me.” Alastor flicks the head of his cock. “It’s not working. So, take responsibility for your actions.”

It’s silent for a little bit, but his ears pick up the way you lick your lips. “Why don’t you take a moment to get comfortable.”

Alastor takes a moment he doesn’t need. Talking to you always brings him comfort. “That’s been taken care of.”

“My naughty buck . . . I start with the tip,” you tell him. “I use a little bit of that pre-cum to lubricate you. Swirl it around before pumping it down.”

Alastor does as he’s told, massaging the sensitive tip as he lubricates himself. The sound of your breathing . . . the lingering scent from your coat . . . it coaxes a small moan from him. Alastor makes sure you can hear him through the receiver.

“I trail my fingers up the back, tracing that little line,” you tell him, and there’s definitely a smile on your face. “Can you do that for me, my sweet Al?”

Alastor gasps into the air, using the tips of his sharp claw to trace a path from the base to the head. It’s exactly how you do it. He can almost believe that it’s your hand that’s touching him.

“What’s next?” He breathes through the receiver, closing his eyes to revel in the feeling of everything. “What’s next, cher? Tell me what to do.”

“Make a ring with your finger, and wrap it around the base,” you tell him, voice a bit low. “Tighter, Alastor. Make it tighter than you think you need it to be.”

Alastor will never have the ability to deny you. So, there’s really nothing really else but to make a ring with his finger. The constant pressure feels so heavenly sinful. His hips buck up as he squeezes even tighter. Alastor takes his other hand, and pumps the length of his shaft in slow motions, making sure he feels every ounce of his building pleasure.

“Are you thinking about me right now?” you say. “Am I running around in that head of yours, pressing kisses before I take you into my mouth? Or am I on your hips, bouncing along to the beat of your drum?

“You never stopped.” Alastor thinks he moans your name, but the way he buries his face into your coat overloads his senses. The fire in his stomach burns faster, rising to the way you stroke his flames. “Cher . . . cher.”

“I’m right here, Alastor,” you say, and there’s a playful tint in the way you say his name. “Faster, dear. Lose yourself into me.”

Alastor jerks his hips, driving his cock into his hand faster and faster and faster.

The sound of your breathing pulls him along as he ruts into his hand, chasing sinfully sweet release. Alastor glances back at the photo of you, ass so high it’s practically worshiping him.

As he drives his hips up, Alastor notices something glistening around your folds.

A loud moan rips itself out of him. That’s his seed painting your cunt, slowly dripping out of you.

Finally, finally, his pleasure builds to its peak, and topples him over. Ropes of cum shoot out of his cock, pooling around his stomach. Alastor keeps pumping, dragging out all it’s worth as he spurts all over the bed, watching his seed drop to your coat.

Alastor doesn’t stop humping his fist, even as cum on your coat changes the smell on it. He keeps going until he’s still holding his still erect cock, driving it faster up his own sticky seed.

There’s a second where his mind clears for a fraction. Alastor takes a look around at the mess he’s making, and to the mess that he will make.

 No . . . no.

It’s all wrong.

Why is he cumming on his fist? This . . . this should be inside you.

If you happen to read this, I wanna thank all my friends in this fandom. The friendship I found in all of you makes me happier than I can ever express. I dedicate this handjob to : @nyx-umbrakinesis @redfoxwritesstuff @redvexillum @whatswrongwithblue @inuhalfdemon @crackrodent . I hope each and every one of you knows that you have all pushed me to become a better writer, and pushed me out of my own comfort zone. Each and every one of your works inspire me to become better and push myself to my limits. If it wasn’t for everyone at VoxTek, I would have dropped Alastor a long time ago. There’s a tweet I found that says we should be writing not for an audience but for ourselves and our five friends who are crazy enough to read what we write. I write for me and for you.

[astrobydalia]

Numerology observations

I've genuinely learned a lot from @novy2sirius when it comes to numerology so much so that it has helped me make so much sense out of many experience in my life. Therefore I wanted to share some numerology observations with all of you.

astrobydalia

People with 9 energy are so deceitful, they are easily seen as innocent. On the contrary people can see 9s as someone pretty suspicious because they have an air of mystery to them and are the kind of person who you think you know but actually you don't like at all. They always hide the most BIZARRE shit, I'm telling you their life is SO weird. This is how I see 9 people tbh lmao

I've never met a 11 life path person that was emotionally okay, but the weird thing is that they tend to want to lie to themselves and pretend they are okay all the time. All the ones that've met had diagnosed depression and spent big chunks of their lives in very VERY low lows like it's truly hard to watch. Also, random note but I've seen that they are secretly very resentful too and have a hard time letting go of things and moving on. Most of the 11 people I've met had Earth Moon or strong Saturn influence in their moon

Also, I met a 11 guy once who would often say "I have no doubt in my mind that I will be famous" lol (11 is rated to fame)

22 is a more chill number. I've seen more developed 22s than developed 11s. 22 people are very mature and level-headed, tend to have very balanced mindset for most things. However they tend to think they're the only ones who know best, they give good advice but suck at taking any.

So one of the things Novy said is that the date you meet someone in will be a significant energy in the relationship you have with them. Every person I've met on a 5 day are people I travel a lot with or people I've had long-distance relationships with (5 is related travel)

I don't have much experience with 2 energy but from what I've seen it is pretty mellow energy. The people with 2 energy are pretty harmless individuals even when they have other intense energies going on

I get along with 7 life path people cause I'm a 5 but something I've noticed about these people is that they really do struggle making genuine connections "from the heart" if that makes sense. They always rationalize getting in and out of a relationship giving more importance to practical/beneficial reasons rather than emotional ones. When they do try to follow their heart they fail miserably cause they confuse making decisions from their heart with total recklessness

Life path 1 people are so.... immature. And have very obvious anger issues. They have the patience and emotional regulation of a toddler, really do embody the Aries stereotype. At their worst they can be pretty intolerant towards other's pov. Yeah life path 1 is very passionate and driven and all and I do get along with them but I also tend to keep at arms length a little cause they're energy is very chaotic and destructive tbh

Let me tell you too that unhealthy life path 1 people are one of the most CRUEL and mean people I've ever seen like... it's giving blood lust (not literally but you know what I mean)

Life path 6 can indeed be caring and generous but I've met a lot of them who are actually very selfish, greedy and materialistic. It's like they see life mostly through the lens of material gain. They literally remind me of this clip fr.

I have good experience with 6 people tho. My manager for example is a 6 life path and I literally don't know what I'd do without him, he's so patient, always there when I need him and is always on my side even when I mess up. 6 people are also very good at setting healthy boundaries too

A lot of the life path 6 I've met had taurus placements or where earth doms astrologically

The number I struggle getting along with the most is 4 tbh. They are huge party poppers even when they're healthy and have more need for control than 8s imo. A lot of 4 people I know are the type to rain on your parade for no reason in the name of being "realistic" but really they're just being bitter imo. I know 4 people have a hard life but I've noticed they tend to often have this attitude of "if I couldn't be happy then you can't either"

What I've noticed with 8 people is that yes they can be controlling but it's not like they go around policing others like 4s do. 8s control in a very subtle and indirect way, it really reminds me a lot of scorpio energy/8th house placements. It's more like they keep in control in any situation by staying low-key and are the kind of people that is hard to knock down, yet they know how to get under other's skin

I'd describe 8s as more domineering. They can be pretty chill, fun and won't mess with anyone as long as they feel like they have the upper hand in situations. That's why they are stubborn af and refuse to be wrong and why they do not react well AT ALL to animosity. This also means that at their worst tend to have HUGE superiority complex and will minimize others and be condescending just to feel superior

One time I witnessed an argument between a 1 and an 8 (it was messy) and even tho the 8 person was wrong imo they made the 1 person back down eventually (which, if you know how 1s are, that's a huge thing) and from that experience I learned that you're better off disagreeing with a 1 than disagreeing with an 8

People with 3 energy have such a refreshing energy I love them!!!! The type to keep a young spirit regardless of their age but like in a good way. Their sense of hope and optimism can't be crushed, all the ones I've met were the kind of people who always knew how to bounce back from difficult situations.

astrobydalia

[seradyn]

A Beast of Greed Who Fell in Love

In honor of the Sylus myth dropping, I got possessed by writing demons and wrote this in one sitting. At 7am (I work swing shift lmao) 🫠🫠

Sylus pov as he thinks about how he fell in love with you, and reader absolutely spoiling him with love and affection. Tooth rotting fluff, slightly suggestive at the end 😇

Not gender neutral, but no description of reader is given, just some pronoun usage. No use of y/n

Word count: 2190

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sylus could say, with utter certainty, that he had never felt such contentment before.

What more could an infernal creature desire, he wondered, than to have his most beloved treasure nestled into his chest, resting with him as he lay in that meadow of maroon flowers, swaying in the temperate breeze that blew across the grass? How could he fight the satisfied smirk that spread across his face as he looked down at her, his tail wound possessively around her leg, his arms cradling her fragile form as his clawed thumbs rubbed tiny circles into her skin. His heart beat, as he gazed at her, and he could hear it chant mine, mine, mine, a symphony of his most exquisite desires. And she, too, had a blissful smile on her face, eyes closed as she battled the temptation to nap. To let yourself be vulnerable and, in turn, fall prey to this most monstrous being, who held you so gently.

But you were already his, weren’t you?

He could see it, in the way your eyes lit up whenever you saw him, how you didn’t try to hide your love for him even slightly. He could feel it, when you both embraced, your hearts so close, he could feel them beating as one. He could taste it, when you were close enough to share a breath, when you leaned forward expectantly, like he hung the moon and stars just for you, like he was the reason there were bright summer days filled with laughter and silly dares, or that he caused the warm, cozy fires you huddled against in the cold, brewed the cup of hot tea in your hands, whose taste reminded you of cinnamon and family gatherings.

Like he was your world. And fuck, if he didn’t feel like it, with the way you looked at him.

Gods, he wanted that. To be your world. Forever he wanted that. To be your world until the stars went out, until the planets collapsed, until the universe winked out of existence, and he was plunged into darkness again.

Because you were his world, too.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, when you became more than a means to an end. Perhaps it was when he gripped you in his talons, ready to easily snuff out the life of another helpless interloper, and instead of seeing your eyes clouded with fear, instead of the begging for your measly life he expected, he saw them harden with defiance. Or, perhaps, it was the first time he brought you here, to this very field, where you held his hands so tenderly, kissed his claws as you profused how much you cared for him, how much he meant to you. Or, maybe, it was even today, when he took you flying again, how you laughed as the wind whipped your hair, and you reached out to run your hands through the passing clouds. Those raw, natural and alive moments where he could swear he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

Either way, he realized it didn’t truly matter. Because regardless of when you went from being some hopeless, hapless girl, and became the very reason for his continued existence, he was utterly consumed by reverence for you. If you asked him to raze the world, asked him to carve out his heart for you, he’d ask how thoroughly you wanted the earth to be scorched, how you would like his heart presented to you.

You were his. And he, yours.

His nose twitched, and he let out a soft sigh. He could scent you on the wind. This perfect, perfect creature. He wanted to consume it, gulp down your essence like one who only knew dry sand and crumbling earth feeling the lapping of ocean waves for the very first time. He wanted to submerge himself in it, drown himself in this warmth, this scent, this feeling that felt like how home was always supposed to feel.

Although, he was wise enough to know not to drink the salty brine, despite its temptations. If he allowed her sweet nectar to touch his tongue, he may not know how to stop. May not be able too until there was nothing of you left, trying desperately to feed an insatiable maw. He was a greedy thing, he was well aware, and knew if you permitted him a taste, you may never see the light of day again. His primal urges that demanded he sequester you deep in his cave of treasures, where you belonged, to hoard you like the most precious being that you were, would be too strong to fight. His urge to fucking lick you, clean you and cover you in his own scent, like the great wyrms did to court each other, as he was sure his own parents once did, would take over, and you would see the truth of the beast you laid with.

Perhaps, though, he didn’t do as well of a job hiding them as he thought. His beloved stirred, sitting up to look at him with what he could only describe as pure, unfiltered adoration. Your eyes - they sparkled brighter than any gem or coin in his collection. Like someone had flown high enough to chase the stars, managed to catch one in their rapacious claws, just so they could dust your eyes with its light. Your smile - bright enough to rival the sun, and warm enough that it felt better than basking on the smoothest, sun-kissed rocks. Your hair softly danced on the breeze, the mid evening sky an orange-gold crown on your head, and Sylus thinks he understood why mortals go to church so often; for a chance to see something half as divine as you.

Absentmindedly, you began to trace the red cracks along his chest with your fingers, watching as it is guided to the red jewel encrusted on his chest. He manages to suppress a delighted shudder, but allows himself the pleased growl that rumbles in his chest, much like a purr, as the soft pads glide across the shattered glass of his pearlescent skin. He watches in unconcealed fascination as your hand is led to his faintly glowing heart, before starting anew on a different line, further down. He lets his eyes close, leaning his head back as you map out his body, of how his scales turn to pillowy flesh and back again. He can feel when you finished on his left side, where you started, and move to the right, leaving no part of him un-lavished by your affections.

When you finish there too, he looks down at you again, curiosity scampering across his expression. You flash him a look briefly, a spark of mischief igniting in your eyes, before you abruptly lean forward and begin to pepper the edges of his ruby heart with kisses. He sucked in a breath through his pointed teeth, his eyes slightly wide as you surprise him again by utterly spoiling him. Pressure built in his chest, just below your sweet lips, and he let out a shaky breath, trying to find relief before those unfamiliar emotions became too much. His tail squeezed your leg as you rounded the arrow shaped emblem over his heart, not stopping until you covered the entire outline of it with your decadent touch. When you arrived back where you started, you paused to leave a long, drawn out peck directly on his crystalline heart. His eyes almost rolled back in his head in sheer ecstasy, his tail lightly thumping against your rear in pure delight.

You laughed as you pulled away, the sound like a swell of music that made him feel like he was floating. He couldn’t help but chuckle as you patted his tail to get it to settle, scooching forward so your face was right above his. He saw the intent in your eyes, that mixture of fire and wine that made him feel intoxicated, made him want to kneel at your feet, obey your every command.

When your lips touched his, it felt like he was in heaven. That magical place that mortals coveted more than anything. He had no doubt it was a fallacy made to comfort the dead and dying; a place of endless pleasure and devoid of suffering was naive to even dream about. But when your mouth moved against his, when he gently swiped your bottom lip with his forked tongue, and you opened your mouth to let him taste you, breathe you in…he thinks he may have just found it.

And it is his. You are his.

He hummed into your mouth, chasing your lips as you tried to gulp down air. It was a long moment before you parted, but you eventually leaned away from him. He had to fight the snarl that bubbled in his throat, his tail tightening around your leg just so, and a clawed, beastial hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. He pulled you back down, your lips reuniting, and he held your cheek with his other hand as he was returned to bliss.

You let out a surprised squeak as he did this, before letting out a giggle into his mouth. It took all of his willpower not to beat his wings against the cold dirt and lash his tail in complete euphoria at the sound. He nipped at her lips instead, thinking of how he would carve out the eardrums of anyone who dared to hear your angelic laugh. He was a greedy creature, and your sounds were his, for him alone. Your smiles would be directed at him alone, your laugh his to cherish alone. He must be a monster, he thinks, to steal the world's most precious flower and hide it away so none but him are permitted to admire its immaculate beauty.

But he is fine with that. He’ll happily play the monster, if it means he gets to keep you all to himself.

Slowly, you eased off his lips, yet you continued to kiss him, trailing a path up to the tendrils of scales that adorn his cheeks. He returned the favor, groaning quietly in appreciation as he pressed his greedy mouth into your neck, running his tongue along your pulse as you peppered his face with kisses. Although, because you simply must always do what he doesn’t expect, he finds himself frozen as you smoothly glide your hands up, grasping both his horns in your doughy palms and stroking them up and down, your nails scraping against his scalp as you reach the base of them. His head falls back again, a sound escaping his lips somewhere between a hiss and a purr. Gods, why did that feel so good? You must be an enchantress, a witch who has hexed him, to make him feel so many things he never even thought possible. He held you impossibly tighter, his claws nearly digging grooves into your back.

You chuckled from your place between his brows - he made it no secret he was putty in your hands. And it was because you cradled him so gently, allowed him to shape himself as he saw fit, that he permitted you to know such things. Would trust you, out of everyone, not to shape him in your own image, as you could if you chose. No, instead, he felt your hot breath roll across his ear as you leaned down to whisper to him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a bated breath at that, pulling you away to look you in the eyes. He once anguished over this, thought himself undeserving. You are his most precious gem, the apple of his eye, his dearly beloved, deserving of being draped in only the finest from his hoard, bathed in the softest silks from faraway lands, cherished and worshiped above all else. Where does a creature such as himself find the audacity to ask for your hand as he walks into oblivion, he wondered?

But, now, he only smirks. “I’ll hold you to that,” he purred, winding his tail further up your leg in promise.

