#This is NOT a salt fic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tadpolesonalgae · 1 month ago

Text

Salt On My Tongue[***]

Dark!Azriel x Vanserra!Reader

warnings: themes of somnophilia, bdsm, dacryphilia; implied use of an aphrodisiac and sleeping medicine; noncon; masturbation; fingering; cum play; (arguably) incorrect use of underwear; spying?

word count: 8,118

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The sun is still rising from the horizon, casting a deep orange gold across the tiles of the kitchen floor when Azriel enters, shadows gliding in his wake, and you’d guess he likely hasn’t slept.

“Morning,” you greet, a faint smile on your mouth, watching him hopefully as he makes his way to the teapot sat in the middle of the small table, pouring himself a cup. It isn’t often he visits since he’s kept busy with his own work, dealing with who knows what in the dark shadows that cling to him. That and the whole point of you being here is to keep your existence under wraps. It’s unlikely anyone would get suspicious, particularly since you’re convinced he and his brothers are the only ones who even know the location of this safe house, but he still keeps the visits to a strict minimum. Not like anyone would come looking for you, after the bargain that was struck between your eldest brother and the High Lord of the Night Court. The only reasons Azriel has to visit at all, are either to get a semblance of peace and quiet—he’s never said so, but you’ve gathered that’s the case over the decades—or…

Azriel takes a seat at the table, wings shifting at his back as he stretches the tension-tied tendons, powerful muscle flexing as he spreads each wing in turn, already pulling a notebook from a shadowy pocket. His tea steams nearby, pencil already scratching over paper and you glance to the calendar on the wall, hopes steadily becoming more and more substantial, but he’s continuing with his work.

You try to wait—he’s busy, he has work to do, he doesn’t enjoy your company—but when he’s one of the only people you really ever get to see, restraint is difficult. Most of your discretion and discipline slips the leash when he visits, jumping and bounding with exhilaration at seeing someone again, even if it is someone so cold.

It’s only when his tea boils over, steam fluttering in simmering ribbons from the teacup that he raises his gaze to yours, expression disagreeable. “You’re a grown woman,” he says, pinning you with a cold look, “behave like one.”

“Sorry, Azriel,” you reply quickly, getting a hold of your magic, leaving his tea alone. Your lips press together, hands in your lap while your fingers wring impatiently beneath the table, waiting expectantly. But he watches you for a few moments more, dragging out the silence, as if daring you to speak out of turn, before going back to his notebook, pencil once again scratching over the paper, and you could bite your tongue from frustration.

Instead you swallow thickly—you’re entirely justified in interrupting him, in this case…—sitting straighter in your chair, fingers hooking over the edge of the table where he can see them. “Azriel,” you try, wanting to get his attention. He makes a low noise of acknowledgement, but his pencil continues scrawling neatly across the narrow lines of the paper. “Eris is visiting today isn’t he?” You blurt out, unable to contain it any longer. It’s the only other reason he would be here with you, other than for his own reasons that you’ve long given up on trying to understand, and the timing is aligned, too. Your oldest brother usually visits some time during spring, as preparations are less hectic in the Autumn Court, magic just that little bit more tame while the rest of the world passes through the opposing season.

“He can’t make it this year,” Azriel replies, not looking up, “he’ll visit next year.”

You blink, the words hitting like stones against your skin, bruises already flourishing in their wake. “…what?”

Azriel doesn’t reply, knowing you heard him the first time and unwilling to repeat himself, but you push forward regardless. “Azriel, what do you mean he can’t visit this year. He always visits. What’s in his way?”

“How should I know,” Azriel replies, pencil scratches grating against your ears.

“What reason did he give?” You push, leaning forward in your seat, forearms crossed beneath your breasts to brace yourself. “He would have said something. What was it?”

“He didn’t say. Probably busy scheming.”

“He wouldn’t,” you insist, but he looks like he’s hardly listening to you. “Azriel,” you say, a little louder and a little harsher than you should really be speaking to him.

He doesn’t take his attention from his notebook, continuing with those frustratingly neat scrawls of writing, not even bothering to recognise the pain that’s undoubtedly written across your features. Your jaw works, throat rolling, before your brow is narrowing, pinning his mug with a look, watching as the steam becomes thicker, fluttering more violently, swiftly bubbling from a gentle simmer to an obvious boil, scalding water splashing in places across the table in less than a fraction of a second. Sharp eyes flick to the cup, then slice up to you, his brows narrowed in mild displeasure, before a cold, silky darkness snatches your sight away.

You inhale sharply as his shadows coil over your eyes, acting as a blindfold so you have no control over the direction of your magic, powers draining away as the darkness smothers your flame with little effort.

Azriel watches with a passive look on his face as a tear drips from beneath his shadows, spilling down your cheek but evaporating before it hits the table. Good. He tucks the visual away, carefully prying it from his immediate memory and locking it up somewhere dark and depraved.

“Has it crossed your mind that maybe he doesn’t want to see you?” Azriel asks from across the table. “If he missed you so much, he would find the time.”

“You’re lying. Tell me why he couldn’t make it.” You’ve never spoken like that to him before. Always tried to keep a tone of respect when interacting with him, since you’re in his lands, in his house. Your life arguably in his hands, in a way.

“He’s the one who sent you away in the first place,” Azriel replies coldly. “He’s the one who sent you here, right into his enemies’ hands.”

“He’s the one who made the sacrifice,” you argue back, tears simmering as they burn at your cheeks, “all you’re doing is lending a house to someone. There’s hardly any downside on your end of the deal. He’s the one giving things up.”

“And he’s the reason why you’re so lonely,” Azriel replies, ice creeping into his voice as you advocate for your brother. “And now you’ll be even more on your own, since he couldn’t even be bothered to find a few hours for you. We’re the ones looking after you. Tell me again how much he loves you?”

“Like you’re any better?” You manage back, voice wobbling, because you are alone here. So, incredibly isolated. Sure there are the animals, the birds and the insects, the constant chirp and chipper from the outside, but it’s nothing like interaction with other people. And there have been times you’ve resented your brother for that. For keeping you safe only by putting you in a cage.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Azriel’s icy voice breaks through your thoughts, and if it weren’t for his shadows blindfolding you, you’d be staring at him.

“You barely visit,” you manage hoarsely. “And even then, you make no secret that you loathe my presence. You hardly tolerate it.”

“I need to concentrate on my work. It’s basic respect I’m asking for,” he replies, yielding not even an inch of ground in this one-sided battle. “I’d be happier if you didn’t visit at all,” you shoot back, heart aching in your chest.

Silence stretches, and your ears strain, searching for some kind of sound.

“Those words would hold more weight if you actually meant them,” Azriel replies at last, and your head tilts to the side, turning to the right where his voice came from. “But as it is,” he continues, voice lowered to a near whisper, flinching when his lips brush the shell of your ear, “you’re easier to read than a picture book, and a liar—just like your brother.”

Then he’s stepping away, shadows pulling with him, and your eyes wince for a second before they adjust, watching through blurry vision as he sits back down, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea.

You’d boiled the last one down to the pit of the mug.

————

You’re sat on your mattress, back pressing into the full pillows you’ve stacked together, a small, yellow-tinted light clipped to one of the posts of your bed to give enough illumination while reading, when Azriel knocks on your door.

You keep your attention glued to the pages of your book, purposefully ignoring him the way he had done to you this morning. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, causing you to pause. He’s caught you off guard with that one. Even when you were first transferred to this hidden away safe-house, without knowing how to cook or prepare meals for yourself, having always had cooks or servants deliver food to you, he’d rarely helped you, leaving you to struggle and learn on your own. Mostly from watching him prepare things.

And occasionally giving yourself food poisoning.

“I can cook my own food, thank you,” you reply, wishing you had the spine to drop the pleasantries at the end, but you’re too scared of pissing him off. He’s your only real connection to the outside world, the only constant you have in your life at the moment. “Well you haven’t tonight, and you’ll be going to bed soon, so make an exception.”

“I can decide when to eat, and when to sleep, on my own, too, thank you,” you reply, a little more tersely, wondering how much he’ll allow. You’ve got to be careful in this battle—you don’t know how to read him, don’t know if you’re pushing too far and he’ll suddenly wage war on you.

“You can’t, by the looks of it,” he replies, eyeing the clothes you’re in—definitely not your usual sleepwear. “Are you planning to try and sneak out later tonight?”

