#THE QUIET KNOWING AND UNDERSTANDING PASSING BETWEEN THEM

[monzabee]

woah, baby! - s. reid

criminal minds masterlist ||

Summary: spencer regrets his words about not wanting kids. how can he not when he sees you with a baby? 

Pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: spencer doesn’t want a baby (or does he?), talks about schizophrenia, kissing, babies, talks about pregnancy 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

In retrospect, he should’ve known his words would eventually come back to bite him in the ass. Especially because they hadn’t been spoken in anger or frustration. No, Spencer had said it casually over takeout and an old documentary playing in the background. 

“I just don’t think I want kids,” he’d said, chopsticks paused mid-air. “I mean, I just don’t think it would be fair to them, with our line of work and all. You know?” 

You’d gone quiet then, your smile faltering for just a second before you recovered. You didn’t argue. You didn’t press. You just nodded, picked at your noodles, and changed the subject. “People around us will have kids,” you had said to him later, “you’re more important to me.” 

And he’d believed you. Or at least, he’d convinced himself you meant it. Because you were always understanding, always willing to compromise. Spencer had taken that quiet acceptance and tucked it away, like an old piece of paper, pretending it didn’t ache to think about having kids with you.  

It’s not that he doesn't want kids per se, because he does. He really, really does—and with you. But he’d spent so long convincing himself that it isn't a good idea, that it wouldn’t be safe, that he wouldn't be good enough, and there was a risk he would pass on the gene for schizophrenia. But all of that—the logic, the statistics, the what-ifs—starts to crumble the moment he saw you with a baby in your arms.  

It had been an impromptu visit to JJ’s. A rare weekend with no case, no jet, just brunch on her back patio while Henry played in the yard. You’d offered to help with Michael, who was fussing, and within seconds you had him nestled against your shoulder, bouncing gently and humming something soft under your breath. Spencer had looked up from his plate, and everything in him stops. 

But now, you weren't just holding JJ’s baby—you were glowing. Calm and natural and heartbreakingly beautiful as you whisper silly things to make him giggle. He sees your eyes soften when the baby grabs your finger, the way your lips curls into a secret little smile meant just for him. And that’s when something shifts. Like a dam inside his chest, like every carefully constructed wall of rationality and fear finally gave in to something far more powerful—want.  

Not abstract or theoretical, not someday or maybe.  

But real and immediate. Now. 

It’s completely irrational, and irresponsible, and Spencer knows this. But the only thing he wants to do right now is to take you home and—well, to put it crudely, put a baby inside you—in the most gentlemanly way possible, of course. He doesn’t do it right away though, of course not! And he doesn’t say anything when Will asks him whether he’s fine, no. Not while you’re cradling Michael and smiling like that, like you were meant for it. He just watches you, heart thudding with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. He thinks about the future—the possible future where the two of you have a baby of your own.  

He thinks about the scattered toys around the apartment, and lazy mornings where you all pile into bed together, your child nestled between the two of you, giggling as Spencer pretends to be asleep just so he can feel the weight of their tiny body crawling over him, demanding attention. He imagines late nights, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, warming up bottles while you rock the baby against your chest in one of his old FBI hoodies. He pictures your shared smiles when they take their first steps, say their first words, when their sleepy eyes blink up at him like he’s their whole world. 

He thinks about it, and he thinks about it a lot. But he stays silent, knowing that once the words are out, there’s no taking them back. And for something this big—this life-altering—he needs to be sure. Not just that he wants it, but that you still do, too. That somewhere deep down, after all this time, after his half-hearted deflections and logic-laced excuses, you’re still holding onto that quiet hope. 

So, he waits. 

Waits until you are in the safe confine of your home. You're humming as you put away the leftovers from earlier, and Spencer leans against the doorframe, watching you with the kind of reverence that aches. It hits him again, the thought that this is what he wants every day, forever, with you. 

He walks toward you slowly, almost hesitantly, as though afraid that moving too fast might make the fragile thing blooming inside him shatter. You glance up at him and smile. It’s so easy, so effortless, and he wonders if you even know what you do to him. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, a little unsure. 

You raise an eyebrow, catching the slight change in his tone. “Hey. You okay?” Spencer nods, but then shakes his head, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. “Is it your stomach? I told you to stay away from the dairy, Spence, you never listen to me—” 

“I want kids,” he blurts, voice higher-pitched than intended, sharp enough to cut right through your sentence. 

You freeze, a Tupperware lid still in your hand, eyes wide as you turn to face him. “Huh?” 

“I—” He exhales shakily. “I know it sounds sudden. And maybe it is. But it’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about today after seeing you with Micheal and I just thought about kids. Our kids.” 

You blink, still not moving. “Kids. Like—plural?” 

“I mean, I’d start with one,” he says, a little breathless, a touch desperate. “Just one. Though I guess twins do run in your family, so that means at least a fifteen percent chance of multiples, but that’s not the point—” He stops himself, clearly spiraling into statistics out of nerves, and drags a shaky hand through his hair. “What I mean is, yes. Plural. If you want. I just… I want this with you.” 

The Tupperware clatters onto the counter as you slowly set it down, turning to face him fully. “Spence, you told me you didn’t want kids, remember?” 

“I know,” he says, voice thick now, eyes wide with something raw. “And I meant it—at the time. Or I thought I did. I was scared. Scared of passing things on, of not being good enough, of loving them so much it would undo me. But you…” He takes a step closer. “You make it make sense. You make it feel possible and safe... right.” You swallow hard. It’s a lot. All of it. The past, the memory of that night he so casually shut the door on this dream. The quiet ache of acceptance that came afterward. And now—this. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he continues quickly, seeing the conflict flicker in your eyes. “This isn’t me asking you to decide right now, or even soon. I just needed to be honest. I needed you to know.” He stops a foot away from you, eyes searching yours. “Do you still want that? With me?” 

The silence stretches for a moment. And then you reach for him, wordless, threading your fingers through his and placing his hand gently over your heart. “I always wanted that with you,” you whisper, and he releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

Spencer leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Okay,” he breathes, soft and reverent. “Okay.” 

“Yeah,” you laugh, a little breathless and a little teary. “Let’s do it. Let’s have a baby.” 

Spencer exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. After a beat, he mumbles into your skin, “I still think it was the dairy, though.” 

You snort. “Spencer.” 

“What? I’m just saying, correlation isn’t causation.” His voice pitches higher as he tries to defend himself, making you smile into his shoulder. 

You sigh in faux-exasperation. “God help our future child.” 

“I’m a very fun fact at parties.” You laugh, as he grins, holding you tighter. Then, suddenly he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes soft but filled with something raw and hopeful. His hand cups your cheek, brushing his thumb over your skin like he’s trying to memorize every detail of you. 

“What?” You ask, laughing softly. 

“I love you,” he says, voice barely a whisper, “I just—really, really love you.” 

“I love you too,” you whisper, a smile tugging at your lips, but it’s a smile full of so much more than just happiness.  

It’s full of everything you’ve both been through, everything that’s led you to this moment, and everything that’s to come. And somehow, you think it’s perfect. 

[skzstarl0ver]

ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴏʙᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ

Lee Felix x reader / best friends to lovers / smut → angst / drunk!Felix

**involves!!** alcohol, drunken actions, sex, make out

enjoy xx (open for request)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

The party was still echoing in your ears, even as you half-carried Felix through the quiet dorm hallways.

He was warm and heavy against your side, one arm slung around your shoulder, head lolling just slightly as he muttered nonsense under his breath. Every few steps, he giggled — at nothing in particular, just the kind of laughter that only came from a few too many drinks and a head full of stars.

"You good?" you asked, adjusting his arm as you passed the stairwell.

"Mhm," he hummed. "You're warm."

"You’re wasted," you replied, trying not to laugh, even as your heart did a weird little flutter thing. He always did that to you — without even trying.

Felix and you had been best friends for what felt like forever. He was the kind of constant in your life that never needed defining. Always there. Always close. Maybe too close, according to everyone else. “You guys are basically married,” Chan had said once. You'd laughed. Felix hadn’t.

You reached his door, fishing for his keys in his hoodie pocket. He rested his chin on your shoulder, exhaling softly.

"You smell good," he murmured.

"Felix—"

"I love you, you know... so much."

You froze.

His voice was suddenly quiet, too clear. Too real.

When you turned, he was already staring at you. His smile had faded, replaced by something softer, deeper. Glassy eyes. Barely-there breath. The air between you shifted — like the moment before a storm or a kiss.

"Felix, you're drunk," you said, but it came out like a whisper. Like a lie.

Then he kissed you.

Messy. Sweet. Desperate.

His hands were in your hair, on your waist, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting his whole life to do this. And you—God—you kissed him back.

Because maybe you’d been waiting too.

The keys slipped from your hand, clinking to the floor unnoticed. You barely made it inside the dorm before he was pressing you against the door, lips hot and searching, breath shaky like he couldn’t get enough of you. His hands wandered — greedy and clumsy — under your shirt, along your waist, up your spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed, his forehead pressed against yours, voice wrecked.

You didn’t.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulled it over his head, kissed him like you needed him to understand something words couldn’t say.

He made this sound — low and raw in the back of his throat — and then he was everywhere. Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing skin, tongue warm as he kissed down to your collarbone. His hands slipped under the waistband of your jeans like he couldn’t wait another second, and you let him.

You wanted him.

You always had.

His room was dim, lit only by the streetlamp outside. Clothes hit the floor in between kisses and gasps and stumbling laughter, the kind that only came when you wanted someone so badly it scared you.

When your back hit the mattress, he paused — just long enough to look at you. Really look at you.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself.

And then his mouth was on your chest, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open with a reverence that didn’t match how drunk he was. Like his body remembered even if his mind was foggy. Like he knew exactly what you needed.

“Felix—” you moaned, hands threading through his hair.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled against your skin, lips moving lower, slower, dragging heat with them.

“You.”

That was all it took.

He pulled you to the edge of the bed, lined himself up with shaking hands. Pressed in slow. Inch by inch. His head dropped to your shoulder, a shudder rolling through him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and you felt it too — the stretch, the fullness, the way he held you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

And then he moved.

Sloppy at first. Like he couldn’t control himself. Deep, slow thrusts, building into something frantic. His name fell from your lips over and over. And he just kept saying yours — like a prayer, like a secret, like he was scared to forget it.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and breathless and urgent.

But it felt like everything.

And when he came — face buried in your neck, body trembling, voice breaking — it sounded like love.

_

The sunlight was soft when you woke up — too soft. It filtered through the half-open blinds in stripes across the sheets, warm against your bare skin. The room smelled like Felix’s cologne and sweat and sleep. Familiar, but changed.

You didn’t open your eyes at first. You just… lay there. Listening to the quiet. The ache between your legs a dull reminder that it hadn’t been a dream.

Last night happened.

The kisses, the way he said I love you, the way he held you — like he needed you, like he meant every desperate whisper. The way your name spilled from his lips when he came, like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You’d never felt so wanted.

You’d never wanted anything more.

And then— A rustle. The creak of the bed. Movement.

Your eyes blinked open, slow, adjusting to the light.

Felix was sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling a shirt over his head, back turned to you. His hair was still a little messy. There were faint red marks on his neck — from you. You traced one with your gaze and your chest squeezed.

He didn’t look back.

“You’re up,” you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

You glanced at your phone on the floor. “Almost nine.”

He turned around then — halfway — and gave you a crooked smile. “Damn. I drank way too much last night.”

You waited. Just waited.

“Did I… do anything stupid?” he asked, tone light, almost teasing.

And just like that — You felt it. The shift. The drop.

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “No.”

He didn’t notice. Just let out a breath of relief. “Good. I blacked out a little, I think. Last thing I remember is you helping me get my keys.”

Your whole body stilled.

That was hours before he kissed you. Before he said I love you. Before he pulled you into his bed and whispered your name like it was a confession.

He didn’t remember.

He didn’t remember any of it.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Yeah. You were pretty out of it.”

Felix stood up, stretching with a groan. “Ugh. I need water. And maybe to never drink again.”

You nodded. Watched him walk to the kitchen area in his boxers, humming a song like the floor hadn’t just dropped out from under you.

It was stupid to expect more. He was drunk. He didn’t mean it. He forgot.

But you didn’t.

You remembered everything.

The way he kissed you like you were more than just a friend. The way he touched you like he knew your body already. The way he held you afterward — tight, gentle, lips at your temple.

It wasn’t just sex. Not to you.

And now, you were stuck.

You could tell him. Admit it meant something. That it meant everything to you.

Or—

You could pretend it never happened.

Pretend you didn’t feel all the things he doesn’t even remember.

You pulled the blanket around yourself and stared at the ceiling.

Your heart whispered one thing. Your pride whispered another.

And Felix? He was laughing softly to himself in the kitchen, pouring cereal. Still yours. Still not yours.

_

You didn’t mean to avoid him. Not really.

It just… happened.

At first, it was small stuff. Delayed texts. One-word replies. Saying you were “busy” when you weren’t. You skipped lunch. Left a group hang early. And every time he asked what was up, you dodged it with a joke or a shrug or nothing at all.

You didn’t know what to say. Hey, remember when we had drunk sex and you told me you loved me, and then woke up with zero memory of it? Yeah, that kinda messed me up lol.

It was easier to act normal. Even when normal didn’t feel normal anymore.

Even when you kept thinking about the way he touched you that night — like it wasn’t his first time doing it in his head.

Even when you still remembered the exact way he whispered “I love you,” like it was a truth trying to claw its way out of his chest.

And now?

Now you couldn’t look at him without wondering how much of that was real.

It had been almost a week.

You were curled up in your hoodie on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone lit up.

felix [10:04pm] hey. can we talk? i’ll come to you. just tell me if you’re home.

You stared at the screen for a while. Thumb hovering. Considering.

Then: you [10:06pm] sure.. i’m home.

You didn’t expect him to show up so fast.

A knock on your door barely five minutes later. You opened it mid-sigh, like you were bracing for something bigger than it was — and there he was. Felix. Hoodie, beanie, nervous hands in his pockets. Cheeks a little pink from the cold.

He gave you a small, awkward smile.

“Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in.

He stood in your living room like it was unfamiliar, even though he’d crashed here a hundred times before. Slept on your couch. Hogged your blankets. Used your charger like it was his.

Now? He looked like he didn’t know where to stand.

You watched him scratch the back of his neck. “I know you’ve been weird with me all week.”

You gave him a look. “Wow. Subtle.”

He laughed — soft, sheepish. “Okay, yeah, I mean. It’s kinda obvious.”

You sat on the edge of the couch, pulling your knees up under you. “So what are you here for?”

“I… don’t really know.” He looked at you, then down at his shoes. “I’ve just been thinking. A lot. About that night.”

Your heart did a weird skip thing.

He wasn’t drunk now. His voice was steady. Careful. Which somehow made it worse.

“What about it?” you asked.

He sat down — not next to you, but across from you, on the armchair. Like there was some unspoken rule now. A line he wasn’t sure he could cross again.

“I didn’t remember anything the next morning,” he said slowly. “And I didn’t wanna make it worse by guessing. I didn’t wanna be that guy who’s like, ‘Did we…?’ you know?”

You just nodded.

“So I played it off like I didn’t know anything,” he said. “Because I was scared. And I thought maybe you wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t,” you said quickly. “Well—I didn’t know what you wanted. And I wasn’t gonna be the idiot who brings it up just to be like, ‘Hey, by the way, I think I caught feelings while you were blackout making out with me.’”

He let out a breath. Something between a laugh and a sigh.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said. “And I definitely didn’t mean to make you feel forgotten.”

You glanced at him. “But you do remember now?”

He nodded. “Bits and pieces. Enough. You in my lap. Your shirt coming off. You looking at me like…”

“Like what?” you asked, quieter now.

“Like I wasn’t just your best friend anymore.”

That shut you up for a second.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Was I wrong?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. Because no, he wasn’t wrong. But this wasn’t exactly how you imagined this moment would go. You weren’t supposed to be in your oldest sweatpants with a bag of chips between you and zero clue what to say.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I don’t know what it was supposed to mean.”

He tilted his head. “What did it mean to you?”

You hesitated. “That I trust you. That I care about you. And that maybe I was hoping you meant what you said.”

“I did,” he said quickly. “I just… said it at the worst possible time.”

You gave him a look. “You think?”

He smiled, almost shy. “I’m serious. I’ve probably been in love with you longer than I’ve realized. That night just ripped the bandaid off.”

There was a long, awkward beat.

Then he added, “You know, in a very sexy, very emotionally chaotic way.”

You snorted — actual laughter slipping out. The first real one all week.

He grinned. “There she is.”

You sighed, burying your face in your hands for a second. “This is so dumb.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’d still rather be dumb with you.”

You peeked up at him. “So what now?”

He shrugged. “We could stop avoiding each other. Maybe hang out again. Maybe kiss when I’m not drunk this time?”

You raised a brow. “You sure you can handle that?”

He smirked. “You’re the one who jumped me last time.”

“I did not—” you started, throwing a pillow at him, and he caught it, laughing.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Still uncertain. Still complicated.

But not broken.

Not anymore.

[regretismyconstantcompanion]

Albus sat in stillness, letting the silence settle between them, not as a barrier, but as something necessary—sacred, even. He did not rush to fill it. Instead, he let Harry’s words echo in the warm hush of the room, each one cutting with a clarity that Albus did not try to deny.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, deliberate.

“I don’t believe he loves me now,” he said, eyes fixed on the flickering firelight. “Not truly. Whatever remains in him… it’s a memory of love, perhaps. Twisted. Possessive. Not the kind that heals or frees, but the kind that clings to what it once had, to what it lost.” He paused, his fingers curling faintly in his lap.

“But I do believe he loved me once.” There was no wistfulness in the statement, only quiet certainty. “In 1899, I felt it. Whatever else you may say of him - whatever else I must admit of myself - I will not pretend that what existed between us in that summer was a complete fabrication. I was there. I knew it. I felt it. And I loved him in return. For all the wrong reasons perhaps, but the feeling itself, it was real. I know it. I felt it. It wasn’t just manipulation. At least not at the beginning. It became that, yes. But in the beginning… it was real. We were young, brilliant, burning with dreams we didn’t yet know were poison. And for a time, he loved me. I was his equal in mind and in magic, and he made me feel seen in a way I never had before. That was what made it so intoxicating. So dangerous.”

Albus inhaled deeply, eyes flickering as if he could still see the boy he had been in the firelight. “He was the first person to look at me not with awe, or fear, or pity but as an equal. And I was vulnerable. Bitter. Brilliant. Grieving. He didn’t shrink from my darkness, and I mistook that for intimacy. For love. But for a time, it was love. And if nothing remained of it in him now, I’m certain he would have killed me already.”

His tone hardened—not with cruelty, but with bitter clarity.

“He should have. That’s the simplest truth. It would have been kinder. More merciful. But instead, he’s kept me here. Alive. Exiled. Hidden. I believe it’s his way of holding on to something—power, memory, or maybe some final shred of guilt. Perhaps he wants me to witness what he’s become, to see what I failed to stop… what I helped shape. If anything remains in him, it’s not love—it’s… a possession of what once was. A ghost he wants to keep in a gilded cage. Control, dressed in memory.” He swallowed thickly. “He sees me as something that belonged to him once. A mind he matched. A heart he moulded. I think… I wonder if perhaps he wants to see if he can still shape me, even now, in the ashes.”

Albus turned then, finally meeting Harrys eyes. The firelight danced across the tired lines of his face, and in his gaze was a deep well of understanding—of himself, of pain, of consequence. “You’re right,” he said softly. “It wasn’t the kind of love your parents knew. What they gave was unconditional. Selfless. What I shared with Gellert… it was a love warped by ambition and hunger. It wanted to possess. Not protect.” He took a slow breath, considering the boy—no, the man—before him. “And I’ve wondered, more times than I can count, whether it would have been better if he had ended it. If I hadn’t been left behind to live in the ruins of my mistakes." There was one thing Albus did not say aloud, though it passed through his mind like a cold wind: Harry would have killed me to save me. Out of mercy. That’s a darker thing than he realises. Or perhaps he does. Perhaps he knows it too well already.

Albus Dumbledore was sitting on the couch, staring into the fireplace that was across from him. The crackling of the flames was the only sound breaking the silence in the cottage that was nestled in the Scottish Highlands. It was isolated, miles away from even the nearest village. He had chosen it for that very reason, desperate for solitude even if it wasn't something that had been forced upon him. He had lost the duel against Grindelwald. He had known that had always been a possibility. There were equals after all and had known each other painfully well. They had spent that summer duelling, friendly but pushing each others boundaries. They had grown and changed and become more powerful but their tendencies had lingered. The fight had lasted well over an hour but in the end, Gellert had just gotten the better of him and managed to disarm him and send him flying backwards. His only minor consolation was the fight had left them both panting and injured. But it had been clear who the winner was. There was no backing out of the agreement they had made. His time in Nurmengard had been brief. A chance to recover from the duel before Gellert gave him an ultimatum. He could remain free if he agreed to leave Hogwarts and retreat from the Wizarding World. Albus had already known he would leave the school, for certainly he had lost that right when he had failed his students and the Wizarding World as a whole. He had agreed, knowing Gellert wasn't giving him a choice and not agreeing would result in either his death or being imprisoned in Nurmengard forever or the deaths of those he cared about. And so here he was, over a year after the duel. Staring into the fire, sitting beside a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Books had been removed from the overflowing bookshelves, scattered around the room. Some had been read, some he hadn't even yet opened. Plain parchment piled up on the desk. Few knew where he was and so letters came rarely. He had picked some of the fruit and vegetables he grew in a small garden he tended to. Perhaps he would make some jams and chutneys if he could find the strength and motivation. It came sometimes, mixed in with the heavy weight of despair that seemed to fill his waking hours. He had failed. He had let down the wizarding world and now he banished just beyond the world he loved so much. He knew what was happening there, of course. He did his best to learn of Gellerts ongoing plans and rise to power. Without him there, there was nothing to stop him. He knew the few Ministries that still existed moved against him but it wouldn't take much for them to fall. Everything would be lost then and Albus knew he was powerless to stop it. @johamfated

[bambieyedoll]

⋆·˚ ༘ * JASPER HALE HEADCANONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ

pre-relationship / discovery of the bond

jasper knew the second you walked into the room.

not just “noticed”—felt you. like gravity shifted, and suddenly his entire existence narrowed down to you.

the first time your scent hits him, it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs. not because it tempts him—no, it calms him.

at first, he was terrified of it. not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t think he deserved it.

“i’ve done things i don’t want her to even imagine,” he tells alice one night, eyes dark with guilt. “how can i be the one meant for her?”

he keeps his distance at first, almost painfully so. you’ll notice him staring but always retreating when you look his way.

he’s constantly using his empathy to gauge your feelings, fascinated by your emotional landscape. you feel bright to him. alive.

he accidentally mirrors your emotions often, because yours are stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. your joy makes him smile without realizing it.

alice helps him understand it—encourages him, gently. “you don’t get to keep punishing yourself forever, jazz. maybe this is the beginning of something better.”

he keeps finding excuses to be near you. quiet glances from across the room. walking slower so he ends up next to you. little things.

and the first time you touch him? just a casual brush of your hand when you pass him something? he feels peace. real, complete peace.

getting together

he’s old-fashioned, so expect subtle southern gentleman behavior—opening doors, standing when you walk into a room, offering his arm.

jasper is incredibly careful with you at first.

he doesn’t touch you unless you initiate it, terrified of overstepping or triggering a memory you haven’t shared.

every date is deliberate. thoughtful.

a hand-picked book he thinks you’ll like. a midnight walk under the stars. a letter slipped into your bag with a dried flower.

he’s a subtle romantic. not loud or flashy—but deeply poetic. he sees your soul, and treats it like something sacred.

he insists on asking for your permission every step of the way—even when he knows you’ll say yes. he likes hearing your consent. it grounds him.

he’s incredibly attentive. you won’t even need to say what you’re feeling—he just knows and acts accordingly.

overstimulated at a party? he’s already gently guiding you to a quieter spot. feeling insecure? he’s whispering how proud he is to be yours.

protective jasper

extremely protective. not overbearing, but there’s a very specific tone in his voice when someone upsets you—and everyone learns quickly not to test him.

if someone flirts with you in front of him? you don’t even have to react. jasper’s stare alone is enough to make them regret breathing.

he doesn’t lose control, but it’s chilling how calm he is when warning someone off. his southern charm vanishes, replaced by cold steel.