You nodded once, satisfied. “You better,” you say, taking his hand, pecking the back of it. “Because you’re the love of my life.”

Sylus smiles. A real, genuine smile, while his heart hurts with how full it feels, like it might burst from his chest and soar into the clouds, where he can laugh while he chases it down. He wondered if he were to throw himself from the highest cliffs, let the wind whistle past him, if these feelings, this lightness he now felt, would carry him into the sky, and he wouldn’t even need to lift his wings to fly.

He tilts your chin up with a single talon, rising to rest his forehead against yours. “And you are mine,” he whispered, prayed, revered. Declared it to all who would listen, could listen. “My beloved.”

Because now that he had you, secure in the knowledge that you were his, he was never letting you go.

You were his. Are his. Forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First Sylus (and LNDS) fic 🙌🙌 I have so many in the works and on the brain, including a huge long fic, but we’ll see what happens/what I post. One thing at a time 😌

Also it’s been like a year since my last fic lmaoooooo

[mrpenguinpants]

Green Slumber

— "Ah, look! Is Alhaitham taking a nap?" "Shh...You're too loud, Paimon." "Th-That's not true…Paimon was definitely whispering-wait, who is that beside him?"

— Alhaitham

Ayato Ver: Pale Blue Slumber Traveller & Paimon lines are taken from the official Genshin Twitter post. [Masterlist]

Congrats Alhaitham, your birthday postpones the fic where I tear you apart for scamming me. I usually don't write birthday fics but pretty art. Can you tell I'm not used to writing second pov and rushed again :)) I don't know how to end fics.

"Ah, look! Is Alhaitham taking a nap?"

Lumine looks in the direction of Paimon's voice, her floating companion peeking through a room with a giddy face. No doubt hatching some sort of plan to get back at the scribe for his words during their quest to rescue Lesser Lord Kusanali. On one hand, she should probably scold Paimon for immediately jumping to payback since the reason both of them are here is to wish the man a happy birthday before departing to the next region. But on the other hand...

“Shh…You’re too loud Paimon,” Lumine whispers as she tip-toes towards the door and gently pushes it open further. She's pointedly ignoring the face Paimon is throwing her for acting just as bad as she is. If anyone asks, she'll make an excuse that she was just being a polite guest and if Alhaitham was sleeping, she would excuse herself quietly. In no way is it her curiosity to see the ever-serious Alhaitham in any mode that's defenseless and relaxed. So with Paimon’s head hovering above hers, they both poke their heads into the room. Alhaitham doesn’t look any different from the last time they met, although asleep, he looks far less intimidating. He’s leaned back in the wooden chair, arm propped up to hold his lolling head in place. Calculating amber and teal eyes are closed as his chest falls up and down slowly with each breath while the gentle sun paints him in warm yellows and soothing whites. If Lumine had never met Alhaitham before, she would have thought he may have been the Dendro archon with how serene the scene itself is. Something that almost makes her want to reach out and touch him just to check if he’s real or not.

"Th-That's not true…Paimon was definitely whispering-wait, who is that beside him?" Paimon’s voice tapers off at the end, eyes alight with confusion. Lumine tears her eyes away from Alhaitham to look at where Paimon is pointing. Seated on the desk right in front of Alhaitham’s sleeping figure, a stranger hums softly with their ankles locked as they swing their legs ideally in the air. In their hands appears to be the beige book Alhaitham usually carries around, the one about physics and motion if she remembers correctly. Now that she’s looking - she can't believe she missed an entire person because she got distracted by the image of a sleeping Alhaitham - the stranger looks far more comfortable in the room than she is. Maybe they're another roommate? Although Alhaitham doesn't seem like the type to have an extensive list of friends and she's positive she's met most if not all of the people Alhaitham could call close enough to have them in his home. She shares a look with Paimon who returns it with a shrug of the shoulders. Neither one of them has ever seen this mysterious person before.

"Haitham, this section here about..." the stranger's voice brings blue and yellow eyes back to the room. Lumine watches intrigued as the stranger finally looks up from the book to see Alhaitham fast asleep. A soft sigh escapes their lips as they close the book, shoulders dropping into something more relaxed, and they just sit and look at the man. They have the same look in their eye but instead, their hand slowly reaches out until their fingertips meet the tips of soft silver hair. Pushing strands away from his face before waltzing down to caress his cheek. It's an intimate touch and Lumine isn't sure whether she should be here interrupting the moment. The stranger surely seems to be having fun as they return to playing with silver strands. Through it all, Alhaitham remains asleep yet, his body seems to lean into the touch naturally. As if these practiced movements have happened before.

Oh. Oh, she understands now.

“Hey, Paimon…” Lumine starts as she slowly picks herself off the floor as quietly as possible lest she disturbs the peace. "We should leave."

"Huh? But why? We've never seen this person before right? What if they're one of those bad guys that are after Alhaitham because he's the acting grand sage!" Paimon adamantly nods, small hands clutched into little fists. It would be cute if it weren't for the fact that Paimon has no sense of volume. Before Lumine can reach out and press her palm against Paimon's mouth to stop her from shouting again, a light chuckle rings out. They both freeze in place, flicking their heads back inside the room.

"You know...if you talk any louder you will actually wake him up," the stranger drops their hand as they turn to face the duo. There's mirth dancing in their eyes and Lumine has enough decency to look embarrassed at getting caught red-handed. Paimon on the other hand has no such reservations.

"Ah, sorry! We didn't mean to! Wait-Hey! Don't turn this on Paimon. Who are you and what are you doing in Alhaitham's house?!" Paimon stomps her feet in the air, crossing her arms as she pouts at the stranger. Her frown further increased by the stranger laughing harder.

"I basically live here. There's no need to be so on edge. I doubt Haitham could sleep so easily if a stranger was in his home," they say, gesturing to the still peacefully unaware scribe who hasn't moved a muscle since they arrived.

"Ohh, so you're like that blond guy from before! Ka-Ka something? But wait, why were you touc-"

"Ahem, sorry for barging in. We just wanted to say Happy Birthday to Alhaitham. We'll visit again some other time when he's awake," Lumine cuts Paimon off, successfully managing to slap her hand against Paimon's mouth. She can feel the back of her ears turning red as she bows and practically sprints away and out of the house. She'll just write a note to the scribe instead.

+

You blink a few times before chuckling again. Wow, that girl sure can run fast. You've heard stories about the Traveller and this "Paimon" character, patiently waiting for your turn to stumble into their journey. Although you wish you had met them with better first impressions, they seem like a lively bunch. Your eyes slide over back onto the sleeping figure in front of you, and there's a slight nudge of his lips. The smallest of smiles threaten to burst before it placates into something more neutral. A small detail that hasn't escaped you.

"I know you're awake Alhaitham," you state blankly, your gentle hands reaching back up before suddenly turning harsh and tugging at his cheek. Pulling the skin so he has a lopsided smile. True to your words, teal and amber eyes open without an ounce of shame. "Weren't those your friends? Don't be rude and ignore them when they came all this way to say happy birthday."

He offers a half-hearted shrug before the hand supporting his head moves to take your fingers still tugging at his cheek. Intertwining them together until his face is free. His smile is still small but his eyes shine with fondness that you're forced to look away. Sometimes you forget just how pretty Alhaitham can be.

"Weren't you the one that said I should indulge on my special day? Is it so wrong that I want to spend it with you and you alone?" He adds to his point by brushing his lips against your fingertips before pressing a kiss to your palm. There's a small smile as he extends his other hand out, eyes taking in how pink your ears become. "So let's indulge."

“For such a pretty face, you sure are…” you trail off but you take his hand and let him move you onto his lap. It's unfair how fast he can turn the tables on you and how easily you let him do so. It was fun being able to poke and prod the man to your heart's content since he had to hold the disguise of being asleep, even if you do feel a bit bad that the Traveller had to postpone their greeting, but now it's his hands that roam over your body. Slipping under your - his - shirt and rubbing small circles into your hip before growing bored and moving onto another patch of untouched skin until there's nothing left to take. Lip hungry as he kisses away your words because every breath that isn't mixed with his is worthless. Perhaps it's a blessing that you need to take a proper breath because you're sure that Alhaitham would keep taking until there's nothing left. Disregarding how tightly your hands cling to him and refuse to let him stray too far away.

"Greedy."

"Pot meet kettle."

---

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[l0nelyish]

It‘s about that sandwich!

natasha romanoff x fem!reader

prompt: where you just can’t help but stun Natasha… and maybe get on her nerves? she doesn’t know which one it is.

nothin but pure fluff and nat being pouty af

lil bit of grumpy nat x sunshine reader if you squint.

3rd pov

„That‘s it.“, Wanda turned around, confused. Witnessing Natasha angry, sure thing. Witnessing her confused? never.

“What’s the matter with you, everything alright?”

Natasha huffed, pouting almost childlike. It’s so not like her to seem this openly frustrated, but she couldn’t care less. “Do I seem alright to you? No. This is the fifth time this month she’s been emptying one of the pbj ingredients before i could make one for myself.”, she dragged her eyes across the room, almost analyzing as in ‘hide and seek’. Where could you have been? And why do you have to steal ‘her’ ingredients? Natasha was bothered by you, yes. Extremely.

Wanda took another look at Natasha and chuckled: “Damn, does a peanut butter and jelly sandwich really have that much value to THE black widow? Oh my Lord.”

Natasha almost wanted to hit Wanda in the head with her slices of bread. It was really tempting, she had to admit. The witch shot her a knowing look, most likely hearing her thoughts. Again, the Russian woman huffed. Her temper was really not her strongest suit. Especially not after provoking it.

“It has a decent amount of value, thank you. What do you want me to say? ‘Oh my God! I can’t live without a pbj sandwich! Help me!’ ?”, Natasha shot her a glare, sarcasm being her best suited form of selfdefense. She truly is a witty woman.

On the other side of the kitchen aisle, Wanda tried her best not to fall into a laughing fit. Never has she ever seen Natasha this distressed, this fuzzy. And then, after really considering who they were discussing, she sent her friend a knowing smirk:

“Are you really this cranky about two bread slices or is it because of your ‘definitely not crush’ ?”

Natasha stared at her, eyes blown in shock: she got caught. Again. She usually wouldn’t let someone else read her this easily, but since this is you they’re talking about, and it’s Wanda she’s talking to, there really is no reason to facade it. Still, she tries to deny: “I told you a hundred times, I don’t like her! I can’t even stand her. I mean, she empties the food. What am I supposed to eat now?” So wrong. Even Natasha knows her whole act of trying to hate and blame you for everything is not working and it’s just her best shot at ignoring the rising feelings she’s got for you. But could anybody blame her, really? When you were this excited, extremely beautiful, empathetic and shiny human being?

You entered the kitchen, unaware of the ongoing dispute. Hot on your heels, you scanned the room and reacted to Natashas last sentence: “Did Steve forget the groceries? Are you hungry?”

And just like that, after merely 5 seconds, Natasha dreaded holding a grudge. Her whole demeanor snapped (no pun intended) and her eyes gazed almost neutrally into your warm gaze: “Someone emptied the whole peanut butter jar. And now I can’t make my dinner.”

Surprisingly, you sent her a goofy smile: “Oh! That must have been me, I’m extremely sorry, Tasha. I do have another half of my pbj sandwich left though, I was about to refrigerate it.”, you held up your plate. She gave it a look and panicked internally: were you really about to share your meal? As if gathering her freight, you again sent her a toothy smile and handed her the leftover half. “Enjoy!”, was all you stated, leaving both women standing around the kitchen isle. Plus the pbj sandwich, which Natasha stared at for longer than necessary. The corners of her mouth started to form a smile, which after some contemplation she insisted on not following through.

Wanda, who encountered the whole interaction, had a huge smirk on her face.

Natasha on the other hand, without having to look at her friends face, mentally face palmed herself for always getting so stuck up around you.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything… but enjoy your meal.”, with that, Wanda left a flushed Natasha stood in the compound’s kitchen.

The widow took another look at your, no her, plate. And after a year, she still can’t wrap her head around it:

What was she going to do about you?

[ominium]

farewell

character : gojo s. (i only say his name once, so if you wanna insert anyone else...won't blame ya) context : your husband forgets who you were (amnesia) and hangs out with his high school fling more than you :( pov : first person (reader) content : angst no comfort (letter no response)

note(s) yeah idk, had this thought at 5:00 am and, after a few days, decided to finally write it out also gojo likes his eggs scrambled here with reader. yea idk if u think he'd prefer runny yolk then oops

—

In another universe, we would have grown old together.

As promised, we would have woken up in each other's arms, go on morning walks, share a sandwich, watch the birds fly by...

As promised, we would have grown a flower bed out in the countryside, have chats with our elderly neighbors every now and then, watch the sunset together...

When we first got back to our home after the accident, I had hope. I know it was hard for you to live with me, as you saw me as nothing more than a stranger, but I believed you could remember me. I had strength that our love would prevail, as cheesy as it sounds...I believed that you could remember me.

Every little aspect of our little life was still there. The way I still had to try extra hard to wake you up in the mornings, how you still enjoyed noodles that were a little overcooked and soaked with the broth, and even the way you sat on "your spot" of the couch. Everything was so endearing, and I wanted to believe that you hadn't changed.

The way you still greeted your old friends was all the same. Sure, you missed out on some memories, but for the most part, they didn't have to endure the pain of being asked, "who are you?"

It was nice to see some of your memories come back, too. When you had that nagging feeling that you just had to go to the local park, even though it was raining...all because it felt right. And it did. We used to take a walk on weekends to wind down and relax. Our hands intertwined, and just simply people watching. It re-lit what little faith I had left, and had me craving for more...more of you remembering our memories.

How you started going out every other evening to get some drinks. It seemed so...painfully absent in the home, but at least you were putting in the effort to remember.

So how...how is it that you seem to start remembering everything but me? How can you remember the way I liked my eggs scrambled, but not me? How could you remember how I liked the way I folded my clothes, but not me? How was my spot replaced with her?

Was it not strange that she would make you sunny-side up eggs, even though you said you didn't like the yolk runny? How she didn't walk the path you wanted to walk in the park? You brought her a beautiful bouquet wrapped in purple, yet the colors she surrounds herself with are yellow.

Why is it that I hear from Shoko that you were with her again? Why do I get messages from Megumi that you had to buy two bouquets, because you accidentally bought purple flowers again? Why is it that it seems you never come home to me? Why did I have to see your wedding ring on the bathroom floor. Forgotten.

Why do I wake up to an empty home, and go to bed alone now....

...You know, yesterday was our anniversary. I had bought a cake and even asked Yuuji to help me decorate the living room for us. It was...pretty awkward, to say the least, when he calls me and says you're at the bar with "that girl again."

To be honest, Satoru, I don't blame you. How could I? You experienced trauma, you have amnesia...you still see me as a stranger that just happens to live in the same home as you, and just happens to have a bunch of pictures with you, and even a wedding photo plastered in the bedroom wall. Right.

But it would've been nice if you had just...tried. Tried to come home to me. Try to spend time with me. Given me the bouquets because I love purple.

Tried to be the husband you promised you would be to me.

So here. I'm sure you've already seen them, but the divorce papers are under the letter. I've signed everything, and again I'm sure you've seen, but I grabbed all my essentials and left. You don't have to see me again. I placed our rings in the box they came in...thank goodness I saved it, despite you wanting me not to. You can do what you will with them...you did buy them anyways.

And I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't give more time to you. I'm sorry if I didn't try hard enough. But, I'm sure you'd understand...you've got holes in your memories that everyone wants to fill.

and I've got whole memories that I can't share anymore.

[holllandtrash]

now that we don't talk | charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader part 2 to say don't go

so i pay the price of what i lost and what it cost now that we don't talk

word count: 5.6k tags/warnings: slight angst, mentions of being disloyal, this is sad, pato o'ward makes a guest appearance had to rewind a bit because because this is charles' pov during and after the relationship - i promise we'll find the ending eventually

Charles was late to the welcome party in Vegas and maybe that was a blessing in disguise.

He showed up a little after 11pm as he really wasn’t in any sort of rush to make an appearance. This week was going to be a long one already and with the obligations piling on top of each other, he tried to spend the minimum amount of time doing what was required of him.

So on that Wednesday evening, he showed up over three hours after the recommended time of 8pm. Alexandra was with him, Alex as she preferred to be called. The coordinated outfits were her idea and Charles didn’t mind it, but it wasn’t an outfit he would have chosen himself. 

But they showed up, hand in hand and Charles found a few members of his team - or rather, Mark found him. 

“Did you know Damon Hill and his family are here?” Mark didn’t even start with a greeting. He did smile at Alex, out of politeness, but his interest lied with Charles knowing that the Monegasque driver hadn’t spoken to you in a few months.

“The whole family?” Charles asked with a breath, feeling the tense glance from his girlfriend. 

Mark nodded, “Yeah. Yeah they’re all around here somewhere.”

Here being the very large venue dedicated to tonight, to the inaugural Las Vegas Grand Prix. Members from each team, the drivers, invited guests and sponsors, everyone was here tonight. 