“No,” you respond, primly. You don’t want to tell him you’re out of night-gowns to wear. Most of your clothes have been piled up, supposed to be washed. You haven’t been in the right headspace to do much though, having been too excited, and then recently too sad to. “Well get changed, and then we can eat.”

That gets your attention, eyes locking over the top of your book, your legs being drawn tighter to your chest, watching him warily. You swallow—you’ve never eaten together before. “Is this about earlier?” You ask, forcing your gaze back to your book, away from his penetrating eyes, feeling as though he can read you like a…well, like a picture book.

Azriel is quiet for a pause before answering. “I could have been less harsh,” he relents, and you meet his gaze again, surprised. “You’re…apologising…?” You ask, a piece of your apprehension swayed. “No,” he says firmly, voice cooling to that icy sharpness again, swift enough to have you doubting the previous gentle tone he’d used. Not exactly gentle, actually, but anything compared to this tone will count as gentle in your mind.

“Well, I’m tired, Azriel. I hope you sleep well,” you say, as much as a dismissal as you can force yourself to say, too worried about stepping out of line to say anything truly harsh. But he doesn’t take it, remaining in your door. “You’ll eat before bed.”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you lie. Half lie. You’re in no mood for eating after this conversation.

“Just come and eat. You’ll feel better when you’re no longer hungry.”

“I can make my own decisions, Azriel,” you reply sharply, irritation simmering gently in the pit of your stomach.

His hazel eyes harden at the tone, at the flame you know is probably flickering in your gaze, shadows darkening unpleasantly as a merciless look crosses his features. “Stop being a brat and eat. I’ll be in the living room.”

And then the door clicks shut.

————

You keep the woollen blanket pulled over your shoulders as you quietly and reluctantly make your way to the kitchen, hoping to take whatever you can find back to your bedroom, and eat there. You haven’t decided whether or not it’s a cowardly decision or not.

The kitchen table is empty, and you glance about, but can’t see whatever food Azriel had mentioned. That’s fine though, you’re more than happy to put something together for yourself, make to do so, when a presence gathers at your back. You stumble forward, spinning around to find the exact male stood silently at your back. “I— You scared me,” you stammer thoughtlessly, before remembering you’re trying to hold your ground against him. Some ground, at least.

“Food’s in the living room,” he says sternly, watching you with that cold gaze of his, icy enough to have the small, soft hairs rising up the length of your back, prickling at the nape of your neck. You swallow, raising your chin a little higher, keeping yourself calm as you level him with a somewhat composed look. “I’m going to eat in my room,” you say, trying not to let your apprehension show, steeling your spine to hold firm. But—

“You’re eating with me.”

You blink. Blink again. “I’m— I’m eating in my—”

“With me.” He repeats, pinning you to the cold tile floor with a look worthy of the Winter court. Glacial, and commanding. “Okay…” you mumble, glancing away from the hard look.

Azriel seems to be satisfied with your adherence, turning in the doorway a few moments later, obviously expecting you to follow.

And you do.

————

Your breaths have turned somewhat deep, chest rising and falling evenly, but he’ll keep you here a little longer before waking you.

His book is sat—finished—on the arm of the sofa, his wings draped over its back, empty plates discarded in the sink where his shadows had carried them once you’d both finished. You’re a pleasant change to the personalities he becomes accustomed to in his own family, stubborn and sometimes standoffish. It’s pleasant to simply have to apply a slightly cold look to you, and have you fumbling beneath it, acquiescing to his demands.

Azriel glances to his side, and takes you in.

At some point between finishing your meal and starting on your own book, you’d become lethargic and dozy—he’d known you’d be going to bed soon, and there’s a kernel of satisfaction in his chest that he would know you so well. That he was right, rather.

Your head had tipped onto his shoulder, fingers clasped greedily between the pages of your book, begging to be read for only a little longer but lethargy had stolen you away. Your lips are mostly shut, a small parting between the centre points where your upper lip rises from your lower one, and you look quiet. A little later he’d been stumbled by his instincts, lithely wrapping an arm around you so your cheek smushed against the crook beneath his shoulder, and you’d seemed almost more contented, fingers sliding out from the home of your book to lazily grapple across his stomach, delicately snaring their way around his side, arm strewn across his lap as you huddled into his warmth. Your comparatively small figure instinctively yearning for the physical company of another.

Azriel dips his head, taking a soft inhale of your scent—you smell like the sun, and grass that’s been freshly cut, something thick and blossomy laying beneath it. His nose brushes your hair, but he hardly registers it, pressing closer so you’re flush with his side, his hands splaying across your soft and supple form, dipping beneath the blanket you’d carried with you from your bedroom. His fingers glide subconsciously up your arm, wrapping over your shoulder as he brings his lips to graze the crown of your head.

Hazel eyes snap open, and he pulls himself away, heart beating hard in his chest.

Azriel tries to cast his gaze elsewhere, anywhere aside from the lovely female curving herself into his side, like a small animal nestling during hibernation. Her scent is in his lungs, in his body, in his blood, wrapping itself securely around him, but he knows he can’t allow himself any further. You’re Eris’s sister��there’s enough baggage in that title alone to keep him far, far away.

There should be enough, anyway.

Shadows brush a strand of hair from your face, and you shift in your sleep, hand briefly clutching at his side as you shift, practically pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder and neck, each teasing breath tickling the sensitive skin. Azriel clenches his jaw, and lightly grips your hair, plying you back so he can see your sleep-softened face. He swallows thickly when he sees your lips are parted a little wider, his blood heating as he stares quietly, intently. His breathing becomes a little shallow, and he finds himself leaning forward ever so slightly, as if drawn in.

But then he looks away, brows narrowed in deep disgust at himself. He will never see you through a romantic lens—you’re Eris’ sister. Those affectionate touches that sometimes seep from his fingertips into your skin cannot happen.

Ever.

Azriel glances back at you, before firmly shoving you down into the sofa.

He knows can be a little rough with your body without having to worry about any consciousness surfacing.

Your head is tipped over the far arm, exposing the elegant length of your unmarked neck, spine arched to fit the curve of the furniture and he presses his lips to the small swell in your throat, pressing firm, rough kisses down to your collar bones, pulling your scent down in deep lungfuls. His roughened palms guide your thighs apart, and his hips press tight between your own, firmly grinding against the soft heat of your sex as he satiates the wicked desire curling down his spine. It’s been months since he last saw you, and he denies himself any sort of sexual relief if it is not like this—with you with him.

He still remembers the searing disgust he’d felt after the first time one of these thoughts had shown to have such a firm grasp on his desire. But then he’d understood it was fine to play with you sexually, to dangle you across his fantasies, flip you into various positions so long as he kept his lust under control. He’d come to understand that it was better this way, to contain you within his mind through such an objectifying lens.

To reduce you so fundamentally to something he could toy with.

Azriel stiffens when a small noise slips from your throat. Beneath his lips he can feel the fluttering beat of your pulse, erratic and wild, like a butterfly caught in a web. Desperate to escape with the trembling stutter of its lovely, delicate wings.

He shifts his weight onto one arm, allowing the other to slide between your legs, palm cupping your heat, and he groans softly, head hanging so his brow is resting between your breasts. His breathing becomes laboured, lips grazing against your skin as his fingers splay across your underwear, able to feel the small bump at the apex of your thighs beneath the knuckles at the base of his fingers.

Digits press tentatively against your entrance, and he exhales heavily, lust building in his chest, but…

Azriel pulls away from your body, his muscles soaked and groaning with lethargy and strain.

His jaw works, steadying himself while his shadows rearrange your disarrayed limbs, closing your legs and bringing the blanket to wrap across your torso again before returning to him.

He takes a steadying breath, calming his arousal before settling himself at the furthest part of the sofa, allowing his shadows to creep back over to you, waking you from your sleep.

————

You blink wearily, eyes peeking open and then you’re squirming gently against the cold brush of something swirling over the intimate expanse of your throat, brushing beneath your ear.

With some effort, you manage to sit upright, spine hurting from being curved over the arm of the sofa, and you gain awareness swiftly enough to spot the darkness darting away back to its master. Your lips part slightly as you inhale for a sigh, limbs stretching, shoulders pulling back to relieve the tension that’s stitched them together. You look about, a yawn rising from your throat and you cover your mouth as you rub your eye. “I…did I fall asleep?” You ask, trying half-heartedly to blink away some of the sleep and get your bearings.