“you okay, sugar?” he’ll ask, even though he knows you’re angry or upset—he always gives you the space to name your emotions.

his body reacts before his brain when he senses you’re in danger. one second you’re just talking to someone; the next, jasper’s in front of you, eyes dark.

you’re the only one who can calm him down afterward. a touch. a word. one look from you and his shoulders drop.

he won’t fight unless he has to. but he will place himself between you and danger without hesitation.

and afterward, even if he didn’t get a scratch, he’ll come back to you and ask, “did i scare you? are you alright, sweetheart?”—his only concern is you.

even when there’s no physical danger, he’s protective of your emotions. if someone makes you feel small or disrespected, he’s the first to validate you.

he’s especially protective when you’re sick, injured, or emotionally overwhelmed.

when you’re sick, he’s gentle to the point of obsession. he reads every label, follows every instruction, makes sure you’re hydrated, warm, and resting.

“you just rest, honey. i’ve got everything else covered.”

carries you to bed. reads to you in that soft, slow drawl. kisses your forehead like it’s holy.

little moments

he hums old civil war-era lullabies under his breath without realizing it when he’s relaxed around you. it’s soft and hauntingly beautiful.

he calls you “darlin’,” “sweetheart,” and occasionally “sugar.” but when he’s really soft or overwhelmed? he just whispers your name like it’s a prayer.

he traces your face with his fingers when you’re asleep, memorizing it over and over like he still can’t believe you’re real.

whenever you laugh, his entire expression changes. the stoic, brooding mask slips and he looks young again. alive.

jasper thrives in stillness with you. he’s lived through chaos, through war, through fire and pain. quiet domestic life is heaven to him.

loves slow dancing in the living room with you, especially when it’s quiet. no music—just the sound of your heartbeat and the feel of you in his arms.

has an old journal where he writes about you. bits of poetry, little memories, sketches of your smile. you don’t know about it. yet.

he brings you trinkets from his travels—old coins, pressed flowers, strange books—like a crow in love.

loves the feeling of your heartbeat against his chest when you fall asleep on him. it’s the only sound that ever silences the ghosts in his head.

if you cry, he hurts. it’s not just emotional—it’s physical. he feels the ache in his chest and wants nothing more than to take it from you.

“let me carry it, sweetheart. please. you don’t have to do this alone.”

when he feeds, he always tries to finish quickly so he can return to you. being away from you too long makes him tense, restless. he needs you to stay grounded.

his love language

i. physical touch

touch is his primary love language—because after years of cold detachment, being able to feel love physically again is everything.

he always has a hand on you: resting on your lower back, fingers laced with yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.

in bed, even if you’re not cuddling, some part of him is always touching you—ankle to ankle, hand to your waist, his chest against your back.

ii. acts of service

jasper does little things to make your life easier—always quietly.

he’ll fix something without you asking, make your tea just right, or track down a book you mentioned once.

never asks for credit, either. he just wants to take care of you in the ways you won’t even notice until later.

the first time you thanked him for something small—like charging your dead phone—he gave you this soft smile and said, “you don’t have to thank me. loving you is the easy part.”

iii. words of affirmation

jasper’s not the most vocal at first, but when he does speak, it means everything.

he’ll tell you you’re brave, kind, strong, and the light of his eternity—but always in that quiet, emotionally-heavy drawl.

“you have no idea what you mean to me, darlin’. none.”

his kisses

jasper’s kisses are intentional. always. whether it’s soft and slow or heated and desperate, he never rushes—he savors.

he kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your soul, not just your lips.

his favorite spot to kiss you (besides your lips) is your forehead. it’s protective, tender, and makes you feel cherished.

when he’s overwhelmed by how much he loves you, he kisses your hands—your knuckles, your palms, your fingertips—like you’re something fragile and sacred.

he also kisses the inside of your wrist, where he can feel your pulse. it calms him.

after a nightmare or a bad day, he kisses your temple with a whispered, “i’ve got you now, darlin’. you’re safe.”

when he kisses you in private, it’s slow and deep—like he’s trying to convey everything he can’t say.

when he kisses you after being away? he cups your face in both hands like he needs to ground himself. his voice goes low and reverent:

“missed you like hell, sugar.”

the first “i love you”

jasper doesn’t say it quickly. not because he doesn’t feel it—he feels it constantly—but because he knows what those words mean, and he doesn’t take them lightly.

you feel it in everything he does long before he says it: the way he looks at you like you hung the stars, the way he memorizes your favorite songs, how he tracks your moods without a word.

the first time he almost says it, it slips out mid-sentence: “i just—god, i love—” and he cuts himself off, lips pressed together. you pretend not to notice to spare him.

the actual first time is quiet.

maybe you’re sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, and you say something that makes him laugh—something small, but genuine.

he leans in, voice soft and raw:

“i love you. and i know what that means, sugar. i don’t say it ‘cause it’s easy—i say it ‘cause it’s true.”

he watches you like he’s bracing for impact. and when you say it back? his entire body relaxes, like he’s finally home.

angst potential

the idea of accidentally hurting you terrifies him.

he disappears sometimes—not to run from you, but to protect you from his darker moods. when he feels himself slipping into old war-born rage, he retreats.

some nights, he distances himself just to be sure you’re safe, and it hurts both of you.

“i love you more than you’ll ever know,” he’ll whisper against your hair when you sleep. “but i still don’t know if i deserve someone like you.”

there was a moment—early on—when he snapped during a hunt, overwhelmed by thirst, and afterward he wouldn’t let you near him for days.

“i saw myself in the mirror,” he whispered, hollow. “and i thought: ‘she can’t love a thing like that.’

you had to pull him back to you. remind him he’s more than a soldier. more than a scarred past. that you choose him, always.

you’re the one who helps him forgive himself.

and eventually, he lets you in fully. lets you see every scar. because loving you makes him want to be better. not just for you—with you.

his greatest fear is losing you—because he believes the universe gave him one final chance at peace. and if you’re gone…

“i won’t survive it, sugar. you leave, and that’s the end of me.”

[mqyim]

What Was, What Is

(And Never Shall Be)

brienne of tarth x stark!reader | corporate!brienne x heir!reader | modern!brienne

#: angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, past and present, secret relationship, mutual pining, forbidden love, parallel timelines, doomed romance, no beta we die with honor

Summary: You weren’t supposed to fall in love—not with her, not like this. But some hearts are foolish enough to try twice. Behind every quiet glance and stolen touch, something ancient stirs: a love too careful to name, too dangerous to keep.

In every lifetime, the world finds new ways to keep you apart.

In every lifetime, you reach for her anyway.

It begins like a secret.

It feels like a promise.

It ends the same way it always does.

A story unfolding across time, where love is rediscovered in a different life… only to be tested all over again.

a/n: this is not my first fic that i've ever posted. but this is the first that i've ever posted on tumblr. and this is also the first that i've written for the gwen fandom. the last fic i've written was way back 2021, so please bare with me XD. this was supposed to be a veryyy long one chapter story. but i'm way too excited to share this that i decided to post it chapter by chapter. and well, thank u for taking interest. comments and reblogs r appreciated! :)

(why is making a draft on tumblr so hard)

———

"I hope that in another life... i get to be chosen by you, Brienne."

It was cold in the north. But you were born in it, growing up here all your life, you grew accustomed to it. Although you did sometimes have a love and hate relationship with it... the cold.

Comforting, grounding. It whispers a serene beauty, its crisp breath wrapping the world in a delicate embrace, where silence reigns and the air shimmers with an ethereal clarity. But now, what you feel is reminding you that it can also be a cruel, unfeeling presence, biting with indifference, leaving the heart hollow and the warmth of trust lost in its icy, unforgiving grasp.

Or perhaps that’s how Brienne makes you feel in this moment, as you gaze into her eyes. Even now, as they meet yours with an emotionless stare, you can’t help but be captivated by their undeniable beauty, a beauty that cuts deeper than you’d like to admit.

The silence stretched between you like a thick rope, pulling taut with every passing second. You wanted to say something — anything — to break the stillness. But the words felt lodged in your throat, as if they were forbidden, as if speaking them would break something that could never be repaired.

"I can’t choose you," Brienne’s voice was low, almost lost in the wind, but it cut through the stillness with cruel clarity. She took a step back when she saw you trying to approach, her expression unreadable, but you could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her jaw tightened as if keeping herself from trembling. "You know this."

You stilled and opened your mouth to speak, to argue, to beg. “Brienne, please—” But the words crumbled in the face of the truth that had long loomed over both of you. The truth that your families, your duties, and your futures were tied in ways that no feeling could ever undo. You choked back a sob, forcing yourself to speak through the lump in your throat. “I don’t want this. I never wanted this. You promised me—”

Her eyes flickered, but she quickly masked it, her face turning cold. "You don't understand," Brienne interrupted, her tone biting, sharper than you expected. "This is for your own good. You can't see it now, but one day, you'll thank me for this. You’ll see that this was always how it had to be."

The harshness of her words landed like a blow, and for a moment, your heart stilled. Her words were not the ones you expected, and they stung deeper than any rejection could. You stood frozen, staring at her as if searching for a trace of the tenderness you once knew.

Brienne took another step back, her eyes briefly flickering with something unspoken, before she turned and walked toward the door, her movements stiff and deliberate. Without looking back, she left the room, the echo of her footsteps growing faint.

The wind howled louder, and you drew your cloak tighter around you, as if it could protect you from the cold reality of what was to come.

"You promised me, under the weight of stars, that we would run away together just so you could have me all to yourself..."

——

The shsrp click of your heels echoed through the dimly lit hallway, a lonely rhythm in the silence of after-hours. The office had long since emptied, but you lingered—just now making your way out. As you passed one of the balconies, a flicker of movement caught your eye.

And then you saw her.

You slowed to a halt, gaze drawn—caught—by the figure standing alone beneath the glow of the city lights. Tall, unmistakable, her silhouette cast in quiet strength. Brienne Tarth.

You weren’t close. Not really. But you knew who she was.

Everyone did.

That tall, blonde woman with the kind of presence that silenced rooms and the most captivating blue eyes you’d ever seen. She works in compliance. Ethics and corporate integrity. You knew her for a year now.

Brienne’s sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, her coat draped loosely over her shoulders. A cigarette glowed between her fingers, the ember flaring briefly as she took a slow drag. She leaned on the railing, posture relaxed, gaze distant—fixed somewhere beyond the city lights.

You'd always been curious about her. Fascinated, really. But you'd never dared to get too close. Until now.

This was your chance.

So you took it.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” you said casually, stepping up beside the railing, leaving just enough space between you.

Brienne glanced at you, her profile sharp in the low light. She exhaled slowly, smoke curling like silk from her lips.

“I don’t,” she said simply, flicking ash from the end. “Not usually.”

She looked back out at the skyline, quiet for a moment. Then, softer she added, “... long day.”

This was the closest you’d ever been to her.

Close enough to see the faint creases of fatigue around her eyes, the way the city lights caught in the pale strands of her hair. Close enough to smell the lingering sharpness of smoke beneath her cologne.

“Do you usually stay this late?” you asked, voice softer now—almost hesitant.

Brienne’s eyes flicked toward you again and shook her head.

“No. Not really,” she admitted, her voice low and even.

She paused, then exhaled—not just smoke this time, but something heavier.

“There was a client pushing for us to approve a deal I didn’t trust,” she continued. “Too many loopholes, too little accountability. They pulled out after I refused to sign. It’s done now, but it left a mess.”

You nodded slowly, watching her profile as the tension in her jaw eased.

"Sounds like you did the right thing,” you said, offering a small, genuine smile. “Not everyone would’ve held their ground like that.”

Brienne let out a quiet huff—something like a laugh. “Maybe. But it makes me unpopular at board meetings.”

“Well,” you murmured, nudging her lightly with your elbow, “I think that just makes you more interesting.”

And for the first time, Brienne turned fully toward you. Her side still rested against the railing, an elbow propped casually as she studied you with a quiet intensity. The corner of her mouth lifted—just slightly—but it was enough to make your heart skip.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her cigarette case, offering it to you. You hesitated for only a moment before taking one, the paper cool against your fingers. You placed it between your lips, and without a word, she took out her lighter, holding it up.

As she flicked it to life, you leaned in, letting the flame catch. The soft hiss of the lighter filled the silence before you straightened up again, the cigarette now safely in place.

When you glanced up, you caught her watching you, her gaze flickering with amusement.

"Didn't know the boss's daughter smoked too," she teased, her tone light but with a knowing edge. Her lips curled into a smirk as she lowered the lighter and slid it back into her pocket. "Guess we all have our secrets."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound surprisingly warm between the two of you. “Guess so,” you replied, taking a slow drag from the cigarette. “Not every heir is as straight-laced as they seem.”

Brienne’s gaze softened, a little less guarded than before. "Maybe that's what makes you interesting," she said quietly, her voice unusually gentle.

You took another drag from your cigarette, letting the smoke curl into the cool night air. The city stretched out before you, its lights twinkling like distant stars, but in that moment, it felt like the two of you were suspended in a world all your own.

For a second, neither of you spoke. It was peaceful, yet there was an unspoken understanding between you now—a thread of connection that hadn’t been there before. Formed with only a few exchange of words.

Brienne glanced at you, her expression shifting slightly. “So… what kept you here this late?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. You exhaled slowly, offering a shrug, as if the answer didn’t matter. “Just… finishing up some things,” you said, the words coming out almost too quickly, too curt.

Brienne seemed to catch the shift in your tone but chose not to press. She simply nodded, her silence enough to suggest she didn’t mind the omission.

Brienne shifted slightly, standing up straighter, her gaze lingering on you a little longer than necessary. “You should go home,” she said softly, almost as if she didn’t want to break the moment. “It’s late.”

You nodded, reluctant but not ready to let go just yet. "Yeah, you're right."

You took a breath and let the quiet hang between you both for a moment before you spoke again, almost against your will. “Maybe we should do this again sometime. You know, when it’s… less late.”

“Maybe we should,” she said after a moment of consideration, her voice softer than before, but there was something unspoken in the way she said it that made your chest tighten.

She turned to walk back inside, but then, with one last glance over her shoulder, she looked at you, her eyes holding a spark of something... warmer. Without a word, she was gone, leaving you standing there, watching her disappear into the hallway.

You stayed there a moment longer, watching the city flicker beneath you—heart steady, but full.

[littlest-w01f]

Choosing You

Mor x Reader

For @sjmxreaderweek

Sjmxreader 2025 Masterlist

Day 3 - Fate/Choice

Summary: A mating bond was something that was supposed to be the perfect fit, but a male wasn't one you were looking for. Who you wanted was your brother's very forced bride and apparent mate.

Cw: Kissing, fingering, oral F!recieving, face sitting, Smut 18+MDNI

If one could see Morrigan, the female from the Night Court, from your eyes, they would see a young female tied by her own mating bond, hated by the family of her mate—Eris Vanserra—your brother.

Everyone knew she had given away her virginity to try to get out of the marriage, but them being mates made it fail. So here she stood, getting mated to Eris by an Autumn Priestess.

As the priestess spoke the ancient words, binding Mor and Eris together for eternity, the bride's heart raced with a mix of dread and resignation. She glanced around at the cold, disapproving faces of her new mate's family, their noses wrinkled in distaste as if she were some loathsome creature rather than a scared, desperate girl.

"Ugh, since when are we accepting whores in the family." Your younger brother beside you sneered in Mor's direction.

"Hey, shut it." You snapped at him, glaring at your brother, your voice cut through the tense atmosphere like a whip crack, silencing your brother mid-sneer. His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with anger, but he held his tongue under your fierce gaze. The rest of the assembly murmured among themselves, whispering behind gloved hands.

Mor's gaze fell upon you, hearing you stand up for her, standing near the head table, your expressive amber eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. In that moment, the young Night Court member felt a flicker of hope, perhaps you would be an ally in the treacherous waters ahead.

Mor's eyes met yours, and in that fleeting instant, a spark of connection passed between you. Despite the formal ceremony and the oppressive atmosphere, something shifted, a subtle shift in the air that hinted at possibilities yet unexplored. She offered a tentative smile, lips curving upward ever so slightly, a silent thanks for your defence against your brother's cruel words.

"I know this isn't ideal," You said softly, keeping your voice low so as not to draw attention, "but you're stronger than you think. You can rock this family, you already have."

Mor's gaze softened at your words, a hint of gratitude shining in her brown depths. She nodded almost imperceptibly, a small gesture acknowledging your support in a world that seemed determined to crush her spirit. A faint blush colouring her cheeks beneath the paleness of her skin, her eyes on you, on your red hair, and eyes, a feminine version of her mate, his twin.

Where Eris had a hard chest she had no care for leaning against, the dress you wore, despite its modesty, gave a tantalising press of your breasts, the way your hips flared out. She couldn't help but notice the graceful curve of your neck, the elegant line of your shoulders, so different from the hard frame of her new husband.

"Thank you for looking after me," Her fingers brushed against your arm, a feather-light touch, sending a shiver down your spine. In that charged moment, the air between you thrummed with unspoken possibility, a fragile connection forming amidst the chaos of her forced union.

Up close, she could appreciate the fullness of your lips, the delicate slope of your nose, the way your hair caught the light, burnished copper and gold. There was a gentleness to your features that belied the strength in your character, a quiet beauty that spoke of inner depth and compassion.

"Come, I should show you your new living quarters." You spoke softly while Eris sat between your brothers, drinking and smiling, though his posture was tensed. "It's quieter than this place."

"Are we allowed to leave?" Mor asked, her voice hesitant yet still strong; you could tell she was nervous, especially around your father.

"Come on," You stepped closer to her form, almost side to side, "Be a little fun."

"Lead the way then," Mor replied with a smirk, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes at the prospect of escaping the stifling atmosphere, even if only briefly.

She moved closer to you, her slender body brushing against your side as you led her away from the main hall. The heat of her skin was palpable even through the layers of fabric separating you.

As you walked, Mor found herself hyper-aware of your presence, the sway of your hips, the rustle of your skirt, the faint scent of your perfume. It was a welcome distraction from the anxiety gnawing at her insides. "Your family's home is... Impressive," She commented, trying to make polite conversation to mask her nerves. "Though I must admit, I feel a bit like an intruder."

"My brothers think you are." You sighed, keeping a hold on her hand, gently squeezing so she'd turn towards you. Your eyes met for a moment, brown on red, soft, gentle and maybe a little scared, "I don't think so."

Mor's breath caught in her throat as your eyes locked with hers, the intensity of your gaze sending a jolt straight through to her core. In that suspended moment, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you, connected by an unspoken understanding. Your gentle squeeze on her hand anchored her, a lifeline in the stormy sea of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

The moment stretched between you, electric with tension and unspoken desire. Slowly—hesitantly—you leaned in, your lips parting slightly as you closed the distance. When your mouths met, it was like coming home, a perfect fit despite the circumstances. Soft and sweet, the kiss started tender before building in passion, your free hand coming up to cup her cheek.

Mor melted into the embrace, a soft moan escaping her as she wound her arms around your waist, pressing her curves against you. For a blissful instant, nothing existed beyond the slide of your lips, the tangle of your tongues, the heat building between your bodies. When you finally broke apart, both of you were flushed and breathing heavily.

"We shouldn't..." Mor trailed off, at a loss for words, her eyes dark with awakened hunger.

"Shut up." You growled, pushing her into her new room, onto her marital bed, "Only thing I want to hear from you is if you want it."

Mor gasped as her back hit the mattress, your weight settling over her. Her heart pounded wildly, desire warring with apprehension in her eyes. "I... I want you," She breathed, reaching up to thread her fingers through your silky hair. "Please, I need to feel something real, something good."

"Oh, I'll be so good to you," You smiled, settled on top of her, grabbing her hands to pin them above her head, leaned in closer, breathing softly over her face, lips close yet not close enough to kiss.

Mor arched up against you, the soft swells of her breasts cushioning your aching nipples through the thin fabric of her gown. She nipped at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with her tongue. "Touch me," she pleaded huskily.

Your fingers deftly worked open the fastenings of Mor's gown, sliding the fabric off her shoulders to reveal the creamy expanse of her skin. You traced the delicate curve of her collarbone, feeling her shiver at your touch. Lower, you skimmed the swell of her breasts, thumbs teasing the hardened peaks until Mor let out a breathy whimper, arching into your caress.

"You're so responsive," You murmured, capturing a rosy nipple between your lips and suckling gently. Mor's hands fisted in your hair, holding you to her as pleasure shot through her.

Your other hand slid down her stomach, dipping beneath the hem of her lingerie to find the slick heat of her arousal. "Mmm, already so wet for me," You purred, circling her clit with a fingertip.

Mor's moans grew louder, more urgent, as your skilled fingers continued to tease and stroke her sensitive folds. She writhed beneath you, hips rolling in search of deeper contact. "Please, y/n," she begged, "I need more. Touch me inside, fill me up."

With a sultry grin, you slid a finger into Mor's dripping channel, pumping slowly at first, then increasing the pace as she clamped down around you. Her walls fluttered and squeezed, coaxing you deeper. "So warm," You groaned, adding a second finger to stretch her further.

Mor cried out, arching off the bed as waves of pleasure flowed through her. "Yes, just like that!" she cried out, meeting each thrust with her own desperate movements.

Your fingers plunged deeper, curling to stroke that soft spot within Mor that made her writhe and keen. She was so responsive, so eager, her body a perfect match for yours. You could feel her climax building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until suddenly she came undone, screaming your name as her orgasm crashed over her. "Yessss!" Mor screamed, her release crashing over her in intense, pulsing waves.

Panting, you withdrew your fingers, bringing them to your mouth to taste her essence. Mor watched transfixed as you licked them clean with a satisfied hum. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you climbed off the bed to shed your own clothes, revealing your toned physique and pert breasts.

"Come. Let me make love to you on your marital bed." You said with a smirk as you walked closer, straddling her lap, pushing her back.

Mor's eyes widened at the sight of your naked form, taking in every curve and contour with hungry appreciation. She reached up to trace the lines of your torso, marveling at the smooth skin overlaying lean muscle. Your breasts, full and perky, beckoned her touch, and she cupped them reverently, thumbs brushing over the stiffening peaks.

Leaning in, you captured Mor's lips in a searing kiss, swallowing her moan as you ground your hips against hers. The heat of your core pressed insistently against hers as you settled yourself, stoking the flames of her desire once more. Breaking the kiss, you nipped and licked a trail down her neck, pausing to suckle at the hollow of her throat before continuing lower.

Mor's breath hitched as you kissed along the swell of her breasts, swirling your tongue around a nipple before drawing it into your mouth.

Mor's back arched, pushing her breast further into your mouth as you suckled greedily. Her fingers tangled in your hair, holding you to her as sparks of pleasure danced across her skin. You lavished attention on one peak before switching to the other, relishing the sounds of her pleasure, the gasps, whimpers, and breathless moans.

When you finally released her, Mor's chest heaved, nipples still puckered and glistening with your saliva. You kissed down her quivering abdomen, tracing the dip of her navel with the tip of your tongue before delving between her thighs. The musky scent of her arousal enveloped you, making your head spin with lust.