And apparently, so were you.

Mark was not the only person to mention to Charles that you were there, in fact Mark was the first of about eight people who felt the need to tell Charles that the girl he once spoke to was somewhere around.

Of course, no one could tell Charles exactly where you were, but it didn’t surprise him to hear you were leaving good impressions on everyone you had spoken to. You, someone who could part the red sea with ease, took a more delicate approach tonight. 

You were fully aware Charles was going to be there, but he was of no concern to you. You were polite to absolutely everyone you spoke to and if by chance someone mentioned that, ‘oh, Charles will be here eventually’ you simply smiled and nodded because you weren’t about to make any more waves in the motorsport industry. You preferred your name stayed out of the tabloids and what good would it be going around telling people how Charles broke your heart? 

There was speculation, of course. People knew you spent time together. Those online shared their opinions, right or wrong, thinking they could put the pieces together just based on the fact that he was seen in Paris with you one day and then in Monaco with Alex the next.

It didn’t help that you left England soon after, making only one more appearance in Formula 1 when you went to Spain. 

Charles still thought about that conversation, how calm you were throughout, not allowing him to take any piece of your dignity despite what he did, how he made you feel. 

Charles thought he was better off this way, with Alex. 

You were certainly better off. 

He didn’t like admitting it, in fact he probably never would, but he kept up to date with you, with your life. He saw on Instagram when you dyed your hair and then dyed it again and then chopped it to your shoulders. He saw when you spent time with the F1 Academy drivers, when you attended Nascar races, when you started spending more and more time with the Arrow McLaren team.

You had told him that you wanted to watch a few races, check out a few teams before deciding whether or not you wanted to pursue a career in the motorsports field.

And you had done just that. From the outside looking in, Charles couldn’t help but think that this was you just trying on different lives. Indecisive, certainly. But you looked happy, so who was he to have a say?

It shouldn’t have come as a shock when the news dropped of you being brought on as a Performance Engineer for the US based papaya team starting in 2024. The photo that accompanied the headline was you sitting at the pit wall in Portland, already with the orange headset on as you watched the race.

Charles was in Italy when he read the article. Just over three months after your relationship ended...but who's counting?

He had finished fourth that Sunday, not his worst race but his best one either. He was just on his way to his car, wanting to head to the airport when he came across the news on Instagram.

He wanted to congratulate you. He wanted to call you and tell you he was excited for this move, for this career you landed on. He wanted to joke that he could have gotten you a job at Ferrari if you had just asked. 

But you didn’t talk anymore so he couldn’t say anything. This was the cost of losing you. Charles couldn’t stay your friend, not after what he did, and in return, you were out of his life. 

It wasn't that he was looking for you that night in Vegas but he wasn't not looking for you. It was quite a large crowd that even he had trouble navigating his way around. Alex walked behind him, following Charles at a close distance. 

And truthfully, Charles tried not to compare you and Alex, but something about knowing you were in the vicinity had him thinking of what would be different if you had accompanied him tonight. 

You wouldn’t reach for his hand, but you would have lightly grabbed the back of his shirt if the crowd started getting a little suffocating. Just a slight tug on the material and Charles would turn around and assure you with a smile that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

The first time you did that, you were in Monaco. Those weeks he flew you out to spend time with him after only meeting once in the Ferrari garage. 

After leaving a nightclub, the crowd got a little rowdy- they all wanted a piece of him. You stood behind him as he walked to the car that was waiting but when people started moving closer you felt as though you were suffocating. Heart racing as anxiety crept up, a new feeling because you didn’t think you were claustrophobic but you had also never been in this situation before. 

You reached for the back of Charles’ shirt, hand brushing over the thin material before taking it between your forefinger and thumb. It was helpful for you, knowing that you could still touch him, feel him. It grounded you. A little bit of comfort amidst the chaos.

Charles turned when he felt the faint tug. He recognized the wide eyes, the fear that you tried to play off because this was normal for him. But it wasn’t normal for you so he raised his hand, sliding his fingers into yours to give you that gentle squeeze before finally making it to the car.

The anxiety faded the second Charles closed the door for you. He walked around to the drivers side and slid in, hand automatically finding your leg. 

He didn’t ask about it, the sudden panic. He knew you had been around large crowds a handful of times before. You weren’t in the public eye per say, but your father was and growing up you became used to it. 

But this was just different. Charles recognised it, and he knew moving forward he’d have to be mindful of it, of you, of how you were feeling. 

He wondered how you were doing tonight in Vegas, if there was someone else's shirt you were clinging onto this time. Or maybe that was something you saved just for Charles. He couldn’t ask, though. He wouldn’t know the answer to how you were feeling because you didn’t talk anymore.

He also had absolutely no idea where you were. 

Maybe you had left by now. It was getting late. If you showed up on time, which you probably did, you’d have been ready to call it a night thirty minutes ago. You’d have gone back to your hotel room and scrubbed your makeup off, changing into one of those matching jumper and sweats sets you always had. 

You craved comfort over anything else.

Charles remembered Paris. The first night. Not the night where everything fell apart right in front of him all because he couldn’t say those three little words back to you.

No, the first night was good. It was great, magical even. Charles had taken you out to dinner. The skin tight black dress you wore, the one with the low cut neckline - Charles still thought about it. He’d love to know if you still had it, if you wore it for anyone else but those were questions he kept to himself. 

He remembered at the end of the evening you were at your second wine bar, having come across this one completely by accident on your way back to your place. Charles remembered pulling you inside, suggesting that one more glass wouldn’t hurt anyone and you hesitated because it was getting late, but nevertheless, you followed. 

One glass turned into splitting an entire bottle at one of the high tables in the very back. This place was old-school chic with the decor and the 80’s records playing on low volume. It was nothing like the modern and elegant bar you had just spent the last hour in. No, this place was intimate, cozy and surprisingly you didn’t want to leave, even as the night went on. 

And that surprised Charles because you had joked at the beginning of the night that you wanted to be in bed by at least eleven. It was half 12 now and you showed no signs of trying to get back to your flat. 

“So do you or do you not like staying out late?” Charles asked, trying to get the proper read. His hand was resting on your leg, fingers daringly close to the hem of your dress. You were both way too overdressed for this establishment but no one seemed to mind. No one paid you two any attention.

You smiled and glanced around, wanting to bring light to the fact that no one had approached you since you stepped inside, but you didn’t want to jinx it.

“After a certain hour I like to be comfortable,” you answered. “There’s nothing comforting about a stuffy bar and loud music and people in your space who think they know you but they really don’t. And I like going out, I do, but I don’t like staying out longer than I need to.”

Charles nodded, understanding the point you were getting at. This wine bar was a hole in the wall, a hidden gem that provided you the comfort you desired. While you weren’t entirely alone, it certainly felt like it. You could laugh freely without worrying about being too loud or embarrassing. You could sit as close as you wanted to Charles without being cautious of who was nearby. It was just you and him. 

And you could have gone back home, but home would always be there. This moment, this bar, this was just as comforting and in the back of both of your minds, you knew it wouldn’t come again. 

You were right.

Charles would have rather been back in that corner of the wine bar with you now, back in Paris without the impending end of your relationship weighing over his shoulders. 

He wished he could relive that night over and over because for a moment, he thought that maybe, possibly, he could love you.

Charles blamed it on the wine. The way the dim light hit your delicate features was only accentuated because he was drunk. Your laughter was soothing, heartwarming even, but he reminded himself he had heard it hundreds of times before. You looked at him that night, a naive glow to you and it terrified Charles. 

He pushed that four letter word aside. He couldn’t love you. He couldn’t love anyone, he couldn’t have that commitment, not with his lifestyle- his career. If he loved you, you’d become a distraction. You’d want more from him and he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t give you more.

So when you told him you loved him only a few days later, he ran.

He ran back to Alex because she would never tell him she loved him. She wouldn’t put that on his shoulders, she wouldn’t carelessly hand over her heart that way you had. Because that’s what you did. You gave Charles everything, all of you and he didn’t know what to do with it. He wasn’t ready to give you everything in return.

He was left with a tainted memory of Paris.

So yes, he tried to think of that first night more than any other one. At least that memory was pure, wholesome. 

It wouldn’t have surprised him to find out you left this Vegas party already. Probably found the quietest bar on the outskirts of the strip. Or you might have even gone back to the hotel because what comfort could a bar bring you? 

Did you still think about that night in Paris too? Or had you tried to completely forget about your time together there? Again, Charles couldn’t just ask you that. You didn’t talk. 

But there were people here that you did talk to.

Charles spotted Pato O’Ward, the well adored driver in the IndyCar series. You may not have been hired as a performance engineer for his car, but you were going to be a crucial part of the Arrow McLaren team. Plus you had spent a handful of races with them already, sometimes in his pit lane box. 

They had met before, briefly but it was a long enough interaction that Charles didn’t feel uncomfortable approaching the Mexican driver. 

They chatted about the race happening this weekend, about Pato’s upcoming practice session he’ll be participating in in Abu Dhabi. Charles was friendly, he knew how to carry a conversation.

He also knew how to find out the information he couldn’t get first hand from you. Of course, waiting until Alex walked off to get another drink.

“I heard about Y/N joining the team,” Charles casually mentioned. “That’s exciting, she’ll be a good addition.”

“Oh for sure,” Pato nodded in agreement. He glanced around, as if trying to find you but he didn’t spend too long looking. “She’s a genius. We’re happy to have her. I’m surprised that she didn’t find a job in Formula 1, though. With her father and all and-”

Pato cut himself off, unsure if this was a line he wanted to cross.

But Charles chuckled, making light of the history he had with the new Arrow McLaren employee. The more at ease Pato felt, the more likely he’d be willing to talk about you.

“Honestly I could have gotten her a job at Ferrari if she showed interest,” Charles told him. He wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but Pato wasn’t going to talk if Charles was quick to shut down the topic of you. So he continued, “But she always talked about IndyCar. She only ever spent time at Formula 1 because of the history, because of her dad but her interests lied with your series. I think it’s because she grew up with Formula 1, you know, there was no more fascination. IndyCar is almost like a challenge for her…she did always like to challenge herself. I hope this career is good for her- I think it will be, I think it’s what she needs. I mean, I guess I don't really know what she needs but I hope she finds it at Arrow McLaren.”

Where the fuck did that come from?

Even Pato was a little taken aback. He didn’t show it on his face, but he certainly hadn’t expected Charles to say any of those words about you. There was a longing in Charles’ tone. He wasn’t just speaking highly of you, he was pulling from his heaviest memories, his cherished moments. He wasn’t just telling Pato everything that Pato probably already knew. Charles was reminding himself of the person you were, the person you still are. 

The person he didn’t know anymore.

Charles cleared his throat, “Do you talk to her? Or not so much in the off season?”

Pato moved on along with Charles, as best as he could, offering him a faint shrug, “I chatted with her earlier tonight. She’s in the middle of a move, actually.”

“To the states?” Charles asked.

“Bristol, I think,” Pato racked his memory but was confident with his answer. “She lived in Paris for a bit but is going to spend the next few months in Bristol before heading to the states at the end of February.”

Bristol did not come as a surprise to Charles. 

“If you could move anywhere, where would you go?” You had once asked him. Although, your timing was poor as you were both currently lounging on the front of his yacht in the French Riviera. Why would he want to move anywhere else when everything he needed, for the most part, was right here?

“I don’t want to move,” Charles gave you the answer you had expected. He turned his head to face you, arm resting on the back of the chair. He had sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose but he took them off his face and handed them to you when he realised you were squinting as you looked at him.

“I’d move to Bristol,” you told him, unprompted. His sunglasses were a little big for your face, but the gesture was sweet. 

“Bristol,” he repeated. “Why Bristol?”

“It’s beautiful,” you said. “Rich in history and culture. I’d live on the seaside. I’d spend my days in the market. There’s still a bit of a nightlife if I feel like going out. But It’s serene there. I’d be happy there.”

Charles sat up a bit, “Monaco has all that. Why don’t you just move here?”

You laughed. As if moving to Monaco was that easy. 

Regardless, Monaco was missing something you cherished.

“I enjoy the cold weather, Charles.” You said as if this wasn’t something he already knew. “Bristol’s like the perfect place. It doesn’t snow often but it still drops in temperature during the winter and if I wanted a white Christmas I could just drive a few hours inland. I can’t thrive in 365 days of heat. Sometimes I just want to make a cup of tea and curl up on the couch with a blanket.”

Charles admired a lot of things about you, but near the top of that list was how much you appreciated the little things in your life. You were raised in wealth, with a name that everyone was familiar with, but you were simple. You worked hard for what you wanted and you cherished what you had. You never asked for anything more and you were always content, never one to complain. You were probably the most down to earth person he’d ever met.

So no, it wasn’t shocking to hear that you had moved out of your flat in Paris to spend a few months in Bristol. To get that British winter one more time before moving for your career. 

“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere if you-” Pato stopped mid sentence, his eyes landing on something, someone, behind Charles. 

Naturally, Charles turned over his shoulder to look.

There you were. 

Part of your hair was pinned back with a pearl hair clip. You opted out of a dress, going for a matching skirt and cropped blazer instead, pairing it with a pair of heels only a shade darker. You were chatting with someone that Charles didn’t recognise, a champagne glass held delicately between your fingers. You were so into your conversation that you had no idea that you had gained the attention of not just one driver, but two.

Charles wasn’t the only one who was dying to spend some time with you tonight. 

He turned back at Pato and Charles would be lying to himself if he said his blood didn’t boil over at the way Pato was looking at you. He was envious in this moment. He knew you were larger than life, but you were such a well kept secret, his secret, and you were the farthest thing from that now.

Pato muttered something about catching up with Charles later and all Charles could do was watch as the IndyCar driver made his way over to you. You greeted him with a warm smile. His hand found your lower back with ease, like he had placed it there before. You handed him the champagne glass in your hand and Pato took a sip, holding it onto it, like that was normal. Like you shared drinks with him before.

And Charles knew he didn’t have any sort of right to care, to question, to even wonder what you were doing now but god it pained him to think that you were possibly, probably, sleeping with Pato O’Ward.

When did that start? Before you signed your contract or after? Did that matter? No of course it didn’t matter. None of it mattered because Charles was with Alex. He made that choice, he let you go. He foolishly, stupidly, regrettably, let you go and now he had to watch from the sidelines as you lived your life without him. You found the career you wanted, not in Formula 1.

If you were with Pato, there was no doubt in Charles’ mind that Pato treated you better than he did. He was a stand up guy, he was charming, he leaned in and whispered something in your ear that had you blushing in seconds.

How Charles was feeling wasn’t fair and he knew it. He knew he was in the wrong. He knew he couldn’t be jealous seeing you with someone else. You had moved on, you had every right to move on. 

He knew that it shouldn’t have taken seeing you with Pato to realise he had made a mistake. This was a conclusion he should have come to a while ago, honestly he should have never even let you go in the first place. And maybe he did know it and just didn’t want to admit it until it was screaming at him, a brutal hit to the face over and over until he just couldn’t ignore the bruises anymore.

He shouldn’t have let you go. 

But he did and this was the price he had to pay. He watched from the outside, watched you change and grow through the stories he overheard and pictures you shared. He was a mere crumb in your life now compared to when you handed him your heart on a silver platter. 

Charles regretted everything. He regretted that he left you waiting for him to say ‘I love you’ and at the very least, hoping he would say ‘don’t go’ and instead gave you nothing. Now he couldn’t say any of those words. Now you didn’t talk. 

He left the party early. Alex didn’t say anything on the ride back to the hotel. Neither did he. What was there left to say anyway?

But the silence from her left less of a hole than the silence he got from you. 

He sat in the hotel bar while Alex packed up her suitcase and asked the front desk for a new room. She wasn’t going to leave. Not yet, at least. Just give Charles the space he needed and honestly, Charles knew she was waiting for him to return to her once he came to his senses, like he did last time.

Because Alex gave him what he wanted. Comfort, but she didn’t ask for it in return. Adoration, but didn’t expect the love to be reciprocated. She played the part of the girlfriend and she played it well, accompanying Charles wherever, whenever. Alex thought that if she played the long game, Charles would love her. Charles would see a future with her.

You, though, you didn’t have time to wait. You weren’t going to sit ideally and beg for him to love you back. You weren’t going to tell him that you’d wait for him, that you’d be there if things with Alex didn’t work out. 

You moved on. 

Charles tried to accept that, really. He tried to just focus on the last two races and not about what you were doing. If Bristol was everything you dreamt it was. If Pato and you were together. He tried not to think about anything that revolved around you. 

He thought he could at least make it to the New Year, and maybe he would have. He might have reconnected with Alex on the 31st if he successfully went the entire month of December without his mind trailing back to you.

But the second his friend who resided in London called him up and asked if he wanted to attend a fashion show he was part of...well, it was embarrassing how fast Charles agreed to go. Because London was certainly closer to Bristol than Monaco was. And if he was in London, it was hard to find a reason why he shouldn’t just…go to Bristol.