“You fell asleep,” Azriel confirms, not looking up from his book, apparently nearing its end. “How long for?” You ask, pushing back as another yawn seeks to rise from your chest, fatigue weighing heavily on your eyes. He turns a page, attention following along the lines, reaching the sentence’s end before responding. “Half an hour.”

You glance up at the clock on the mantle piece, realising how late it’s gotten. You hope this won’t make it difficult to fall back asleep once you get to bed.

Pulling the blanket a little closer across your chest, legs bending further at the knee to curl into yourself, you glance to where the empty plates should be but realise he must have already put them away. “The food was nice…” you hedge, feeling a thinks is in order, even if you didn’t ask for it. Azriel makes a sound of disinterested acknowledgement, and your lips press together in a thin line. Wasn’t the reason behind making food to supposedly ease the tension between you?

“You know, I’m not sure there’s any point in saying this, since you’re so stubborn,” you say, trying to get his attention. Hazel eyes pause over the page, before his gaze is shifting to rest on you, his lips slightly downturned with displeasure. You swallow, but persist. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be less cold to me, Azriel.” You wait, tension tightening in your throat for his reply, but he remains utterly silent, and you gather he has nothing to say to you.

You incline your chin. “You know you’re the only person I really get to see.”

“You get to see your brother,” he replies evenly.

“Really, Azriel? What was the point of even making this meal? Of visiting me? You could do it all without me even aware, but choose to make your presence known,” you argue, clutching the blanket tighter. “It’s like you’re trying to make this as miserable and as isolating as possible. It’s like you’re trying to punish me for something I’m not even guilty of.”

“I don’t owe you my time.”

“No…but you don’t owe me coldness either.”

His hazel gaze sharpens, heavy brows narrowing to darken the hollow atop his eyes. “Very well. Come here.”

Your shoulders stiffen, lungs tensing as you look at him, lips parting subconsciously in question. “…What…?”

The Illyrian raises himself from the sofa, his towering, lethally muscled body unfolding, talon tipped wings flaring slightly at his back, shadows seeping from his skin, slithering onto the floor. His arms open threateningly, an icy glint in his eyes, palms open as if poised to wrap around your throat should you step too close. “Come here,” he repeats lowly, a sinister drag grating in his throat, a look like detest tucked between his brows. “If you want comfort, I can give you comfort.”

His shadows deepen as they pool on the floor, obscuring the rug from sight, making it appear as though he’s stood atop inky black water that will swallow you beneath its icy surface the minute you get too close.

And yet despite every obvious warning, every fibre of your body prickling at the looming danger, you can’t help the tremble in your fingers, or the feeble flutter of your heart as anticipation filters through your veins.

The shadows are even colder than they look, an ice more piercing than the sharp bite of the air that settles across the land in the dead of winter, but when your arms tentatively wrap around his waist, he’s warm. Perhaps the only comfort you can find in his Illyrian-trained body—the jutting press of his hip bone; the way a handle of a blade is digging into your leg from where it’s strapped on the outside of his thigh; the sense of threat that wraps itself around you when his arms close in and you know you wouldn’t be able to escape should he choose to end you right there.

You lay your brow against his chest, head lowered slightly as you memorise the feel of touch, skin tingling beneath the contact points, and you don’t want to let go.

“Is this really so difficult for you?” You whisper.

————

Would she cry if he kissed her?

If he laced his destructive fingers through her hair so she was forced to look at him, and roughly set his mouth over hers?

Or would she lean into it?

Would she be so desperate for the feeling of touch against her skin, the taste of sweat in the air, the sound of lips and tongue and teeth meshing, that she would curve into it?

Would the smell of iron bother her, if he chained her to his bed?

————

You look up at him silently, but his features are hard and set, an impenetrable wall behind his eyes and you sense you won’t get anywhere with him. Your brow falls back to settle on his chest, taking in the last moments before you have to pull away.

But his scar-toughened fingers lace through your hair so you’re forced to incline your head to look at him, and his lips are parted as if to speak, but he pauses. Watching you.

Your eyes scan his features, but he’s unreadable.

His thumb shifts ever so slightly against your scalp, as if to stroke across you, but he doesn’t. Instead his grip loosens, and it’s time to step away.

“Get to bed,” he orders quietly. Releasing you. Lightly pushing you away.

“You need some rest.”

————

You’re thrown off by the encounter. He’s so contradicting.

Why be so cruel about your brother only to turn around and offer you a warm meal? Why the cold attitude only to allow you to sleep peacefully at his side? Why so threatening when he lets you so close?

And now this, too.

You don’t know how to feel, and it scares you.

Laying atop your bed are three folded shirts, a cut of square paper laying atop the stack.

‘Use these for now. More will arrive next week.’

You remain at the edge of the bed, fingers turning slack as you stare at the small script, blanket sliding down one shoulder. Blue, dark blue, and black. It’s easy to tell they’re far too large. It’s easy to tell they’re probably…

The blanket pools on the floor, shaky fingers raising the dark blue fabric from your bed, the shirt unfolding. You bring the collar to your face, pressing your nose into the material, inhaling softly.

They’re his.

Your lips part on a trembling exhale, heart fluttering as your fingers stutter in the fabric, inhaling deeper, trying to memorise the scent. It’s the only comfort you can get, kept so far from the world.

It’s an effort to part with the newly discovered comfort, worried he might change his mind and remove them by the time you’ve emerged from your washroom—but they’re still there, exactly where you left them. From the sound of it you’ll only have these for a week, and then he’ll take them back. Is it worse to give comfort then take it away, or to never give it at all?

You can’t help but feel this is the crueler of the two options.

The linen is somewhat rough against your freshly softened skin, rasping over your arms, shoulders, breasts. The hem settles at your mid-thigh. The sleeves are too long but you don’t roll them—the size is comforting. Like you’re wrapped up and looked after. You’re on your own for so much of your life, you rely on yourself the overwhelming majority of the time—you can permit this dependence.

Maybe you can permit a little more, too.

Crawling onto your bed, you carefully unbutton the black shirt, laying your pillow on the interior, before buttoning it back up. You pause, looking down at the make-shift body. Teeth push against the inside of your bottom lip, tugging on it in thought. Is this okay? Is it weird?

You can’t let him see, is all. You’ll unbutton it in the morning. Fold it up and put it with the blue one. Hide any evidence.

But for now, you settle atop your mattress, still unaccustomed to the rasp of linen against your skin, the presence of his scent filling your room, infusing into your sheets, and pillow. It’s dark enough outside for you to feel safe enough to admit that it’s heavenly. It’s dark enough to settle beside it, wrapping your arms around the soft ‘torso’, pulling it to your chest. It’s dark enough for you to not feel ashamed as you treasure the safety his scent brings, easily sending you off into sleep.

It’s dark enough for you to not have seen the shadows lurking beneath your bed.

To not have felt the eyes watching you intently.

Just waiting for you to let down your guard.

————

The house is dark, and the house is silent.

You’re asleep, and there’s oil in his veins, burning like liquid fire, making him soar.

It’s just you, him, and his shadows. Not a soul in sight.

The Mother might even look away, turning her gaze from what he’s about to do—the wrongs he’s about to commit, and the decision he’s going to repeat. By all means you’re under his protection after Rhys decided to put you here, in his safe-house; he can make whatever call he likes. You’re his.

Azriel moves like a wraith down the hallway, closing in as his hunger grows, starvation licking at his bones, threatening to turn them porous should he deny the need in his body for much longer, being drawn to you by an invisible thread that gleams resplendently within the darkness of his heart. As though a tether is guiding him to you. Calling him to you.

Your bedroom door doesn’t make a sound when he enters; his pause is caused by an ulterior reason. A sickening satisfaction unspools in his gut as he paces to the foot of your bed, his shadows curling with glee at the sight they greedily hoard, stuffing their memory full of the view before them. How you’re curled beneath the duvet, a pillow clutched to your front, hugging it between your thighs, cheek pressed to the swell of the cushion where your arms have pushed the feathers to each end. The dark blue collar he can see peeking out from the floral-patterned duvet.

He allows his hand to palm himself through his leathers once, needing to take the edge off before continuing. Reminding himself stimulation is yet to come.

Shadows seep forward onto the bed, crawling across the pale coloured sheets, clutching at their edge before slowly dragging the coverings away, revealing your sleep-softened form.