Mor's legs wrapped around your head, pulling you closer as you buried your face in her damp heat. You devoured her, tongue lapping at her folds, savouring the tang of her juices. Mor's hands gripped your hair, guiding your mouth to her throbbing clit, where you nibbled and sucked, driving her wild. Her hips bucked against your face, seeking more friction, more pressure. The sounds of her pleasure echoed through the room—keens, whimpers, and ragged gasps.

Lost in her intoxicating flavour, you feasted on Mor, determined to bring her to the brink again. Your fingers joined the fray, plunging into her slick channel as you sucked her clit between your lips. Mor's cries reached a fever pitch, her body tensing, coiling, ready to snap. With a final, fierce lick, you sent her tumbling over the edge, her climax crashing through her in explosive waves.

Mor's scream of ecstasy filled the room as her orgasm ripped through her, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around your fingers. You rode out the aftershocks with her, licking and sucking gently to prolong her pleasure. Finally, as her trembling subsided, you crawled up her body, claiming her lips in a deep, passionate kiss, letting her taste herself on your tongue.

Breaking away, you gazed into Mor's dazed eyes, seeing the sated bliss reflected there. "Now it's my turn," you whispered, crawling up her form to straddle her head, positioning yourself above her face. Mor looked up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, a lazy smile playing on her lips. She reached up, tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your ass, before gripping the skin and pulling you closer.

Mor's tongue darted out, lapping at your entrance before probing deeper, finding your sensitive clit and circling it with maddening skill. You threw your head back, a low moan escaping your throat as you began to ride her face, lost in the exquisite sensation of her mouth on you. You began to move, rocking your hips in a sensual rhythm as Mor's talented mouth worked to pleasure you.

Your movements quickened as Mor's expert ministrations pushed you closer to the edge. She doubled her efforts, tongue delving deep and swirling around your sensitive flesh. The coil of pleasure in your core tightened, winding higher and higher until you couldn't hold back.

With a sharp cry, you came undone, your climax hitting you like a tidal wave. Your inner walls clenched and spasmed as wave after wave of intense pleasure surged through you, your vision blurring at the edges. Mor lapped at your essence, milking every last tremor from your quaking form until you collapsed, spent and panting.

"That was... Amazing..." You smiled, tracing her jaw, "You're amazing."

"You're pretty incredible yourself," Mor smiled, satisfaction written all over her features.

For now, the outside world faded away, leaving only the two of you, basking in the afterglow of your forbidden tryst.

{General - @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-angst @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith @velarisnightsky444 @minnieoo @mellowmusings @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tele86 @thelov3lybookworm @romanticatheartt @inkedinshadows}

{Week Taglist - @readinf @thorins-queen-of-erebor}

[graciegoeskrazy]

for you are so beautiful

(george daniel x daughter!indian!reader x charli xcx)

warnings: mention (kinda) of absent mother, r is half-indian btw, idrk

a/n: this was requested so long ago it’s actually insane. i’m so sorry anon but i hope u likely and i love u v v much💔🥹🫂 ty @writeslikeabitch for the encouragement as alwayssss. read request here!

Being quiet wasn’t unusual for you. You were a shy kid — able to be yourself in front of those you trusted, but keeping to yourself when things felt too much or when you didn’t feel like those around you could be trusted.

That’s where you were with Charli right now. She wasn’t completely new or scary. You definitely didn’t hate her. It’s just that you didn’t quite know how to navigate things like this.

You were only five, after all. Young enough to feel emotions intensely, but not quite old enough to understand where they came from or how to explain them.

That’s how you felt about Charli.

Your father had sat you down a couple of months ago and told you he had a new friend he wanted you to meet. He’d been different around that time. Happier. Softer. He wasn’t stressing over little things and moved through his days with a kind of lightness you hadn’t seen in a while.

He introduced you to Charli at a house party he and Uncle Matty were hosting. She made sure to come over early so she could meet you before your dad tucked you in for the night. You had hidden behind his legs, your thumb instinctively finding its familiar place in your mouth — a habit that hadn’t quite left you yet. She crouched down gently and offered a small “Hello,” a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“I’m Charli! It’s nice to meet you, Y/n.”

You met her gaze for only a second. George had warned her that you were shy around new people and told her not to take it personally.

“Can you say ‘hi,’ Y/n.?” he asked, gently tapping your shoulder to coax you out from behind him. You stepped out only a little, the soft ruffles on the straps of your nightgown fluttering slightly with the movement.

“Hi,” you finally said, your voice barely audible over the music blasting through the speakers Matty had set up — the noise doing nothing to calm your nerves.

Charli smiled at you. “I like your pajamas. I love purple — it’s my favorite color,” she said, giving you a playful wink.

You looked down at them, brushing your fingers over the little ruffled straps, then back at her. “My daddy got them for me.”

She nodded with a grin. “Well, your daddy’s got great taste, then. Huh?”

You just nodded, eyes falling to the floor again.

“Should we say goodnight to Miss Charli?” George prompted gently.

If there was one thing your father had taught you well, it was your manners.

“Goodnight, Miss Charli,” you said softly.

Her smile warmed. She shared a glance with George — one filled with something sweet and unspoken. “Goodnight, Y/n. It was really nice meeting you.”

George picked you up with practiced ease and told Charli he’d be right back as he passed by her, calling over his shoulder to Matty not to embarrass him or “fuck up anything in the ten minutes he’d be gone.”

You clung to him as he carried you up the stairs, your arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. When he got to your room, you reluctantly let go as he lowered you to the bed.

“Daddy and Uncle Matty are just downstairs. You give us a shout if you need anything, yeah?”

Instead of nodding, you looked at him, frowning a little in thought. “Is Miss Charli your girlfriend?”

George blinked. He nearly choked on his own breath.

He looked between the doorway and your wide, serious eyes. “What makes you say that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“She smiles at you funny. Like how Uncle Adam and Auntie Carly smile at each other,” you said plainly, your small voice cutting straight through.

A grin twitched at the corner of George’s mouth. “You think she likes me?”

You giggled and nodded. That sound — your laughter — was music to his ears. He’d take a hundred awkward questions if it meant hearing that again.

“How would you feel if she was my girlfriend?”

You paused, your face twitching as your mind tried to work through the question. Your head tilted slightly. “I… I don’t know. I don’t really know what that means.” A flicker of fear started to creep into your eyes, and George’s smile immediately softened.

“Hey… you don’t have to worry about that right now,” he said gently. “You just need to close your pretty little eyes—” he tapped your shoulder with two fingers, nudging you gently backward until you thumped onto the mattress with a small squeal “—and focus on getting some rest, yeah? No thinking about any of that adult stuff right now.”

You smiled up at him, reassured by his calm voice and familiar presence. “Okay, Daddy.”

“That’s my girl.” He pulled the covers up over your tiny frame, tucking them around you the way he always did — snug but gentle. He pressed a kiss to your temple, just like he had every night since the day you were born.

…

A few weeks had passed since then. George and Charli were spending more and more time together, falling harder than either of them expected.

It was tricky when you had a kid — especially one as young as you.

Charli sat next to you on the floor — per your request — coloring in a page from one of your books. A unicorn was happily eating a sandwich under a rainbow. Charli had her legs folded beneath her and her coffee cup beside her, left over from the drink George had made her earlier. She glanced at you, your small frame hunched over the coffee table, tongue poking out in deep concentration.

“I love your picture, Y/n,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Are those flowers?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, not looking up.

“They’re beautiful.”

You reached up to brush the hair from your face and, in doing so, caught sight of Charli’s arm. Your attention lingered there. You stared back and forth between her arm and your own.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “Did I do something?”

“You look like me,” you said quietly.

“What?”

“Your arm. The color.” You held up your arm next to hers, lining them up side by side. “It matches.”

Charli looked down, her breath catching just slightly. “Oh! It kinda does, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, still not quite meeting her eyes.

“That’s cool, huh?” she offered gently.

“Why do they match?” you asked, your fingers still holding onto hers.

Charli took a breath. “Well, we’re both Indian.”

“What’s that mean?” you asked, curiosity blooming behind your eyes.

“It just means that our families are from a certain place — a country called India.”

“Oh.” You looked back down at your arms, pressed side by side. “They match.”

“They do, don’t they?” she said with a smile, something warm growing in her chest.

“I like when I match you,” you said, the words tumbling out without you thinking.

Charli blinked, stunned by the simple sweetness of it. Her heart melted right there on the floor.

“I like when I match you too,” she whispered, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You turned back to your coloring book, your tiny face scrunching in focus again. Charli didn’t pick up her crayon right away. She just stayed by your side, watching you for a while with a full heart and quiet admiration.

Eventually, she stood and wandered back to the kitchen, where George had been watching the whole thing unfold from a distance, wide-eyed and quiet, his arms folded but his expression soft.

She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You have a type, Mr. Daniel?”

George’s mouth twitched. “Oh, piss off,” he muttered, trying to hide the smile that tugged at his lips — but not quite succeeding.

[barmaidatthegarrison]

Green Eyes and Gunpowder (7/?)

Thomas Shelby x OC (Emily Hughes)

Summary - Sharp-tongued, steady-handed, and raised beside the Shelbys like blood, Dr. Emily Hughes weaves through their war for Birmingham with a surgeon’s precision—offering comfort, challenge, and quiet resistance, especially to the man who’s forgetting how to be anything but a weapon.

Word Count - 2,429

Warnings - none new

A/N - This'll be the last update until June cause I got some work stuff coming up. I might write out what happened at the ball as a fun side-scene/short one-off but not rn.

Oh also I got the figures for the guns based on the prices they would have expected to have been worth in the 1920s. I didn't just make it up. They would have been worth roughly £12k.

Thanks for the support <3 Would love to know what you think!

Chapter 6

Thomas didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. And he wasn’t the only one.

Between him and Arthur, he lost track of the number of cigarettes they burned through, just that they’d filled two ashtrays. John wanted to stay too but someone had to be home with the kids.

“Emily’s going to be fine.” Polly had said before heading up to bed. “You boys worry about that girl far too much. I have more faith in her than any of you.”

Tommy also had more faith in her than anyone else, but she didn’t understand that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that she was in danger and he wasn’t in it with her. She didn’t have any of them to protect her. Will was fine but he wasn’t Tommy.

“It’s as your Ms. Hughes promised.” He picked up one of the Lewis Machine Guns, turning it in his hands.

There was something in his gaze, appraising it like he was looking for something specific.

“Dr. Hughes.” John corrected automatically. He hadn’t stopped scowling since they got out here. Even through the digging, which was almost impressive.

He hummed. “Spiral springs are in good condition. Recoil enhancers have been installed.” Liden pulled the magazine out with a practiced hand, inspecting it for a few moments before reinstalling. “Wherever you got these, they’re good quality.”

“You know your guns, Mr. Liden.” Tommy commented, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“We all had our roles in France.” His eyes were distant again for a few seconds, before looking at Tommy with a hidden intensity.

Arthur squinted, then combed his hair back, sweat keeping it in place. The silence was expectant.

“100th Company of the Machine Gun Corps.” He said heavily. “You all served?”

They all nodded, something unspoken passing between them. An understanding.

“Good. We’ll hold our end of the bargain.” He dropped the gun back into the coffin with a nod. “I’m sure this will be very profitable for everyone.”

So now there was a briefcase of cash sitting in the safe in Tommy’s office. Five fucking thousand pound. Closing his eyes, Tommy leaned his head back – the other half would come in two weeks when O’Hare’s men showed up. He should be fucking thrilled. But all he could think of was it wouldn’t be okay until Emily was back.

“Five fucking thousand.” Arthur breathed, leaning back in his chair. There was awe in his voice, almost disbelief. “And that’s just half.”

Tommy didn’t say anything, just took another drink. It was so much fucking money.

“How long do these fucking parties last, eh?” Arthur griped. “When the fuck is she getting home?”

“They’re all night affairs, Arthur.” He needed another cigarette.

Arthur sighed, “Fuck. I’m getting another bottle.”

The sun had just begun to peak over the horizon when the front door opened, and Tommy actually startled. His head snapped to the front door, in the corner of his eye he saw Arthur shooting up in his chair.

Emily slid into the house, exhausted and moving heavily, but still somehow just as beautiful as when she’d left all those hours ago. In her hands were her shoes, the hem of the red dress trailing along the ground.

When she saw them seated at the table, she paused mid-step, tilting her head to the side.

“It’s a little early to be down here, eh?”

“Thought you were staying in Luton.” Tommy volleyed, both men ignoring her comment.

She hummed, taking the seat closest to her, right next to Arthur. The oldest Shelby automatically put an arm around her.

“I’m not stupid. I saw Louis early. Thought he was coming back here so I hitched a ride on the way out.” She let her head rest on Arthur’s shoulder, closing her eyes and letting out a long suffering sigh. “Got tired of those fucking toffs touching me and looking at me like a piece of meat. I just wanted to go home.”

Arthur pulled her a little tighter, taking a smidge more of her weight. Comforting her. Emily had never been one for strangers touching her – when she was a kid it was always flinches when people tried. With Arthur’s arm around her, she smiled, stretching up to kiss his cheek before laying her head back down. His older brother smiled, pleased.

“How’d it go with that Liden fellow?”

Tommy lit another cigarette, “Half’s in the safe now.”

She didn’t react immediately, just stared at him quietly for a minute.

“Is that good?” If it wasn’t for the intensity of her stare, she would have seemed half asleep – soft words, leaning heavily into Arthur’s body.

Tommy wished he was as confused by that as Arthur seemed. The oldest giving the top of her head a funny look before raising his eyebrows at Tommy.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t it be?”

Tommy sighed, neither of them answered Arthur’s question. No matter how used to it he was, it was an odd thing to be so seen by someone else. The way her eyes traced his face, stared into his eyes, like his every breath was being catalogued and understood, it made his chest feel heavy.

Eventually he nodded, and she closed her eyes again.

“Okay.” Her voice was thin, almost small. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much.

She knew one day the Garrison would belong to the Shelbys. It felt like an I-told-you-so-moment but she wasn’t sure exactly who she was supposed to be smug to. It just felt right to be smug about it.

God, she was too tired to be thinking straight. Only gotten about 30 minutes before Finn had come bursting into her room so she could get him ready for school.

Between the lack of sleep and the anxiety of having been fucking threatened by the IRA it’d been a hell of day and she thought she could be forgiven for not being at her best.

“You’ll both forgive me if I indulge a little.”

Tommy had only just poured the drinks and already one was gone. At least this man was happy to pour his own second. Placidly she took a sip of hers, focusing on the one who would prove to be difficult. The second man.

She didn’t think Tommy noticed yet, but he soon would. The second man would be trouble and no mistake. The lines of his face were harsher, less genial.

“It takes a lot for a man from Sparkbrook to step inside this pub.” The first continued.

“We’re open to all kinds.” She said simply. Tommy nodded to her words. “As long as they pay and don’t cause trouble… well too much trouble.”

The charismatic one – Ryan, that was his name – smiled back at her, but the other seemed less impressed.

“You said you had business.” Tommy started, and she took the offered cigarette from him, letting him light one for her then himself.

Ryan nodded, his focus was on Tommy, but the other, he was staring pretty resolutely at her. Maybe she saw that she understood what he was here, or maybe he thought her weak. Either would work.

“It’s delicate, Mr. Shelby. A question of who knows what about what. It concerns the factory down the road at the BSA.” There was a pause as he put the whiskey back down. “Now as you might know most of the paint shop there is Irish. Big old place like that rumour get started.”

“Rumours that there was a robbery.” The other one added, still looking at her.

Her mind was racing. There was always a fucking leak with these things. This is exactly why Pol wanted the guns gone as fast as possible.

“Robbery of what?” Tommy asked, his voice flat and affectless. It shouldn’t have been so attractive when he slipped into this role – the kingpin, the gangster, the Devil of Birmingham – but God it was. What would her father have said if he could see her now?

“Guns, Mr. Shelby. A serious amount of guns.” Ryan continued, still so genial, so kind.

Crossing her legs and taking a long drawn-out drag of her cigarette, Emily raised her eyebrows. “Hm. And exactly how do you think we’re involved with that?”

Ryan smiled at her, the other one’s eyes narrowed. “When it comes to speculation you can’t beat a factory night shift.” Ryan was a nice man, she thought, in another life she might have thought him a good one.

The other man jumped in there, “Some say there was word from the proofing bay – it was the Peaky Blinders who took it.”

Tommy and her made eye contact briefly. This right here was what she was afraid of the whole time. God, thank fuck those guns would be gone in a few days.

“Your night shift must be dreaming.” There wasn’t a hint of doubt in Tommy’s voice.

“Maybe they are–”

“Maybe they’re not.” Oh the other one was getting testy now. Good. It was about time the cards started getting on the table plainly.

“What we’re trying to say is, Mr. Shelby, Dr. Hughes, that if either of you were to hear about the whereabouts of said items, we’d pay good money.”

Right there. The other man’s eye tightened there, a flash of something. Approval? Power? Ryan may have simply been a messenger boy, or just a man who would be seen as disarming, but this other fellow – there was more there. He had a sense of confidence borne of something greater than being an Irish rebel.

“You have good money?” Tommy’s counter pulled her out of her thoughts, tuning her back in.

“We have the collections from the pubs.”

Knocking the ash off her cigarette, Emily raised a brow, putting as much incredulity in her voice as she could. “Interesting. And on whose behalf exactly are we offering this collection? I’m assuming you aren’t a bunch of upstart nobodies?”

“We speak for the Irish Republican Army.” Oh there he is, the unkind one’s ego was hurt.

“Do you now?”

“We fucking do.” She just kept smiling, watching him scowl deeper. “You think we’re jokers?”

She looked at Tommy, who was putting on as much of a disinterested act as he could.

“Are we laughing?” She countered.

The thing is, she knew the song he started singing word for word. Her father used to sing it when he drank sometimes. Not with the pride and anger of the man before her, but with his own melancholy.

Tommy and her looked at each other in near sync, both already exhausted of this man. Still this didn’t exactly dissuade her from thinking that he was someone. No one mouthed off to Tommy unless they were incredibly powerful or incredibly stupid and despite the evidence to the contrary, she had a feeling he wasn’t stupid.

Ryan tried to get the man – Maguire was his name apparently – on track several times, but ended up having to push him out of the snug. She followed them to the door of the snug and watched Ryan shove his still singing companion out of the Garrison.

“Alright boys. If I hear about who knows what about what I’ll let you know.” Tommy called after them and she couldn’t help but smile.

When they were finally gone, Tommy switched briefly to Romani as they turned to the bar, “Nobodies.” The old language flowing easy from his tongue., “At least this will be over soon.”

Emily shook her head, replying in his ancestral tongue. “Maybe not both of them. I’m going to look into Maguire – I have a feeling he’s more than we think.”

“Well at least he was better in tune than some of the people here.” Grace joked as they approached, already reaching to hand Tommy another bottle.

“Whiskey is good proofing water, it tells you who’s real and who isn’t.” Emily nodded to Tommy’s words – drink usually made intentions at least a little clearer.

“And what did my countrymen want?”

“Who the fuck knows.” Emily fake griped, offering the barmaid a little smile.

Tommy took a long drag, “They drink at the Black Swan in Sparkbrook. They’re only rebels because they like the songs.”

“You have sympathies with them.”

Emily actually snorted at that, “We have no sympathies of any description.”

In the corner of her eye, she could see Tommy holding in a smirk of his own. She was quoting him there and he caught it immediately. Even if it wasn’t true.

“Their accents were so thick it’s a wonder you could understand them. Next time I could translate.”

Tommy actually looked a little charmed at that, but something about it rubbed Emily the wrong way. It was the same feeling she got when Grace lied to her twice in a row about why she left Ireland. There was something else at play here but she wasn’t any closer to putting her finger on it yet.

“I don’t think a pub will adequately launder all the money you just made.” Emily smirked over at Tommy playfully, and he huffed a laugh.

“No.” He breathed, taking a sip of his drink.

“You’re soft, Tommy.” Her smile itself turned soft, leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

He looked at her, quirking a single eyebrow, but didn’t refute her point. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” And he tipped his glass to her in thanks.

God, but she could kiss him right now. Too bad they didn’t do that.

A dead IRA man. Fuck they were really in it now, weren’t they?

She closed her eyes and slipped back into her own room. Convenient that she had gone to Tommy that night, had wanted comfort. Too bad she’d been beaten by Danny, especially considering the news he brought.

They thought the gang did it, but they didn’t. She knew they didn’t – no orders like that would dare go through without Tommy’s say so and he would tell her.

He would.

Right?

“Do you know which one it was?”

Tommy looked over at her, quirking a brow. Emily’d hemmed the dress from the ball to mid-calf height and altered the sleeves a little. It was still quite fancy, but not too much so for the races, especially if she was going to play a posh girl, and by God she looked beautiful. Even his uncle Charlie had complimented her, between his cautious warning.

“Maguire or Ryan – the ones who visited us. Did Danny say which had been killed?” How had she heard about that? He was going to tell her on the drive. His silence spurred her on. “I was coming to you last night, but Danny got there first. Heard a little, but not much; didn’t want to eavesdrop.”

“No.” He breathed. Even if she had stayed, he wouldn’t have minded – probably would have preferred it – and Danny wouldn’t have cared. “Does it matter?”

She paused, a pregnant pause. “I think it would be worse if it was Maguire. I think he’s someone.”

Tommy didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t think either of them had been anybody, but Emily was better at reading people. Used to be she would read them and he would charm them, but it was so much harder to be charming these days.

“Tell me it wasn’t you.”

His gaze snapped from the road back over to her for a moment, stunned.

“You think I wouldn’t run that by you first, eh?”

She wasn’t looking at him. In the corner of his eye, he could see her gaze out the window.

“Of course it wasn’t us.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel, but she still didn’t react.

They sat in silence for almost twenty minutes before Emily spoke again.

“Be careful with the barmaid.” 

“What?”

“Grace. She’s…” Emily shook her head. Her voice was hesitant, careful, as though she was afraid of his reaction. “She’s lied too many times, and she’s nosy. I don’t trust her. I know you boys like her, but… well I know my opinion isn’t worth much…” She cringed. “Just be careful with her.”

She startled forcefully when he pulled the car to the side of the road, slamming his foot on the break, but she still didn’t look over to him.

“Don’t we have somewhere to be?” Her voice was still cautious and he was fucking tired of it.

“What’s going on?”

“I just have a bad–”

“–feeling.” He finished, scowling. “What are you on about ‘your opinion isn’t worth much’? Who else’s opinion do I fucking listen to, eh? Who runs this fucking business with me?”

It bothered him that she flinched at that.

“I didn’t mean–” She cut herself off that time. “Sorry I’m just in my head today. It’ll pass.”

Lying.

“Want to try that again, love?” He reached out and turned her head towards him, meeting minimal resistance. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing.” She rubbed her eyes and followed by shaking her head. “I just don’t want to overstep again. You like the girl, Arthur and John like her too. That’s fine, just be careful.”

‘Overstep again.’ Fucking hell. If he didn’t know her so well, he’d think she was being difficult on purpose, but sadly this was on him.

“Make any more shitty deals on behalf of my fucking family you want to tell me about? Are you trying to ruin us?”

He sighed and took her hand in his, threading their fingers together, “I’ll be careful.”

She nodded, and while she didn’t look at him, she did squeeze his hand.

---

A/N2: The guns are going to be GONE... mostly. I PROMISE WE'RE GOING SOMEWHERE SOON!! (Next chapter things might start coming together). I'm still trying to figure out how slow this burn should be tbh.