Actually it was very easy to find dozens of reasons. Charles simply ignored all of them. 

He didn’t think this plan through at all, which was why he stood outside your door for nearly five minutes before knocking. What was he going to say?

For starters, he was really hoping you wouldn’t ask how he knew where you lived. Charles didn’t feel like explaining the hoops he had to jump through that may or may not have involved Joris at one point pretending to be your brother and calling your place of employment. 

It was fucked up. Charles could admit that. But if he could admit that, he could admit it wasn’t the only fucked up thing he did. Letting you walk away from him was at the top of that list.

When you opened the door, you weren’t upset to see him, but you weren’t happy either. Charles carried that vibe the entire time he was inside, starting from when you reluctantly let him in to the way you handed him his cup of tea without so much as a word. 

“How’s Alexandra?” You asked him. Charles could tell you were only trying to be polite. 

“Do you care?” He asked in return. 

No hesitation from you as you shook your head, “I do not.”

He always admired your honesty. He was still scared shitless at the way you could quite literally kill someone with kindness, but he also respected it. You were the only person he knew who’s gentle smile had the ability to send someone cowering. It was a skill, truly. 

“So let’s not talk about her,” he suggested and you nodded, but you also weren’t about to let the conversation carry on if it was pointless. 

“Charles if you don’t tell me why you’re here…”

He had an entire drive to figure out how he wanted to word this. He had a whole plane ride to put together the perfect sentence, the perfect mix of apologies and admittance and instead his mind was blank. He didn’t know the words to say to you, not after going so long without saying anything. 

But he lifted his head and met your eyes. He thought about reaching for your hand only to decide against it because your hand wasn’t his to hold anymore. 

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he said, voice low, breaking almost. He shook his head, repeating it. “I made a mistake, I shouldn’t have let you go. I don’t want to be someone who’s not in your life. I don’t want to be someone who means nothing to you anymore. I-”

I love you, he wanted to say. 

Because he did. 

At least, he thought he did. At one point, he knew he could. If he could then, he could now, right? He could still love you. If you took him back, if you found a way to still love him, Charles wanted to love you back in the same way.

Or maybe he just didn’t want you to love anyone else.

“Charles you don’t know how to love anyone,” you knew exactly what he was going to say. And at one point, you wanted to hear it. Now, though? This was the one time you were hoping he didn’t say it.

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” you stated, like you knew him better than he knew himself. Maybe you did. “You don’t want to love someone, you just want to be loved.”

“I want to be in love with you.”

“That’s not the same and you know it,” your words could have cut through him like glass if your tone wasn’t so soft. 

Charles shifted uncomfortably. This conversation hadn’t gone as planned, but what was he truly expecting? You’d take him back? You were better off without him. Anyone could see that.

“Listen, I had to get over you and you weren’t even mine, Charles. Do you know how twisted that is? The only person to blame for my broken heart was myself because I knew, all along, you weren’t mine. I knew it and I went along anyway and I’m not doing that again. I will not love you again. I don’t need another wave of self destruction and false hope and unrequited love. I am happy, okay? I didn’t need you to come here with some sort of declaration that you can’t even say with your chest. I don’t- I don’t need that. I don’t need you.”

He still tried, still attempted to win you back with the what if’s but you saw through it. You cut him off before he could finish his question. What if I do need you?

You shook your head, staying firm with your decision. “It’s over now, Charles. It was over then and it’s over now.”

Charles believed that. He repeated your words the entire way home. He could never give you the closure you needed so you gave it to yourself and you seemed adamant that your past with Charles was going to stay there, in the past. 

He didn’t get back together with Alex. He couldn’t. He ended things the second he returned to Monaco. She asked if you were the reason and Charles didn’t really have an answer. You weren’t dating, but you were still there. In the back of his mind, in his dreams, everywhere he looked he saw you.

He didn’t think he’d actually see you again. He knew you were moving in the New Year. That you had officially gone on with your life. 

So imagine his surprise when you showed up at his door on New Years Eve. 

Smudged mascara under your eyes, an unopened bottle of wine in your hands and a dress that left very little to the imagination. Charles had hundreds of questions, for you, for himself, like was he just imagining this? 

And then you stepped past him, sliding your heels off and immediately going to his cupboard to pull out two empty wine glasses. It was a screw top, the bottle in your hands, Charles wondered where you got it but he didn’t ask. He just let you pour a very healthy amount into each of the glasses. He didn’t say anything when you handed one to him, you both just took a sip in peace.

Charles wasn’t sure where he found his voice, but he somehow managed to. And he said the stupidest fucking thing ever.

“I thought we were over.”

“We are,” you stated, taking another sip. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind him and you tried to wipe your undereyes but the dry pads of your fingers did little to help.

Charles stepped into the bathroom to grab one of those white hand towels that he hung on the rack. He ran it under some warm water before making his way back to you. He was hesitant to step close, but you didn’t flinch away.

So he raised his hand to your cheek, holding you still as he wiped away the stains of mascara, the remains of whatever you were crying over. His touch was gentle. You could feel his breath hit your face and you couldn’t help but glance at his lips. You hadn’t been this close since Paris.

“Thank you,” you whispered when he dropped the cloth to the sink.

Charles didn’t back up after. He stayed with his hand on the side of your face, even sliding his fingers against your scalp to get tangled in your hair. Something he knew you loved. You hummed at the feeling, how normal this seemed, like you weren’t the one to end things that last time around.

Unlike last time, Charles was the one to ask, “Why are you here, Y/N?”

You shook your head, wishing he could just accept this for what it was. You didn’t want to have a conversation.

So you reached for the front of his shirt, dragging your hand up to the collar as you brought your lips closer to his. The little twitch in the corner of your mouth, that faint smirk, it ruined Charles. His hand found your waist, he was only human.

“Please, Charles,” you breathed out. Not a beg, a request if anything. “Now is not the time to talk.”

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 21: Try to Understand

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter twenty one of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 7.5K

Warnings: I'm gonna go 18+, I'm not sure that it needs it, but I'm still gonna do it. Angst, Talks of pregnancy, Talks of possible abortion, Cursing, Fluff, Sexual References, Graphic Nightmare?, FLUFF, Family Problems, Self-deprecating thoughts, Awkward Situations, Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC. Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Soldier Boy POV

After his shower, you still haven't come back from talking to Rosemary, and Ben decides that instead of eavesdropping on your conversation, he's going to go to the kitchen and get a drink. He knows exactly where Legend hides the good shit, mostly because Legend hid it to keep it away from Ben in the first place. And despite it happening forty years ago, nothing in Legend's house had changed. Ben had many memories of this house, at least two Herogasms had been hosted here, hell, Ben had memories in the room you two were sharing, but he kept them to himself.

The last thing he wanted was for you to think about any of the things that happened in the past, not when you had told him that he had made it up to you, not when you had held him close after all these years and whispered things to him that he always wanted you to say, and not when he was more happy than he'd ever been.

You said that you forgave him, Ben understood that, but that didn't mean he was going to stop making it up to you every day and it didn't mean that he was going to stop making you happy, because after all these years you were still the only thing he wanted, and he refused to lose you ever again.

He glances at the empty bottle on the nightstand, the one that you brought with you last night and the same bottle the two of you finished together.

He was surprised when you said you stopped drinking, but not completely. You'd only drunk socially as a supe, and Ben hadn't seen you drunk since the two of you were kids. He knew it was because you didn't want to lose control like he did.

Ben stutters on the memory of what happened in Mid-town, and what happened forty years ago when he threw a car through a house and killed an innocent bystander. Ben didn't believe he was a bad guy, he was a hero or- the memories of all the moments he lost control began to seep though the cracks- at least he thought he was.

His mind drifts back to you. You were always in control. The one time he'd ever seen you lose control was when you lost it at the premiere all those years ago. It was justified. Ben would have lost it too if he walked in on anyone fucking you. His jaw clenches at the thought, but then he remembers what you said last night, that there hadn't been anyone else, that you never wanted anyone else but him ever. It was surprising to him, that you hadn't moved on, even after all this time you still loved him the same way you always had and that there would never be anyone else.

Fuck. Ben took in a deep breath to avoid getting too excited remembering what you said, feeling warmth begin to build in his abdomen. It had been difficult to contain himself when you admitted that to him. If you had let him, he would have made love to you right then, made you feel things that no other man ever did, but you said you wanted to wait.

And Ben wanted to respect that, wanted to respect you.

He examines the empty bottle once more.

When you were younger he'd watch you get drunk on cheap beer that he bought you more than once, usually when you proclaimed that you could drink him under the table and then Ben had to practically corral you to get you home. Then again he liked those nights, when you'd try to sing, swing from light poles that lined the street, and you'd grab his hand and say crazy things like "let's run away" or "let's go egg Missy Callahan's house." Both of which Ben didn't need much more convincing to say yes, but the two of you never did.

He would have run away with you if you'd ever seriously asked him to, he would have dropped everything to leave, would have chosen you just as you chose him the night he showed up and asked you to go with him to get the serum. The promise he made to protect you and be strong for you the night you went with him was not new. He had repeated it to himself every day since the minute he realized how much you meant to him.

And he would continue to do it for the rest of his life.

Ben ascends the stairs, buttoning the Giants jersey that Butcher bought for him. He wasn't the biggest fan of them forty years ago, but it was one of the only shirts he had. And the last thing he wanted to do was walk around without a shirt on. Ben smiles to himself remembering your reaction when you walked in on him changing into his supe suit yesterday morning. He loved that you reacted to him that way, it was the same way that he reacted to seeing you yesterday when you were standing in your bathroom in only your bra, looking just as beautiful as you had forty years ago when he took you to bed and-

Fuck. Ben took in another deep breath finishing the last button to avoid thinking about you naked. It had been forty years for him and he knew that he was going to have to take it slow when it came to sex.

He stumbled into the kitchen and froze.

Lou was sitting at the square kitchen table that sat under a floor length window and looked out onto the sprawling backyard of Legend's property. Ben could see Rosemary and you talking at the very edge of where the grass met the thick woods beyond.

"Hi Ben!" Lou smiles wide at him. A giant box of crayons sits on the table just beyond her filled with every color known to man, while she scribbles in a sketchbook that looks suspiciously like the same ones that Ben had seen you buy for yourself in the past. "Do you know how to draw trees? Aunty y/n always does them for me, but she's talking to mommy."

"Um-" Ben clears his throat, fastening the last button of his shirt. Lou was smiling at him the same way you did, like she was genuinely happy that he was there, and he wasn't used to that. It was the same way you used to smile at him when he climbed through your bedroom window. He looks out the window to where you're still talking to Rosemary trying to find a way out, until finally he sighs. "No. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, mommy can't draw either." Lou looks back at her drawing while reaching for a brown crayon. She was wearing pink polka dot pajamas, pants and a shirt that matched. Ben had never seen pajamas like that before, but he supposed that pink was her favorite color, given that she was also wearing a pair of bright pink fuzzy slippers.

He couldn’t help but smile. He wondered if you hated how much Lou liked pink, if it reminded of those dresses your mother used to make you wear that always made you look like a giant iced birthday cake.

Personally, Ben didn’t think you looked that ridiculous, he thought that you looked cute, ruffly, but cute. You never believed him when he told you that.

Ben wandered over to the cabinet where he thought the whiskey was, but as soon as he opened it, he found the cabinet empty.

Did he fucking move it?

"It's under the sink." Lou said from behind him.

"What?" Ben turns around surprised.

Lou was still scribbling with her crayon in her sketchpad. "Uncle Legend came in and moved it this morning."

"Thanks." Ben awkwardly makes his way over to the sink, and sure enough behind the mop bucket is a full bottle of whiskey. He busies himself with pouring a glass before he eyes the chair next to Lou wondering if he should sit there.

Ben was nervous, he'd never admit it, but he was. This was his granddaughter, someone that you loved very much. He'd never been around a kid before, didn't have any siblings growing up, and certainly didn't have any relatives with children the way you had.

He liked to think that if he had been there when you were pregnant and when you gave birth to Rosemary he would have gotten used to it gradually. He wasn't sure if he could even be a dad, not after everything that happened with his own.

He was sure that he was going to be a disappointment to Rosemary and even to Lou and-

"Sit with me." Lou says, interrupting his train of thought as she gets off of her chair to pull out the one next to her for Ben tugging with all her strength to pull it out from under the table.

Ben hesitates, but finally smiles at her efforts to get him to sit with her and sits down.

An awkward silence falls over him, he's again unsure what to say, so he takes a sip from his glass and hopes that you'll come in and save him from saying the wrong thing, but given how upset you look standing outside with Rosemary, he's sure that it won't be anytime soon. The urge to go outside and get between Rosemary and you is strong, but just as he begins to move to get out of the chair, Lou interrupts him.

"You make her smile more." Lou says, while grabbing a red crayon with her chubby hand and begins to draw the petals of a flower in her sketchbook, meticulously trying to make them more circular, tongue between her teeth as she concentrates.

"Who?"

"Aunty y/n. She didn't smile as much before." She says it matter of factly.

"Really?"

Lou nods reaching into the box of crayons for a new color. "She tried to act like she wasn't sad, but I think she was. Sometimes when she thought I was asleep I would find her on the couch just sitting there. I think she was lonely. And I tried to give her bigger hugs but they never seem to work. Hugs always make me feel better." Lou sighs.

"I'm sure that your hugs made her feel better." Ben's says tightly. He's not sure how to talk to Lou, isn't sure if he should talk to her like an adult or not.

"I love aunty y/n. I want to be just like her when I grow up. I want to be an artist!"

Ben looks down at the sketchpad on the table beneath Lou’s hands. It was of a giant tree that had different colored flowers all squished together in its branches. Each flower was different than the last, crudely drawn, but under it all Ben could see her potential. It reminded him of the sketchbook pages you first showed him when you were eight and swore him to secrecy, threatening bodily harm if you told anyone else about them.

“You’re very good.” Ben says and Lou beams with pride at her drawing, before flipping to a new page. She holds out a brilliant yellow crayon towards Ben. “Please draw a sun right here.” She taps her finger against the top left of the page before placing the crayon in his hand.

“Oh I don’t think I-“

“You can do it Ben! Aunty y/n says that art doesn’t have to be perfect, that it gets messy sometimes but that makes it fun!” Rosie reaches for a purple crayon and begins to draw stick figures to the right of the page.

Ben had heard you say that before, usually after your mother would sneer or make a comment about your paint stained hands when he’d bring you home from a day at the park. But sitting here listening to Lou say it was different.

Lou reminded him of you as a kid. She wasn't afraid  to speak up, to say what she thought, and she was filled with creativity and love.

Ben always admired that about you, that you were able to create things so perfectly and that you always made space in your heart for him, even when he was a complete dick for so long. He wondered if Rosemary was like you too. He could see a bit of it when she told him off, saw how headstrong she was and how ready she was to protect who she loved from him.

Ben hated that Rosemary believed that he would hurt you again, when it all but tore his own heart out to do so the last time.

But he was trying, hoped that she could see that he was trying and hoped that one day she’d let him in. The problem was he wasn’t the most patient person in the world.

He looks down at the crayon in his hand frowning slightly. He wasn’t an artist like you. The only thing that he’d really ever drawn was the naughty doodle that got him kicked out of boarding school, the one that made you laugh so hard you pushed him off the bed when he drew it for you in your sketchbook. You’d tried to show him other ways of drawing and painting but he’d never been interested.

Not to mention he didn’t think it was manly. He didn’t think that a man should have a hobby like this. It should be fishing or hunting or something like that but he looks down at Lou.

Her eyes are shining bright with excitement, smile wide, dimples showing and he doesn’t want to disappoint her, not when she’s been nothing but nice to him since he showed up.

If Hughie or fucking Butcher come in here and see me drawing this fucking sun I’ll-

“You don’t look like your pictures.” Lou hums drawing a smile on the face of the stick figure.

“Huh?” Ben looks up confused.

“The pictures that mommy keeps in the drawer.” Lou says reaching for a black crayon to draw long flowing hair on the stick figure.

“What pictures?”

“Of you and aunty y/n. Mommy has some in her drawer.” Lou acts as if she hadn’t said anything, grabbing a different crayon to draw another stick figure.

“She has pictures of us?”

“Yeah. You don’t have the beard though. And you and aunty y/n are really young.” She pokes his cheek with a chubby finger, making Ben freeze. Lou squints her eyes at him. “You don’t look like the picture that aunty y/n drew either.”

Ben hesitates, eyes slightly widening. “She drew a picture of me?”

“Few days ago.” Lou scribbles. “You didn’t have a beard then either.”

In the new drawings and paintings that Ben had seen back at your apartment, he hadn’t seen any drawings of him, he assumed it was because of everything that happened, but to learn that you did still draw him made him smile.

“You don't like it?” Ben asks, amused.

She shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“Aunt y/n likes it.” He said it more to himself than to Lou. Like hell he was going to shave it off when he saw how much you liked it when he came back. Ben smiles to himself remembering how your heart beat jolted out of your chest whenever he touched you, how your cheeks flushed, how your smooth skin felt beneath his hands-

There were so many little things that Ben missed about you, so many things that he had forgotten, and now he got to learn each one all over again and fall in love with every part of you for the second time in his life.

The sun he drew in the top left of the page was lopsided, but Lou didn't complain, in fact she added a pair of sunglasses to it, and a bright smile that Ben laughed at.

"What are you two doing?" Ben hears your voice say as your hand gently rubs his back. Ben looks up embarrassed. He hadn't wanted to get caught with a crayon in his hand, but at least it had been you and not Butcher.

"We were just-" Ben begins to say, his eyes flicking to where Rosemary stands behind Lou eyes narrowed.

"Mommy look. Ben is helping me color!" Lou crows, picking up her drawing so Rosemary can see.

Ben realizes what Lou was drawing on the other side of the page. Lou has drawn Rosemary and you standing with Lou in between the two of you holding on to her hands. Ben's eyes slide to the last figure in the drawing, his chest suddenly very tight, it's him, standing beside you, frowning, but holding on to your hand.

Rosemary smiles tightly at the page with a sigh. "That's nice sweetie. Come on, let's get you dressed."

"But I like my pajamas."

"Do what your mother says Lou." You smile down at her, stroking her dark hair back from her face.

"Okay." She sighs dramatically and begins to walk out of the room, but Rosemary is still glaring at Ben.

"Rose-" You begin to say, but she interrupts you.

"She might be able to forgive you, but I'm not going to." Her eyes narrow. "I don't think you're good for her."

Ben is still sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, your hand solidly on his back as if you were making the statement that you weren't going to push him away. It solidified something, showed him how much you were willing to sacrifice to keep him in your life, and again enforced just how much you loved him. If Rosemary hadn't been standing there, he would have sat you on the marble countertop and sucked another mark into your neck. The one he left yesterday was already starting to fade and he wanted to replace it as soon as possible.

But he was still angry, angry that Rosemary wouldn't give him a chance. "Your mother means everything to me." Ben says honestly. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. All I'm asking is that you get to know me first before you-"

"I don't want to get to know you." Rosemary says. "And if you hurt my mother again, I’ll make you wish that you stayed in that fucking lab."

She's gone in an instant, making Ben feel a pain in his chest that he hadn't felt since he spoke to his own father decades ago, on those nights when his dad got so drunk that he couldn't stand up straight and the nights that his father's words rang heavy in Ben's ears. Those nights Ben would get drunk, climb up the tree outside your window, and stumble into your bed, curling into you because you were the only thing in his life that he couldn't stand to lose, couldn't stand to disappoint, and the only thing in his shitty life that made him happy.

"Ben-" He hears you say.

"Mhmm?"

"Look at me."

Ben looks up. He doesn't like the worry in your gaze, doesn't like how your own eyes are just a little rimmed red like you were crying.

"I love you." You whisper. "And she's not going to change that."

"Are you sure?" He barely breathes the words, afraid in his soul to admit them to you, to speak them into the universe.

You drop into his lap, putting your forearms on his shoulders.

"Ben." You drag your fingers through his hair, your touch soothing his anxiety. "You know me enough to know that I don't pull punches. If I didn't want you here, I would make sure you weren't." You press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. "I want you here with me. I don't want you to go ever again. "

They were the words that he wanted you to tell him on the nights he crawled through your bedroom window, the question that he was always afraid to ask. Because he never believed that you could want him even a fraction as much as he wanted you, could love him and want to be with him as much as he wanted to be with you. And yet here you were after all these years after all the shitty things he did accepting him and letting him into your heart.

“Okay.” He leans his forehead against yours for a minute. “What did you talk about?”

“Homelander. And what happened yesterday.” You sigh. “She’s about as thrilled as I thought she’d be with us going after our old team. She was pissed when I told her about Countess the other day but this was worse.” You mutter holding on tight to him. “She’ll get over it. At least… I hope she will.”

“Mhmm.”

“I will say that I’m kind of jealous.”

“About?” Ben is suddenly worried.

What did I do? Did I-

“Every time I tried to get you to draw with me you said no.” Ben watches you frown dramatically. “And here you are with another woman-“

Ben rolls his eyes and shuts you up by closing the distance between your faces. You laugh into his mouth, his tongue finding the rigid edge of your front teeth as you do before you fit your mouth against his and kiss him, your soft lips molding against his in a way that makes a deep seated groan vibrate up through his chest.

“You try saying no to her.” Ben mutters.

“It’s impossible.” You open your eyes to stare at him again, your gaze filled with more love than Ben had ever seen. He’d never seen anyone look at him like that before, none of the other women he’d had in his life had ever looked at him the way you did. And he never wanted you to stop. You looked at him like he was special, treasured, like he was something that you never wanted to stop looking at, like you saw every part of him and refused to turn away.

He'd only seen that once before. He had taken a woman out for drinks, you had been doing an interview that ran late and Ben was trying to pass the time, but at the bar he had seen an older couple sitting in a booth in the corner. Ben couldn't look away from them. They were sitting on the same side of the booth, the man's arm draped over the woman who leaned into him with a wide smile, her gray hair pushed back in an elegant twist, but she looked up at him with such reverence that Ben couldn't help but think of you. When he saw that he left the woman he came with there and went to your apartment, to wait until you got back. And when you had fallen asleep Ben had folded you into his arms and allowed himself to dream that one day you would look at him the same way.

And now years later here you were looking at him as if he was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, the same way you looked at him the morning after your birthday when you told him you loved him.

"But I did tell you that once Lou drew you into the family portrait, you were in." You reach back to pick up the drawing holding it between the two of you so he can see Lou's hard work. "She really captured your frown." You snort, leaning your head against his shoulder while you look at the drawing.

"Shut up." Ben squeezes you, but he can't help but smile at the paper.

And deep down Ben started to believe you when you said that this was his family too, because sitting there with Lou he had felt just as at home as he had with you.

All he had to do was convince Rosemary.

[30 MINUTES AGO] READER POV

I can't believe that she walked in on us IN BED. She's already pissed about me having him here, but why did her finding us together feel like the equivalent of my mother walking in on Ben and me?

You follow behind Rosemary silently, trying not to think of how sad Ben looked when you left him. You would have wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, curled up beside him and make him understand that no matter how much Rosemary wanted you to push him away, you weren't going to leave him.

You could see the fear flashing in his eyes, had seen it last night when he yelled at you. As much as he didn't want to admit it, you knew that Ben was still afraid that you would leave him. And knowing how much you meant to him made you love him even more.

It was a beautiful day. Legend's home was the only one within ten miles, his money well spent to keep himself secluded from the rest of the world. The large trees at the back of his home were tall and strong, their branches curling upward  to the sun as if they wished to worship it.

The sunlight was warm on your shoulders, soaking through your t-shirt and sweat pants as you follow behind your daughter, who was obviously trying to get out of earshot of Ben's supe hearing. You didn't want to break it to her that you'd probably have to drive at least a mile away for Ben's hearing to get a little bit fuzzy.

Finally, just as you reach the crest of trees at the back of the lot she stops and turns back to face you.

She's frowning and waits a minute to begin. "I want you to tell me what happened."

"I did-"

"No. You didn't tell me everything and I want to know exactly  what happened and why you had to fight Homelander."

You bite the inside of your cheek.

There really wasn't an easy way to sugar coat it or really explain it in a way that Rosemary would understand without getting angry.

She almost went ballistic the other day when I told her that I killed Countess and that was a complete accident. Us going after the Twins was not. Us going after the twins was calculated.

"Okay. Before we talk about that, I want you to understand why-"

"Oh you mean why you and Ben-" She seethes his name. "Were going after your old team? The exact thing that you told me you weren't going to do when you came to tell me about Countess?"

"Yes."

"Fine." She leans back against one of the trees, still frowning. "Go on."

"Ben told me what happened in Nicaragua. What Countess said was true, she seduced him to make me angry." You hold up a hand. "And before you say that Ben said those things to me and did those things of his own free will. I know."

Rosemary still doesn't look pleased.

"They betrayed him in Nicaragua. They attacked him and gave him to the Russian military."

"But why?"

"Honestly I'm not sure. I think it's because Ben used to be wild and impulsive and-"

"Used to be?"

"Just listen." You sigh. "He spent forty years in Russia being tortured and experimented on. They put something in his chest-"

"What did they put in his chest?"

"It's like an energy beam." You were giving her the short version about what the beam really did, because you didn't think that now was the best time to say that it might turn supes human. "But that's why we went to see the Twins, because they betrayed him and when Homelander showed up I had to step in."

Rosemary pinches the bridge of her nose and you can tell that she's trying very hard to not get angry. "So let me get this straight, you went to see the Twins, AS SOME KIND OF FUCKED UP REVENGE FANTASY?"

"Well-"

"No. My turn to talk." She holds up a finger like she's admonishing a toddler. "I can't believe that you can't see what's happening."

"See what?"

"You told me that things were different, that he'd changed but he hasn't! He's still the same angry dick! The only person that's changed is you!"

"What?"

"And you don't fucking see it!" Rosemary shouts. "You facing Homelander, you killing Countess, you going after your old team- it's all him! As soon as you got a whiff of Soldier Boy you started to slip back into the person that you were forty fucking years ago."

"That is ridiculous-"

"No it's not. And it's all him. He is the one making you throw the life away that you have made for yourself. He is the one making you use your powers again! He is the one making you go along with his ridiculous revenge plot-"

"Ben is not making me do anything!"

"He is-"

"You have no idea what that's like for people who say that they're your friends betray you. To have people who you thought trusted you give you up like that. They stabbed him in the back Rosie, and they sent him away to another country to be tortured. Do you have any idea what they did to him there? Our old team deserves everything that is coming to them."

"I don't know who you are anymore."

"I am still the same person I was. I am still me."

"No I don't think you are-"

Your jaw tightens. "Look, I understand that you're upset with this whole situation. With having to be here and with me letting Ben back into my life, but he is my family too."

She bristles when you say the word 'family.'

She has to understand that, to know that Ben is my family, is her family.

"Rosemary, do you have any idea what I would do for you if someone tried to hurt you or Lou the way they hurt Ben? What I would do to them for even trying?" You whisper it, but you can see her expression soften as she considers what you were saying. "You were angry with me because I was going to go to Russia alone. You wanted to protect me. And even all this stuff with Ben, you have been trying to protect me from him because you believe that he's going to hurt me again. How is this any different?"

“It is.”

“Why? Because he’s hurt me?” Your eyes lock with hers. “I’ve hurt you by letting him back in my life. Are you saying that now you wouldn’t protect me? That if I asked you to go with me to Russia right now you wouldn't do it.”

She stands there looking at you for a minute, letting what you've asked hang in the air between the two of you. And you know that deep down she understands the need to protect her family the same way you did.

"No. That's not what I'm saying. You depend so much on him and it's only been three days." She sighs. "Mom you were happy before-“

"No I wasn't." You mutter.

The memories of the last three days with Ben proved that. You hadn't realized just how in the hole you were until he walked back into your life. Until you felt how much you loved him and now understood how much he loved you. Waking up with him, falling asleep with him, spending time with him, seeing his smile, hearing him speak, and feeling him beside you all felt different. She was right, you did feel different. You felt lighter and warmer, like you'd mainlined sunshine, like everything else had been colorless until Ben walked back in.

You understood that now you may have tried to be happy, and you were with Rosemary and Lou, but not anywhere else. Being with Ben felt right.

Rosemary eyes you for a minute and then finally sighs.  "I know."

"What?" You weren't expecting her to say that.

"He's been here only three days and you're-" She searches for the word reluctantly. "You're glowing."

"Huh?"

"My entire life I've watched you. I know you. You're my best friend. And I'm not saying that you haven't been happy, but with him you're a different person."

"You've already said that and it's not true. I'm still me-"

"Not about the supe shit." She shakes her head. "The way you look at him, the way you smile, the way whenever he shifts in another direction you do too like somehow you sensed it. And it scares me."

"Why does that scare you?"

"Because if he decides this is all too much and he leaves, I don't want to see the person you become when he does." She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. "I kinda feel like I've seen that person the last thirty nine years."

"That's ridiculous-"

"You told me about before, told me how you were when he left, I didn't see it, I couldn't imagine it, but now seeing you with him, understanding just how much of a hold he has on your life, understanding how much you love and care for him- mom… I see that the life you made for us, you still weren't you. I'm not sure if you were really completely happy and now seeing you with him, I-"

You place your hands on her cheeks. "Rosie. What happened forty years ago is not your fault. I would not change a single second that I spent with you and Lou. I do not regret the life that I've made with you. I do not regret you. I want you to understand that. The things that happened between me and Ben, even though they were fucked up, does not mean that I don't love you."

"I know that." She whispers, but you're suddenly unsure.

You thought that you'd expressed that to Rosemary enough over the years, that you did not regret having her, that you wouldn't change that decision.

"Rosie please." You hug her, tears burning just behind your eyes. "You are not a mistake. I love you." You pull back to look at her green eyes, the same as Ben's. "And I wouldn't change a single thing about my life. Because maybe I wasn't happy with me, but I was when I was with you and Lou."

"Okay." She pulls back with a sigh.

"I just wish that you'd try to talk to work things out with Ben." You search her face. You told yourself that you weren't going to get involved, but you wanted her to like him. He was her father and he was going to be spending time with you.

"Look I don't want to hate him, and maybe I don't, but it's not your fault." Her expression hardens. "He shouldn't have shouted at you yesterday for that. You didn't make me hate him or make him the villain. It's not your fault." She repeats.

"Maybe it is. I told you all those things about him, I made you focus only on the bad, only on the things that happened towards the end-"

Rosemary takes your hand. "Mom you told me everything. I remember the good things. I remember what your friendship was like. I remember the stories you told me when I was a kid about Ben and you running around Philadelphia."

"Which ones?"

"When he was strong for you when you couldn't be. When he took care of you, when he took you places, when he supported your art. When he made sure that you were happy. I-" She pauses.  "I haven't forgotten those."

"Then why-"

"Because they happened before. When Ben was still Ben and not Soldier Boy. I've seen every single film. Watched every interview, commercial, and even those stupid music videos." Rosemary shakes her head as if trying to rid herself of the image.

"You have?"

"Yes. And I saw the person he became."

You knew what that looked like. Ben really did go all out for the cameras when they were rolling, but when it was the two of you he was just him. And the past two days he had shown that person to you all over again, and you knew deep in your heart that you were trusting him again.

"I know that you don't believe me when I say this, but he really is different."

"Sure."

You sigh. You knew that she wouldn't believe you, that she was just so hell-bent on pushing him away that she wouldn't listen to you. But you knew deep down that he was different, and that he was trying. It was enough for you.

Ben was enough. And the fact that he was willing to throw away all the macho bullshit he had spouted in the past, that he was willing to try to change to be the boy you fell in love with, meant everything to you.

You knew that you had probably forgiven him too early, but you wanted to believe him, and you wanted him to be back in your life.

Rosemary echoes your sigh and looks back up towards the house, stamping her foot in frustration. "Did you at least kick his ass?"

"Who? Ben? I told you that I threw him-" You begin to say suddenly confused.

"No." The ends of her lips twitch into a smile. "Homelander."

You laugh. "Yeah. They don't really make heroes the same way these days."

"Good. He probably fucking liked it."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that." You snort remembering the look he gave you when you threw him against the ground. "But it was kind of cathartic to throw him around. I feel a lot better. Maybe you should give it a try." You narrow your eyes at your daughter. "I mean Homelander not Ben."

Rosemary's lips pull into a mischievous smirk, looking more like Ben than she ever has. "I'll keep that in mind."

READER POV

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, heart racing to catch up as you tug your arms to get them free, but leather restraints hold them in place at your sides. A cold chill seeps up through the metal table you lay on though the thin paper gown that covers your body. Brilliant light from fluorescent square lights above blinds you. And even when you shut them tight the flash of red that stays behind burns through your iris.

Shadows move just on the edge of your vision and you strain your ears to hear them speak, to understand why you're here, why you're strapped to this table, but the only thing that remains is a garbled sound broken only by the rapid ding of a heart monitor.

Where am I? How did I-

A sharp pain deep inside of you makes your breath catch, an uncomfortable sensation between your legs. You try to kick out, but your legs are strapped down, pried apart and bent at the knee. Your pleas for release are slurred as if you've forgotten how to speak.

Someone brings their hand down over your mouth and you bite down, blood and flesh sticking between your teeth and the person strikes your face savagely.

The shadows that pass over where you lay on your back are impossible to bring faces to and their muffled conversations are just out of reach.

And when you open your mouth to scream everything goes black.

"Y/n!" You hear Ben shout as you come to, his hands on your shoulders shaking you from sleep, but you can't move, can't speak still stuck in whatever hell-scape that your mind designed. "Please Sweetheart." He's leaning down over you, eyes wide with fear and anxiety, eyebrows pulled together. "Wake up."

"Ben-" You croak, breath coming in gasps, eyes blinking to focus on him above you.