Azriel pauses. His breathing quickens, pulse spiking as his lips part, pupils surely dilating to take as much of you in as they can, the world noticeably brightening as he makes room for more light to filter in. Better to see you with. And the—

He inhales deeply, dragging a laboured breath into his lungs in attempts to steady himself, spotting the black shirt wrapped around the pillow you’re clutching. Your thighs wrapped around the cushion you’ve draped in his shirt, saturated with his scent, chosen to keep so close to your body when you’re at your most defenceless.

You shift in your sleep, squeezing ‘him’, nosing at the collar of the shirt.

It’s like you’re doing it to entice him. For the sole purpose of keeping his attention, provoking his arousal. Even in the depths of unconsciousness.

Azriel swallows, shadows rolling the thick duvet to the side to make room for their master on the bed, before softly trickling toward you, making to wrap around your legs… He changes his mind, calling them back at once as he settles on the mattress, not a single sound to be heard as he infiltrates the safety of your bedroom.

You skin is soft and hot beneath his hands, hands that wrap around your calf, cupping the interior of your knee to bring them apart, shadows afforded the job of removing the pillow, rolling you onto your back.

His breathing has deepened, arousal thoroughly distorting his scent as he takes in the way the fabric drapes over your form. The hem has ridden up your thighs, revealing your hips and the pure white cotton covering you; the collar is undone, teasingly exposing the length of your throat to him, taunting him with something he can’t have; the dark blue fabric settles perfectly over your breasts, erotically draped to hint at form without the crudeness of nudity. He doesn’t want or need the aid of sight, of nakedness. Keeping you hidden, and wrapped in darkness is much more enticing.

Azriel reaches forward, having settled between your legs—bent at the knee and propped up by his shadows—daring to coast his palm up your front, gliding between your breasts in a show of ownership, fingertips lightly settling on your sternum. Feeling the rise and fall of your chest with each regular, even breath. His eyes trail lower to where the hem of the dark blue shirt meets the bare skin of your thighs, and he takes a peek at what’s beneath. Dragging the hem up by only a few inches, just shy of your navel. Azriel’s thumb skims the area, fingers grazing with a feather-light touch across your abdomen. Imagining what it would be like to feel his outline beneath his palm.

His eyes roll with arousal, before he’s retracting to attend to himself, gripping his cock in his hand, hot and heavy and aching.

Azriel swallows, giving himself the reprieve of a few dragging strokes to alleviate the tension before lazily swiping his thumb over his tip, gathering the precum that had begun leaking. He looks at the creamy liquid beaded on his thumb; looks at the cream colour of cotton; looks back. Azriel reaches forward, focus glued to your cunt as he rubs his thumb against the apex of your thighs, cotton darkening as the damp saturates, pressing his arousal into you. He bites down on a groan.

It’s been so long—he can feel it in his body, the want, the need. He’s deprived himself of you for far too long, getting caught up in court matters—with your father finally dead, and your eldest brother assuming the throne, times have been turbulent, alliances on the constant verge of crumbling, but he’s seen it all through. And now he gets to destress. Away from Velaris, away from Windhaven, away from the Hewn City. All that tension, all that strain, and a week or so confined to this house with you.

He wishes he could put bruises into you, rub your wrists raw from iron shackles, litter your thighs with his teeth marks and imprints of his fingertips, just so he could truly break the new High Lord of Autumn. He finds his lips curved at the thought of Eris discovering even a fraction of the nightmarish things he’s done to you…

Azriel remembers the first step he’d taken on this path. How he’d wanted to see you squirm.

You hadn’t shut up when you’d first been moved here, constantly nagging him for updates on what was happening, pawing for details about your brother, testing his patience. He’d wanted to knock you down a peg or two, give you reason to fumble when looking him in the eyes, so he’d taken to slipping small doses of an aphrodisiac into your tea just to have the pleasure of watching you squirm. Trying to pretend nothing was wrong when he was watching, not wanting him to know the instincts occurring within your female body. He remembers how he’d provoked an argument, making you believe you’d started it…how he’d stared you down then, and you’d buckled. Skin hot, pulse fluttery in your throat. He’d wanted to grip you by your soft cheeks and force you to look at him…the satisfaction would have been worth it. Seeing how ashamed you would be, thinking the arousal was your own fault…thinking that he thought the arousal was your own fault.

That would have been good to see Eris’ reaction to.

Or the time he’d released into his hand, then spending minutes patiently watching the slow drip, drip, drip of cum as it fell into your mouth. The last of it smeared across your lips. Salt on your tongue in the morning.

How would the High Lord of Autumn react, how far would he break to know that all he sacrificed had been for nothing? Risking torture if their alliance had been discovered, the bargain made Under The Mountain, leading the rest of Prythian to believe you dead for the sake of keeping you safe. And instead you’d been tossed straight into the Spymaster’s cruel and crooked hands, free to twist and warp and break.

And with Eris out of the way, he could…

Azriel’s eyes go briefly out of focus, centuries of discipline slipping as he settles over your sleeping form, tentatively lowering himself to your throat. Shadows tip your face to one side, your cheek laying against the pillow, exposing the tendon keeping your head on your shoulders. Hot breath fans across your skin, lungs trembling with desire, exhaling puffs of yearning that he has no right to possess.

His wings shift before turning lax, settling across the bed as he gently drags the flattened end of his tongue up the skin of your neck.

His cock twitches against his stomach, almost painfully hard from the arousal burning in his blood.

Like before when you’d fallen asleep in the living room, he shifts his hips to rest between your own, the thick length of him resting bare against the pale cotton. His breathing becomes laboured as he rolls his hips, precum leaking from his tip, drizzling down the underside of his cock, smearing down his length and saturating your underwear. Rubbing himself against you, the pressure created between your bodies like liquid heaven. Relief bottled and stored, ready for him to take from whenever he pleases.

He needs release. He doesn’t want to wait any longer, and he doesn’t have to either. You’re right here, legs open and ready. Won’t your underwear look pretty with his cum dripping over it? Where he can rub more of it into the material? Let you unknowingly sleep with his release tucked so intimately between your thighs.

Gods, the mental image has him panting for breath, sitting back as he wraps his hand more roughly around his cock, affording swift, hard strokes to himself, keeping that picture in his mind. But what if…

Azriel forces himself to stop, panting heavily now, his eyes widened marginally from the idea that happened to pass into his mind. Hazel eyes flick down to your underwear, his hand squeezing his cock as he pauses. He swallows, skin feeling hot and flushed. Maybe he could…

He swallows again before he releases himself, ignoring the shake in his hands as his fingers slide beneath the cloth at your hips, latching onto the band before slowly, carefully inching it away. Parting it from your body, pulling the cotton up your thighs, cresting the curve of your knees, delicately removing it from your legs, pulling the underwear from beneath your feet. Azriel stares at what’s now in his hands. Hazel eyes flick to your bare heat, then back to the underwear.

Breathing deeply, he raises the white cotton to his face, nosing at the fabric before taking a lick. His hand moves on its own, stroking his cock as he pulls the scent of your sex into his lungs, wanting it to disperse into his bloodstream, become part of his body. His discipline is slipping, and fast. He doesn’t want to obey it. He doesn’t need to, here.

His heart jumps with relief at the stark realisation. There’s no need for him to keep his discipline—so long as he leaves no trace of himself that you’ll find, he can do whatever he likes. Whatever his mind can conjure up. It’s a dangerously freeing thought.

Azriel shifts closer, his heart pounding as he settles between your thighs, inhaling deeply when he guides the head of his cock to nestle at your entrance. Not going in, just resting there, slotted nicely between your lips. You feel so warm. So warm, and wet, and inviting. Gods, you’re wet. Not enough to make an entrance smooth—not by a long shot with his size—but he can still feel the tell-tale signs of arousal.

Uncaring for dragging this out any longer, he spreads your underwear over his palm so the dampened gusset will rub against his cock, stroking himself repeatedly, wanting to see what you’ll look like with cum splattered over your bare pussy. Gods, you’ll look divine, with release wetting your cunt. How pretty it’ll be, getting to rub it into your clit.

Azriel gasps deeply, biting down on a growl as the high hits him, muscles turning taut, bucking into his hand as pleasure overrides his senses. He opens his eyes to watch as he spills onto your heat, spurting thick ropes of cum between your legs. Fuck, he can’t help himself. His hips buck just as the thought passes through his mind, the head of his cock slipping inside of you and he refuses to let himself pull back, emptying the rest of his cum into your cunt.

It takes a while for him to realise what he’s done—the mess he’s made on you and inside of you.

Fuck.