Tagged: @weaponizedvirtue, @taorislover94 @maaxxxaam @thehanes22

[nopeferatu]

been thinking about this post lately and i wish i had the gumption to write a fic where jack calls his mama to tell her the news that he's getting married after knocking lureen up. i don't know if he'd tell her he got her pregnant, but i like thinking about how she'd react to the news. i don't think jack had ever mentioned lureen to his mama before, so when he says he's getting married it probably comes as a real shock to her, and she probably figures that something fishy is afoot. her concerns are also probably confirmed when she gets word of little bobby's arrival less than nine months after the wedding...

i think she'd be okay with it, though. sure, she wouldn't be happy that he got her pregnant before they were married, but she's probably glad to see some uhh. direction in jack's life. i feel like she's also always had her suspicions about her son's sexuality, and so it comes as a reassurance to her that he's finally interested in the things he 'should' be interested in, like having a wife and raising up a family.

but then he visits home after seeing Ennis in the fall of 1967, and he spares very few words for his family in between all the ramblimg about Ennis, and it's at that moment she knows without a doubt that her baby boy is different, because it's the first time she's seen him so vibrant and alive since...well, since the summer he'd met Ennis. And it hurts her, but she realizes then that it's something she has to come to terms with, cause it seems like Ennis del Mar is going to be sticking around for awhile yet...

[tojicide]

chapter one ── pest control. the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies

chapter summary. ┆ caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one.

series masterlist. ┆ next: too easy, this game.

Most days in Linkon City begin with sirens.

Loud, blaring, unmistakable screeches that cut through the early morning quiet like a blade, carving their way through alleyways and avenues alike. They seep into walls, curl beneath locked doors, and coil around the restless minds of those who have long since stopped flinching at their call.

To them, the inhabitants of this city, it is nothing more than background noise—a city’s heartbeat, rhythmic and ceaseless. But to you, it is a warning. A sign that the world beyond the window of your dorm room is a battlefield, and you, a stranger in its midst, are only beginning to understand the rules of this strange place.

Perhaps, in time, you will grow desensitized as they have. Learn to sleep through the wailing cries, to walk these streets without the ever-present weight of caution pressing against your ribs. In a way, they forbade you from venturing out, instilling a fear within you that if you did, you would be the individual these melodies chased—or worse, the victim they had been called for in the first place. 

The entirety of the first semester has passed, and you haven’t even finished unpacking. Your suitcase remains half-full, a tangible reminder that you do not yet belong here. That you still have a choice—to do something before this place sinks its teeth into you, before you become just another soul who mistakes chaos for comfort.

But that choice is an illusion.

Here, people like you make no difference. You are not a hero, nor anything close to it. You are just a student who knows better, one who recognizes that the sirens will always be there, a requiem for the city’s unrest. And the crime will persist, as will the men in uniform who fail to stop it.

Somewhere beyond the blaring wails, beyond the tangled skyline and shadowed alleys, someone is fighting a battle you will never quite understand.

And for now, all you can do is listen.

Yet, in a way, you know that this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Despite its rapidly deteriorating surroundings, Linkon University remained a place of prestige. Young children dreamed of acceptance into its ranks, babbling to their parents about how they, too, would one day make these halls their stomping grounds. Maybe it was naivety that brought you here. Or maybe it was the last remnants of a dream that hadn’t yet died on your tongue.

Or perhaps, it was the medical journalism program—a rare gem, dwindling into obscurity at every other university.

You were lucky to be accepted. But humbly speaking, luck had very little to do with it. Your stats spoke for themselves: a 1540 SAT, a 4.98 weighted GPA, more extracurriculars than you could count on both hands. A smart cookie, as written in the shining letters of recommendation that paved your way here.

And yet, imposter syndrome festered like a quiet disease, creeping into the spaces between your confidence. You have spent your entire life at the top. Always number one.

Here? You were number two.

Number two to whom? You did not know. Not yet, anyway.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb’s perfect life has unraveled in the span of a week and a half, but he positively swears it’s not his fault.

It’s yours.

Ten days ago, at precisely 12:57 PM, he endured the worst torment known to man: his seat in the lecture hall was stolen. A cruel move, truly. Class had been in session for four days, he’d claimed that seat twice—twice—and by the unspoken law of university students everywhere, that granted him full ownership. So why, then, were you sitting in his allotted property?

Looking back, Caleb sees only two possible explanations. The first: you had unknowingly taken the seat after enrolling just before the census date. The second: you were out to get him from the very start.

And personally? He’s convinced it’s the latter.

But alas, he hadn’t made a fuss about it then. It wasn’t like he’d just lost the single best seat in the entire hall—the one with perfect access to the exit, the projector, and the professor’s desk. But hey, he could be cool about this, right? Yeah… totally cool. So cool. The coolest.

Days passed, and everyone seemed to be settling into the spring semester just fine. The weather was getting warmer, flowers on the great lawn were blooming, and Caleb was thriving.

That was, until the unthinkable happened.

Time? 2:19 PM. Class? CHEM 001 AH. Location? The Grand Hall.

Caleb sat directly behind you, having resigned himself to the second best seat in the room, as the sound of pencils scratching against paper filled the otherwise quiet space.

Taking practice exams felt pointless. A waste of time, really. His efforts could be better spent elsewhere—like taking the real exam or absolutely demolishing his roommate Zayne in Apex Legends yet again. But instead, here he was, surrounded by classmates diligently scribbling away as the session inched closer to its eventual end.

And when it did, Caleb would have simply packed up and gone on his merry way—if not for the single most bone-chilling sentence he had ever heard in his entire academic career.

You were chatting with the girl beside you, talking about things he had zero interest in. Your shared biology class at 3 PM, your dorm building, plans to meet up at the dining hall later… blah blah blah. But then—an acronym. A single, horrific acronym triggered him like a sleeper agent.

“My GPA? Oh, it’s… 4.30. I think. To be honest, it’s been a while since I checked.”

His jaw went slack. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.

A 4.30 GPA? No. No. That couldn’t be real. That could not be real.

But as his gaze flickered between the back of your head and your friend’s, he came to the most horrifying conclusion of all.

You weren’t lying. And if that were true… then that meant you had the same GPA he did.

Which meant that, depending on your course load and how well you performed, you could take his spot as number one in the class rank.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb burst into his dorm room, slinging his backpack onto his mattress before face-planting into it with a sound somewhere between a groan and a hmph.

Across the room, Zayne didn’t even glance up from his desk, fingers tapping away at his mounted laptop. Click, clack. Click, clack. For a stretch of time, that was the only sound in the room—until he finally exhaled, the kind of quiet sigh that could only mean here we go again.

“Rough day?”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “The worst day.”

Zayne closed his eyes for a moment, like he was mentally preparing himself, before pushing away from his desk and turning his chair just enough to look at his roommate. “What happened?”

Still face-down on the bed, Caleb let out a long, exaggerated sigh—nowhere near as silent as Zayne’s. “I think I have to take trig next semester. Honors.”

That made Zayne pause. Brow quirked, he leaned back. “Why? Your counselor quite literally said you’re already on track to graduate with honors and as one of the top-ranked students in our year.”

That was the problem, though. Caleb wasn’t satisfied with being one of the best. He wanted to be the best—and now, that source of pride was under attack.

“Well, that was before I found out I’m sharing a GPA with some girl in my chem lecture,” he said, rolling onto his back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Which means if I don’t get my shit together and pack on a few more honors courses, I’m cooked.”

Zayne laughed. Actually laughed. Shaking his head, he turned back to his desk, plucked his glasses off the mousepad, and slid them on. “You should hear yourself right now.”

Caleb’s head snapped to the side, eyebrows pinching together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just amusing, is all.” Zayne smirked. “I find it endearing that you, Mr. ‘I can skip the final and still pass with a 94%,’ Mr. ‘I think I might take astronomy honors for fun this semester,’—”

“All riiight, I get it,” Caleb cut in. “What’s your point?”

Zayne snickered, amused. “My point is that if you of all people feel threatened by a classmate you hardly know, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Caleb hated that there was probably some truth to that. Not that he’d ever admit it. Being threatened by a classmate he barely knew? Please. He knew enough. (And yes, he had meticulously sifted through the entire roster of his chemistry class to stalk your Canvas profile. What? It’s… field research.)

“Y’know, you’re terrible at pep talks,” he muttered, folding his hands behind his head.

“I’m not trying to be,” Zayne replied easily. “But if you want my input—take the trig course next semester. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Caleb rolled onto his side, fishing his laptop from his backpack as the weight of his evening workload settled in.

And maybe Zayne was right.

Maybe he would need all the help he could get.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It wasn’t until six days later—today—that Caleb knew for certain fate was no longer on his side.

The professor’s voice cut through the shuffle of students packing up their belongings, all of which were currently praying that their first lab of the semester wouldn’t be a complete and utter disaster. It was a well known fact that Dr. Rappaccini was quite the harsh critic, and an even harsher grader. Her score on Rate My Professors was a whopping 2.8/5 for crying out loud.

“Alright, it’s time for you all to receive your lab partners for the semester. Before heading to the lab next door, please check the list of pairings at the front.”

Luckily, Caleb had committed the syllabus to memory and knew that each person was scored individually no matter how their partner performed, but it was recommended that the pair conduct their experiments together to save time and... okay, maybe he hadn’t memorized it as well as he thought, but at least he knew the core details, right?

Scanning the list, his blood ran cold. He squinted, hoping that the prescription of his glasses had failed him, but of course, it was unmistakable. Your name was printed next to his. Emboldened, unignorable, in a perfectly neutral 12 pt Times New Roman font.

The walk to the laboratory was a quiet one, and you were walking a few feet ahead of him without a care in the world. Reaching for the door handle, he twisted the metallic lever and gestured for you to enter ahead of him with a single nod of his head. It was a force of habit. He may not care for you as an academic peer, but you didn't directly wrong him in any way. Not knowingly, that is.

With a curt nod of your own and a sliver of a smile, you entered the class with a quiet “thank you.”

And before he could follow in step behind you, the neverending line of your fellow classmates began to flood into the room, leaving him to stand idle while offering each of them a thin-lipped smile. It felt like an eternity before he was able to step inside of the laboratory too, and his first instinct was to map out the classroom to find the best possible seating arrangement. 

To his surprise… you’d already claimed the most optimal lab station, and as he approached, you made the first move to speak. 

“I hope you’re okay with sitting here,” you say, fishing out your sleek notebook and a bright blue pencil. “It’s the only lab station with equal access to the exit, the supplies cabinet, and the professor’s desk.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side as bewilderment etches into his features. Were you inside of his brain? He clears his throat, shaking away his confusion as he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright with this spot. Good choice.” 

Smiling, you nod too. “Cool.” 

A beat of silence passes, and you smooth your hands over the black resin material of the table, a movement that his eyes instinctively follow. Then, your hand raises and extends out to him, forcing him to blink himself out of his state of daydreaming. 

You say your name while tilting your head with a smile—this time, a smile with teeth—as you wait for his hand to take yours. “And you’re… Xia?” 

Raising his eyebrows, he shakes his head while a chuckle slips through his carefully crafted exterior. “Caleb,” he corrects, his firm grasp enveloping your hand as he gives it a shake. “Caleb Xia.”

“Ah, got it,” you remark, an epiphany dawning on you as you slip your hand from his hold. “Well, I’m going to go get our safety goggles.” 

But before leaving, you straightened, eyes glued to him—or rather, his head.

Huffing out a laugh through his nose, Caleb’s lip tugs up in the corner. “What are you doing?”

Tapping your chin, you sigh. “I’m trying to see if you have a big head. If you do, I’ll have to go fight tooth and nail for one of the ones with adjustable straps.” 

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, he rests his elbow on the edge of the table before leaning his cheek into his hand. “Well, lay it on me. What’s your diagnosis?”

Humming, you tilt your head back and forth before nodding your head a single time. “Big-head syndrome. I’m positive.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “I should take that as a compliment. Big head means big brain, you know.”

“Or a big ego,” you retort with a shrug, giving him a once-over with raised brows before whisking away towards the horde of students currently going to war over the remaining pick of the litter. 

Yeah, that too, he thinks. 

In your absence, he takes the liberty of prepping the lab for the both of you. Beakers? Check. Random substance that the two of you were going to be experimenting on? Check. Hydrochloric acid? Check. Sodium bicarbonate? Check—

“Safety goggles,” you state, plopping down on your stool and handing his pair to him.

Without missing a beat, he speaks. “Check.”

Drawing back slightly, you turn to look at him with an arched eyebrow. “Uh… yeah. Check.”

Faltering, Caleb slides the item onto his face as he stammers through his words. “I was just… never mind, let’s start.”

The class had settled into a low hum—the murmur of newly paired partners, the scribbling of notes, the soft hiss of chemicals reacting. 

As the two of you began the experiment, an incredibly prominent conclusion dawned on him: Disliking you as a person wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. As a competitor? You were treacherous. As a lab partner? You were… tolerable. Efficient. Annoyingly easy to work with. 

It wasn’t the end result that he was hoping for, if he were to be entirely honest with himself. He wanted you to be difficult to be around, he wanted you to be stuck up, he wanted you to give him a genuine reason to dislike you apart from being the root of his newfound insecurity. But you weren’t, and that was a problem. 

“Pass me the baking soda?” you ask.

“The sodium bicarbonate?”

“Yeah. The baking soda.”

Caleb tilts his head with a smile. “Also known as sodium bicarbonate.”

You glance his way, and your eyes met. “Congrats, big guy. You know big words. Now pass it.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Biting back a smile, he hands it over, only to retract it at the last second. “Wait. What’s it called again?”

Your force smile was all teeth. “Sodium bicarbonate.”

Finally relenting, Caleb places the bowl in your orbit with a triumphant grin. 

He was smart enough to know that this was a bad idea. Despite how easily the two of you worked together, he knew that he couldn’t entertain this any further. You weren’t just his classmate, his peer—you were his competition. And while he’s heard the saying keep your friends close, but your enemies closer just as many times as the next person, he knows that mixing any ounce of developing friendship with his pursuit for greatness would be wrong.

It would work best that way. You can’t be friends, and that’s okay.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, fate seemed to agree with him.

“Hmm,” Caleb soon rumbles, squinting at the beaker. “This isn’t lookin’ too good. You said you added the sodium bicarbonate, yeah?”

You frown, glancing up from your notes. Your stomach twists at the sight of the clock—barely any time left before the lab ends. The professor would be making her rounds any second now.

“What? I didn’t add it. You said you added it.”

Caleb flits his gaze to the side of your face. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast he was surprised it didn’t snap right off. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You exhale sharply, frustration creeping up your neck. “How are you gonna tell me what I did or didn’t do?”

Your pulse ticks up a bit faster than it naturally should, and your eyes rose up from the glass cylinder. Around the room, students were already wrapping up their conclusions while the two of you hadn’t even finished the experiment. You suck in a breath and push up from your stool.

“Fine. Fine. Can you just pass me the baking soda?”

Caleb nods, handing over the pre-measured bowl of sodium bicarbonate. While you worked to fix the mess, he jotted down a few quick notes. You added just enough of the powder to neutralize the acid—but not smother it completely.

And then? Silence. The two of you sat. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

Then, miraculously, the beaker decided to behave and the fizzing subsided.

Like clockwork, you both exhaled, shoulders slumping as small, victorious smiles tugged at your mouths—

Until yours vanished entirely. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Caleb falters, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t say thank you.”

“Well, you should have.”

“Why? If I hadn’t pointed out the weird reaction, we’d have been screwed.”

“Oh? If I hadn’t realized neither of us added the sodium bicarbonate—which was your responsibility, by the way—we would’ve actually been screwed.”

Tension thickened between you like a drawn bowstring. You clench your jaw and look away, scribbling down your final observations. Stupid man, you thought to yourself. And here you were, actually believing that this semester wouldn’t be a total shitshow, that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten lucky.

Unfortunately not.

Then, your attention was caught by something out of the ordinary. Your gaze lands on his neck, and your breath hitched. Staring back at you was a small, multi-legged beady eyed monster. Sticking out your pointer finger, you still find yourself instinctively drawing back, as if it were out to get you next. “There’s a spider on—”

But before you could finish your sentence, Caleb winced, his veins tightening as he instinctively flicked the eight-legged menace off. You sucked your teeth, drumming your fingers on the table. So much for your timely warning.

Glancing his way, your brows elevate as you see the already forming bite mark on his neck. “Yikes. It got you good.”

“Did it?” he asks, raising a hand to rub over the mark with narrowed eyes. “Hm. Guess so, yeah.”

Reluctantly, you ask, “Are you okay?” 

With a nod, he picks up his pencil once more and works on finishing the last of his lab report. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sighing airily, you can’t help the smile that tugs on your mouth. “Poor spider, being flicked through the air like that.”

Like routine, Caleb shot a glare your way. “Funny.”

“Thanks.”

With that, you left for the washing station. Meanwhile, Dr. Rappaccini stood from her desk, making her rounds. It was in that moment that a shrill of panic shot up his spine—the stimulation foreign, unfamiliar, and… terrifying. 

He could feel his heart rate shooting through the roof, a sweat break on his forehead, and his fingertips flex at his sides—all things that he wasn’t even conscious of. And before he knew it, he was glancing in your direction, noting that you were distracted. Good.

With a quick ease, he snatched up your notepad and erased a few numbers, replacing them with subtle, logicless mistakes. 34? Now a 26. 32 to the power of 5? Not anymore.

It wasn’t his proudest moment. Sabotaging his own lab partner’s work? Definitely not.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took to ruin you just enough. He slid the notepad back into place, brushing away the eraser shavings. Like clockwork, you returned, none the wiser.

Exhaling softly, you turned to him. “Look, I just wanted to say that—”

“Now, you two,” Dr. Rappaccini’s voice cut you off.

You both turned as she scanned and picked up Caleb’s report, making a few marks with her fine-pointed marker before sliding it back into place. You glanced over, making note of his grade. 94.

Then, she picked up yours. A moment later, she handed it back. Your professor held up a roll of stickers, tearing two off before setting them down on the table.

Despite the vibrant designs on the stickers, your stomach dropped. Your grade was big, bold, and unmistakable. 82.

“Wait—Dr. Rappaccini,” you call after her, staring at the page with widened eyes of shock. “I… I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Well, your experiment was solid—your observations were well-written, and your documentation was precise. But your math?” She sighs. “Completely off.” A beat of silence. Then, a smile. “Don’t feel discouraged. You’re a good student as you are—no need to compare your scores to others.”

The implication was clear. She thought you were smart—just not as smart as Caleb.

Huffing, you toss your notebook onto the table, fingers curling against the edge of it.

“You got cut off earlier,” he says casually, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “What were you sayin’?”

Blinking, you tried to retrace your thoughts. “Oh, yeah… I was just saying that…”

Your voice trails, eyes drifting to your lab report. Caleb caught the flicker of realization dawning on you—and when you turned to him, his not-so-hidden grin said it all.

“I was just saying,” you snap, “that you’re an asshole whose handwriting looks like a drunk chicken clawed at my report.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says with a shrug, peeling off his sticker to plaster it onto your shoulder. “Good luck on the exam tomorrow morning.”

And with that, he walks out of the lab.

“Yeah, you too,” you murmur, though he was already gone before he could hear the hissed “bitch” that followed.

Irritation pricks at your skin as you stuff—more like shove—your belongings into your backpack. Prick. So much for not knowing the single person you were beneath in the class ranks.

Guilt stirred in his chest as he walked towards his dorm building… but only a little.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

By the time Caleb stumbled back to his dorm, he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

He barely managed to push the door open before kicking off his shoes, letting his backpack slump to the floor with a heavy thud. His head swam, his breath uneven as he widened his eyes in a feeble attempt to stay awake. Slapping himself on the cheek, he quickly realized it was no use. His neck stung worse than it had when the spider first bit him, the dull throb pulsing beneath his fingertips as he rubbed over the puncture point.

"Are you drunk?" Zayne’s voice drifts from across the room.

"No," Caleb mutters, face buried in his pillow. "Just… tired. Really tired."

He sank into the thin mattress like dead weight, the springs groaning beneath him. With sluggish hands, he pulled his glasses from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table, missing by an inch. His breathing grew heavier, his skin slick with cold sweat. His pupils—blown wide as saucers—fluttered shut as he barely mustered the strength to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

And within seconds, he was out like a light.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting golden stripes across Caleb’s bare back as he jolted awake.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, erratic breaths, but despite the abruptness of it all, he felt… alert. Fully awake in a way that didn’t exactly make sense.

Blinking rapidly, he reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face with a groggy groan. And then—he froze.

His vision was still blurry.

Frowning, he pulled his glasses off, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them against his bedsheet. When he slid them back on—blurry again. He pulled them down. Clear. Glasses up. Blurry. Glasses down. Clear.

He stares at them in his hands. “...Weird.”

Setting the frames down, he threw his legs over the bed and staggered toward his closet—only to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

Since when the hell did he have abs?

He flexed instinctively, stomach tensing under his own scrutiny. Then his gaze trailed up—to his arms. His biceps. His shoulders.

Turning, twisting, he inspected every angle of himself like a stranger in his own skin. He’d been in shape before, sure, but this? This was different. He would’ve noticed this.

Knuckles rapped against the door, making him flinch.

“Caleb? Are you awake? I forgot my key.” A pause. Then, “Are you feeling any better? You slept like a log last night—perhaps you’re catching a bug.”

"A bug?" Caleb echoes under his breath, flexing again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Holy shit… Uh, yeah, man, I’m good. Just—gimme a sec.”

Turning back toward his desk, he reached for his chair, only meaning to push it aside—but the moment his palm touched the wood, it stuck.

His brows furrow.

He yanks once. Then again.

Nothing.

His heartbeat quickens as he curls his fingers, attempting to lift his hand—and instead, he lifts the entire chair clean off the ground.

“What the—” His stomach drops. He waved his hand. The chair waved with it. Up. Down. Side to side. Still stuck.

“Caleb?” Zayne calls from the other side of the door.

Caleb whips his head toward the sound, panic tightening in his throat. Shit. He bolted across the room—chair still attached to his palm—and somehow managed to unlock the door just as Zayne strode in.

Zayne, clearly in a rush, barely spared him a glance as he grabbed a stack of papers from his desk, clipped them together, and breezed back out with a nod.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Caleb exhaled sharply—only to realize his hand was still stuck… to the doorknob.

Huffing, he gave it a firm tug, expecting it to pop free. Instead, the entire knob wrenched out of the door, hinges snapping with a loud crack.

"Shit."

He barely had time to process before his body betrayed him once again—this time, with a sharp thwip.

A thick strand of silk shot from his wrist, attaching him to his bedpost.

His pulse stuttered. 

"What. The. Fuck."

Another sharp tug. Another web. More panic. Before he knew it, his dorm room looked like a crime scene from some horror movie—threads of silk stretching from walls to furniture to the ceiling.

His gaze snapped to the clock on his desk. 12:56 PM.

"Alright," he mutters, inhaling deeply. "Exam starts in four minutes. I’m sticking to everything I touch. I’m half-naked. Cool, cool, cool."

But nothing about this was cool.

If anyone in the history of Linkon University could take an exam like this, it was going to be him.

series masterlist. ┆ next: too easy, this game.

a/n like & reblog if you enjoyed!! this was really fun to write :) also i should’ve mentioned it rly isnt specified how old reader is, just that she’s in college and just starting her second semester at linkon university :) she can be a transfer student (which is kinda what i had in mind), a first year, etc lol it doesn’t really matter bc i’m fine with that being a “plot hole”

i could not stop laughing while writing this at 4am bc i was just imagining caleb coming up with an elaborate ass internalized beef with reader and she’s just sitting in her chem lab like

taglist. (join it by commenting under this post)

@leonskenthusiast @universallysoulcreator @devonjs-blog @lacieohlacie @kisswithyoureyesclosed @lovesick-sylus @livonianmaia @hqnge @yuuuumii @mizzfizz @simpfortheseven @nyxthejinx-rantsaboutlads @mariojins @rcvcngers @yizhoupilled @irlsammy @gloomuri671 @risagichi @drinking2nite @seikamuzu @flowers-wilt-on-juniper-lane

@that-one-scoundrel @joy-laufeyson @missaengg @wheatrice @gvenone @desiree-archive @jayhyunglover @flwerie @miffysoo @jijijihanji @ssetsuka @mglwhor3 @sureconfused @vorfreudevortex @honehbee42 @angelbeat994 @codedove @cheesemachine44 @mocha-the-muse @msanimeotaku181 @breadiestpuffs @idkwhatursayinh @hannahchk @rxelarailuj @littlebabyypeach @wooasecret @nikilig @theweevilofsweetreef @etsuniiru

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Six

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: The night of the gratitude banquet arrives. Your life will never be the same after it.