Ben breathes out a sigh of relief, pulling you up into his arms and tucking your head beneath his chin.

"Ben." You say again, tears falling from your eyes sobs shaking your shoulders, breath coming in gasps as you cling to him, holding on to him so tight you think you hear his back crack.

“Shhh. It’s alright Sweetheart, I’m here. I’m right here.” Ben murmurs into the top of your head, rubbing his hand down your spine.

It wasn’t the first time you’d had the nightmare, but it was the first time you’d had it in forty years. It had started a few years before Ben had been taken. You don’t know why, but you always assumed that it was stress of being a hero or your heartache over Ben refusing to see you as more than a friend, that finally you cracked. But you didn't know why that particular scenario. The only time that you'd seen something remotely similar was the day that you received your injection of Compound V and you figured maybe your mind created the dream to haunt you.

And now it’s back because I’m stressed about all this shit with Homelander.

You inhale the familiar scent of Ben’s cologne, tears soaking into the front of his black shirt, but it does little to calm your heartbeat. You sob again, arms wrapped around his neck holding him tighter to you as you shudder.

“It’s alright. I’m right here.” Ben says again. His hand trails gently down your spine up and down in a soothing motion to calm you down.

He’d comforted you before after the same nightmare, he knew exactly what you saw each time, but he also was confused as to why you saw it. In his arms you felt safe, as if no one else could touch you or pull you away. You wondered if Ben felt the same way when you held him.

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head, pushing back the strands of hair that clung to your sweaty forehead.

You shudder again, sweat sticking your shirt to your back, but your heartbeat begins to slow as you take in another breath.

“Same dream?” Ben whispers.

“Yeah.” You breathe. “I haven’t had it since you were-“ You choke on the words again as the images from what you saw come back. The mumbled voices of the figures fading in and out of your ears.

“Did you ever figure out what it was?”

“No. I-“ You inhale. “I don’t know. I-“

Your body shakes again as you cling to Ben, trying to forget the dream that never seemed to go away. “I don’t know.”

READER POV

In the days that followed Butcher and Hughie looked for Mindstorm's last known location, and Rosemary tried to stay as far away from Ben as she could, which wasn't too far because she refused to leave Lou alone with him. And Lou kept wanting to do more and more with Ben.

But you didn't mind that, because it meant that Rosemary got to sit front row to Ben trying to get more comfortable around Lou.

And try he was. He sat with her each day while she drew after breakfast, watched you and her paint side by side on Legend's back porch, waited patiently while you braided Lou's hair back from her face, and even indulged her in the occasional game of Go Fish that Ben always seemed to lose. But he didn't mind or at least not that you could tell.

"I understand that you all have this kind of fucked up fantasy when you go after Mindstorm," Rosemary sighed leaning back on Legend's dark brown leather couch with a beer in her hand. "But I still don't see how this is going to help us with Homelander."

Butcher shrugs taking a sip from his own beer bottle, brooding in the chair across from her. Hughie mirrors the shrug and reaches for the last slice of pizza in the ornate glass coffee table in front of the couch.

You were sitting on the couch beside her, your legs folded up underneath you with a mug full of scotch clutched between your hands, while Ben stretched out beside you nursing his own glass of whiskey.

In all the years that you had known Legend, there never seemed to be a shortage of booze. Ben respected that.

Lou was sleeping soundly upstairs, you kept checking on her every few minutes with your supe hearing, but so far she hadn't woken up.

"Because those two wanted us to go after their old team first." Butcher gestures to Ben and you with his bottle.

"At least we don't have a hard-on for Homelander." Ben frowns. "Can't tell if you want me to kill him or if you want to fuck him."

"Ben-" You sigh.

You had tried not to think about Homelander over the past few days, but it was unavoidable. You bite the inside of your cheek remembering what it was like to fight him, what it was like to hold him by the throat and stare into his nearly black eyes.

He had been pissed. You knew that, but you hadn't expected to feel so weird when you looked at him. You remember his blonde hair, the sharp smell of hair dye, the strong cut of his jaw-

Your thumb rubs the side of the mug you're holding. There was something else about him though, something that you couldn't place, something that when you looked at him you felt that you had forgotten something. Something important that nagged and tugged at the back of your mind.

But what? I've seen him before, at least not in person, and definitely not that close. Only in those pathetic interviews on T.V, on those stupid energy drinks…

You think again about the grip you had on his throat, remember the angular planes of his face.

"That doesn't fucking help." Rosemary rolls her eyes and you look up at your daughter.

She really does act like Ben even if he wasn't around through her childhood.

You think to yourself, your eyes tracing her face, looking at the soft dusting of cinnamon colored freckles over her cheeks that she usually hid under makeup and the nose that always reminded you of your father.

You think about Homelander again. But what did I forget? What about him made me-

Your entire body freezes as you stare at Rosemary's face, the face that you'd looked at for the past forty years.

No. That's impossible-

You can't breathe, can't think. Something cold clamps over your heart the chill soaking into your bones like you've sunk into deep water. All other sounds in the room fade into a muddled haze as you sit there and stare at her, eyes widening, heartbeat beginning to thud loudly in your ears.

Oh. My. Fucking. G-

The mug shatters in your hand, glass and alcohol going everywhere, but you don't feel anything. Only the sense of dread, and the chill that spreads with the coming storm and the understanding of what it is you've forgotten.

And you hoped to God that you were wrong.

A/N: I'M BACK BABY! Honestly after a week off I am doing alot better. Thank you everyone for the love and support. I hope y'all liked this chapter. It's moving the story right on along and the next chapter is going to be BIG and BLOODY. But we'll make it through.

As always thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist or if you are already apart of the taglist and it didn't notify you, please let me know! :)

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[pellucid-constellations]

If It All Fell (11)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Angst, pining

a/n: Omg guysss it's been months but here it is!!! I'm so happy and excited to share this chapter ❤️ Things are slowly coming to a close with this story, but don't you fret because there are still some big plans 👀 The POV bops around a little in the chapter because I just want to capture a lot. Well, enjoy!! Thank you for waiting for me :)

Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)

~~

Nesta Archeron was glaring at you from the other side of the room. The icy stare was a stark contrast to the warm, jubilant nature of those around you, and you found yourself continuously edging into Azriel’s side to avoid the harshness. If the Shadowsinger noticed your growing distress—which you were sure he did—he didn’t make it known. He only allowed you to get closer, subtly shifting his arm to accommodate your movement. 

Feyre was speaking on the other side of you, retelling a light-hearted story about the creation of her art studio. You had been part of the construction and she was more than happy to share that information with you. 

Meeting her had been immeasurably easier than meeting Nesta. 

“I’m so happy you’ve been feeling well enough to do this,” Feyre smiled, her hand on your arm starling you out of your game of avoidance. “I’ve missed seeing you. I know we all have. Elain was furious that she couldn't make it. She got caught up on the outskirts of the continent with Lucien.” 

You took a calming breath in through your nose and shifted your gaze away from the chair Nesta was occupying. “Lucien?” 

Azirel’s low tone rumbled at your shoulder. “Elain’s mate. He has an interesting story. I’ll tell you more about it later.” 

And you trusted that he would. 

Since the night the two of you shared, Azriel had become an open book. He had spent half of that night making you privy to the story you shared—how you met, how the bond snapped, and his subsequent idiocy of keeping it from you while you knew the entire time. That point had sent you into a fit of laughter because obviously you would have known. Your magic revolved around parsing out lies and secrets. 

Coming to terms with that truth also helped you better understand the bond itself. 

Azriel had explained that the cauldron found mates in equals, pairing the souls of those that matched. It had been confusing for you to make a connection between Azriel and yourself. He was an Illyrian with forceful wings and so much power that it needed to be contained in the azure siphons lining his body.

But then, on a particularly quiet night, Azriel had shared his role in Rhysand’s court. His words had been cloaked in reproach as if sharing that piece of him would send you running. You had listened with rapt attention and pieced together the truth of your bond. 

Azriel was the spymaster, and you were the truthteller. 

It also helped—presumably—that Azriel had gotten into the habit of telling you how much he loved you. Regularly.

He never expected anything following his declarations and never even gave you enough time to think of a response, but he said the words so openly. Handing you breakfast, taking a walk along the Sidra, in between stories from your life; Azriel always said I love you as if he didn’t mean to, like he was making up for lost time. 

You hadn’t said it back yet. 

Maybe you’d thought it. 

“There’s also a book club that I know has been eagerly waiting for your return—” 

“So you’ve really lost your memory?” Nesta’s biting tone cut her sister off. You snapped your gaze over to the piercing eyes you’d been avoiding. 

“Um—”

“Rather convenient, how cuddled up you are with the spymaster when the rest of us haven’t even seen you. What progression does that show?” 

“Nes,” Cassian chided from beside her. 

Something heavy made your chest hurt—embarrassment, you parsed out. You leaned away from the warm chest you found comfort in and glanced at Cassian’s exasperated expression as he stared at his mate. 

“What? You all have been hiding her away with your typical ploy of protecting her. Why hasn’t she been training with the Valkyries? Who gets to decide when she’s let out for a walk? I presume Rhysand is one of her handlers? I’d ask him but he refuses to speak to me about it and doesn’t show his face unless absolutely necessary.” 

“That’s enough,” Azriel cut through. You’d put about an inch of space between the two of you and the missing contact was glaringly apparent. 

“Is it? You’re making her weak.” 

“Nesta, we weren’t here the first time this happened. We have no idea what she needs,” Feyre argued, squaring her shoulders towards her sister. 

Nesta only scoffed. “Well, clearly, she needs something else because she still has no memory.” 

“I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but cool it,” Cassian commanded. 

Sharp features ran over your form, analyzing your every move as the conflict continued. You felt exposed, belittled under Nesta’s gaze, and the fae only sharpened the lines of her eyes the more you squirmed. Azriel closed the space between you again, covering your knee with his hand, and Nesta’s jaw worked at the movement. 

You wanted to say something, maybe defend yourself, but you were afraid to open your mouth and be ridiculed. Everyone had said you were friends with Nesta. They had described her prickly personality but said you had been fast friends. They said she had been asking about you. 

You breathed through your nose and pressed your lips together. 

“She’s gotten memories back, Nesta. We were told it’s a slow process,” Feyre reasoned, attempting to lower the tone of the room as Azriel’s shadows became restless. 

“Right. And they all happen to be memories of the precious Inner Circle. Another agenda I’m sure was purposeful.” 

That was true. You’d gotten back a handful of memories now, all with either Azriel, Cassian, Rhys, or Mor involved, but those were the only people you knew. And they were all distant memories made centuries ago. You had no new context and had started to assume that this process would be chronological. Sort of. 

“We are introducing things slowly,” Azriel all but gritted out, his presence large and looming at your back. “Even the process of getting those few memories hasn’t been pleasant. Based on what we understood we thought it would be better if—” 

“It’s always what you think. She isn’t yours, Azriel,” Nesta fought, gripping the arms of her chair in a punishing hold. 

“Careful, Nesta—” 

“You’re scared.” Your voice was sure but quiet as it silenced the room. You stared at Nesta, brows furrowed, and watched the tells of her fear emanate from her. “Why are you scared?” 

Nesta looked jarred, affronted. She glowered at you. “I am not scared.”

“I can see it. I don’t understand it, but I can see it.” You met her eyes and something looked different about them—something searching. “Is it about me?” 

The room tensed, air becoming still. 

Nesta stood abruptly. You straightened your back and were halfway up to follow her, a confusing urge leading you to comfort the woman who obviously did not like you, when pain took your breath away. You faltered, feet failing as you shot them out to balance your wavering posture. You fell forward instead, the ground a harsh pain against your knees. 

Azriel 

Azriel was so quick to find your side, any vitriol lingering in the room no longer his concern. He pulled you against him and slotted your head in his neck as a whine left your lips. 

“What’s wrong with her?” Nesta asked, harshness tinged with underlying urgency. 

He had known she was scared—everyone knew that—but you voicing it had made it real, and Nesta was not one to put that out in the open. In another life, just a few months difference, you would have confronted her privately. But you didn’t know. 

“She’s remembering,” Azriel muttered, holding you closer as your body became dead weight against his. This part always sent terror shooting through him, but he was getting better at containing it. You needed him to be calm.

“Does she always collapse? You didn’t think to—” 

“Nesta,” Feyre interrupted, placing a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. The High Lady shook her head with a wince. 

Azriel watched the interaction with lidded eyes, his hands pressed to your head and back. He knew you would come to within a few minutes. Sometimes it took longer and you were far more dazed then, but he’d be willing to sit here for as long as you needed. 

“I’ll get the compress,” Cassian declared, kicking up from his chair with a parting hand on Nesta’s shoulder. “Take it easy. It can be difficult when she wakes up.” 

Nesta crossed her arms and shifted her weight between her feet as Azriel repositioned you on the ground. He looked down at your face, the way your eyes moved behind the lids, and then tucked you back into his chest. He reminded himself that this was something good; last time you remembered the first kiss you had had with him. 

A turn of silence overcame the sitting room and Feyre excused herself to check up on Nyx. Nesta stayed, using Cassian’s return as her weak excuse. 

“How long—” 

“She’s okay, Nesta,” Azriel said, voice low. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but she’s okay. You  need to give her time.” 

Nesta’s brow furrowed and she bit the side of her cheek. “You all have made her weak. She doesn’t need to be coddled.” 

“She does. For now. That doesn’t make her weak—to need people.” 

Azriel moved your hair off your forehead as a harsh breath left your nose. You didn’t wake yet. 

“She would hate it—being treated like glass.” 

“I know,” Azriel admitted. “She hates it now. But, as Feyre said, you weren’t there before. This is nothing compared to how we were then.” 

“I haven’t seen her in months.” Nesta’s voice was smaller as she dropped to the ground beside Azriel. “She looked so… timid when she came in. She was never like that.” 

Azriel let out a sigh and held Nesta’s gaze. “I know how this feels, but you can’t… you can’t blame her for this. You can’t punish her, Nesta. She needs you, too.” 

“She hasn’t needed me this entire time, obviously. That was decided rather quickly.” 

Azriel sighed again, but before he could help his sister sort out the myriad of emotions he knew she was feeling, you groaned and the sound rattled against his skin. The Shadowsinger pulled you away from his body but kept his arms holding you up. Your lashes slowly fluttered before you pressed your palm into your eye socket. 

“Gods, ow,” you complained. “I hate that part.” 

Azriel offered you a melancholy laugh and brushed his lips along your forehead—always stolen touches with him. “I’m sorry, my love.” He paused, sending a sidelong glance toward Nesta. The younger fae was frozen in place. “Can I get you anything?” 

“The cold compress, maybe?” 

“Cass is already on it. He’ll be back soon.” Another pause as you gathered your bearings. Azriel rubbed soothing circles into any skin he could reach. “Share now or later?” 

The question was routine now. Some memories were easy for you to share, spouting them off as soon as you woke up like in the case of the first kiss you had learned about three days ago. Others hurt as if you were reliving them in the moment, like when Rhys was taken under the mountain or when you remembered the pain of Day Court. 

So Azriel would wait, and then he would ask. 

And if he needed to hold you as you cried afterward, he would do that, too. 

Your tongue darted out to wet your drying lips and then your expression pinched. You sat up fully to examine the room, still disoriented if Azriel could tell anything by the rapid way your eyes moved, but you were looking for something—or someone, maybe. 

When you looked over your shoulder and found Nesta’s frozen form, recognition shone in your hazy eyes. 

“I remembered you,” you revealed. You twisted from Azriel’s grip to sit on the floor before her. “We were talking. Or, I was talking and you were… angry at me for something. We were in a terribly awful apartment. I think it was yours.” Your brows came together as you searched through the memory. You looked back up. “You were afraid then too.” 

Azriel didn’t have a moment to protest before Nesta had her arms thrown around your shoulders, her grip on your sweater visibly unshakeable. You had to stabilize a hand behind you to keep upright, and even though Azriel knew your head throbbed after getting a memory back, you didn’t make a sound. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Nesta angrily demanded, sounding as if she were placing a curse. “You are stronger than this.” 

A minute ticked by, and then another. Azriel sat idly by as Nesta held you against her and you held her back without as much context, but just as tightly. 