Azriel heaves a sigh of frustration, realising he’s also made a mess of your underwear, strings of cum already sticking the fabric to his cock. He needs to clean it up.

Discarding your underwear for now, he reaches forward, applying a gradual pressure to your abdomen in attempts to begin squeezing his release out of you. Azriel licks his lips when he watches it begin to drip from your entrance, scooping it up with his middle and forth finger. More slides out after. So wasteful. He needs to get it all out. Azriel slides his fingers inside of you, curling them to try and guide his release out.

A quiet sigh slips from your lips.

Azriel turns rigid. His cock twitching.

Hazel eyes flick down to your bare heat, and he repeats the motion, this time watching you. Your features scrunch faintly, and he realises he can make out the pinch of your nipples through his shirt. He leans forward slightly, shadows attentive as he slides his thick fingers in further, his attention narrowing entirely onto you as he presses upwards. A noise gets caught in your throat. Something sweet sounding, and wanton.

Azriel presses deeper, fingers sliding in further, curling lightly, pushing and rubbing at different parts until…

You flinch in your sleep, a softly startled moan slipping from your lips.

He curls the pads of his fingers into that spot, bending them at the knuckle so the digits slant into the part that’s dragging these reactions out of you. He pushes against it, hungry for more, thumb habitually settling on your clit, oscillation made easier by the slippery cum splattered across your cunt…that he’s feeding back into you.

Azriel bites down on a groan as he scoops more of it up before pressing his fingers back to your entrance and shoving it in, pushing what was already released inside further, tucking it away as he searches for that spot again. He needs it to be kept inside of you. It’s not enough to have it coating you, he needs you to unknowingly have it within your body, perfectly storing it away. A secret shared between him and your cunt that you’re oblivious to.

The rise and fall of your chest is much more pronounced, and he wants to push the shirt out of the way so he can lay his mouth over your breasts, flick his tongue over your doubtlessly sensitive nipples. How would you react to that? With his fingers hitting that spot, his thumb over your clit, his tongue and shadows pinching and licking at your breasts?

You’d come on the spot.

————

You jolt awake, panting and breathless. Far too hot, and…fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck… Mother above…

Your hands scramble, shoving the duvet away as you roll on top of ‘him’, thighs straddling the pillow as your hips buck frantically. You cry out as one of the buttons scrapes across your clit, teeth pushing into your lip to muffle the moans working up from your chest, grinding down against the clothed cushion, dragging your hips across the plush comfort, aiming for the buttons.

Panting and flushed, you stiffly roll onto your back, flopping down into your mattress trying to regain your breath.

You glance down at yourself. Thighs parted, bent at the knee. The shirt riding up your stomach that you hastily push back down.

Teeth prod at your lower lip, toes curling as your fingers explore between your legs. Slipping beneath the band of your underwear. They come away glistening, a thick, creamy strand connecting your digits to your cunt.

You flush, hurriedly drying your fingers on your inner thigh, trying to get rid of the evidence.

Cauldron boil you, that’s never happened before. Sure, you’ve had hours of heightened sensitivity, when you could feel every hair on your body, every scrape of fabric across your skin, horribly aware of the clothing touching your shoulders, your arms, your breasts, but never something so intense. Never…this.

It’s always when Azriel’s around.

Shame sparks, and you tug your hand away from your heat. Rolling quickly onto your side to pretend it away.

You clutch the pillow tighter to your front, soothing your erratic pulse with that scent. His scent. Maybe because you’ve just woken it feels stronger, thicker…heavier; more concentrated than you remember it being. Probably your own arousal mixing with the remnants of what he left of the shirts.

Gods, you’re not going to be able to look him in the eyes tomorrow. Not without thinking about…

You beg your mind to shut up.

He’s the only male you’re getting to see. It makes sense your body might instinctively want him.

You just wish you didn’t feel so guilty for thinking of him, when you were on top of that pillow.

————

It doesn’t take long for you to nod back off, and Azriel internally relaxes.

His skin is too hot, arousal spiking his temperature to an almost unbearable degree, but he’d had to escape quickly when he’d felt the high rising in your body. A sixth sense telling him you were there. Maybe he can’t be as rough as he thought with you.

He knew he should have stirred in some of that sleeping powder with your meal.

Next time.

First, he needs to deal with the heat radiating from his body, the remnants of arousal still prominent in his blood. The still aching weight of his cock. But he’s done for tonight. That was a close enough call on its own; he doesn’t yet want to resort to ties and blindfolds and gags. Even if that sixth sense tells him you might enjoy it, if done right. With how eagerly you’d pressed yourself against him, how you’d nuzzled up to the pillow, how quickly you’d come on his fingers…

This time he doesn’t deny himself the pleasure of imagining what it would be like having you move for him. Getting to see how you might arrange yourself under or over him. What you might like to touch, and suck, and ride.

The steamy heat of your bathroom isn’t helping with his temperature.

He should leave.

But next time…

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

#dark!azriel x reader #dark!azriel x reader smut #dark!azriel smut #dark!az #dark!fic #dark!azriel x vanserra!reader #dark!azriel x vanserra!reader smut #[***]#salt on my tongue

145 notes · View notes

stars-obsession-pit · 5 months ago

Text

Anyone have any recs for DC probably-crossover fics with one-sided romance with “stalking as a love language”-y stuff?

Like, one of the Bat Family’s kids has a crush on someone, and does the stalker-y stuff researching/spying on them that i’ve seen pretty often in such fics. Except their feelings are not reciprocated and it’s treated more realistically in a “stalking is really bad” way.

There’s nothing wrong with stories including not-super-healthy stuff in romance, but like I’ve seen that plot point often enough want to see it deconstructed/subverted.

I’m most familiar with the trope in DC crossovers with Danny Phantom or Miraculous Ladybug, so I’m mainly looking for those, but I’m open to other crossover types or pure DC fics as long as they fit the request.

Heck I’m cool with it not even being romantic as long as the “criticizing stalking” part is sufficiently present (e.g. Stalking Astronauts: Gotham's Latest Social Media Craze! has similar actions be criticized in relation to adoption jokes that make Danny uncomfortable)

154 notes · View notes

lakes-liver · 10 months ago

Text

Legend has been acting very distinctly off, lately.

He’s not injured, Sky knows that much. There wasn’t a time where he’s been separated from the group. Something triggered him, perhaps? The veteran has more than enough baggage to sift through.

Sky really isn’t sure.

Legend hasn’t been the same since… about a week ago? Something of the sort? He’s been quieter, laughter not so loud, snarks not so present. If it were anyone else, Sky wouldn’t be concerned.

But this is Legend he’s talking about. Legend, who shows a prickly front but is soft on the inside. His facade isn’t prickly right now, though, more like a dull point.

Triggers don’t last that long, right? If they didn’t, he would be better by now, at least outwardly. Then again, Sky doesn’t know much (if anything at all) of the “shell-shock” the veteran, the captain, and even Time seem to describe. What he knows is limited, tales from an era long before Skyloft, when the world wasn’t so peaceful. So, maybe there’s a chance it can last this long?

This train of thought does not change the fact that there is still something wrong, and Sky is very much concerned.

Another day passes, and the Chosen Hero watches his friend. A multitude of notes show up.

One: no one else seems to have noticed the problem at hand.

Two: Legend is acting as he usually does (jabs, rolled eyes, etc.) around everyone in their group.

Third: the veteran is only acting oddly around Sky.

Now, this has raised a very important question in Sky’s mind. Did he do something wrong? While he’s never been one to hold silent grudges (except against the goddesses, of course), maybe Sky had done something to be an exception.

He mulls this over throughout the evening, as they set up camp. Physically, he’s busied by setting out his bedroll, as well as some of the others’. Mentally, though, he thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

If the veteran hadn’t been borderline ignoring him, Sky’s sure he’d make a quip about how he shouldn’t think so much.

“It must get difficult thinkin’ so hard, birdbrains,” he’d mock, and Sky would laugh, and all would be well.

But all is not well. And Sky is growing more nervous by the second.

He thinks over every interaction with Legend in the past week. Nothing stands out to him. It started normally, with pokes and jokes and smiles and giggles. Then, like a switch had been flipped, the pink-haired man had become strangely subdued.

Could it have something to do with that? The whole… pink-rabbit, thing? But that was months ago, and this was so much more recent.

“Sky? Ya ‘ere?” Fingers are being snapped in front of his face.