Warnings: insecurity and overthinking, deep introspection, reader processing every feeling ever, IC friendship dynamics, Az is in his jealousy era, reader chewing him out, a kiss, a confession and more!!

Word Count: 12.6k (happy finale!)

Part Five | Series Masterlist

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The days slipped by quickly. You spent most of them in your head, avoiding social interactions except for the ones you deliberately made time for—helping Adrin pick out his clothes for the banquet and shopping for a dress with Mor and Feyre. Azriel had been busy. You hadn’t seen him.

You felt guilty for being relieved. But you were. You couldn’t handle seeing him. 

It hit you last night, after Mor dropped off your dress—neatly wrapped in its protective bag—and you crawled into bed. When your gaze landed on your wrist, on the hair tie still there, everything suddenly became clear. You couldn’t run anymore. You couldn’t ignore it.

You were in love with Azriel.

There was a certain discomfort that came with realizing you had been walking through your life half-blind. Like a fog had lifted, revealing a path you had already been traveling, except now you could see it for what it was. And you wondered—how long had this been true? How long had you been this blind?

All these years of knowing Azriel, of loving him in some way—platonically, protectively, whatever it was—you had never truly seen it. But now that you did, you couldn’t unsee it. And it ached. Deeply.

Your fingers pressed absently against your sternum, rubbing small circles over the bone as you made your way down the hall. Over and over, like it might ease it. Like you could massage the feeling away.

You knew better.

It didn’t subside. If anything, it settled deeper, curling into your ribs. Lingered. Even as you reached the kitchen—and faltered.

Because you heard him.

A quiet hum, soft and unhurried, the way he always did on slow mornings when he thought no one was listening. And his shadows—they slipped past the doorframe, curling like wisps of ink, reaching. They knew you were there. They always did.

You thought about leaving.

But before you could turn, the humming stopped. A beat of silence. Then—

“Y/n?”

You exhaled sharply, bracing yourself before stepping inside.

Azriel was already watching you, his expression unreadable for a moment before it shifted into something softer. Familiar.

“Good morning,” you murmured.

He smiled—small, easy, like nothing between you had changed. Like your world hadn’t tilted on its axis.

He lifted a cup in offering. “Tea?”

You accepted it with a quiet thanks, leaning against the counter as Azriel took a seat, his own cup cradled loosely between his fingers.

Silences like this weren’t unusual. They were often comfortable—the kind of quiet that settled when you were both still waking up and bracing for the day ahead. But this morning, it was different.

Azriel glanced at you. “You okay?”

You were almost tempted to laugh at the question, but you suppressed it.

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. Just… lots on my mind.”

He hummed in understanding. His gaze had yet to leave yours.

A beat passed. Another. You shifted your weight against the counter, eyes flicking down to your cup. “You ever feel like you have too many thoughts, and it’s just… disorienting?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Another stretch of silence. It wasn’t quite tense, but it wasn’t easy, either. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat. “So, tonight…” He hesitated. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to get something beforehand. I’m assuming the finger food will be too extravagant for us, like usual.”

You hesitated. His words were fumbling a little, but you didn’t think too much about it. You had been overthinking everything lately. 

“I would, but I’m actually bringing someone tonight,” you said. “I’ll be waiting for him.”

Azriel stilled. “Oh.” His head tilted slightly. “You’re bringing a date?”

“It’s not exactly a date. I just asked him to come with me.”

Azriel nodded slowly. “Who?”

“Adrin. I invited him the other day.”

“Adrin,” he repeated, like he was testing the name on his tongue. “Madja’s apprentice?”

"That's the one."

You could practically see the wheels turning in his head, but he said nothing at first, just watched you, his shadows flickering across the floor like they knew something you didn’t.

He studied you like he was waiting for something more. When nothing came, he frowned, his voice turning cautious. “And he’s coming with you… tonight?”

“Yeah,” you replied, “I thought it’d be nice. He’s helped us before. He's nice.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, but you saw it—in the way his breath hitched, in the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. He had something to say.

You exhaled sharply. “Okay. What is it?”

His gaze shifted, like he was considering denying it.

“Hm?” he hummed, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”

You leveled him with a look. “Az.” A beat. “Just spit it out, yeah?”

A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. It just feels... strange, don’t you think? I mean, inviting him to something like this?”

You bristled at the words, at the insinuation that you needed a reason to bring someone. Needed to justify it to him.

 “Az, it’s just a regular banquet, and I wanted to invite someone. That’s not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

"Then what is this judgmental look you have?" Your voice came out more defensive than you meant. “I’ve known him for a while. It’s not like he’s a stranger.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like it’s just some casual get-together, either.”

You hated that this conversation made you wish for something else. Made you wish it was a date. A real one. That tonight was light and exciting—the kind of night that made you blush, that made you feel wanted. The kind of night that made you feel like someone falling in love, not someone realizing they already had. So deeply, so entirely unreciprocated that you hadn’t even noticed it had happened.

“I’m not making some huge statement by inviting him. It’s just a banquet.” You swallowed, forcing the irritation down. “A banquet to show appreciation for those who help us. I thought it’d be nice. He’s helped us before, you know that.”

You thought back to what Azriel had said about not wanting to be the last one standing, like love, companionship, was a prize to win before someone else did. A race. And maybe, mentioning you were bringing someone made him defensive, made him feel like he needed to be looking again. The thought made something bitter rise in you. Something akin to embarrassment. 

Azriel didn’t reply right away. When he finally spoke, there was a resignation in his voice. "Right. I do know that."

You couldn’t find the right words to reply, so you settled for silence once more. You finished your tea, rinsed out the cup, and set it in the sink. You felt his eyes on you as you turned and told him, “I think, for now, maybe we should stay out of each other’s personal lives. Not comment on any romantic prospects.”

It sounded like a good idea—like a boundary you could hold, something to protect yourself.

But Azriel’s expression flickered, a discomfort settling across his face. “So Adrin is a romantic prospect?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Well, that's not–that’s not the point.” You pressed your fingers to your temples, willing away the irritation clawing at you. Then you dropped your hand, looking at him again. “Way to pick and choose what you hear, by the way.”

"I'm just clarifying."

"Look. I know I was right about Selene. But I think we have very different approaches to our personal lives.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. "Well, I do. It might be better for us to keep our opinions to ourselves."

Azriel blinked. Then, quietly—“I don't want you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was careful, his fingers curling slightly around his cup. “Your opinion is the most important thing to me.”

And then your chest tightened. Azriel couldn’t say things like that to you.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Maybe it shouldn’t be.”

Silence.

Azriel’s grip tightened around his cup.

You swallowed. “I should go.”

And with Azriel’s eyes still following your every movement, you left— the ache in your chest even deeper than before.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The entrance to the banquet hall was a grand display of velvet-draped archways and soft golden faelight. You spotted Adrin just beyond the doors, hands tucked neatly behind his back, his casual, loose, linen clothes traded for deep navy formalwear. He looked up as you approached, a large, bright smile forming.

"You clean up well," you teased, stopping beside him. "I could’ve picked you up from your apartment. Like a proper date."

Adrin huffed a quiet laugh. "And risk making the citizens of Velaris burn with jealousy over how we look together? I’d never be so cruel."

You rolled your eyes and laughed. The lightness of the sound surprised you. "I suppose we do look rather stunning."

His gaze lingered for a moment before he said, softer, "You do. That dress is quite beautiful."

You barely resisted the urge to fidget, instead smoothing your hand over the fabric. 

Mor and Feyre had helped you get ready at the river house, the way they always did before events like these. The three of you, despite everything—despite mates, despite growing older, despite how much life had changed—still made time for it. A tradition you refused to let go of. It was something sacred, in a way. The girlhood none of you had ever really gotten to experience, stolen by war or circumstance.

You suspected Mor had noticed you were in your head more than usual, that something about tonight felt different. She kept checking in, little glances through the mirror, hesitation when you’d asked her to help pin your hair up. Her fingers had lingered as she tucked the final strands into place, ensuring the hairpiece she used hid the infamous hair tie beneath it. She hadn’t asked, but you could feel the question lingering in the way she looked at you.

“Mor chose it for me,” you said, offering Adrin a playful curtsy. "I’ll let her know her taste is still undefeated."

A few more guests drifted past.

"This home is beautiful," Adrin murmured, his gaze sweeping over the high ceilings and intricate paintings covering the marble walls— all painted by Feyre herself. "I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Your High Lord and High Lady have elegant tastes. I must admit, I feel slightly out of place."

"It’s just another event," you said lightly. "Don’t let the elegance scare you. Most of the guests already know you, anyway. The ones that don’t will have the pleasure tonight. Nothing to stress about."

Adrin exhaled, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I wouldn’t say I’m stressed. Out of practice seems more fitting. I haven’t been to many events like this."

"Oh? Does Thesan not throw many?"

He tilted his head. "Some. But even then, I wouldn’t attend. Not everyone is as close to their High Lord as you."

You blinked. "I never thought of it like that."

Adrin smiled faintly. "It’s not a bad thing. It’s quite beautiful, really. It humanizes Rhysand—far more than the stories some might hear about Night."

For you, Rhysand had never been just High Lord—he was Rhys, the friend who stole the last pastry off your plate just to be an ass, who gave the best advice when you needed it most, who once drunkenly tried to shove more marshmallows into his mouth than Cassian. You knew he was powerful. Knew that the weight of his title was immense. But it was easy to forget. Easy to take for granted just how rare it was to have a ruler who felt like family. A ruler who was family.

“I appreciate your open mind. It’s not easy for many people to see past Rhys’s past.”

Adrin’s eyes softened. “I can see the heart beneath the power.”

You glanced around the hall, watching as laughter and conversation rippled through the guests. When you turned back, you caught Adrin scanning the crowd as well. You took the spare moment to examine him further.

Adrin had the kind of beauty that belonged to the quiet hush of morning. His golden-brown skin carried a softness—not kissed by the sun, but by first light, the gentle warmth before the world fully woke. Vitiligo traced around his right eye, trailing down his cheek, leaving a streak of white in his dark curls. Even his eyelashes and brow were dusted pale. There was nothing severe about him, nothing unreadable.

You wondered how many admirers he must have. How many people in the streets of your city turned to gawk when he passed. How many hearts he’d left broken when he left his home and moved to Velaris.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you said, drawing his attention back to you. When his warm eyes met yours, you continued. “What made you come here? From Dawn?"

He titled his head, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

"When I heard that Night and Dawn were fostering more exchanges—trade, apprenticeships—I jumped at the chance," Adrin said. "It seemed perfect. It’s been an honor to train under Madja, to learn from one of the most talented healers of all Fae alike." He shot you a look. "I have you to thank for that opportunity."

You raised a brow. "Me?"

"I heard it was your diplomacy that strengthened those relations between our courts," he said. "That made Velaris known for the oasis of opportunity it now is, rather than the secret gem of Night it once was."

You hummed, a smile pulling at your lips. Even now, after all these years, it still felt nice—validating—to be acknowledged for your work. For the vision you had continually strived to achieve for your court, for Prythian.

"Well then," you mused, "you’re welcome."

It was fascinating, really—how simple his answer had been. That he had made the choice to leave home with such certainty. You didn’t think you could ever do the same.

"Do you miss the Dawn court?" 

Adrin exhaled, thoughtful. "Yes, but not how you might think. I rather love change." He glanced at you, curiosity flickering in his expression now. "Do you?"

"What—miss Dawn?"

He laughed. "No. Do you like change?"

The answer should have been easy. You’d never been afraid of new things—your entire life had been built on pushing forward, on carving out space where there was none. But lately, change felt like something different. Like something looming. Like something you weren’t sure you wanted.

You fought the urge to glance over your shoulder, to scan the crowd for a familiar figure wreathed in shadows. You hadn’t seen him since this morning.

"No, actually," you admitted. "I despise it. I know it’s necessary for growth, but… I like things the way they are. I don’t think I’d want to leave my court. Not for long."

Adrin nodded. "With a life like this, I’m sure I wouldn’t either."

You let the words settle between you for a moment before exhaling. "Come on. Let me introduce you around."

Adrin extended an arm, eyes gleaming with humor. "Lead the way, shepherd of change. I am your sheep for the night."

You chuckled, looping your arm through his as you stepped into the light.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Adrin had slipped easily into conversation with Cassian and Nesta, asking them about their mating ceremony with a curiosity so good-natured even Nesta had warmed to him. You’d been content just standing there, watching as he made the connections you’d hoped he would.

When he left to get you both drinks, you lingered, half-listening to Cassian’s exaggerated retelling of something Nesta had told him from a recent book of hers. Your eyes drifted across the scene—the candlelit tables, the swirling gowns, the food laid out in delicate arrangements that looked more like art than a meal. Unlike most elaborate events Rhysand and Feyre threw, tonight had hors d'oeuvres that actually appealed to you. You made a mental note to try some of the rosemary and honey tartlets once your stomach felt less uneasy.

You let your gaze drift once more, scanning the crowd without much thought—until you saw him.

Azriel.

For a second, everything else faded. The music, the conversation, the clinking of glasses. The world narrowed to the space between you and him.

He looked good—unfairly so. He’d cleaned up well, the sharp lines of his suit making him look effortlessly put together, dark hair styled just enough to look like he hadn’t tried at all. 

If Adrin had been handsome in a way that was warm, inviting, then Azriel was beautiful in a way that stole the breath from your lungs. It was gut-wrenching, disarming, the kind of beauty that felt borderline sacred.

And gods, the way he was looking at you. Not just looking. Watching.

Your stomach flipped, something deep inside you tightening painfully. The air between you stretched thin. Humming. Waiting. It made your fingers twitch at your sides, made your feet shift like they might carry you forward without your permission.

And yet, somehow, you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—

“Here you are.”

The moment shattered. You blinked, the noise of the banquet rushing back in as Adrin reappeared at your side, pressing a glass of champagne into your hand. You took it with an appreciative smile, downing half of it in one go and ignoring the way your fingers trembled around the delicate flute.

Adrin turned back to Nesta, launching into another carefully respectful question, something about her Valkyrie training, but you barely heard it.

Not until Adrin nudged you, drawing you back. “Should I be concerned?” he murmured. 

You blinked. “About?”

“That the Shadowsinger is currently glaring at me like he wants me dead. Have I offended him?”

Confused, you followed his gaze—

Azriel was still watching. Only now, the look was different. The sharpness of it, the intensity—it was aimed at Adrin.

A full glare.

You barely swallowed down the sound of disbelief that threatened to escape. What the hell was his problem?

Heat rose to your face. You forced yourself to breathe, to roll your shoulders back. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, waving it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

But when you turned back, Nesta was looking at you. A direct, knowing look. You glanced back at Azriel, still staring, then back at her. She knew.

You gently brushed your champagne flute back into Adrin’s hands. “Excuse me for a minute?”

"Of course," Adrin said easily, though concern flickered in his warm gaze. Nesta took the opportunity to step in, calling over Gwyn—a plan you’d both briefly gone over before the night began.

"Adrin," she said, "let me introduce you to my friend and fellow Valkyrie."

Adrin’s voice drifted after you as you stepped away.

“Oh, by the Mother, is that an Invoking Stone?” His breath caught, reverent. “Beautiful—I’ve only ever read about them.”

You didn’t need to turn to know Gwyn was smiling, could already picture the soft pink dusting her cheeks. But the moment barely registered, drowned out by the weight of the gaze still burning into you.

You had more pressing matters.

You didn’t spare Azriel a glance before grabbing his forearm and dragging him into the nearest empty room.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel barely moved as you pulled him in, letting you manhandle him like a bag of heavy rocks. His brows had only just begun to furrow when you spun on him, still gripping his wrist. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, the corded muscles of his forearm shifting under your grip—but you refused to let that distract you.

Not now.

It took you half a second to realize where you had dragged him. A library. A new one, judging by the scent of fresh wood and the pristine bookshelves lining the walls. You hadn’t even known this room existed. Your gaze flicked over the tall windows, the deep blue rug, the shelves still waiting to be filled. You hadn’t explored the house since the construction finished, too preoccupied with—

No. Focus.

You turned back to Azriel, finally letting go of his wrist. His wings twitched slightly, and his shadows curled at his feet like smoke, their edges sharper than usual.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, crossing your arms.

Azriel blinked, his head tilting slightly. “What?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No,” he said flatly. “Or else I wouldn’t have asked.”

A heavy breath caught in your throat as the words lodged themselves somewhere between your teeth and the pit of your stomach. Azriel’s voice was cool and even. It only made you angrier.

“Are you serious right now?”

His hazel eyes studied you.  A flicker of something passed through them, quick as a shadow in candlelight, but then it was gone.

Fine.

You squared your shoulders. “I’ll spell it out. Why are you glaring at Adrin like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I wasn’t glaring.”

You forced a breath out of your chest—through your nose, just to keep yourself from losing it. A sharp, humorless laugh left you. “If that wasn’t a glare, I’d hate to see what you classify as one.”

His expression didn’t change, but his wings tucked in a little tighter, hands flexing at his sides. You noted that his shadows had stilled, barely a ripple in the air now. They’d decided to be a quiet, unassuming audience, it seemed.

“I have known you long enough to recognize a glare, Azriel. Stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

You huffed, your fingers twitching at your sides. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but you need to fix it. Now.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked, and for the first time, his expression hardened. He remained silent.

“If this is about me bringing someone and you being here alone, then you need to get over it,” you said.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence once more.

His shadows stirred again, coiling around his boots, floating across the ground beneath you two. You could see the muscle in his jaw tightening, but he didn’t speak.

You sighed, pressing your fingers to your temples before meeting his gaze again. “Okay, well, whatever it is, I need you to find the reason, and I need you to swallow it. And if you can’t swallow it, I need you to shove it so far up your ass that you’re too focused on the discomfort to glare at him like that again.”

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to respond, but nothing came out. His eyes flickered, scanning your face. Then they glazed over, as if he’d been pulled deeper into his own mind.

It didn’t stop you from continuing.

“Adrin is a guest here,” you went on, voice firm. “I invited him. He is kind, he is nice, and he hasn't done anything to you. In fact, he has helped you. So do not treat him like shit.” You stepped closer, tilting your head. “You haven’t even bothered to talk to him. The least you can do is not look at him like you’re imagining his head on a spike.”

Azriel’s gaze met yours, his voice low as he finally spoke, “I just think it’s rude that your date isn’t paying attention to you. He’s had his eyes on Cassian more than you tonight.”

You blinked, disbelief tightening your chest. “What?”

“You heard me.”

You scoffed. “Adrin has been perfectly attentive and respectful. What, did you expect him to have his hands all over me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Azriel didn’t respond, but his shadows gained speed as they curled closer to his boots—like they were restless now, waiting for an order.

“This event is supposed to be about harmony,” you continued, “You’re embarrassing this court. You’re embarrassing me.”

That seemed to land. His lips pressed into a thin line, and something flickered in his expression—something raw, something almost like guilt.

“Do not give me a reason to be mad at you,” you added, voice low. “Because I will take it. You have no idea.”

A long beat of silence. Then—

“…Alright,” Az muttered. “Fine. I’m sorry. That was not my intention.”

The apology came so easily. You narrowed your eyes, studying him. He was still too quiet. But for now, you’d take it.

“Good. So, we go out there, and if you interact with him at all, you need to be pleasant. Maybe even smile.” You tilted your head. “And if you can’t do that, at least fix your face.”

Azriel blinked, brow twitching. “My face?”

“Yes. The one you’re currently wearing. You look like I just asked you to kill yourself.”

“I’m not wearing a face,” he said dryly.

“Yes, you are.”

“This is just my face. I don’t have many faces.”

“Well, find a new one.”

The sharpness faded from his eyes and the frustration in your chest loosened slightly, giving way to something else—exhaustion, maybe. 

“Okay, okay,” he said after a moment. “Fine.”

You nodded once, steadying yourself before turning for the door.

Right before you stepped out, you glanced over your shoulder. “Fix the face.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Consider it fixed.”

Then, he gave you a large grin—so obviously forced it made you cringe.

You rolled your eyes. “That is not what I meant.”

Still, you smiled despite yourself. A little amused, a little tired. And for a brief moment, before you turned away, you swore you saw a real smile flicker across his face, too. Soft and fleeting. It made your heart skip.

Before it could beat faster, you left.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel found you again an hour later.

You sensed him before you saw him—the shift in the air, the way the room seemed to settle in his presence. Then his shadows, curling toward you before slithering back, as if unsure if they were welcome.

You weren’t even sure why you’d walked away from Adrin and your friends. Maybe you needed space. Maybe you needed to breathe. It wasn’t until you stepped back—from the conversation, from the laughter, from the gentle touches shared between lovers—that you realized.

This was the first time you’d noticed. The first time it had stung.

How alone you were.

You didn’t look as Azriel approached. Instead, you fixated on the guests around you, on their easy smiles and warm hands clasped together. It would hurt to look at him. You already knew.

And yet, you felt him watching. Felt the heat of him beside you.

It was sad. All of it.

You’d assumed falling for your best friend would be a gift. Imagined it would be easy, uncomplicated—a love that came with a quiet understanding, someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. It sounded simple enough. You would know, and they would know, and that would be it. The kind of love that people dreamed of, that stories were made of.

It was funny, in a painfully poetic way, how reality differed from daydreams. You almost wanted to revisit every love story you’d ever read, to pick them apart, to see where they’d lied—where they’d dared to be hopeful.

A shadow curled at your wrist before slinking away. 

"Do you have another complaint for me?" you murmured, just loud enough for Azriel to hear over the music. “Maybe feeling bothered that Adrin isn’t slobbering at my feet like a hound desperate for food?”

Az huffed a quiet breath. "No."

Your lips pressed together. You wanted to hold on to the annoyance, to the way he’d been needling at you all evening, but the weight of the room was different now.

Azriel must have known it too, because after a pause, he shifted slightly, extending a hand toward you. "Dance with me?"

Your gaze flicked to his outstretched hand, then back to his face. His expression was carefully neutral, but his wings… His wings were tucked in tight, the only real tell of his discomfort. You knew he didn’t love events like these. The crowds, the attention. He wore it well—carried himself like he belonged, like nothing touched him—but you knew better.

And that’s why, despite everything, you sighed, placing your hand in his.

His shadows stirred again, wrapping briefly around your wrist before dissipating. Pleased with your choice.

"Your perfect date seems to be enjoying himself."

You felt it again—that ache in your chest.

Your eyes flicked over Azriel's shoulder, landing on Adrin. He was still standing alongside Gwyn, but the two had been joined by Lucien and Elain as well. Adrin was laughing at something Lucien was saying. He looked… comfortable. Bright. Perfect.

Perfect in the way that should have made your heart skip, that should have made you feel something when he smiled. But you felt… nothing. Just awareness, a passing observation. And then your gaze drifted back to Azriel, to the sharp lines of his face, the way the faelight caught in his eyes. Made something in them simmer.

"Not perfect," you murmured.

You didn’t like perfection. It was too neat, too curated—like something fragile on display, meant to be admired but never touched. It didn’t crack, didn’t bleed. And you didn’t want that. You never had.

"I wouldn’t want perfect anyway," you added, glancing briefly at Adrin and then back to Azriel. "Perfect isn't real."

Azriel said nothing at first, but his grip on your hand tightened briefly. You wondered if he understood.