“Well,” Cassian re-entered the sitting room, cold compress held loosely in his hand. “This seems to be going better.” 

~~~

A few days after meeting, and somewhat understanding, Nesta Archeron, you found yourself on a walk with Azriel following the resurfacing of a particularly painful memory. It was something from the war—Azriel was hurt, barely alive, and you were helpless and miles away from him. The memory was mostly just remnants of pain and fear, and it had taken Azriel fifteen minutes to calm you down after. 

But that was fine—it was good. Because for every painful memory came several good ones, and those memories made it worth it. You almost felt lucky to experience many of them for the first time again. 

“Can I ask you something?” you posed, swinging your conjoined hands as they intertwined between you. You loved holding Azriel’s hand—especially after the first time you’d initiated the contact and he blushed so furiously it warmed his skin. 

“Of course you can,” came Azriel’s soft reply. 

The low sounds of Velaris winding down laid the background of the conversation. The occasional merchant sweeping outside their shop would wave to the two of you, and although you still didn’t recognize them all, it didn’t hurt as much to grin and greet them. A few of them reintroduced themselves with warm smiles after hearing of your condition, but others just appeared happy to see you in any context. 

“When I remembered us after we were married,” you began. “Where were we? I’ve been in most of the rooms in the House and I can’t find it.” 

“Ah,” Azriel hummed. His mouth curved up in a beautiful half-smile. “I was wondering when you’d ask about that.” 

“You’ve been keeping something from me!” you accused with a playful gasp. 

“No, no, not keeping it from you, angel. I wanted you to find it on your own.” 

“What do you mean find it on my own? I’ve only recently been able to find my study in the House and I lose my way if I start in certain corners.” 

Azriel chuckled, his eyes squinting at the corners. 

This felt so good—so normal. 

This felt like something that could last. 

“How many times have I taken you on this walk?” he asked, gently guiding you forward on cobblestone. 

“Are you changing the subject?” Azriel shot you a knowing look that had you rolling your eyes. “Fine,” you relented. “Almost every other day.” 

“Why do you think that is?” 

“It’s a nice path. The street isn’t too busy but there’s a lot to look at,” you shrugged. “I thought you just liked it.” 

Azriel brought you to a stop away from the street. “Look a little deeper.” He gestured around with his chin. 

There was nothing out of the ordinary, not at first. He had stopped you in a quieter corner of the street, one you always admired each time you passed it. Soft foliage lined each house you passed, purples and blues and muted yellows obviously cared for among old brick and stone. Gentle water could be heard in the distance, most likely from fountains or small wells meant to provide for families. In the setting sun, the houses were peaceful, serene. 

Something called to you. It was inexplicable, but you found yourself without the urge to inspect why you were being called. Your power was usually unexplainable—at least that’s what it felt like—but this was different. 

You turned to look on at the quaint cottage Azriel had stopped you in front of. 

“Does this place mean something?” you asked, knocking your head to the side as you took in the ivy that trailed up tanned stones. 

Azriel could be felt at your back, the Illyrian bringing his hands up to rest on your shoulders. “Yes. What does your intuition tell you?” 

“I don’t think my magic works like that.” 

“Just give it a shot,” Azriel chuckled by your ear. 

It was when his lips pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek, stealing your breath away, that you hoped for more. That your intuition prompted you to ask for more. 

“Is this… Do we live here?” 

You could feel Azriel’s smile near your skin. You turned to face him, his hands dropping from your shoulders as your expression shifted into pleasant disbelief. Azriel’s smile was twisted into permanent light on his face, and he brushed your hair behind your ears as you stared up at him. 

“We do. Picked it out right after we were married. We didn’t think raising a family in the House of Wind was very feasible long-term.” Azriel jolted, stuttering for a moment. “Not that we need to raise a family! Now, or ever, actually. That was just something we talked about before, but things are different now and just having you—” 

“Azriel,” you smiled, interrupting his rambling by sliding your arms around his shoulder. “Can I ask you something else?” 

Azriel blushed, closing his eyes with a sigh as he nodded in defeat. 

“Will you kiss me?” 

His eyes snapped open, the hazel searching yours with a quickened intensity. “Are you sure?” he asked. His hands were on your waist and you couldn't remember him putting them there. “You don’t have to—” 

“I remember our first kiss,” you countered. Your eyes flickered down to the ring hanging around his neck. That question would be for another time. “Seems only fair that I’d get to experience one in real-time, don’t you think?”

“You don’t want to go in the house? Go see it?” he whispered, but he was leaning down as he spoke the words, his eyes glued to your lips. 

“I think I’ll have time later.” 

When his lips met yours, Azriel exhaled deeply, the hands on your waist pulling you closer with desperation lining his skin. He deepened the kiss in a way that seemed unintentional, intrinsic, and you saw stars behind your lids as he covered your mouth with his and kissed you harder. You had to take a step back to steady yourself and he only followed, his wings coming around your back to press you tighter. 

Something rumbled in the back of Azriel’s throat as your fingers twined through his hair. You only had the faint memory of a kiss, but that one was much different than this. That kiss had been sweet and tentative. This kiss was desperate and needy and you could feel the way Azriel missed you in each of his touches.

And, Gods, did you miss him, too. Differently—a way you couldn’t even understand—but you missed him. 

When you pulled back, you were met with Azriel’s furrowed brow, his eyes flickering between both of yours. He kept you close as you let out a breathy laugh. 

“Do you always kiss me like that?” 

“I should,” he breathed, and then he kissed you and kissed you until your back met the front door of your home. 

~~~

“Things wouldn’t be so bad, you know,” Mor announced, breaking the silence in the room. “If you didn’t get everything back.” 

You glanced up from the diary you’d been poring over, bookmarking the page as you stared up at your friend. “What do you mean?” 

“I just mean if you had gaps, maybe things you never remembered, that would be okay,” Mor continued, rising to sit beside you on the loveseat. 

She had come to visit you in the cottage—your cottage—bringing you one of your diaries they had hidden in the House of Wind. You had eagerly ripped it from her hands and dove into the contents, barely greeting her as you ushered her in and flipped the door shut. 

“Well, the goal is everything,” you explained. You held up the diary and gave it a small shake. “That’s why Az and I asked for these. And there are still people out looking for the witch.” 

Mor kissed her teeth and sighed. “But it would be okay,” she repeated. “If you never got it all back. It would be okay if you were just like this, all the time.” 

“What, is there something you’re hoping I won’t remember? Something embarrassing?” you teased, but Mor didn’t laugh. 

“I’ve been thinking about something you said a little while ago. It’s been bothering me. I talked to Azriel about it too, and I just… I need you to know that we all love you—that I love you—just as you are now. You aren’t a ghost.” 

The smile fell from your lips. You placed the diary down in your lap and turned to face Mor, taking her hands in yours. “Mor, I know that. I didn’t mean—” 

“No, you were right. We were talking as if you weren’t there and that wasn’t fair. None of this is fair, but especially not that. You have to know, y/n, that the way you are, right now, that’s still you. I’m sorry. We’ve all been idiots.” 

You huffed out a small chuckle. “I mean I wasn’t going to say it.”

Some of the light returned to Mor’s eyes, masking the grief that lingered there. “See, there you are.” 

You gripped her hands tighter, yanking her in for a hug. “I forgive you, Mor.” 

She clutched at your shirt and laughed. “Thank the Mother. Because Azriel wouldn’t shut up about keeping you all to himself. I was sick of the gloating.” 

“Azriel? Gloating?” you feigned a gasp, pulling back with a teasing smile. 

“You bring it out of him.” 

Memories came in different waves as time went on. Sometimes they were quick, difficult rememberings. Other times you were out for much longer and would wake up disoriented and confused. But you were never afraid of them. 

At first, the slow nature of their return did make you afraid. You had feared that this process would take too long and everyone would grow tired of waiting. Maybe Azriel would start rolling his eyes when you lost consciousness or Cassian would start to grumble every time you couldn’t connect the dots in one of his stories. The fear was real and it ate away at you for about one week before it was completely diminished. 

Because this conversation you were having with Mor—you’d had it with Azriel too. 

He had pressed his lips along your forehead and told you that it was fine if you couldn't remember everything, he’d just make you fall in love with him again. 

And maybe you were too afraid to tell him that he’d already succeeded at that feat. 

A comfortable silence fell over the room as you and Mor continued your independent tasks, you reading your diary, Mor flipping through a stack of correspondence she had brought along with her. The sounds of scribbling and creased parchment were reminiscent of the first few days after you lost your memory—Mor would bring work into your room and sit beside you as you nursed a headache. Hearing it in this context, in your home, felt like it had a meaning to it. 

Azriel 

It was later in the afternoon when the front door silently opened, Azriel removing his shoes by the door and setting off to find his mate in the cottage. He could hear someone else and mistakenly thought it to be Nesta before he spotted a head of bright-blonde hair beside you in the sitting room. Mor had been the only one in the family who hadn’t visited the cottage yet and relief filled his chest and the sight of her. 

You had started to worry that she didn’t want to see you. Azriel had reassured you several times that Mor just thought you didn’t want to see her after the way everyone acted, but his sweet words had done little to quell your fears. 

Your relationship with Mor had been different since you woke up; she had been the one person you could trust for a while. When he was afraid and messing everything up, Mor held your hand and talked you through his idiocy. 

He was glad some semblance of a reunion in his sitting room. 

“Hi, girls,” Azriel greeted, keeping his voice low to match the calm of the room. He leaned down beside your place on the loveseat, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Should I get a fire going? It’s cold in here.” 

You turned your head to grin up at him, and Azriel had to calm his heart as it skipped several beats. He was trying to be casual about all of this—about you in the seat you had claimed as yours several years ago, sitting beside your best friend and smiling up at him, looking as if you belonged here because you did—but you were making it very difficult with your pretty smile and the pretty way you blinked at him. 

“Hi, Az. Mor’s here,” you offered. 

“I see that, my love.” 

You smiled again, this time directing it towards Mor. “She brought one of my journals. It’s from before I met you all. I don’t have any memories of that time yet. Very informative.” 

“Thought we could go chronologically,” Mor quipped. She leaned up from the couch and stretched her arms. “I’ll let you guys get to it, then. With… whatever mates do.” 

“Will you be back?” 

Azriel’s heart hurt a little at the question, and he could tell by the softness in Mor’s gaze that she felt the same. 

“Of course. Just not when you and Nesta are having your book club. Made that mistake a few too many times,” she teased, sending parting words out the entryway. 

As soon as Mor had vacated the seat beside you, Azriel was occupying the space, rounding his arm over your shoulders and smashing you into his chest as he pressed kisses to your skin. You laughed and attempted to push him away, the journal now lost in a cushion, but Azriel was unrelenting. 

“I missed you,” he proclaimed. 

“I saw you this morning,” you giggled back, finally giving up and allowing the onslaught of affection. 

“Doesn’t matter. I spent weeks not touching you. You just started letting me kiss you.”

“We’ve been kissing for a few weeks now.” Azriel only hummed at your words and moved his hands to cup your face as he kissed your cheeks. “Gods, we sound like children.” 

“I love you.” 

Main POV

You opened your mouth to reply, but Azriel had already silenced you with his lips. You were breathless when he pulled away, all thoughts emptying from your brain. 

“How was your day?” he asked, removing himself from the tight grip he’d captured you in. But he still kept you glued to his side. 

You took a breath in and blinked. “Um, it was good. Mor came.” 

“You mentioned,” Azriel teased. “Any memories you want to talk about over dinner?” 

“None today. It’s been slow over the past few days, I’ve noticed.” 

Azriel brushed hair from your forehead. “That’s okay. They’ll come with time.” He paused. “Or they won’t.” 

The reminder of Azriel’s promise to you sat behind his words. It echoed Mor’s conversation earlier and you fought the reassurance and dread that battled within you. 

Because he was right. They might come, or they might not. 

Your family would love you either way. 

But, would you have to live with this feeling of… incompleteness forever as well? 

Would that fade with time? 

You offered a soft smile and leaned up to kiss the corner of Azriel’s mouth. “The things in the journal Mor gave me,” you began. “Usually, when one of you tells me about something from the past I feel a connection to it. Or I get a memory back. But I’ve been poring over this book—” you fished it out from the cushions. “—and, nothing. It’s like I’m reading a story and not my own words.” 

Azriel furrowed his brow. “That must be difficult to comprehend.” 

“It is,” you nodded. “And, that’s fine—I guess. Because none of you can really reinforce memories when you weren’t there. I just feel strange about it.” 

“Can I do anything to help?” 

You bit your lip as Azriel stared back at you with concern laced in his features. He was already doing everything he could to help, already pushing aside so much so you could find comfort in this confusing life you’d been dropped into. 

You watched the way he held himself back, the way he always kept himself close to Velaris and refused necessary missions to keep you near. You looked on without the means to help him as he stressed over the memories you’d receive. He spent countless hours retelling your story and holding you through difficult bouts of unconsciousness and taking it so, painfully slow with you. 

Maybe, if you really thought about it, this hole within you wasn’t that big of a deal. 

“Could you get that fire started?” 

[hannieehaee]

Hi, I think it would be interesting if you did too the pov of the member masturbating, from that hc with another member gf

masturbating to another member's gf

content: smut, masturbation, mentions of afab reader, second hand embarrassment, etc.

wc: 1619

a/n: a few people requested this sorry i took so long</3

masterlist

seungcheol -

vernon was practically his little brother, of course seungcheol never meant to look at his pretty girlfriend in a way any more than innocent. it hadnt been his fault that he had accidentally walked in on the two of you having sex that one time. even after the awkward aftermath of the event, cheol couldnt get the image of your nude body out of his mind. how could he when you looked and sounded so gorgeous as vernon took care of you? you soon became the main character of his fantasies, making him helpless in breathing out your name every so often when he'd jack off late at night. it seemed karma was real, though, as he became the next person to be caught in a compromising position, and by you and your boyfriend nonetheless.

jeonghan -

jeonghan was the epitome of thinking quick on his feet. due to this, people always saw him as a guy with great intellect, rarely ever caught off guard. this ability did not, however, translate over to when he was in deep slumber. he had no idea that he had been inadvertently moaning out your name these past few nights as he shared a room with you and chan due to a shortage of rooms at the resort the group had been renting out for the week. unaware, but having soaked his boxers with cum, he was mortified to realize that his sex dream had been evident to more than just himself.

joshua -

by some strange act of god, soonyoung had somehow scored who joshua thought to be one of the prettiest girls he had ever laid eyes on; you. now, joshua was a respectable man, with some of the best manners anyone had ever seen. this, however, did not prevent a few perverted thoughts from plaguing his mind late at night when nothing seemed to get him off. it was in these occasions that he thought back to you and how pretty you looked that specific day, quietly groaning your name in hopes that no one would hear him. sadly, this occurrence became a bit more common than planned, and soonyoung was already aware of this depraved habit of joshua's. feeling a bit embarrassed for the guy, he chose to keep it to himself, simply being a little extra touchy with you whenever joshua was around to assert his dominance in a subtle way.

jun -

he was an actor for fuck's sakes, so why was it so hard for him to put on a face whenever you were around? and why the hell was his cock just not cooperating with him? it's not like he'd never seen a pretty girl in a bikini before, so why was his dick so damn tall and proud at the sight of you getting sunscreen applied to your back (all the way to your ass) by seungcheol? there was no way he could let anyone see his boner, so the best solution had been to lock himself in the restroom and jerk one off. it wouldve all been discreet and entirely fine if it hadnt been for you walking by later on, coming in upon hearing him call your name, seungcheol trailing right behind you. yeah, that's when he knew he was thoroughly fucked.

soonyoung -

he swore he hadnt meant to let his mind wander so far off. he'd never want to make neither you nor jihoon feel uncomfortable because of him, it was just that ... fuck, you were so fucking pretty. usually soonyoung would leave the jacking off for whenever he was home and alone, but it just so happened that you looked so soft and pretty earlier when he'd walked into jihoon's studio and found you sleeping on the couch, tiny little tank top allowing him to see your mushed tits as you breathed softly. running to the nearest bathroom to jack off had merely been a survival tactic, he just hadnt expected jihoon to have been on the other stall, hearing every low groan of your name he let out ...

wonwoo -

when you had decided to join the guys on vacation to a secluded resort, wonwoo hadn't expected you to be so liberal in your use of bathing suits. i mean, it was practically lingerie! not that he wanted to shame you or anything, but you were making his life far too difficult. difficult enough for him to not be able to hold back and jerk one off after spending hours next to you, almost in the nude. the most unfortunate bit, though, had been the realization the next morning that your boyfriend jun had heard him, and now he would have to deal with his teasing for the rest of the vacation.

jihoon -

despite the shame he felt at it, jacking off to the thought of you had sort of become a regular occurrence for jihoon. whether he simply pictured you in his head or used some of your instagram photos for inspiration, this was something he did at least once a week. but it all came to an abrupt halt the day mingyu had stormed into his studio without warning, catching jihoon red handed as his hand played under his sweats and his phone shone with a pretty picture of you on display. it was safe to say that this would be the last time he ever thought of you in such way, too mortified by mingyu's constant complaints about it ever since.

seokmin -

seokmin had always been quite sensitive when it came to becoming aroused. it was the easiest thing for him to get hard, specially when the source of his desire was as delectable as joshua's girlfriend. maybe it was the proximity he had with you as joshua brought you along on tour, but you were simply causing him far too many boners to be considered normal. at some point, it had become a nuisance to him how often he'd have to interrupt his daily schedule to rub one off. it got so bad to the point where he'd been caught by a few members already, though thankfully it had been before he got really into it, murmuring your name under his breath when he was about to finish. sadly, however, this streak of not being caught did not last too long, leading to a very awkward encounter as joshua walked into his room unsuspecting, in search of dk's camera but instead finding him groaning his girlfriend's name as he stroked himself.

mingyu -

mingyu knew he shouldve denied minghao's offer to tag along with the two of you on a short stay to los angeles. but could he really be blamed? he loved la's scene and loved spending time with his friend. what he did not take into account was how thin walls were in america, meaning that he'd have to go to bed being able to hear the two of you through the walls night after night, unknowing in the fact that you could also hear him loud and clear as he jerked off, groaning your name in sync with your own moans of minghao's name.

minghao -

as composed and well put together as minghao was, he did carry some weaknesses, with you being the biggest one as of late. it all started when you had joined the boys at the gym a few weeks ago, donning some tiny spandex and a sports bra, drenched in sweat and with a heavy breath to match. the sight left nothing to minghao's imagination, causing you to become a recurring dream of his. sadly, his weakness for you did not remain a secret for long, as he lost sight of himself masturbating to the thought of you just as seungkwan walked by his door, catching an earful of your name being moaned by another man. this led to a loud gasp from seungkwan and a very inconvenient interruption of minghao's gratification, now having to deal with an scandalized seungkwan instead.

seungkwan -

of course a boy as handsome as wonwoo would score someone as pretty as you. it just made sense to seungkwan. however, your status as wonwoo's girlfriend still did not prevent seungkwan's mind from wandering any time you'd stay over at the dorms, coming down to the kitchen in nothing but a bralette and wonwoo's boxers, flaunting all the beauty seungkwan fantasized about at night. and unfortunately for everyone involved, his fantasies could sometimes be a bit loud, leading both you and wonwoo to hear him through the wall late at night, opting to ignore the situation as to not embarrass the poor boy.

vernon -

having one of his best friends walk in on him as he jerked off to one particularly racy picture you had posted a few weeks back was not something vernon ever expected, yet here he was, dick in hand as dokyeom yelled in surprise at the sight. after a very long and exasperated conversation that consisted of endless apologies from him and exaggerated scoldings from seokmin, the two of them decided to never bring up this incident ever again.

chan -

chan knew it was wrong the first time he had jacked off with you in mind. you were jeonghan's girlfriend, of course it was wrong. but his horniness overtook his critical thinking, which led him to the most embarrassing moment of his life. not only had you walked into the room at hearing him call out your name, but your boyfriend was trailing right behind you. despite seeing a mocking smile on his friend's face at the sight, he saw a shocked and blushy expression in you, which was something that would cause him second hand embarrassment every time he thought back to that moment.