He jumps, looking into the marked face of Twilight. Sky hides it with a flush and a chuckle. “Yes! Sorry, got lost in my thoughts, there” — and here is where the birdbrain comments should go, yet none do — “what did you ask?”

Twi, ever the worrywart, frowns slightly. “I ‘as j’st askin’ ‘bout watch. Doubleshif’s, you an’ Ledge. But, if yer not up for it—”

“No!” Sky is fast to interrupt. “No worries! I’m alright, truly. That sounds wonderful.” He gives the most reassuring smile he can muster, and it’s honest and true, for once.

Twilight’s frown lifts, a bit, and the slightly older man nods and steps away towards Wild and Wind, who are still cooking dinner.

Watch with Legend, huh? Could this be his chance?

A small bit of him warns that things could go very, very, wrong.

Luckily, the bigger part of him tells him that if he doesn’t say anything now he will run out of time to say anything at all.

So, that is that. Watch is set—blech, the middle shift—and Sky walks over to the rest of his friends before he can think any more of the situation.

“Sky!” Wind waves. “Come sit by us!”

‘Us’, in this case, happens to be himself, Wild, and Twilight, none of whom he’s opposed to being near. Thus, he picks his way to a spot on a ground, settling next to Wind. The smaller melts into his side (a common occurrence), and Sky happily accepts a bowl of pumpkin soup.

It’s not the same as from his home, of course, but it’s still soup and there’s still pumpkins. He’s still satisfied by the taste.

“Thank you, Wild,” he says, setting the now-empty bowl beside him.

Wild grins crookedly. “‘Course, Sky, I’m glad you liked. Seconds?”

Sky shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

The sailor, on the other hand, shoots up, mouth completely stuffed. “‘ll take ‘is s’rv’in’!”

“Calm yerself, sailer, others gotta eat,” Twilight chides.

“Meanie.” Wind crosses his arms with a pout. Sky ruffles the top of his head, a fond look surely on his face, and the smaller does not shy away.

He spares a glance to Legend and Hyrule, across the fire. The former is staring, brows furrowed, but looks away as soon as he notices Sky’s gaze. The latter continues chattering away as if nothing happened (and, in their eyes, nothing did happen).

Overall, the fire is warm and his belly is full. His friends sit around him and talk and snort and sigh, contentment filling the air. Sure, they have double watches set up, the tension is high, and they are exhausted, but they are together and they are (physically) healthy. Sky could not ask for much more.

So, Sky turns in for the beginning of his rest. Wind is sprawled next to him, looking like the starfish they all claim to exist.

Three hours later, Time is shaking him awake.

“You’re up, Sky. Four’s already woken Legend,” he whispers.

Sky nods. This is a song they’ve danced to many times.

Seeing him up and aware, the oldest moves to his bedroll with a soft ‘goodnight’. The Skyloftian echoes it in turn, before advancing towards the dying embers and confusing veteran.

At first, the watch is normal. Sky watches one side whilst Legend watches the other. There isn’t much talking—there never is, on the second watch, what with tired eyes and restless heroes—but the bit that is remains light and regular. For a moment, he can almost forget the anxiety that’d been eating him away earlier.

Then, Sky makes a comment that shatters the glass around them.

“Oh c’mon, vet,” he rolls his eyes. “We both know you use those trinkets of yours quite often.”

The chuckle Legend gives sounds forced, and Sky is hit with a pang of guilt. It was meant as a simple jab—nothing more nor less—but it maybe it was too biting?

Sky takes the second to study Legend’s newfound stance. He’s hunched in on himself, hands hugging knees, and despite not being able to see his face, Sky can assume his expression is that of a resigned sort of scowl.

It’s the same reaction he’s seem many times on multiple others. Twilight when scolded by Time; Wild when scolded by Twi; Wind when scolded by Warriors; Hyrule when scolded by Legend. It is not a reaction he expected to receive from their veteran, let alone one to be stemmed from him.

It spikes a whole new pang of worry.

He turns back before Legend can catch his face. “Sorry, Ledge. I like your items a lot. It’s not a problem to use ‘em, you know.”

From the corner of his eye, he catches the tension release, just a little bit. Enough, though, to know he said the right thing. Good.

Legend doesn’t give a response besides a light bump of the shoulders. The watch continues in a not-quite-awkward but not-quite-comfortable silence.

Creeeeak.

Sky’s head is up in an instant, scanning and pausing and reviewing the treeline in front of him. His ears twitch and try to catch every little thing, from the scamper of a mouse to the rustle of the wind. He’s certain Legend is doing the same, on his end.

A beat passes. Two. Three.

Legend’s breath hitches. “Bokoblin. One o’ Wild’s, reckon.”

“The others?” Sky whispers, voice barely making a sound.

“No. It’s just one. On three?”

Sky nods.

One beat. Two.

“Three!” Legend hisses.

Sky springs up, Master Sword poised to strike and shield up to block. Legend follows in a similar manner, clutching the Tempered Sword and some sort of shield. The ‘blin barely reacts before Sky is moving, moving, moving, slashing at the beast with a ferocity he didn’t realize he possessed this late at night.

The monster bleeds black.

Legend notices too, and lets out a soft string of curses before he’s in on the action. They trade blows, one then the other then both at the same time.

The bokoblin does not back down. It swings its own sword at their ankles, then their waists, then their heads. Wide arcs that make it near impossible to get in, despite the fact that the odds are two to one.

Legend pushes and knocks it off balance, and Sky seizes his chance. He steps into the circle, sword going faster than a blink, and stabs through the head. The Master Sword glints on the other side. The beast dissolves into nothing save a gem and some guts.

Sky lets out a cheer and turns to Legend.

Who’s eyes, suspiciously, are blown wide with fear. Did he get hurt? Had Sky missed something during the heat of the battle?

He stumbles forward—wait, stumbles? Sky shouldn’t be stumbling, he didn’t get hurt, just look down—oh. That’s blood. On his tunic. On his stomach.

Shit.

Pain erupts from the area, stabbing and scorching and hot in a way it really should not be, not on a fresh wound, not unless it’s infected—

“Sky? Sky! Stay with me, hero, stay with me.” Legend is frantic and holding his shoulders, lowering him carefully to the ground. Why is he so panicked? It’s not that bad, right?

Another shot of pain rocks his body, and he bites back a scream with practiced expertise.

Nevermind, it is definitely that bad.

Still, though, Legend is upset, and he can’t have that. Legend shouldn’t be upset, not because of him.

“I’m okay,” he gasps. “‘m fine, Ledge, just needa—” a coughing fit fights its way out and he cant stop it.

“You ain’t fine, you needa potion or sum. Hold on fer me, ‘kay? Hold on, ‘ll get Roolie or, or,” Legend stops, stares, and then darts up and away. Sky frowns, because Legend is still stressed and he can tell because his accent is loose and free and that is not something he often does.

He holds on for as long as he can, though. He can hear shouts and people getting up and running and since when did they get so far? What’s even happening? Is someone hurt?

Ow. Right. Sky is hurt.

His stomach doesn’t feel so good. It feels sticky and hot and gross and bad and he doesn’t like it. Maybe a nap will help? Naps usually help when he’s tired, they always have. Maybe he should nap.

Just as his eyes start to fall shut, someone shakes him, yelling and shaking and yelling and shaking. Bright, violet, eyes meet dull sky blue, panicked and calm and panicked and calm and ow ow ow everything hurts so bad.

The violet eyes have a mouth attached, and it keeps opening and closing but he can’t hear anything. Should he be hearing something?

Something cold presses against his stomach and he hisses. It keeps going, pushing and pushing, but the cold becomes warm and soft and comfortable. Sky could nap, like this.

Despite his eyes fluttering shut, someone grabbed and shook him, yet again. He really wishes they’d stop, he’s trying to nap here!

“—descendant!” They say.

…What?

Now significantly more interested, Sky strains his ears to listen closer. Oh, cool, the warm-yet-cold hands gave some of his hearing back. That’s nice.

“I’m—or—dant!”

They’re… huh?

“I’m royal!”

The Chosen Hero blinks. Once, twice, three times. His vision is so blurry he can’t make anything out besides those glaring eyes and disheveled hair.

The pain is subsiding, a little bit, so that’s neat.

What did they mean… royal?

Oh. Oh! Wait! Him and Sun start the royal bloodline of Hyrule, don’t they? This person could be referring to that! Is it a Zelda? Did one of the other Zeldas come? They’re so sweet, all those young women, and it triggers something in him that’s quite enjoyable. Maybe, once this pain quiets down, he can talk to them? That’d be just wonderful.