His other hand rested against your waist as he led you through the steps. You felt his touch like a burning mark, your heart beating faster at the way he stroked his thumb along the fabric of your dress. The tension from earlier still lingered between you—thin, stretched taut. You wondered if he still wanted to bring up Adrin once more. But instead, Azriel said, "I didn’t get to tell you earlier, with you scolding me and all."

You rolled your eyes, casting your gaze aside.

"Which was very warranted," Azriel added, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leaned in further. "But, you are… breathtaking."

Your eyes snapped back to his. The way he said it—quiet, certain, like it was fact, undeniable and absolute—made something shift beneath your ribs. You forced yourself to keep breathing, to move past the moment before it could settle too deeply.

"Thank you. Mor helped me pick the dress."

Azriel guided you into a spin, and when you turned back to face him, he said, "I wasn’t referring to your dress."

His hand found yours, fingers lacing through before you could think too much about it. It was an easy thing, effortless—like it was second nature to him.  "I was referring to the person wearing it."

Your pulse stuttered. How could anyone else compare to this? How were you ever going to find someone who could make you feel like this?

The thought unsettled you. Maybe because it was the first time you let yourself acknowledge it. Maybe because you were starting to think he felt it too.

Because you knew Azriel. Knew him well enough to sense the shift—not just in yourself, but in him. There was something new in the way he watched you, something careful, deliberate. At first, you thought it was guilt, that he was still making up for the way he hurt you. But it was more than that. The way he looked at you now—really looked at you—it made you wonder if this realization had struck him too.

But you had seen him with Mor. With Elain. With Gwyn. You had seen the way he watched them, the way he softened, the way he held himself differently in their presence. And never—not once—had he looked at you like that.

So maybe this feeling was yours alone. Something to swallow like a bitter tonic, a remedy that only worsened the sickness.

The dance was slowing. You saw it in the way couples began to separate, the way the musicians readied to shift into something new. You and Azriel stilled, as if time itself was reluctant to move on.

His eyes traced over your face. "It’s different," he murmured. "Seeing your entire face like this."

Your brows furrowed slightly, and his lips twitched, like he knew you didn’t fully understand. Then his free hand lifted—hesitating for just a second—before his fingers brushed lightly against the side of your face, just above your ear, where your hair had been pinned back.

"You usually let it fall forward," he said. "I’m used to you hiding behind it."

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you. You wondered if he knew how much this pained you.

And when the music came to an end, you all but scrambled away from him, seeking out Adrin again.

Adrin told you about everything he’d learned from Lucien—the invitation the Vanserra had extended to explore the Day Court. Autumn too, if Adrin wished. You tried to listen. Tried to pay attention. To ignore the burning gaze of Azriel, to pretend you hadn’t seen the way his expression faltered when you pulled away.

You stayed by Adrin’s side all night, introducing him to more court members. Always finding your way back to Cassian, Nesta, and Gwyn. But no matter how much space you put between you and Azriel, you felt him.

Always, you felt him.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The banquet had begun to settle into its last echoes of laughter and music, guests beginning their slow trickle home.You stood with Adrin near the entrance, the golden glow of the banquet spilling onto the front gardens.

He turned to you, his expression softened in the dim light. “Thank you,” he murmured, and before you could ask for what, he leaned in, pressing a warm, fleeting kiss to your cheek. When he pulled back, there was something earnest in his gaze. “For sharing the night with a friend. For showing me all these connections I might not have made on my own.”

You smiled, something fond curling in your chest. “You would’ve made them eventually.”

“Maybe. But I like the way it happened tonight.”

“Thank you for keeping me company,” you told him. “You don’t know how much I needed it.”

With one last smile, he turned and disappeared down the path, his silhouette vanishing into the dark.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders before making your way back inside. The warmth hit you immediately—the lingering energy of the night still alive in the laughter, the flickering faelights, the press of familiar faces.

Your family. 

Rhys stood at the center of it, Nyx in his arms, tossing him into the air. The babe let out a shriek of joy, his chubby hands clapping together as he was caught again with ease.

“Bachelor of the evening,” Cassian declared, raising a half-empty glass. “In all his two feet and six inch glory.”

Nyx, unaware of the meaning but basking in the attention, beamed a chubby smile, curling into his father’s chest. 

You watched them, something warm and tight settling in your chest, even as Cassian snorted at his own words, making a joke about another six inch glory. But still—still—there was something else stirring within you. That restlessness in your bones. That all-too-familiar, infamous ache.

Before you could think twice, you turned, feet carrying you swiftly down the halls, toward the back of the manor.

The stone steps were cool beneath you as you descended into the garden. You exhaled, lowering yourself onto the edge of a stair, forearms braced against your knees. The air was cooler here, quieter, the sky stretched wide above you—clear and endless.

Behind you, the door creaked open. Light footsteps. Familiar.

Mor lowered herself onto the step beside you, the silk of her dress brushing against your arm. She didn’t say anything at first, just settled into the silence with you.

Then, gently, “You okay?”

Your thoughts were loud, pressing in from every angle, twisting over themselves until they became nothing but static. You let out a laugh, dry and brittle. “My head physically hurts from how much I’ve been thinking.”

Mor nodded, tilting her head back to look at the sky. “And have you come to any conclusions?”

“I might not be as patient as I once thought.”

Mor laughed, the sound carried off by the night breeze. “What makes you say that?”

You turned to her, lips pressing together before you admitted, “I was tempted to throttle Az in front of everyone.”

Mor’s lips quirked up, the faint remnants of her red lipstick catching the glow of the faelights through the windows. You were sure there were countless champagne flutes and wine glasses that now bore the mark of her lips, a kiss print of her perfect lipstick. There was something sweet about how the color was faded now. Years ago, it would still be perfect—because years ago, Mor would’ve excused herself to touch up her makeup almost every half hour. She didn’t do that anymore. These days, Emerie held her attention, made her forget anything other than the night unfolding around her.

“Not interested in adding to your growing reputation as a public street fighter?” Mor teased. “I would’ve helped you drag him to the street.”

You shot her a scowl. “Not funny,” you muttered. Then, hesitantly, “Do people really think that?”

She snorted, shaking her head. “No. I’m messing with you. But imagine how fun that would be.”

“We have different definitions of fun.”

“And that’s what makes us such great friends.”

Mor leaned in, looping her arm through yours, pressing it to her chest as she rested her head on your shoulder. The cool metal of her jewelry sent a shiver through you. You resisted the urge to frown at the large, chunky bracelet on her wrist—the one she’d taken from Selene. You’d already rolled your eyes at it earlier in the night, warning her it was probably cursed. She had only shrugged and said that nothing related to her could be bad luck—and that it matched her gown perfectly. She wasn’t wrong. It did.

You hummed, amused, and rested your head against hers.

“So what did Az do?” she asked after a moment.

“I don’t know what got into him. He was so rude tonight.”

“To you?”

“To Adrin,” you clarified, huffing. “Gods, it infuriated me. I had to scold him like some child before I lost my own mind.”

Mor lifted her head slightly. “Is that where you pulled him off to?”

You turned just enough to meet her gaze. “You saw that?”

She sat up, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I’m very observant.”

“Nosy is the word I’d use.”

Mor nudged you with a laugh. Then she shifted, pulling her arm away as she readjusted her position. “Do you know why it bothered you so much?”

Your brows knit together. “It was rude,” you deadpanned. “Adrin was a guest. Az had no right acting like some pompous guard dog.”

Mor nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Maybe we need to get him retrained.”

Despite yourself, you smiled, a quick image flashing in your mind of Azriel’s unimpressed face whenever one of you made a dog joke at his expense. Even the ones about his loyalty. Not that you could blame him—you probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison either.

“It was also a bit offensive that Az paid more attention to me tonight than he has for months,” you admitted. “Not even to me. To Adrin. I don’t know why that bothered me so much, aside from it being bad manners.”

Mor gave you a knowing look. “Can I ask you something? But you have to promise you won’t get mad.”

You narrowed your eyes. “When you say stuff like that, I don’t want to promise anything.”

She pouted slightly. “Please.”

You sighed, turning to face her more fully. The new position left you exposed to the chill, no longer shielded by your hunched posture. Your knees brushed, the fabric of your dress rustling against hers. “Fine. Tell me.”

Mor hesitated, studying you carefully. Then, softly, “Do you think it bothers you because you want him to pay attention to you this much… normally? And not just when you bring a date?”

You dropped your gaze to your lap, to your fidgeting fingers. “I mean, maybe. Yeah.”

Mor craned her neck, trying to meet your averted gaze. “Maybe because you have feelings for him?”

Your head snapped up so fast you were surprised you didn’t break something. Though, based on the sharp pull in your neck, you might have strained a muscle.

“What?” 

The sympathetic look Mor offered you was enough to draw the ache in your chest back to full strength. 

“Am I wrong?”

You could’ve lied. Could’ve shaken your head, laughed it off, brushed past it like it was nothing. And maybe Mor would’ve let you. Not because she let things go easily, but because she knew you—knew when to push and when to step back.

But you didn’t lie.

Because the weight of it, the truth of it, had been pressing down on you for too long.

“Maybe,” you admitted quietly.

The words settled over you like a breaking wave. The minute they were out in the open, everything rushed back—every ache, every stolen glance, every frustration and lingering sadness. The realization of it felt like a stone lodged behind your ribs, pressing into you from the inside. Your throat burned. Your eyes stung.

You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to push down the lump forming there.

Then your lips quivered. And that was enough to make you break.

You turned away, hands pressing against your face as a shaky breath left you.

“Gods, Mor,” you mumbled, voice unsteady. “I feel so dramatic. I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Oh, honey.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing to call your attention back to her. When you met her eyes, something flickered across her features. “Are you crying?”

“Not yet,” you sniffed. 

She blinked. Once, twice. Then said, “Give me a minute, okay? I’ll be right back. And then I want you to tell me everything.”

You didn’t question it, just nodded as she disappeared inside.

When she returned, her presence was quieter. She sank beside you, draping a shawl over your shoulders—one that matched the color of her dress. Her shawl. And on her own form, she wore one in deep purple. Emerie’s, you assumed. You hadn’t seen her wear it before.

You noticed, too, that Mor’s jewelry was gone. The rings, the collection of bracelets. She tended to do that when she was overstimulated by the sounds—when the weight of metal felt unbearable against her skin.

You tipped your head back, staring at the sky. No more tears fell, but they lingered, heavy behind your eyes. The lump in your throat was smaller now. Bearable. You swallowed against it, against everything that wanted to rise with it.

“I was content,” you said finally. You inhaled deeply, swore you heard your ribs rattle with the effort, and turned to look at Mor. “With being single. With waiting for whatever was supposed to happen. I never thought I’d be the last one standing, but I didn’t mind. It never felt like something was missing.”

Mor’s brown eyes scanned your face, a small crease forming between her brows. “And now?”

Now.

Now, you wondered if you had never felt that ache because you had been loved so deeply by people like Azriel. Loved in a way that had made you think—foolishly, blindly—that it was enough. That it would always be enough.

But the words tangled in your throat before you could voice them. Your mind was funny like that sometimes—so many thoughts, so fast, so loud, and yet, when you reached for them, they recoiled. Shy. Timid. As if they, too, were embarrassed by their own existence.

“Now, I feel like something was stolen from me.”

Mor blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I always thought…” You paused, digging through your mind, clawing for the right words. “I thought love would feel different. That I would know when it happened. That it would be this big, overwhelming thing—fireworks, explosions, something cinematic.” You shook your head. “But with Azriel, it never felt like that. It felt… calm.” Your voice softened. “Like home.”

Mor’s expression gentled, but she didn’t speak. Not yet. And you were grateful for it, because now the words were spilling out, untamed and raw.

“And I hate that I didn’t get to figure that out on my own,” you admitted, your voice cracking with the confession. “That Selene and this ridiculous situation forced me to see it before I was ready. I didn’t get to sit across from him at breakfast, watching him drink his tea, and realize—slowly, comfortably—that this could be the rest of my life.” You swallowed hard. “Instead, it feels like everyone else saw it before I did. Like my feelings aren’t even my own. I feel… embarrassed.”

Mor’s brows knit together, and she reached for your hand. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You know that, right?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Doesn’t matter. It feels that way.”

And maybe that was the worst part. That something so personal, so yours, had been made into something for everyone else to witness. That, maybe, they had already formed their own conclusions.

“I’ve never really dated.” The words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong in this conversation. But they did. “Not really. I never searched for it, never felt like I needed to.”

Mor traced her thumb in slow circles against your knuckles.

“I thought it was because I was happy. Because I was fulfilled, platonically. That I never ached for a mate or a partner because I was already surrounded by love. But now—” Your throat tightened. “Now, I wonder if it was just because of him. If I loved Azriel this whole time and never noticed. If my heart already knew there was nowhere else to look.”

Mor’s grip on your hand tightened.

“But he looked,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “Azriel has looked.” You swallowed hard. “Gods, Mor—he even looked to you.”

Mor’s lips parted slightly, guilt flickering in her expression before she caught herself. “That was—”

“I know,” you cut in. “It’s not about that. It’s not about you. It’s just—” You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple. “I’ve never been this aware of myself before. My shortcomings. My inexperience. I’ve never thought about any of it because I never had to.”

But now, every interaction with Azriel felt different. Now, every glance, every touch, every conversation—changed.

And gods, maybe, just maybe, people would think Selene was right.

Maybe they would think you had pushed Azriel away from her because you were jealous, because you had always wanted him for yourself.

You looked at Mor. “I didn’t talk to Az about Selene because I was jealous. I swear, Mor. It wasn’t like that.”

Mor shushed you. “I know.”

“But what if he doesn’t? What if everyone—”

“No one else matters.”

Mor’s gaze softened. She brought her free hand to your bicep, her palm warm as she ran it gently down your skin. The cool night air clung to you, but beneath it, you still burned. From your thoughts, from your grief, from the overwhelming realization that had come too soon.

“Y/n,” she said after a moment. “Do you truly think Az doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Yes,” you said with certainty. But after the words left your mouth, they felt hollow. You bit the inside of your cheek. “And even if he did, I’m not sure that would help me.”

“What do you mean?”

You stiffened. Loving Azriel was not the same as loving anyone else. Loving him was easy, yes—but the way Azriel romantically loved was sickening. It was obsessive, gluttonous.

You were afraid of what it might mean to be on the receiving end of it.

Because Azriel had always glorified the ones he loved, turned them into something untouchable, something divine. It was the kind of love that replaced religion. And you—you—were not divine. You were not flawless. And that alone made you doubt yourself.

Azriel had seen your faults. The way you held grudges, the way you sometimes bit down your emotions until they cut into you, the way you weren’t always kind. In a friend, those things were forgivable. But in a lover?

Flaws in a lover could be a sin for Az.

And you didn't think you could survive it—the moment he realized you weren’t something worth worshiping.

Better, then, to never let him try.

You decided not to answer Mor’s question— not properly at least. Instead, you shrugged, turning your gaze back to the night before you, to the calm gardens and the skies that illuminated them.

“I just do.”

Mor hummed. She understood that the conversation was over. You were tired. And there was nothing she could say that you hadn’t already dissected a thousand times in your mind. So she pulled you closer, and you let her, resting your head against the crook of her shoulder.

The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t acknowledge it, but you felt Mor shift, felt her hair brush your cheek as she turned to greet the new addition to your self-pity circle.

And then you felt another familiar presence. The scent of night-chilled wind, sea, and citrus, the familiar shift in power—a presence heavier than Azriel’s, but just as consuming. Even more at times. 

Rhys settled beside you with a groan, joints creaking as he got comfortable.

It made you smile, just a little. Old man.

“I was wondering where you two went off to,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

You let out a small sound—something noncommittal, something that didn’t quite fill the silence. “Oh, you know. Contemplating every single sense of existential dread.” You gestured vaguely. “Talking about the weather.”

Rhys lifted a brow. You paused, sparing him a quick glance. “It’s nice weather.”

He made a sound—half a hum, half a laugh—and rubbed his knee. “I don’t know. I can feel rain coming.”

You didn’t say anything, just glanced up at the sky—still clear, the stars bright. Some rain sounded nice. Peaceful. Something to wash away the past few days.

Rhys looked over at Mor. “Emerie is looking for you.”

Mor exhaled, glancing between the two of you before pulling away. Her hands, fingers now cold from the night, squeezed your face gently. “I love you,” she said softly. “Come find me if you need anything, okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

She hesitated for just a second before standing up and disappearing into the house. You watched her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering on your skin as you turned back around, finding Rhys already watching you. He had that look—one of quiet concern, of something like careful patience. The image of a concerned father. An older brother. 

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you muttered.

Rhys snorted. “Trust me, I’ve had enough babysitting for the night.”

“Yeah, but don’t you want to be inside with everyone else?”

“Are you trying to kick me back into my own home?” he asked, amused.

You shook your head. “No, I just don’t want you to feel like you need to be out here with me.”

“I don’t feel like I need to be anything,” he said simply. “I haven’t spent much time with you lately. I want to be out here.” His voice softened. “After all, this is a banquet thanking people who’ve helped this court. Who has helped more than you, the one I trust to help repair our image?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Well, I did some damage recently, too.”

“Until you get banned from an entire court, I think you’re alright.”

The conversation settled into a lull, quiet stretching between you. 

Then you said, “I’m assuming Mor told you some things.”

“Not really. But I can assume.”

You swallowed, looking away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he said easily. “We don’t have to.”

“But…” You glanced at him, suddenly tired of holding it all in. You had always been honest with your family—always told them the truth, even when it was difficult. And after opening up to Mor, after feeling the weight of it ease just slightly, you realized how much you had missed this. How much lighter a burden felt when it was shared, when you weren’t the only one carrying it.

Rhys seemed to understand before you even said another word. His expression shifted, something like realization settling in his gaze. And then, carefully, you felt the light press of him in your mind. A knock.

You let your walls down.

You felt his presence as he sifted through the memories—watched his face change as he saw it all.

After a long moment, he straightened slightly, exhaling as he looked at you. He squinted, tilting his head. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“Yeah.”

You turned away again, resting your head in your hands. Your chest felt a lot lighter now. Your thoughts a little less heavy. Rhys didn’t say anything. He just stood, brushing off his pants before stepping down the stairs.

You frowned, watching as he descended a few steps, then extended a hand toward you.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“We’re going on a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you need to clear your mind.”

You hesitated, eyeing his outstretched hand. He only smiled. “Someone very special in my life used to take me on walks when I was overwhelmed.”

Your lips parted slightly, a flicker of recognition sparking in your chest. You thought back to those early years—when Rhys was newly High Lord, when he was drowning in responsibility and grief he wouldn’t even acknowledge. You had forced him to go on walks back then, dragging him away from his desk, ignoring his protests. He had hated it at first. And then, eventually, it had just become something you did.

A quiet tradition.

You smiled—small, almost sad—as you pushed yourself up. “Are you sure you want to leave everyone?”

“I think they can handle us leaving for a few hours.”

You scoffed. “Don’t speak too soon.”

Rhys huffed a laugh, shaking his head as you stepped down to join him. And then, without another word, you walked.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

There was a certain shared understanding between you and Rhysand— two people who had seen each other at their best and worst. For an hour, as the familiar rhythm of your footsteps matched each other’s perfectly, it felt as if the world had paused just enough for you to feel like you belonged again.

When you finally reached the townhome, Rhys stopped, his hand on your arm like he was trying to keep you from walking away too soon.

“You’re not foolish for not realizing it sooner,” he said. “It’s a gift, really. To love so fully, so completely, that you don’t even notice where friendship ends and something more begins. Most people can’t do that, you know. We’re… very lucky to have you.”

You could only manage a smile in response. Rhys pulled you into a hug, his arms tight around you as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Get some rest,” he murmured, pulling away. Then he grinned, a familiar one that only he could pull off. “If you keep overthinking, I’ll have to start charging for my emotional support. I don’t come cheap, you know.”

“Are businesses no longer discounting damaged goods?”

Rhys let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. “Ouch,” he said, eyes wide with mock offense. “I take back everything about you being loving.”

“Night, Rhys,” you said, your voice warmer now. Genuine. “Love you.”

His smile softened, no longer the teasing grin. “I know.”  And you could hear the affection there.

Then he turned and began walking down the path, whistling a nursing song that you were sure Nyx had been fixated on. Rhys reached the corner, paused for a moment as if to make sure no one was watching, then disappeared, winnowing into the night.

Dramatic even without an audience. You shook your head, a small smile still tugging at your lips, before entering the townhouse and making your way up the stairs. 

You stopped when you saw him.

Azriel. Sitting against your door like he was waiting for something—someone. You. His eyes met yours, locking in place as if he’d been holding his breath this whole time. And in a blink, he was on his feet, moving like something had snapped, urgent, too fast for comfort. 

“Y/n,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

You paused, pushing the door to your bedroom open slowly, not fully meeting his gaze. “Why?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

You sighed, shoulders sagging as exhaustion settled over you. You didn’t want to have this conversation—not right now. It wasn’t that you didn’t care about what Azriel had to say, but everything just felt too much in this moment. You needed space, time to breathe and clear your head before diving into whatever this was between you two.

Tomorrow. You could deal with it tomorrow, with a fresh perspective, when you weren’t so drained. Tonight, you just needed to sleep, to wake up with your head in a better place, ready to handle it all. You wanted Rhys's words to be the last thing in your mind. Something comforting. Soothing.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you muttered, stepping inside. “I’m tired.”

“I’ll make this quick.”

You moved toward your bed, placing Mor’s shawl across your sheets. “Az, seriously. Tomorrow.”

He didn’t move, and when you glanced up, he looked at you then—really looked at you—and your breath caught in your throat as he asked, "Do you have feelings for me?"

You froze. A strange, cold knot twisted in your stomach. “Oh, not this again,” you groaned. You looked away, instinctively crossing your arms across your chest.

“Yes, this again,” he pressed, stepping closer. “I want an answer. Please.”

“Come on, Az.” You forced control over the tremor rising in your chest. “What did I do this time? Stare at you too long? Breathe too loud? Did you mistake me scolding you for some strange forepla—”

“I heard you,” he interrupted, and the words hit like a slap.

It felt like the air stopped moving. You couldn’t breathe.

“What?”

“Tonight,” he said, voice quieter now, “I heard you and Mor. I found this in my pocket.” He pulled out a bracelet—Selene’s, the matching piece to the one Mor had worn earlier.

Your heart slammed into your ribs. You opened your mouth to explain, but nothing came out. You needed something—anything. "You—you misunderstood."

"Did I?" His shadows stirred restlessly around him. “I-I didn’t hear much. It went quiet too fast, but from what I did hear… Did I really misunderstand?”

Your face burned, the heat spreading so quickly it felt like your skin might catch fire under his stare. You turned away, pulling your arms tighter across your chest. “Azriel, I don’t—”

“Just tell me the truth,” he urged, his voice cracking. “Please.”

You couldn’t respond. The words wouldn’t come.

A long silence stretched between you.

“Okay,” Az said, and his voice was so soft, so unlike his usual tone, it almost felt foreign. “Then I need to say something.” 

"Az…" You turned to him, meeting his eyes as you said, "Just, please, don’t.”

Your response didn’t seem to register. Azriel closed his eyes, taking in a slow, deep breath, like he was steadying himself before a plunge. 

“That night,” he started, “when I cleaned up your cheek, you asked why I listened to Selene. Why I said you had feelings for me. I told you I didn’t know.” He paused, dragging his hand over his face. “I lied. I know why. It bothered me when she said it. More than I wanted to admit. I told myself it was just because it made me uncomfortable—but that wasn’t it. I think the real reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it was because a part of me wanted it to be true.”

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the way Azriel looked so exposed in front of you, but his words didn’t land right away. You blinked, trying to process, but before you could speak, he continued—his voice somehow even softer now.

“I thought if I said it out loud, you’d laugh it off. Call me crazy. Maybe you’d correct me. Then I could force myself to never think about it again. But you didn’t. And gods, the look on your face when I said it... it was like I’d hit you.” 