[dream-with-a-fever]

the people who claim ginny’s “personality” came out of nowhere never fail to amaze me with their inability to actually comprehend the text

it’s literally shown in PS (fleetingly) on the train platform and talked about as early as CoS that ginny weasley is a certified YAPPER. she’s a talkative, opinionated gal. ron points out that her quiet / shy behaviour is very unusual for her, so if one does have basic comprehension skills, it is pretty clear that the ginny we see in the earlier books (which are from harry’s pov) is not who she really is. ginny says as much herself in HBP, “i never used to be able to talk in front of you remember? hermione thought you’d take more notice if i was a bit more… myself”? like are we comprehending this? it’s not rocket science…

as the books go on, her confidence around harry grows the more she detaches herself from the idea of harry that she grew up with, and the actual harry. this journey is slightly impeded by the fact that harry saves ginny’s life in CoS, which she feels a significant amount of guilt and embarrassment over (which harry himself picks up on this in PoA), not to mention she’s still processing the trauma that accompanied that experience (as seen in the way she reacts to the dementors — she is the only one who has a strong reaction to them, like harry). in the years following, we find out in CC (whether you take that to be canon or not), ginny explains she was very lonely during and after the diary debacle, as she felt very isolated from everyone else. this would also cause her self-confidence to take a severe battering, therefore her true personality is not able to shine, especially not in front of harry potter aka her crush aka the boy who saved her life and almost died doing it.

in GoF, harry (and in turn us, as the readers) start to see glimpses of her playful personality - she’s close with fred and george, she calls her brothers out when they’re being unkind, she goes to the yule ball with neville (turning down the opportunity to go with harry, because she doesn’t want to go back on her word), she gives ron’s owl a silly name and she starts to let go of her childhood crush, and takes a chance on another boy who’s actually shown interest in her.

by the time we see her again in OotP, OF COURSE she has undergone some serious character development. she has a boyfriend now! she has a group of friends now! she’s able to be herself around harry! she has a better support system now, her self confidence has returned, and with it, her sense of self worth. she calls harry out on his shit when he needs it, she also comforts him and gives him the space to share his worries without judgement or admonition, she stands up for what’s right, she kicks ass at quidditch (which she’s been wanting to do for the past four years bc she has been practising since she was six years old!), she joins the fight at the DoM, risking her life and dumps her boyfriend for being a sore loser! because she deserves better than that!

the ginny we see in HBP has gone through So Much. but she has only continued to grow as a character - with so much heart, wit and spunk. of course, harry is paying attention now and of COURSE he’s a flustered mess trying not to fall for his bestfriend’s sister for nearly 800 pages but he can’t help it!!!

a lot of ginny’s development happens behind the scenes, in quiet ways, but if you actually pay attention, it’s very obvious who she truly is. the reader slowly becomes more fascinated by this girl as more and more of her story unravels — as does harry. and that’s the beauty of it.

[natsglorifiedsimp]

Something Changed 2

A/N: You guys asked for it.

Taglist: @queen2234 @pipsipey17 @casquinhaa @natashajumpinoff @natsxwife @dark-hunter16 @i-lovescarlettjohansson @mrsrushman @tropicals-things @alianovnasposts @nova-kyle @jusnough @splzq @yellowthingsstuff

Part 1

Tasha's POV

"Hey, Maria!" Natasha called.

Natasha noticed the subtle eye rolling of Maria. She squinted her eyes. It was unusual for Maria to act like that especially cause she's been helping her get to date you.

"What do you want Natasha?" she grumbled.

Natasha was taken aback by this. "Jeez, I'm just asking about Y/n." another eye-roll was given to Natasha. "Have you seen her? I haven't seen her on campus."

"Glad you noticed, Natasha" she sarcastically said. Maria feigned a thinking posture and started to glare at Natasha, "Let's see hmm" Maria said with diction.

"How about the fact that you've been ignoring her since you and Wanda dated and now she's gone off to Los Angeles leaving us behind because of you!" Maria gritted her teeth trying to contain her anger because you were in the hallway where students were passing around thinking Natasha and Maria were doing a secret drug deal.

"W-what?" Natasha stuttered. "I-I haven't ignored her."

"Save me the drama, Natasha. All you think about is yourself." Maria said.

Natasha was so confused. She didn't know what she did to you. She hurriedly texted you, hoping you'd give her some explanation but all was left delivered. That's not usually you. You always reply as soon as you see the message pop.

Natasha back reads you guys' conversation. Seeing if there were any clues on when are you going to LA or something that would hint at anything.

But all she saw was how she neglected you. She could see in every message how much you needed her. She missed your rants, your rambles, and everything that you guys would do when you hang out.

She broke her promise.

Y/n's POV

LA was different. The school was fine so far. No one dumped milk on your hair yet. No one made fun of you yet. And you were hoping it would stay that way.

The new environment was hard for you. It is hard to start a conversation with people when you don't know who they are. Natasha always does the talking. But somehow in this world, you are the one who needs to adjust.

Even if the people were friendly, throwing a smile at you or saying hi, somehow you still felt timid and awkward. You were scared to make friends.

Cause you know they will leave again.

Natasha did. What could any of these peer's differences be?

You cried every night knowing you had no one cared. That even if you consider them your best friends they will never think of you the same way. You were an option. You are a pawn to someone's real agenda.

You cried because you knew how much you cherished friendships. You knew to yourself that you would care and love people and go out of your way just to be there for them.

But somehow with you, it was always the opposite.

You are left alone, and when you thought someone cared...

She never really was.

Natasha's POV

She tried calling you a million times, even called your parents just to have a chance to talk to you. To apologize. But you were too far gone.

She may have found the love of her life but she left you. She left you feeling like she didn't care. She disregarded your feelings and put herself first. She took advantage of you.

Natasha regretted everything that she did. Everything that she broke. She knew how much you value friendships and she also knew how to break it.

There were no more Y/n. The laughter you shared is now a glimpse of memories that she wished would last forever. Love may have come her way but she didn't have to run you over just to find it.

You were her person.

But i guess...

Loving involves losing right?

[megumishotgf]

pov: megumi has a crush on you

summary: more megumi headcanons i fear… ya’ll like my texts way more so this is definitely written for me.

warnings: reference to catcalling? other than that sfw + gender non-specified!!

masterlist

reserved! megumi who takes his time getting to know you. he studies all your qualities and aspects personality as if one day he’ll be quizzed on your features. megumi admires your ambition and drive but most of all your tenderness and selflessness. he’s drawn to people with good and expressive hearts. people who like to help others and perform nice gestures just because they can.

attentive! megumi who focuses diligently when you’re speaking, concentrating on every single trivial detail, even those that slip absent-mindedly past your lips without much thought. he listens to you ramble on and on about your interests yet it never bores him (and he gets bored of people alright). speaks so softly with you in a tone that surprises everyone around you (mainly nobara and yuji who have never seen him so interested in another human before… he’s always this soft to animals, though).

nerdy! megumi who prefers reading non-fiction but will pick up your favourite fantasy novels just because he wants to feel close to you. seeing your eyes light up when he mentions the titles to you makes his heart swell. highlights his favourite quotes and annotates in between pages. he’ll share them with you, gaze fixated on you as your eyes scan over all of this thoughtful comments. you feel such genuine happiness knowing he has gone so far to do this for you.

sappy! megumi who picks up one of your romance suggestions next, finding himself relating to the hopelessly enamoured protagonist. again, he annotates his copies and scribbles exclamation marks when he comes across passages that resonate with his growing feelings for you. doesn’t show you these ones, of course. at least not yet.

shy! gumi who admires your kindness from afar. all the little things you go out of your way to do just to help someone else. when you assist yuuji in the kitchen with his high-protein meals or paint nobara’s nails with great precision. when you’re the first to offer your seat up for an elderly woman on the metro or when you bounce out of your seat to help your teachers carrying piles of school documents.

observant! megumi who notices all of your little habits. the kind of things that make you feel so loved and cared for when he mentions them back to you. those things that no one else really noticed even if you badly wanted it to be seen.

love-sick! megumi would configures multiple playlists about you. one playlist containing all your favourite tracks and another with all those that you recommended to him directly. the type to listen to ‘i wanna be yours’ and fall asleep to thoughts of being with you. so many random romantic playlists often come up on his spotify profile. one time he made you a physical mixtape. yes, it was mostly just love songs… you swore it was just a coincidence. mostly.

insecure! megumi who constantly thinks he could never be good enough for you. dismisses your concern when you notice him distancing himself (because somehow you can distinguish between this and his usual quietness) but can never fully push you away. feels his heartbeat accelerate when you offer him physical comfort (with less reluctance than with anyone else). hugs from you are so comforting.

touch-starved! megumi who craves your physical affection all the time and it gets very noticeable. his arms instinctively circle around your waist whenever you greet him, rushing over for a hug. at first it was always you initiating the affection, but it’s starting to feel so natural reciprocating it. your hand will subtly slip into his when you are walking around central tokyo together or you’ll cling onto his side for comfort and warmth. he worries that you’ll be able to hear his obnoxiously loud heartbeat when you do so, but nothing could make him pull away.

annoyed! megumi who glares at his friends when they tease him about your physical affection (or when they hear your nicknames for him). but at least they have the decency to wait until you’ve left, he thinks. i give them one more week, yuuji says to nobara as megumi walks away in the same direction you just went.

if looks could kill… nobody would want to experience angry! megumi. even yuuji and nobara started to feel unsettled seeing him like that after some old loser started to catcall you. you had barely registered what was called out to you before he fearfully disappeared around the corner.

kind! megumi who opens his arms for you when he sees you’re upset. sometimes struggles with verbal comfort, but he remembers how nice it is to be hugged by you, so surely this should help. it does help - and he feels his heart swell when you thank him for being there for you.

even more nervous! megumi who finally musters the courage to confess his feelings for you. rehearses the speech in his head (and surprisingly to yuuji) tens of times only to be left astounded after you make the confession first. finally kissing you felt like the sun rising after months of darkness.

megumi who has infinite amounts of layers!! getting to know him is truly a magical experience. ultimate green flag he is perfect end of discussion!!

haven’t published anything in so long… hey ya’ll. how is everyone doing. pls send requests i am out of ideas!!

[lullabyes22-blog]

hi <3

i am once again asking your thoughts on the latest act of arcane?

Honestly, my feelings on S2 so far are pretty mixed.

:')

On the one hand, visually, it's absolutely heartstopping. The cinematography is incredible, and it's the first time in a while where every episode felt like an experience I had to endure in a good way. Plus the score, the voice-acting, and the sound design is, as usual, top notch.

Buuuut when you have all these stellar spheres working on this show, it makes the areas where they drop the ball stand out.

For me, that's the plot.

Alot of folks have criticized the pacing and how there's too much piled into one season. Personally, at this point I've made peace with the breakneck speed and sort of taken it as a given in a series where 'War' is the overarching theme. I can even let go of the fact that certain plot beats don't feel earned, as there's so much subtlety and foreshadowing that you can easily make the case for them via long-drawn out analyses of every frame.

But the writing, ohhhh boy. The writing. It feels like there's a disconnect between the overall plot and the individual character moments.

It's really hard to articulate, but I'll do my best.

I love that we're getting so much characterization for the main cast. Every episode, it feels like there's a new layer peeled back, and each of our leads has an opportunity to shine.

And that's exactly the problem. They're all shining.

Separately.

When I think about it, the reason why S1 worked so well was because every episode gave us a glimpse into the mind of someone different. We got a taste of what it was like to be in the head of every major player in the cast, and through this, we grew to understand their motivations, their fears, their hopes. I've used the 'gem' analogy in previous reviews, and the way the show handled that concept was amazing. Every character was a facet of the gem that was Arcane, and each shift of PoV allowed us to see them from a new angle.

There was coherence. There was cohesion. And there was a sense of complexity told in a concise and well-planned format.

S2, for me, doesn't quite work the same way.

It's not that I don't understand the characters, or that I don't appreciate the way they're handled. It's just that their individual journeys are so self-contained. I'm not getting a sense of their interpersonal connections. More as if they're crashing into and out of each other's lives, without ever stopping to have a proper conversation.

It's a common complaint with ensemble casts, and I don't mind it for the most part, but the problem here is that Arcane has been very careful about establishing its characters as part of a cohesive whole. They're not just random individuals who happen to share a stage. They're siblings, lovers, colleagues, friends, enemies, etc. And the reason why we can relate to them is because, on some level, they mirror our own relationships. We've seen how they treat each other, and we've come to care about them.

But in this season, I feel like there's been a failure to communicate.

Scenes between characters feel like a series of disconnected vignettes, some of which are great and some of which are not so great. It's as if the writers are trying to force the characters to react to the plot rather than the other way around.

I don't want to be overly critical. So much love and effort has gone into making this show, and I'd never want to disparage the efforts of so many talented artists.

But, yeah. Coherence is a bit of an issue.

I will say, however, that re: the subject of grief, especially in Jinx's journey, this season has delivered some beautiful moments. It's a surprisingly nuanced treatment of a complicated and ugly emotion, and it's something I wish more shows would tackle. The problem with a lot of modern storytelling is that, because it's trying so hard to be edgy, complex and subversive, it doesn't really leave any room for just letting characters exist. And Jinx's arc in particular is a perfect example of this.

I was worried, going into the season, that they'd take the easy route and paint her as a pure monster, utterly deranged from her loss. That's what the fandom seems to want, anyway, and it's what you'd probably expect given the general climate.

But instead, the show has chosen for Jinx to be vulnerable, and to let her arc be honest. Granted, Isha, though she's adorable, still doesn't quite feel like a full-fleshed out person, but Jinx's bond with her has been written with such heartbreaking realism that I'm inclined to forgive the former for the sake of the latter. It's just refreshing to see the series not to take that insulting and reductive 'but Jinx is crazy' route, and instead allow her to grapple with the pain of losing her family and the horror of what she's done, but to also heal old wounds with brand-new connections.

'Crazy' does not mean 'irredeemable.'

And it's about time more mainstream media got this memo.

The series also continues to be stellar at showcasing so much with such restraint. A lot of the scenes don't last longer than a few minutes, and yet you can feel so much conveyed in that brief window. And the framing and composition is consistently masterful.

Overall, though, I'm a bit underwhelmed by this season so far. It feels like an incomplete masterpiece, and the sense that the narrative has lost control is starting to get overwhelming. We've still got Act 3 left, and I'm hoping the final stretch is able to tie things together a little more neatly.

Anyway, thank you for reading this mess! And feel free to share your thoughts as well. I'm curious to hear how other people are finding the series.

<3