He closes his eyes again, humming in contentment when the unknown Zelda doesn’t shake him back. The sharp and burning and horrible ache is nothing more than annoying, now, and he’s slept much worse than this. He falls unconscious, unaware to the trembling hero next to him.

What could be minutes or hours or even days later, Sky opens his eyes again. It’s dark out, and stars shine brightly up above. Trees dot the outline of his vision.

He tries to sit up. His lower abdomen protests vehemently, and he has to abandon such efforts. Something between a groan and whine escaped him, despite his feeble attempts to swallow it whole.

“Sky?” Someone asks. “Sky! You’re awake!”

He looks towards the voice, and is pleasantly surprised to see Legend. He made it out of the fight! There’s no visible bandages, or splints, or anything but concerned eyes and a soft face.

Sky musters up the best smile he can. “I’m okay, Ledge.” He pushes up again, and this time makes it as far as propping his weight onto his elbows. His stomach screams, but he’s alright, truly.

“You damn better be,” the vet mutters, but he helps push the chosen hero up the rest of the way. Sky nods his thanks, before scanning their camp.

It’s still the same place they were last time. A small grove in the middle of uncharted woods, somewhere so random that no one knows who’s Hyrule it is or even if it is anyones. There are six sleeping forms and the outline of Wolfie.

There is no Zelda. He distinctly remembers a Zelda being there, after he was injured. Did she leave? He wanted to talk to her.

“Where did she go?” Sky asks, frowning. That’s unfortunate.

Legend raises an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Zelda,” he says, like it’s obvious. “She was here whenever… I got hurt, I guess.”

“Sky,” Legend looks very confused. “There wasn’t ever anyone’s Zelda here. Why would you think so?”

His words are thought out, slower, deeper than the mess he’d been when Sky was injured. That’s good, it means the vet has had time to breathe and calm down since then.

“There wasn’t? But someone mentioned being of royal descent, did they not?” Had he made that entire conversation up? Something of delusion built from blood loss and poison?

Legend’s expression freezes; a blush creeps across his ears. “You, uh, you heard that?”

“Yes?” How could he not? They were shaking and shouting, for Hylia’s sake!

“Oh.”

Sky is growing quickly more confused, and concerned, and he remembers why he was so nervous around Ledge in the first place. Something was wrong—no, something is wrong—and he wants to figure it out.

“Legend? Did something happen? Are you alright?”

The veteran shakes his head. “You got stabbed, Chosen. Scared the hell outta us.”

But that doesn’t answer about the past week or the mysterious person who he’s very very certain said they were related to him.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. Before the other can object, Sky continues. “What about the Zelda, though? Or whoever it was? Someone said they were my descendant, I thought.”

Legend looks anywhere but at Sky’s face. It’s very suspicious. “That, uh, that doesn’t matter. You need rest.”

Sky uses his own arms to keep him up, despite the insistence of the pink-haired hero to get him to lay back down. The more lucid he is, the less the pain matters. It’s nothing, now. He’s done more on less.

“No, wait, Ledge—”

“It was me,” he whispers, and it’s as quick as the pegasus boots he loves so much.

“Hm?”

Legend flushes, continuing to look away. “It was, uh. It was me. I’m your…” he trails off into something incoherent.

Sky raises an inquisitive brow.

“Don’t make me say it,” Legend scowls.

“Say what?”

“You know what!” And Sky really does. He wants to hear Legend admit it for himself, though.

“Stab wound,” he deadpans instead.

Legend huffs and pouts and crosses his arms, scowl deepening, then softening, then deepening again.

A beat passes. No one stirs except for the two exhausted heroes.

“Fable—my Zelda—she’s my sister. I’m the Prince of Hyrule, technically.” Legend brings his knees up to his chest and hugs them, eyes downcast, stance tense and so similar to how it was by the fire, that night.

Everything clicks into place very neatly.

Legend is not upset with Sky. He is worried about Sky, worried he’s been a disappointment, worried that he’s somehow made a mistake. So he cut back on snarks and rolled eyes, on cocked hips and wide gestures, replaced it with something subdued and a (quite frankly horrid) attempt at being something different.

“Can I hug you?” Sky asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of saying.

The veteran—the teenager, really—all but jumps. But, exactly as he hoped he would, the boy uncurls himself just enough to nod and accept the arms barrelling into him.

Sky represses a gasp (ow ow ow, next time, do not fall into someone’s arms with a scabbed stab wound, good Hylia), and squeezes tight, pouring every ounce of care he can in. This is his descendant, his kid, and it’s such a rush of emotions he’s surely going to have to process later but for right now Legend slots perfectly into his arms and all is well.

“You’re not… you’re not mad?” The boy rasps.

Sky uses one hand to comb through unruly hair. Jeez, did this kid brush it at all while he was unconscious? He’s going to have to use the recently acquired dad-card to fix that.

“Why’d I be mad, Ledge?”

From where he’s pressed the other against his chest (how did he never realize Legend was so small? Has he seriously never hugged him before?), Sky can’t see the expression he’s making. He can well assume, though, that’s something along the lines of furrowed brows and pressed lips, confusion evident with a hint of something else.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Legend finally decides on, and Sky almost laughs at how absurd the question is.

He pulls back to look the boy in the eyes. “Legend, you are a wonderful person who has done wonderous things. You have faced atrocities that no person should, and come out stronger, better, and you have done it again and again, because you care for people less fortunate than you.” His descendant’s eyes are blown wide, wide, wide, and the deep black spots are all the more obvious; no wonder he’s so open, right now, there is not a single ounce of sleep in that body. “I know I haven’t known you long, but I am so proud of you regardless, Legend, and I have no words for how happy I am that I am somehow related to you.”

Violet eyes stare into sky blue, expression lax in a way Sky has not seen before, details in the starlight that are old to one but new to the other.

Sky is hit with the fact that he has never looked at the veteran before this. Not hard enough to point out the little things, like the freckles or light scars or baby hairs.

“Oh,” Legend murmurs, casting his gaze downwards and caving in on his own body a bit more. “Okay.”

“Legend,” eyes flick up once more, “I’m being genuine.”

“I know.” A long pause. “I know, it’s just not that simple, I guess. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Ledge.”

Legend’s eyes go wide, wide, wide, once more. “The others can’t know I’m Fable’s brother.”

That is definitely something Sky is going to address at a later date.

For now, he hopes that the glint his eyes get is mischievous and his smirk comes across correctly. “Exactly.”

Legend does not look convinced.

“We’ll be like Twi and the champion were, for a while. Imagine how pissed Wars an’ Wind’ll be trying to figure it out,” Sky says, because while he’s seen hell he’s still just barely twenty and the epitome of a little shit.

(Holy Hylia, he’s going to have to address that later. How do Twilight and Wild do this all day? They’re barely a few years apart!)

Legend stares at him, and then lets out a cackle of a laugh. Real and honest, all because of Sky, and hope blooms in his chest. The other is undoubtedly the hardest nut to crack and Sky is finally getting through, after months of work.

Soon, he starts laughing too. He can’t help it! The vet’s laugh is so contagious, and he’s rocking back on his knees, and Sky is wheezing, and they’re both definitely delirious.

They’re also a bit too loud, because even as their giggles subside, the other Links begin stirring. Hyrule first, the lightest sleeper by far, but Wind and Wild and Wars follow not long after. The chain wake to two grinning brothers, and while they don’t understand it, they’re joining in as well.

Sky’s stomach hurts like a bitch, which is not a word he uses lightly, but he feels happy in an odd sense. A lot has happened—too much—but he can ignore it in favor of a good laugh with his brothers.

320 notes · View notes

brain-rot-hour · 8 months ago

Text

If you asked me to pick a favorite MooseFic, I don't think I could, but [Supersum] by @elkonigin is an absolute banger and the way she always knocks InuKag out of the park is *Chef's kiss*

#inuyasha #brain rot art #kagome #inukag #DARKNESS AND ANGST #elkonigin fanfic #inukag fanfic #they need ALL the tuddles #bbys 🥺🥺🥺#salt (of our tears) makes the coco sweeter #Supersum #fic art

199 notes · View notes

miraculouslbcnreactions · 18 days ago

Text

My Fav Lila Takedown Fics

I promised a commenter that I'd put this together so here you go! Note that, while I've read a lot of fanfic, I have certainly not read every fic in the fandom, so a fic not being on this list means nothing definitive. These are just my favs of the ones I've read. The fics I go reread when Lila's writing gets under my skin.

best (fake) smile by Reiaji

An Adrien-centric two-part series that's tons of fun!