Another silence settled between you. For the first time, you were grateful for it, because one look at Az told you he wasn’t finished, that there was more he needed to say.

“I think I’ve always loved you,” Az said, and the words cracked something open inside you. “I didn’t know it—not at first. I thought it was normal. Of course, I wanted to be around you all the time. Of course, you’d be the first person I thought of in the morning and the last person at night.” His voice wavered, and he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as his wings fell lax. “But it’s not. It’s not normal.”

His gaze finally met yours, steady, like he was holding you there with it. You’d never seen him look at anyone like this—not Mor, not Elain, not Gwyn. 

“I can't lie to you, Y/n. I can’t pretend I don’t love you. You’re everywhere. You’re everything.”

You couldn’t breathe. The world around you narrowed, collapsing inward until there was nothing left but him. Azriel loved you. The relief that hit you almost made your knees give out. 

His chest rose and fell quickly, like he was bracing for impact. The earlier desperation was gone, replaced by something more timid. "Please," he whispered. "Say something."

The pressure in your chest—the ache that had burrowed beneath your ribs for weeks—dissipated in an instant. Every concern, every gnawing worry. All that remained was the quiet comfort that Azriel had always given you. That ease, that feeling of home you’d only ever found in him.

You exhaled, and before you could stop yourself, a laugh slipped past your lips—breathless, almost disbelieving. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk that much. Like, ever.”

Azriel blinked. For a moment, you thought you’d broken something—but then, his lips twitched, a hesitant smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Well, there was a lot of ground to cover.” He exhaled through his nose. “But if you don’t feel the same—if this isn’t what you want, I’ll step back. I won’t push. I promise.”

You wanted to cry, to laugh, to praise the Mother that he felt the same. Instead, you closed the space between you. Slowly, you reached up, fingers threading through the mess of his hair, smoothing away the strands that had fallen across his forehead. You traced the line of his cheekbone with the barest brush of your fingertips, committing it to memory, savoring the way his breath hitched beneath your touch.

You hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before cupping his face in your palm.

And then, you kissed him.

He didn’t react at first. He just stood there, completely still, like he hadn’t even processed what was happening. You started to pull away, suddenly unsure—

But then he made a sound, something like a sigh of relief, and his hands found you.

The next kiss wasn’t hesitant. His fingers pressed into your waist as he pulled you in, tilting his head, deepening it, like he didn’t want to waste another second. And you felt it—every inch of it. The ache, the longing, the unbearable relief of finally knowing. Every agonizing thought, every moment spent convincing yourself this was one-sided, crumbling beneath the warmth of his mouth against yours.

No kiss had ever felt like this. Not in all your years, not in all your life.  Like something was finally, truly yours. It was sharp, it was bright, a rush that sent you spiraling in a way you hadn’t known you could.

But even with your heart glowing in your chest, there was no dramatic shift. No world-altering moment. It just felt right. A quiet kind of certainty. The kind that settled into your bones and left you with nothing but butterflies.

You pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together, lips still brushing as if reluctant to let go. The cool touch of his shadows grazed your skin. You weren’t sure if it was them or the kiss itself that made your skin tingle.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open a second after yours. The way he looked at you—so close, his hazel eyes bright with green flecks—had your chest tightening. It made you breathless. His smile softened the furrow in his brow, the motion pulling at his cheeks in a way that made your heart stutter all over again. 

His thumb ghosted over your cheek. “Are you crying?”

You blinked, still so caught up in the haze of everything, in how your heart was doing this erratic dance that you couldn’t quite follow. You lifted a hand to your face, and—shit, there were tears. You hadn’t even noticed. “Oh. Well, guess I am,” you said, a half-laugh slipping out before you could stop it, but it sounded hollow, a little shaky. “Awkward.”

Azriel made a sound, something close to a laugh of his own, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, not fully. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?” 

“You have no idea how much I’ve been overthinking the past few weeks.”

Azriel’s expression softened as his finger moved, brushing over your lips now. “If it makes you feel better,” he said, “I’ve been in complete agony too.”

A proper laugh slipped from you. “Well, good,” you said, a little teasing, but it felt good to say it. “It does make me feel better. You deserved it a little bit.”

He smiled, amused, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. “I did, didn’t I?”

A soft hum rumbled in your chest in response, something between a smile and a sigh. His thumb continued its slow, deliberate path across your lips, tracing the edges like he was memorizing them. You didn’t stop him.

You let your hands fall, landing gently against his chest, where you could feel the steady, rhythmic pulse of his heart beneath your palm. 

“So, what do we do now?” You asked quietly, the question coming out before you could stop it. 

Azriel’s motions slowed. “What would you like to do?”

“Well, we probably have to talk about what this means.”

He nodded. “Probably.”

You couldn’t help it. “And we really need to figure out how we’re going to move forward, how this changes everything…”

“Mhm,” he murmured, his focus now completely on your face, his fingers tracing your features, exploring them in a way he’d never been able to. 

“Az,” you murmured. “Are you listening to me?”

He didn’t hesitate as he met your gaze and responded, “I would never make the mistake of not listening to you again.”

The sincerity in his voice made your breath catch, every other thought fading in the wake of it—until your stomach growled. You grimaced. 

“Actually,” you said, tapping a finger against his chest. “You know what I would really like to do now?”

“Tell me.”

“I could really go for some food.” 

Suddenly, Azriel stepped back, eyes lighting up like an excited child. You frowned at the loss of contact. “Wait here.”

Before you could even process what was happening, he was already gone, running out the door. A few seconds later, he returned, breathless, looking slightly too pleased with himself as he held both hands behind his back. “I  have something for you.”

You eyed him. “Is it a bug?”

Realistically, you knew it wasn’t. Or at least, you hoped it wasn’t. But Azriel had never looked this pleased with himself before, never this close to giddy. That, combined with the way his hands were securely tucked behind his back, reminded you that—before anything else—Azriel was your best friend. And your best friend knew exactly how to mess with you at the strangest times.

Azriel’s expression faltered for a second. “What? No. Why would it—never mind.”

Then, hesitantly, he revealed it: crumpled in a piece of an appetizer liner, slightly worse for wear, was the rosemary and honey tartlet you’d eyed earlier. You melted at the sight and reached for it gently, cradling it in your hands like something precious.

Azriel looked almost sheepish. “We can get a proper meal, but I noticed you were looking at it earlier—at the banquet. You never grabbed one. So I thought…”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. A real one. Centuries. Centuries of friendship, of knowing him better than anyone, and somehow you’d never seen this. Never noticed how deeply he noticed you. How foolish you had been. How lucky you were now. 

Azriel frowned. “What? What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, still laughing softly. “Its just— of course you noticed.” 

His lips quirked like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or suspicious. “Well, yeah.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, reaching out again, pressing your palm against his cheek for a beat before turning your focus back to the tartlet. You turned it over in your hands. “Why is it squished?”

Azriel winced, like the question itself embarrassed him. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, brushing it off.

You lifted a brow. “Okay.”

You stared at it for another moment, then turned, setting it carefully on your bed.

He frowned. “But the crumbs on your bedsheet—”

You shook your head, smiling with a teasing eye roll. “Just kiss me, neat freak.”

His protest faded as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your mouth to his. Once, then again, and again, until you were sure even his shadows felt the need to look away.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You and Azriel hadn’t slept.

Not for any reason that would have had Cassian waggling his eyebrows at you—though you did, naturally, find yourself thinking about it—but because the night had slipped away in conversation over greasy food from a little restaurant south of the townhouse.

The early morning light stretched through the windows, soft and golden, as Azriel stood at the kitchen counter making tea. You watched the familiar sight of him steeping the leaves, the way he moved like this was just any other morning.

But it wasn’t. Twelve hours ago, this had felt impossible. And now it was here.

You curled your fingers around the edge of the table, trying to process the weight of it. It wasn’t heavy, though. That was the strangest part. Not that you now knew how his lips felt against yours, or how his heartbeat sounded when it synced with your own, but how there had been no grand shift, no dramatic revelation. No bolt of lightning splitting your world in two. 

Just this—Azriel placing a mug in front of you, his fingers brushing yours, his lips quirking as he sat by you like he always had. Except there were small differences now— his chair was closer, next to you more than it was across. You found yourself focusing on smaller details, his dark lashes as he looked down at his cup, the way his fingers curled around the ceramic. You did your best to suppress any fleeting thoughts at the sight of them. Those ideas could be addressed later. 

It all made sense—the infuriating, vague notion that people had told you over the years: when you know, you know. You’d always hated that. How could no one ever explain it? How could no one ever find the words? But looking at Az now, you understood. There were no words. Just this. Just the way your heart settled at the sight of him. 

“You’re staring,” Azriel murmured, watching you over the rim of his cup.

You hummed, taking a sip of your tea. “You’re pretty.”

Azriel choked. Caught completely off guard. He set his mug down, coughing once, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were narrowed. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

“I know,” you grinned. “You’ll survive.”

Your mind drifted back to the night before—how the two of you had been desperate to catch up on all the things you had missed over the past few weeks. You’d told him about Adrin’s extensive mirthroot collection and how well you thought he’d be suited for Gwyn. He’d groaned, muttering something about needing to apologize. And then Az had told the story of how Cassian had slapped him for being an idiot. Three times. You’d really laughed at that one.

Somewhere between it all, between the easy conversation and the warmth of having him near, it had hit you again and again—this is it. This is what you could have for the rest of your life, if you were lucky.

Azriel hummed, setting his cup down. He knocked his knee against yours—once, then twice, like he was testing something. And then he reached over, grabbed the side of your chair, and scraped it just an inch closer to his.

You shot him a flat look. “Don’t tell me you’re a clingy boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Azriel raised a brow jokingly. “I don’t remember us labeling anything.”

“Oh, right. My mistake. In that case, I should probably tell Nesta to back out of the Gwyn and Adrin plan—”

“Don’t you dare.”

You smirked over your tea. “Why not? It’s not like I have a boyfriend to be upset about it.”

He stared at you for a beat, smiling as his eyes softened with a warmth that made your stomach flip. Seconds later, you were both laughing. Quiet, warm laughter that filled the kitchen, that curled around you like an embrace.

And then—

A shift, a subtle pull, like the air had thickened and the room was just a little smaller. It wasn’t a shock, nothing sudden or harsh. It was smooth, like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding until you exhaled, like the feeling of stepping into the sun after hours in the cold. 

This was it. He was it.

Azriel froze, eyes widening as the feeling settled. Then, like he was testing something—searching—he tugged, just a bit, like he wasn’t sure if it was real. You sucked in a breath, hand instinctively rising to your chest. You felt it, in the way it seemed to resonate through every nerve, like a pulse echoing through your ribs.

He cleared his throat, a soft sound, almost nervous, and then his voice came out, rough but teasing, “Clingy mate, actually.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. A laugh caught in your throat, half breathless, half disbelieving. And then you were kissing him, pressing your forehead against his, letting the warmth of him, of this, sink into every part of you.

“Bold of you to assume I accept.”

Azriel laughed deeply before he was kissing you again, grinning against your lips as you laughed into his. And when you pulled back, breathless and giddy, you knew—without a single doubt—that you’d never stop choosing this.

Never stop choosing him.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note:

and.... it is a happy ending after all :D awsf? nation how are we feeling tonight🎤

theyre mates, your honor!!! theyre mates and in love!!! im so sorry this took so long my loves, i rewrote it like 6 times. im still worried it doesnt do them justice but hehe we ball

i do have at least two more works for this little universe! a small lil epilogue planned for these sweethearts AND another surprise piece... which is already at 10k (hint: we get…another perspective of the night. plus a fun lil convo with a certain matedhaired male...). the surprise should be out next week, and the proper epilogue (with a timejump!) sometime after. and im always so so open to doing lil one-shots for this universe

thank you all again for reading <3 i hope i've done this lovestory justice.

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @motheroffae @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia  @yesiamthatwierd @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli 

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[byunpum]

Scent

Pair: Tsu'tey x Human Reader ( jake human sister )

Warning: A little spicy, tsu'tey (in my opinion) being curious.

Note: Me posting something, knowing I've ignored my tumblr for months. Bye~!

After the war, life for tsu'tey had been very quiet. Everything was back to normal, well almost everything. A large number of humans decided to settle in Pandora and close to the clan. The idea of having humans among the clan was not pleasant to him, for him they were a bit unpleasant. They were strange, everything they did was strange to him. And the most disturbing thing to him was the scent the humans gave off. The Na'vi had a highly developed sense of smell and the strange scent of humans was not pleasant for him. They always tried to use some scents to disguise their scent of origin, according to Jake it was “perfumes and soaps”. Tsu'tey didn't think it was cool to use those things. But there was one scent which had caught all his attention. And the owner of that scent came from you.

The first time tsu'tey registered your scent, was when he happened to pass by jake's side. He was talking to one of those humans. But as soon as he walked by you, he stopped dead in his tracks. The scent he was smelling was something… amazing. He felt a shiver run down his spine, he couldn't understand where the smell was coming from. It wasn't until jake tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced them. Tsu'tey turns to look at you. You smiled warmly back at him, giving him the 'I see you' sign. Tsu'tey caught on a little too late, he was so immersed in the scent you were giving off that he barely listened to what Jake was saying. He couldn't believe that you were the carrier of that peculiar scent. From that day on, tsu'tey did everything he could to be by your side.

It got to the point that he didn't care about the comments they made, it was strange to see a man like tsu'tey behind a human. Always trying to help you, or try to talk to you even for a couple of seconds, he had to smell your scent at least once a day. He was becoming obsessed, and if his little obsession was not dying down. He began to notice how your scent became stronger when he was around you. It had to be that reason, because on one of the occasions he came to talk to you. You were talking to neytiri, and he could feel how your scent was the usual one. But as soon as neytiri left you alone, he could feel it getting more and more potent. He was going crazy and he knew it. It wasn't healthy, what he was creating for you. You were supposed to be a human, he wouldn't have to find you attractive or desirable…but here he is. If you asked him to kiss your feet he would do it, even if you asked him to kill someone and let him put his nose in your neck sweet spot for only 5 minutes or less, he would do it.

On the other hand, you were oblivious to this situation. You thought tsu'tey was very kind and gentlemanly. He was always helping you, and available to you. You liked the attention he gave you. Besides…tsu'tey was painfully handsome. You liked him from head to toe, you found him beautiful. And having him this close wasn't helping you much. But you enjoyed his company…there was just a nice friendship between the two of you.

That particular day, tsu'tey could smell your scent from far away, he could tell you were about 30 feet away from him. And he could recognize it was you, turning around to see you approaching him with a basket in your hands. “Hello!!!” you greet him, smiling at him. You were hurting his senses, because if it were up to him he would have already dragged you into his arms. You looked very pretty, in the traditional na'vi clothing. Tsu'tey scanned you up and down, laughing a little. “Do you like it? Neytiri gave me this outfit…she made it for me” you speak, taking a quick turn. “I'm surprised at how well it suits you “tsu'tey says, looking at you again. But now with more determination, the little clothing gave freedom to your scent to be released all over the place, he was getting nervous. “Yeah…she says I should wear more family stuff…you know, since jake is my brother and he is now…” you stop talking, when you notice that the man is barely paying attention to you. “Tsu'tey…are you okay?” you ask, waving your hand in his face. Snapping tsu'tey out of his stasis. He laughs nervously, settling more on his feet. “Yes, sorry. You were saying?” tsu'tey sees you laugh.

“I was going to ask you if you could help me pick some berries…the ones near the river. You know they're a little tall…and I need help” you speak, tsu'tey doesn't think for a second and goes to help you. Getting up from the ground, he starts walking towards the river. The walk from the village to the river was about 15 minutes. When you arrived you both decided that the best thing to do was to pick the berries that were on top of some branches, besides it was much more private for you. Your very presence in the clan could be a bit intimidating for some na'vi. And this was an area where they used to come frequently. Tsu'tey helped you up, placing his hands on your waist, to get you up easily. But not before bringing his face close to your back, sniffing you. Closing his eyes, enjoying your scent. It was a momentary thing, when you climb up the branch. “Are you coming?” you keep walking towards where the berries were. “Yes…I'm coming” tsu'tey swallows hard, trying to control himself.

Tsu'tey helps you for a while, picking the prettiest berries that were on the highest leaves. Sitting down to rest, and to watch you pick in the other corner. You turn and give him a smile. Tsu'tey smiles back. Aside from the fact that the man was obsessed with your essence, he liked the way you were. You were the opposite of your brother. You were calm and quiet. You didn't do risky things and avoided getting into trouble. Tsu'tey enjoyed your company, and he was sure you did too. He could feel it. “These berries are so sweet” you speak, approaching where tsu'tey was sitting. “Yes…and this is their best season” tsu'tey speaks, but is puzzled when you sit down in front of him. You sit in front of him, cross-legged. This new position makes your scent much stronger than at other times. Freezing in his seat, his eyes widen.

However, you keep talking as if nothing is wrong. You are placing the basket next to you, taking some berries to clean them. You can tell, you were the only one talking, tsu'tey might be silent, but he wasn't talking at all. You look up and you can see that he was different. He was looking at you seriously, his pupils were dilated, his posture was straight, his ears were up and so was his tail. You could notice that his breathing was agitated, and although his look seemed to be one of discomfort… you knew it was not. It was one more of lust, you could see how he was swallowing hard. “Tsu'tey?” you speak softly, getting her attention.

“What's wrong with you? Are you ok?” you ask, tsu'tey doesn't answer you, and keeps looking at you. Analyzing your whole body, your scent was ambushing him. It was too strong for him, too sweet. And now with your new outfit you were not helping him. “Why do you smell like that?” says tsu'tey in a serious tone. You grow more nervous, closing your legs out of instinct. The look on tsu'tey's face at this moment was intimidating, but not in the bad way. “I have a bad smell?” you begin to smell your hand, as you watch tsu'tey approach you. Placing his hands on the ground of the branch, leaning a little over you. To now be much closer to you. “Don't do it” tsu'tey places his hand on your knee, moving it to the side. Causing your legs to spread for him. You watch as he closes his eyes, and sighs deeply. Your heart wanted to pound out of your chest, he was getting so much closer to you. “You have a scent…delicious” tsu'tey moves over your body, getting closer to your neck. Pressing his nose to your neck, breathing deeply. Words didn't come out of your mouth, you were surprised tsu'tey didn't use to behave like this with you. Well with anyone…and now he was almost on top of you. Balancing on his hands, sniffing your neck.

Tsu'tey felt so out of control, it was like he couldn't control what he was doing. He was feeling anxious, he wanted to know where that scent that was driving him crazy was coming from. Slowly moving down as he sniffed your skin, down your chest until he reached your breasts. Breathing hard again, to continue, the only thing you could do was to stay still. -T-tsu” your voice is interrupted when you see that tsu'tey had already reached your lower belly, stopping for a moment. At this moment tsu'tey was crouched over you, very close to his goal. He gave you a quick glance, and if you had to be realistic his look was one of hunger. As if no one could stop him, though you didn't plan to. Tsu'tey wouldn't get that far, would he. It was then, when he decided to go a little lower. First you thought he was going to smell one of your thighs. But you were wrong, when he went down he parked his face completely in your clothed cunt.

...

...

Your eyes widen in surprise, as you feel him breathing much harder than before. In a quick movement you move your foot towards tsu'tey's face and kick him in the face. This makes him move away. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you yell at him, this is all taking you by surprise. You liked tsu'tey but no one has ever behaved like this before. “What's wrong? I'm just sniffing you” speaks tsu'tey caressing his face a little bit. “What for? And why are you sniffing me…there” you close your legs slowly, but you see how tsu'tey stops you. “Don't close your legs…this is where that rich smell is coming from” tsu'tey says, laughing playfully. “Oh my god, no no” you close your legs tightly. “You're talking about the smell of my parts?” you were more concerned now. “I'm talking about your whole scent, I've never smelled someone with this scent before. No na'vi woman has a scent like this…it's exciting” tsu'tey speaks a little excited. You had never seen him like this, he looked like someone else. He was still very close to you, now he had come completely over you. You were looking up, observing his whole body attitude.

“I have noticed that when I am close to you…or when I touch you” tsu'tey lowers his voice, raising his hand to now touch your thigh, caressing your exposed skin a little. “I can notice how the smell gets stronger…and I love that” tsu'tey lowers his face, moving closer to your face. You push him back, causing tsu'tey to sit back down. You were so embarrassed, tsu'tey was talking about the excitement you felt towards him, like it was nothing. You wanted to bury yourself alive, you were getting so nervous, you didn't know what to say or do to him. “Tsu'tey…but you must not approach him like that. You must ask” you looked down, tsu'tey was looking at you playfully. He is silent for a moment, seeing how you are a little nervous. Squeezing your legs together so nothing would come out. “So…could I smell you a little? “tsu'tey asks. You knew that the attitude tsutey was showing was something without mischief, something he wasn't doing on purpose. It was instinctive on his part.

“I don't know what to tell you…we barely know each other, and yes I really like you” you try to change what you just said but there was a lot going on right now. “I mean…we should wait, yeah?you know what I mean?” you try to make him understand you, it's not like you didn't want tsu'tey between your legs. But it was still too early for that. “Ok… but can I be closer to you?” asks tsu'tey again. You nod with your face, watching as he moves closer to now be literally glued next to you. His tail began to dig into your waist, and he kept looking at you.

Oh my gosh…where have you gotten to. You had to explain to tsu'tey that personal space in humans is much more important than he thinks.

[nanaslutt]

always the hero

ʚ pairing: nanami kento x reader

ʚ cont: fem reader, oral (nanami!r), deep throating, established relationship, kinda sub nanami??

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

Once the door clicks shut, the silence that falls is deafening. Nanami is backed up against the door, with you standing too close to him, but neither of you move, neither of you breathes. Ever since the argument earlier, things have been tense. That tension that radiates between you is now filling up the room and making breathing nearly impossible. Unbearable.

After a few moments pass, Nanami clears his throat and steals your eyes to his, but before his parted lips can make words, you raise a finger to them and shake your head, all in silence. His brows furrow, but you don't feel like talking. Not right now. Not like this.

Dragging your finger down his nape, he lifts his chin as you trace down his chest, staying for a second longer on the warm skin that peaks out from his unbuttoned collar. Your touches are painfully slow and torturous, meant to drag this out until he's clenching his fists and breathing ragged.

You stop at his belt line and pull his tucked shirt up, dragging it out of the confines from where it's tucked into his pants. Through it, Nanami is quiet, but his breath hitches when you pull the shirt free. Lifting the fabric, you toy a single finger between his belt and lower abdomen.

Nanami lifts a hand and grips your wrist--not to tell you to stop, but his eyes are full of questions, unspoken thoughts, and... Lust. He's exactly where you want him. "What are you doing?" His deep whispered voice seems to echo off the walls of your shared home.

Holding eye contact, you pull your finger out and use both hands to undo his belt, his hand still cautiously on your wrist. "I thought I told you not to speak right now?" You said, the clinking of metal filling up the space around you. His breath hitches when you bump into the proof of his arousal while undoing his belt, and his throat bobs as he looks down at your hands that make slow, precise work of him.

"We should talk." He says, his grip on your wrist turning firm.

Earlier, Nanami put himself in danger to eliminate a curse--something you had told him before not to do. The last time he did it, you weren't with him, so your fright wasn't as potent, but seeing how close he got to... 

Seeing it so close made you feel helpless. It was a feeling you never wanted to replicate again.

"I don't want to talk." You said, slowly dropping to your knees while looking up at him through your lashes.

Nanami pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and fights back a groan at the sight, warring with himself internally. You look so beautiful, but he knows you're still upset with him. 

You run your hand up his thighs and stop at the top before sliding your fingers into the band of his boxers and sliding them down inch by inch. His breath seems to stop completely as you rid him of his clothes, slowly barring him and giving him no choice but to repent in the way you want him to. By letting you take him.

"Sweetheart..." He whispers through a groan when his cock bounces free of its confines, wet at the tip and so hard he's fucking twitching.

"Kento." You chastise. What about not talking doesn't he understand?

His hand threads into your hair gently, and his eyes look so tortured and pained. You love it. "I don't deserve this." He says so softly, almost insecurely. And you nod. "No, you don't"

"Then why-"

Your hand wraps around his impossibly stiff cock, and he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply through his teeth while the back of his head knocks into the door. Such a simple touch and Nanami Kento is debased to his most basic animalistic urges. You rub the head of his cock, massaging your thumb into that sensitive spot on the underside of his head, and are rewarded with his abs clenching and a drop of precum.

"Speak again, and I'll stop." With those parting words, you suck him between your lips and he fucking melts. 

Kento grunts, his free hand slamming into the wall behind him in a balled fist when you effortlessly slide him to the back of your throat. This isn't about his pleasure, much as it seems. You aren't going to take it easy or spare his pride, this is to torture him, to make him feel as helpless as he did you.

His hand in your hair tightens, but he makes no move to thrust into your mouth or shove you onto his cock. His body jerks and his back arches when you take him too deep, but he catches himself before he thrusts into your warm mouth as much as he wants to.

A long grunt that turns into a groan is torn free from his throat when you start bobbing your head up and down at a merciless pace, using a hand to stroke the rest of his length that doesn't fit in your mouth, while you slide your other hand up his shirt to caress his abdomen and feel what you do to him.

His abs flex under your touch and your ministrations. His breathing is ragged and ruined, and sounds that would usually be hidden back from your ears, are being forced free. He's not hiding a thing. You didn't even know he could be this loud while receiving head even after being together for a year. The sounds are mostly pants and grunts, but they're sounds all the same, and they're making you feel insane.

Pre-cum floods your tongue when you swallow around him and time your thrusts with your hand, determined to jerk his soul out of his cock when he cums. And he feels fucking close. He keeps twitching inside your mouth, his abs are flexing his body is bowing, and his breaths are turning choppy and debauched.

"Sweetheart... A-ah." You know you said you would stop if he spoke again, but when he sounded so fucking good, it was hard to want to stop. "I'm going to cum, stop." The last word is grunted with a surprising amount of restraint and control, but you continue regardless as if you didn't hear it.

This time, his hips do jerk, and the precum that floods your mouth makes it feel like he's already cum. "My love, you need to-" You look up in time to watch his mouth fall open and his eyes roll back in his head before he bites down on his teeth and groans through them. "You need to stop or I'm going to cum."

Always so considerate, even when he's getting blown an inch from his life. Popping off from his cock only long enough to talk, you rake your nails down his abdomen and jerk him off as quickly as you were sucking him, not wanting him to lose that buildup. "Cum in my mouth."

He looks like he wants to retort, but it dies on his tongue when you take him back into your mouth and double your efforts, massaging your tongue on that one spot that makes him see fucking stars. 

It only takes a second before his grunts turn to pants and his pitch raises in volume. You hold eye contact with him while he watches you take him to the near base, then he explodes, and you taste the specific taste of him on your tongue.

His face screws into pleasure and his body goes rigid as his balls empty into your mouth. It's a fucking pleasure seeing him come undone. His cheeks and ears are flushed, even in the dark they look like bright red tomatoes, and his throat that bobs as he struggles to do so much as swallow is beautiful.

When you pull his cock free, he twitches and his hand balls in your hair before he's dropping to his knees and slamminghis mouth to yours, tasting himself on your tongue. He grunts and groans into the kiss, licking inside like he's greedy to share some of the burden. And you love it. 

He parts your lips and cradles your face in his hands, wiping away the saliva on your cheeks and lips. "I don't deserve you, but please let me return the favor." He whispers, a misbehaving hand sliding down your body to rub you over your panties.

Your eyes roll back, and his lips part in awe as he decides between watching you as he rubs your clit, or watching your face screw into pleasure. "Please, my love." He begs in that sinfully deep voice.

He's so damn polite.

[velarisdusk]

Something Precious

Azriel x Reader

word count: 2.1k content: [ nun crazy just reader having mega insecure thoughts lol ] summary: Azriel has always been steady, unwavering—but the way you look at him makes something shift. Small moments, fleeting words, a tension neither of you acknowledge… until it’s impossible for him to ignore. author's note: IM BACK BABEYY!!!!! this ones a bit short but i thought it'd be a good one to help get myself writing again. i really like how it turned out, just a nice, sweet lil fic nothin crazy :) also not beta'd bc i just needed to get something out NEOW. hope this is to your liking anon thank u for the req!! <3 ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its golden glow casting shifting patterns across the walls of the House of Wind. The night outside was crisp and quiet, Velaris resting under a blanket of stars, but here, in this small cocoon of warmth and firelight, everything felt still. 

Azriel lay stretched out on the couch, wings spilling over the cushions in an easy sprawl. His shadows had retreated for the night, content to flicker lazily at the edges of the room, leaving nothing between you but firelight and the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. 

You lay draped across his chest, your weight a comfortable, grounding thing. His heartbeat thudded beneath your cheek, slow and sure, and the warmth of his skin seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. One of his hands rested at the small of your back, tracing lazy circles under your sweater, while the other curled lightly around the nape of your neck, fingertips brushing idly over your skin. 

You sighed, nuzzling deeper against him, letting the scent of cedar and night-chilled wind wrap around you like a second blanket. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly over his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and when you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, your heart did that ridiculous little stutter it always did. 

Because Azriel was looking at you like that again—like you were something precious. Something worth holding onto. 

The firelight flickered in his hazel eyes, turning them molten, but there was something softer underneath. Something quiet and steady, tucked between the affection in his gaze and the slight curve of his mouth. You weren’t sure you’d ever get used to it. 

You exhaled, barely above a whisper, as if afraid you might shatter the fragile silence. “I can’t believe you’re here with me.”

It wasn’t meant to be a confession. Just a passing thought, one that had been lingering in the back of your mind since the moment you started whatever this was—since the moment you realized someone like him could want someone like you. 

But Azriel stilled beneath you. It was subtle, just a flicker of tension in his fingertips, a pause in the slow drag of his hand against your back. Gone in an instant. 

You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been laying on his chest, if you hadn’t felt the way his heartbeat faltered for just a second before steadying again. You didn’t call attention to it, just as Az hadn’t. Hadn’t asked what you meant. 

Instead, he shifted slightly, adjusting his wings so they wrapped around you both, pulling you deeper into the warmth of his body. His fingers resumed their slow, absentminded tracing, his thumb sweeping over the back of your neck in a way that made you shiver. 

“Where else would I be?” he murmured. 

You huffed a soft laugh, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. Anywhere. Everywhere. Someone like you doesn’t end up with someone like me.

But you didn’t say that. Just let yourself sink into his warmth, let yourself savor the way his arms tightened around you, as if holding you closer would make you understand. 

Because Azriel didn’t know—not yet. But he was starting to notice. 

And he didn’t like it. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Dinner at the River House was always an event. Not a formal one by any means—the kind where the table was too small for all the elbows knocking together where laughter wove itself between the clinking of glasses and the scrape of silverware. Where the air smelled of roasted lamb and rosemary, of spiced wine and honeyed bread, warmth curling through the candlelit room like an embrace.

Nesta and Cassian had somehow gotten into a debate over who was worse at flirting—Rhysand or Azriel—which had quickly turned into a full-blown conversation about all their past entanglements. 

“You’re all fools,” Amren said simply, swirling the deep red in her glass. “None of you were half as charming as you thought you were.”

Cassian scoffed. “I was charming.”

Nesta didn’t even look up as she speared a piece of meat. “Debatable.”

Across the table, Mor snickered. “He was charming, in the way a golden retriever puppy is charming.”

Azriel smirked into his wine glass. Cassian pointed at him accusingly. “You don’t get to laugh. You spent centuries avoiding love like the Mother herself would smite you for it.”

“That’s because he’s got high standards,” Mor shot back. “Honestly, I’m just surprised Az’s even dating.”

Feyre hummed, shifting Nyx higher against her shoulder as he dozed, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “Dating? I’m surprised he’s managed to keep someone around long enough to–”

“Feyre.” His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was enough to cut her off. His expression was still easy, his lips curling at the edges, but there was something there—something firm, something protective. 

Your stomach twisted. 

The words weren’t meant to hurt. You knew that. They were lighthearted, Feyre smiling at her brother-in-law, the way siblings poked fun without malice. And Azriel had cut her off before she could finish—before she could say something that might have struck deeper.

But it was already unraveling in your head.

High standards. 

Avoiding love.

Managed to keep someone around long enough.

Because is that all this is? A fling? Something temporary? Another short-lived thing in a string of them? 

Your grip tightened subtly around your glass, the air suddenly too warm, your pulse thrumming a little too fast. And before you could stop yourself, before you could sit with the spiraling thoughts for even a second longer, you laughed. Too loud. Too sharp. A sound that cut through the warmth of the room rather than settling into it. 

“Yeah, just wait until he realizes how much of a pain I am.”

Silence, just for a beat. 

Azriel’s head snapped toward you, sharp enough that you felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze landing on you, the furrow in his brows, the shift in the air between you. But you didn’t look. Couldn’t. 

Rhysand chuckled, breaking the brief pause, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. You’re practically a saint for dealing with him.”

Cassian smirked, lifting his glass. “Agreed.”

Laughter rippled through the table again, and just like that, the moment passed—folded itself into the fabric of the conversation, buried beneath the easy back and forth, the scraping of plates, the pouring of wine. 

Azriel let it go. Again. 

But it lingered.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Azriel eventually pushed past that uneasy feeling. It wasn’t a big deal—not really. He figured you probably hadn’t even meant anything by it. But something about it rubbed him the wrong way, settled uneasily in his chest, and he couldn’t explain why. 

But then it happened again. 

And again. 

Little things, small enough that they would have slipped through the cracks if he hadn’t been paying attention. The way you waved off his compliments, dodging them with a laugh like they were jokes rather than truths. The way your smile sometimes faltered, like you’d caught yourself enjoying the moment a little too much. The way your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve when he touched you, like you were steadying yourself. 

And then there was the way you looked at him—that was what unsettled him the most. 

Because he was used to being looked at in a thousand different ways—calculating, cautious, reverent, fearful. People looked at him and saw a legend, a warning, a weapon. He’d spent a lifetime standing on the outskirts of things, watching them unfold from the shadows, knowing that no matter how close he got, he would always be separate.

But you looked at him like he was something untouchable. 

Like you didn’t quite believe he was real. 

Like you were waiting for the moment he’d come to his senses and walk away. 

And Azriel—who had spent years mastering the art of patience, of knowing when to hold back—found himself growing more and more frustrated. 

Not at you, gods, never at you. 

But at the way you’d convinced yourself that you were less. 

That he was something more. 

It all came to a head one evening in the training ring. 

You weren’t training, just sitting on one of the benches, legs tucked beneath you, book resting open in your lap. You liked being here with him, and he liked having you here, even if neither of you’d ever said it out loud. He could feel your eyes on him as he moved through his drills, the steady weight of your attention like a tether pulling him back to earth. 

When he finally finished, muscles burning, wings flexing as he rolled his shoulders, he walked over to you. You grinned up at him, eyes warm despite the sharp winter air, and handed him a cup of water without a word.

Az took a long drink before murmuring, “You staring at me again?”

You scoffed, though the way your mouth twitched told him you were fighting a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, resting a hand on the bench’s backrest beside you, bracing himself as he leaned down. “Too late.”

You made a face, but the slight pink creeping up your neck gave you away. He kissed you softly, just a brush of lips, tasting warmth and wind and something undeniably you.

And then you said it.

“I still don’t know what you see in me.”

You said it casually. Offhanded. Like it wasn’t a confession. Like it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve said.

Azriel  went still.

The words settled like a stone in his chest, heavy and suffocating. And suddenly, every little moment from the past few weeks clicked into place—the deflected compliments, the hesitations, the way you looked at him like you were waiting for him to wake up and realize you weren't enough.

The frustration that had been simmering in the back of his mind finally snapped.

His voice was quiet, but firm. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. “Do what?”

“That.” He straightened, looking down at you, jaw tight. “Talk about yourself like that.”

You shifted, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in his tone. “Az, I was just—”

“I mean it.” His wings flared slightly, a flicker of restrained emotion. “You say things like that all the time. Like you don’t think you belong here. Like I’m some…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Some gift the Mother decided to bestow on you.”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t finished.

“You don’t think I notice, but I do,” he said, voice softer now, rough around the edges. “I can see it in the way you dodge compliments, the way you downplay yourself like you’re the lucky one—as if I’m not the one who should be grateful every damn day that you want to be with me.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. “That’s not—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

And when your eyes met, something inside Az ached.

Because you really didn’t see it.

Didn’t see what he saw every time he looked at you—the quiet strength, the unwavering kindness, the way you fit so effortlessly into the parts of him that had always felt empty.

Didn’t see how, before you, he had spent centuries standing on the outside looking in, wondering if he would ever have anything or anyone just for himself.

Didn’t see how you were already everything.

Azriel exhaled, slow and steady, forcing himself to find the words. “You are not some… temporary thing I decided to entertain myself with.” He took your hand, curling your fingers between his own. “You’re not lucky to have me.” He squeezed, firm but gentle. “I’m lucky to have you.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You looked like you wanted to argue, to tell him he had it backwards, but there was something raw in his expression—something that made you hesitate.

Az lifted your joined hands and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of yours, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “Stop acting like you’re less than.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, you exhaled shakily and leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I am.”

Az closed his eyes, letting himself breathe you in. And then he whispered, “Then let me remind you.”

And he would.

As many times as it took.

[tgirlmechanicock]

When your girlfriend first told you she wanted to put you in a Poké Ball, the first thing you did was laugh. You felt a little bad, seeing the expression on her face afterward, but it was just silly, you know? Poké Balls were for Pokémon, for pets. Obviously she couldn't do that to you, you were a person.

It was a while before she said it again, but the next time was when she had her teeth on your neck and your hips in her hands. She whispered husky against your skin about how badly she just wanted to catch you and keep you in a way that no one could separate you two ever again. It was cute - the gesture, at least - but that was what pet play was for. You already had a collar with a little bell on it, she guided you around by a leash sometimes. You told her that, and she went quiet, her eyes dark and intense and fierce.

After that, you couldn't help but find yourself... looking, sometimes. Staring at the way trainers and their Pokémon interacted. The way an Eevee would snuggle up into their master's lap, or how pretty a Furfrou would look after a grooming. Even those Pokémon in the wild that you'd pass by started to feel....... hollow in a way you couldn't understand.

Some criminal gang showed up on the news one day, and they started boasting about their Poké Balls (designed after some old weird black Poké Balls with eyes on them that showed up at some ruin somewhere) could catch Pokémon that already had an owner, and even worse, could possibly catch more than Pokémon. Officer Jenny decried this and publicly stated it was an impossibility, but as you watched the news, you could feel the tension in your girlfriend, her intense stare boring holes into the TV set.

A week later, a night of passion, tugging your collar as she buried herself in you over and over, and near the end with you dazed and panting and practically unconscious, she reached to the side table. It was silly, you thought, she didn't wear condoms - no. Not that. Sleek and black, obsidian purple lines and a glaring eye, the Poké Ball was intimidating in a way that went beyond the fear you felt in your gut. A primal, dangerous fear, the fear only a prey can comprehend when it sees the gaping maw of a predator.

You wanted to run, you wanted to scream and tell her no and thrash against her and tell her that this was stupid and illegal and... But you didn't. You didn't protest as she pressed the button to your neck, a needy, keening whine falling from your lips as it flashed and-

In a flash of red, you were back on the bed, blinking in surprise, panting and disoriented. You must have gone in and come back out, with no perception of the time in between. You felt... fine. No. That's not it.

You felt wrong. Different. Broken.

When you wore your collar for her, there was something beyond the physical discomfort of leather tight against skin. There was something deeper there. A feeling of domestication, a feeling of ownership. The knowledge that the collar can be grabbed or clipped by a leash and you will always comply. She didn't overpower you physically - she didn't need to. The implication was enough. The subservience was enough.

This was that, tenfold. In your gut, in your heart, in your brain you felt a complete hold on your psyche. Every atom in you was drawn to your girlfriend now, Poké Ball in her hand, like a magnet. You wanted to be against her, you needed to be touching her, you needed to be hers.

"Up," she said. You sat up. You didn't even think, your body moved before conscious thought. "Off the bed." You did. Legs swinging over, even as your mind struggled and bent against the commands. There was a lash around your heart. "Stand." Up you went. Trembling, gasping, sweating with tears pouring down your cheeks. You could move, you twitched your fingers to make sure of it, but you could not go against a command your girlfriend made, not while she was the one holding the Poké Ball.

You could never disobey her again.

You sobbed, falling into her arms as she stood beside you, trembling like a leaf as she held you and scratched your back, kissing needily up your jaw and neck. You didn't need the leash anymore. You didn't need the collar or the promise of pet play or the implication of subservience.

You belong to her, now.

Forever.

[kashverse]

your boyfriend coaching a girls’ sports teams is a fascinating study of chaos, discipline, and emotional whiplash. it is also a terrifying display of how much power one person can have over impressionable minds. if anyone ever questions how deeply a coach can shape the future, they need only observe the absolute mayhem that unfolds under the leadership of said boyfriend.

gojo’s football team

“ladies, we must slay,” gojo declares, standing in the middle of the field, sunglasses perched on his nose like he’s about to give a ted talk instead of coaching a group of five- to fifteen-year-olds in a sport that he just barely understands. he claps his hands once. the team stands at attention. the youngest, a tiny but fierce five-year-old named mei, raises a hand. “coach gojo, what’s slay?”

“good question, mei dear!” gojo beams. “slay is when you dominate in style. it’s when you flip your hair after a touchdown, when your cleats match your energy, when—” he pauses dramatically, lowering his shades to wink at them, “—you leave your enemies in the dust and look good doing it.”

“what about actual football?” asks misaki, one of the older girls, clearly tired of his nonsense.

“yes, yes, there’s that too,” he waves a hand dismissively. “but listen, coordination is key. we can’t just play well, we have to look well. what’s our game plan today?”

the team groans in unison: “flip the hair, score the goal.”

“atta girls.”

the game begins, and despite his ridiculous antics, gojo’s training somehow works. every single touchdown is punctuated with a dramatic hair flip. even the girls with short hair have perfected an imaginary one, jerking their heads back in a movement so fierce that their opponents are momentarily stunned. “see?” gojo says smugly as the team wins their game. “dominance. in style.”

geto’s swim team

in contrast, geto’s approach is far calmer. he leans against the pool’s edge, arms crossed, nodding at his team with an approving smile. “good work, everyone,” he says, high-fiving a seven-year-old who looks like she’s about to pass out from exhaustion. “coach, can we rest now?” asks hana, one of the older girls, between gasps for air. “of course,” he says kindly. then he claps his hands together. 

“right after you double up.”

there’s a moment of silence. someone whimpers.

“coach—”

“you heard me,” he says, and suddenly, his previous warmth is gone. “double up.”

“but—”

“double. up.”

and then, like a switch has been flipped, the entire team triples their swimming speed. they slice through the water like sharks chasing prey, their strokes precise, their turns flawless. geto watches with quiet satisfaction, nodding approvingly as a twelve-year-old girl overtakes her teammate with the determination of an olympic athlete. once the session ends and the team is gasping at the edge of the pool, he pats them on the back like nothing happened. “great job today, girls.”

“you’re a menace,” one of them wheezes. he chuckles. 

“i know.”

sukuna’s badminton team

if gojo is chaos disguised as charisma and geto is warmth that turns to terror, sukuna is just terror. “victory at all costs,” he says before every game. before every practice. before every team dinner. it is their mantra, their religion, their unshakable truth. the team does not question it.

“if your opponent is faster, be faster. if they’re smarter, be smarter. if they want it more,” sukuna crosses his arms, voice dangerously low, “rip it from their goddamn hands.”

this is why his team plays like demons. they lunge for the shuttlecock like it’s the last meal on earth, their movements so aggressive that referees often ask if they’ve been trained in hand-to-hand combat. during one particular match, his youngest player, aki, executes a perfect smash that sends the shuttlecock flying into the opposing team’s side with such force that it bounces off the ground and hits the net.

“hell yeah, kid!” sukuna roars, slamming a fist into his palm. aki beams, vibrating with murderous joy. when the match ends and his team emerges victorious, they march off the court like soldiers who have conquered a nation. and then, the moment they step off the court—

“hiiiiiii, coach!” aki chirps, her demon-like aggression completely gone as she waves at him sweetly. “hello, aki,” he deadpans.

“did i do good?”

“you crushed their spirits,” he says approvingly.

“yay!”

the duality is terrifying.

toji’s american football team

if gojo is about style and flair, toji is about pure, unrelenting rage. “alright, listen up, you little punks,” toji snarls, pacing up and down the field. he has the kind of presence that makes even the stadium lights feel dimmer. “you wanna throw that ball? you wanna make it count? then stop thinking like soft little kids and start thinking like warriors.” the team stares at him, waiting. he stops, narrows his eyes. 

“who here has an ex?”

silence. then, one of the older girls, yuki, hesitantly raises a hand. “me.”

“he cheat?”

“…yes.”

“good.” he gestures to the ball. “that’s him. throw him to hell.” 

she blinks, then flings the ball so hard it nearly breaks the goalpost.  “holy shit,” one of her teammates mutters.

toji smirks. “next.”

one by one, the girls line up, channeling heartbreak into sheer destruction. passes become bullets, tackles become acts of war. by the end of practice, the opposing team’s coach is watching in terror as toji laughs darkly from the sidelines. post-practice, toji sits on the bleachers, grinning as his players gather around. he knows his power. “so,” he says casually, leaning forward. “what’s the latest?”

“mai said rena kissed her ex at the pep rally,” one of the girls whispers.  toji nods solemnly. “truly disgusting. use that next practice.”

nanami’s fencing team

nanami does not play games. he does not deal in nonsense. fencing is about skill, precision, discipline. unfortunately, fencing is also mental warfare, and sometimes, nanami indulges.

“focus,” he tells one of his fencers before a match. “your opponent is skilled, but you are better.” she nods, shifting her grip. then, nanami leans in slightly.

“also, i overheard her coach say she doesn’t think you’re fast enough.”

the fencer freezes. her head snaps toward him. “she said what?”

“mm,” nanami hums, adjusting his watch. “just a passing remark. perhaps she was right.”

“she wasn’t.”

the match is over in seconds.

nanami watches as his fencer destroys her opponent, a quiet smirk forming as the referee announces the win. he nods once when his student turns back to him, eyes burning. 

“i knew you had it in you.”

she exhales, looking down at her foil. “…was that even true?” 

nanami checks his watch again. “does it matter?”

choso’s basketball team

how choso became a basketball coach is a mystery, but no one dares to question it. he is too pure, too kind. the girls adore him. even the referees, who should remain unbiased, get emotional when they see him cheering. “you got this,” choso tells his team before a match, his voice soft but certain. “i believe in you.”

his team believes in him. they run faster, shoot cleaner, steal like their lives depend on it. when one of his players gets a foul and has to step off, she almost cries—not from the penalty, but from the fact that she has disappointed choso. “it’s okay,” he says gently, kneeling beside her. “you did your best.”

“…i’ll do better.”

“i know you will.”

by the time the team gets back on the court, they are playing with a vengeance. it is not about winning. it is about making coach choso proud. when they clutch the game-winning basket, choso pulls out a homemade banner. he made it himself.

the girls almost start sobbing.

“you guys did amazing,” choso says, smiling. one of his players full-on cries into his shoulder. 

“he’s too good for this world,” one of the opposing players mutters.