The Investigation by 11JJ11

An Alya-centric takedown that lets Alya and Lila be smart, which is lovely.

Perspectives by MaurLin

A shifting perspective fic where Lila tells a very canon-like lie, resulting in actual, logical consiquences

Revenge by peterparkerpanic

A Nino-centric takedown because Nino deserves some love, too.

#fic rec #lila salt

66 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 7 months ago

Text

Dirty Water

Steve Rogers x deep sea mermaid!Reader

Prompt from this dirty ask game with our pairing from the Sun, Salt, and Shield series.

Summary: After a very long (but unofficial) courtship, where Steve is too shy to bring up your anatomy and his compatibility, a cultural misinterpretation quite literally sinks his resolve.

Warnings for smut (I'm gonna have to call this what it is and just say it's monster-f**king, or the one where Steeb gets maybe-CNC-boinked by a 'monster.' Sorry, babes. Ro's dipped a toe into the darkside for a smidge.) MINORS DNI. Poorly--or rather, not--edited and I have no idea the word count...

Steve swallows harshly and tries not to nervously splash his feet in the pool.

"What?" he chokes out.

He can't think of anything more articulate to say, not that it would matter when so much is lost in translation.

All you did was ask about the singing outside the doors of your 'room'--the retrofitted gym pool at the Avengers compound, the one is the basement without windows for your highly sensitive eyes--but he...could never have predicted why you were so curious.

"They're just enjoying themselves," he'd chuckled, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Do you sing?"

The look on your face, jaw slack and head tilting in contemplation, it should have warned him. You unfurled from your relaxed posture, the stance where your arms cross behind your back and fit atop the swell of your--he'd say tail, but it's more like your ass--rump, the rest of your body bent in a curve until your fin nearly touches the surface, and inched closer to his feet in the deep end.

"Yessssss," you hissed slowly through three rows of sharp teeth, crawling up his legs, out of the water, dripping over his lap as you braced large, webbed hands on either side of his hips.

Even in the very low light of damp room, he could see the lavender of your stare drop to his crotch.

"You sing too?"

Steve's an idiot. He didn't understand yet, so that dumbass actually began humming 'You Are My Sunshine' because nothing else occurred to him.

Then he noticed your tail glowing beneath the scales.

Then he realized you were pressing yourself to his legs.

Aaaand then Steve Rogers looked down your body to witness his knee disappearing in a spongy spot where the armoring swelled apart.

Oh god.

"What?" he now asks like an frightened teen seeing boobs for the first time.

"I make you sing?" Your broad green lips turn up in a smile. "Show me."

Suddenly, Steve's forgotten more english than you've learned. "Huh?"

Your flowing, textured hair, shapely even out of the water, sways when you cock your head to the side, looking through your lashes at him.

"How Stevie sing?"

He shivers for the first time in the cool water and lets an involuntary grunt leave his lips.

He's tried to stop himself from imagining your body and how it works to...ya know, and how he might...oh god, he's going to hell, but apparently, you've already been imagining that humans are either masturbating or fucking outside your door at all hours all the time--

--and oh shit, that means you sing as a part of sex.

He turns his head to the almost black ceiling and fails to think of anything else as the light from your body reflects in waves on every wall. He whimpers when he feels a ripple of muscle through the wet cotton of his jeans.

"Doll make Stevie sing?" Your voice is hoarse, and just as quickly as you say that by his throat, you flip back into the water. You can only breathe air for so long without hurting your throat and lungs.

He thinks he's off the hook, praying the tightness in his pants dissipates faster than they'll take to dry, but he lowers his head to find you peeking from the water, intent as ever on learning his ways.

He should be ashamed, so very fucking ashamed, of how badly he wants to take himself out of his pants and watch the wonder of those pretty eyes as he comes at the thought of you, but Steve's drowning in the hope that he can have you. It's been so long that he's wanted this, even in the most innocent ways.

Your final plea bubbles to the surface.

"Show?"

Steve inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips.

This is wrong, he thinks. You should not be doing this.

Yet he does it anyway because he wants to; he wants to so badly.

He sits up straight at the edge of the concrete, popping the button of his jeans and aches as he lowers the zipper. He can't meet your eye while he pulls out his semi-hard cock and fists it harshly.

You're so long that even looking away leaves your shimmering tail in sight, and he thinks he sees you rattle in excitement. It makes him shiver again, and the vibration shakes the moan escaping his tight chest.

Yikes, it does sound a bit like he's singing...

What the hell are you even doing?

Of course, he knows he's touching himself and he knows well enough how to do that, but he shouldn't be doing this in front of you, much less enjoying it. His blood is running so hot beneath his skin, though, the chilly pool feels soothing over his shins where he rolled up his pants (to no avail).

The heat floods his veins and mind to the point rational thought quiets, and Steve's eyes slither up your demure form.

Your eyes get wider and wider the more noise he makes, and his rampant imagination feeds off the sight of that gap in your scales visible as it undulates in the refraction beneath his feet.

He leans his head back and closes his own eyes at just the wrong moment.

Mid-whine, he misses the splashing sound that would have warned him you were coming, and instead Steve is pummeled by the end of your tail and topples into the pool, shocked and sputtering salty water until his body is pinned to the flat of the concrete wall he used to be perch on.

As he scrambles to toss his arms over the ledge, he feels claws dragging his jeans farther down his legs, and the fabric hangs like an anchor while the silky-slick webbing of your fingers glides up and down his thighs.

Then your tongue runs the length of his cock, making Steve moan embarrassingly loud and thrust his hips forward. If he weren't in the water, he'd be a puddle.

Pleasure races up and down his spine, fighting for dominance over the feeling of cold when he slips from the ledge and submerges briefly.

He barely registers the loss of your tongue and your quick lap of swimming before you're backing into him again.

It's on your ass, too, the soft entrance like you rubbed against his knee, but he could not have imagined what it could do--what you could do--how you could manipulate your muscles inside your tail.

He has no brainpower left to describe it. Steve just lets go, trusting your body to hold his weight as one hand grips the mossy softness of your waist and the other hand spreads over your lower back. Out of instinct, he tries to get leverage to push himself in and out of you, but that's useless.

There's a strong ripple of muscle that pulls him in, and in, and in, delicately tight on his sensitive cock and wide enough to slowly suck his balls into the massaging cavern.

Steve's eyes roll far into his head. He's going to pass out if this keeps up.

"Doll," he gasps, but it's too quiet in the slosh of the water. "Please, I'm--"

A clear, high note crescendos from the deep below, something disturbingly pure and paralyzing, and Steve can't move. He can only feel and experience a siren's song in action.

His body twitches violently before his cum is milked sensually, desperately, methodically from his cradled and ravaged pelvis, and never in Steve's long life has he ever been so fucking spent.

He whimpers when your cunt releases him, only faintly aware that he's propped on your back by his elbows as you swim to the shallow end and let him 'stand' on his shaky legs.

The screeching hinge of the door startles him.

"Cap," the junior agent yells over your hiss from the bright light spraying in, "everything okay? I heard..."

Yeah, I couldn't describe it either, Steve thinks.

He spits water from his mouth. "Fine," he huffs back, "we were...singing, and I fell in."

"Oh. Alright. Sorry to disturb you, Miss G." The man nods his apology at your hand-covered eyes and leaves.

Steve can't help but laugh like an insane person, laying to properly float in the water, uncaring what you're up to until he gently hits the stairs leading out of the pool.

Your head rises out of the water hopefully, and he cups your cheeks, still chuckling. He has zero words to describe...anything at the moment, but he can show you a human tradition of affection in return.

Shifting as easily as a feather in the water, he pulls you two together and sweetly presses his salmon lips to your seaweed pout, letting your long locs fall over his own shoulders.

Soon, he's gasping for air again, yet just before you dunk below the surface, you grin and coo at him.

"Stevie sings lovely."

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

what...the hell have i done. *hits post before final two braincells protest*

@fandom-has-taken-me-hostage @leah2901 @blogbog710 @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @jamneuromain

#dirty asks #ask game #sun salt and shield series #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfic #tw monsterfucking #deep sea mermaid #mermaid!reader #mermaid au #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #fantasy au #i do not have any idea how to properly tag this HALP

195 notes · View notes