#all in all the arrangement feels very well thought out and not like they just made changes for the sake of making them

[madaqueue]

IN YOUR BODY, IN HIS VOICE

you just need to hear his voice and you swear you’ll feel better. besides, a little rule breaking never hurt anybody…right?

pairing: suguru geto x f!reader

themes/content: smut. very guided phone sex/masturbation + a pinch of nipple play, lots of petnames (angel, darling, sweetheart, etc), i have no excuse i just need him to talk me through it tbh (wk: 1.8k)

a/n: thx to every beautiful little freak who voted in my poll for this :33 love you all hope you enjoyyyy <3333

You think you’re going insane.

It’s been less than a week since Suguru left for his work trip, and you genuinely think you’re losing your mind. Every little thing reminds you of him - the mug with a sip of stale coffee in the bottom, the towel that still smells like his shampoo, the rings left sitting on his bedside table.

You never noticed just how big they were, and you almost can’t picture the silver encasing his fingers…his hands…the way they used to cover your body, the metal cool against your hot skin-

Fuck.

And just like that, your thoughts were back to him again.

Has he always had this effect on you? Does he even know how easily he worked his way into your mind, growing roots there and blooming between your thoughts? Every beat of your heart seemed to call his name: Su - Gu - Ru.

Now your heart is beating even faster, begging for him. Suguru. Suguru.

It’s all too hot in your bedroom without him. The air is too stuffy, the comforters too heavy. The rough cotton scratches against your bare skin - unlike his, which softly cradled you with every touch.

God, you miss the way he would touch you. Smooth hands trailing down your back, up your neck, over your chest…

FUCK.

It’s been less than a week since Suguru left, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without sex. Maybe that’s why you’re losing your mind, it has to be.

It’s also, obviously, the longest you’ve gone without cumming since you started dating. The rules were clear: if you wanted to get off, he would be the one to do it. It was easy to agree - after all, he was so, so eager to help. It took little more than a quiet whine in his direction for your clothes to be torn off, Suguru already buried deep inside you. It got to the point where you were practically always flushed and ready around him, anything more than a hand trailing along your skin enough to set you off.

Of course, you also understood the constraints of this little arrangement: no touching yourself when he wasn’t there.

But now, it’s been days. You could feel your thoughts getting clouded around the edges, blurred with an insatiable desire. Suguru. Suguru. Suguru.

Surely, one little touch wouldn’t hurt…right?

Your hands move on their own, trailing down, down, down between your legs. Sliding your panties off your legs, you sink into the warmth of yourself. You try, you really fucking try to curl your fingers in the same way he does, to reach that one spot that has you seeing white. Yet, even when you pick up the pace, it’s not enough.

What the hell?

Did Suguru somehow manage to ruin you for yourself?

You grumble in disappointment, before a moment of clarity strikes you - you can just call him! Surely you just need to hear his voice, that should be close enough to the real thing, right? And it’s not like he’ll even be able to tell what’s going on; a win-win!

His name pops up on your phone as you hold it to your ear, fingers still toying with your needy clit.

“Hi angel,” he purrs through the other line.

A shiver shoots up your spine - god, you fucking missed him.

“Hi, Sugu.”

He adjusts the phone, soft crinkles of his uniform catching in the microphone. “What’s got you calling me so late?”

“Just missed your voice.” And it’s not technically a lie - even just knowing he’s on the other line has your legs shaking.

“Oh?” he lets out a low chuckle. “Well, how am I to deny my pretty girl?”

You try to stifle the whine bubbling from your lips, but between the taunting softness of his voice that tickles your skin like a soft fur, and the increasing pace of your hand pumping in and out, it tumbles out before you can stop it.

Everything freezes for a moment. Maybe he didn’t hear?

The other line goes dead for a second, before you hear his breath crackling through the speaker.

“What are you doing, angel?”

Fuck. FUCK. “N-nothing?”

“No, I don’t think so.” You can hear a smirk through the words.

“I-”

“You know better than that, don’t you? To lie to me?”

“Suguru, look-”

“Let me tell you what I think is happening.”

Your motions still, your stomach clenching in anticipation.

“I think that my poor, sweet baby missed me too much and got a little desperate. I think she tried to get herself off, but realized it just wasn’t the same without her dearest Suguru.” The sweetness dripping from his tone lands in your open mouth, waiting. “I think she decided to call me in the hopes that I wouldn’t notice, or at the very least, wouldn’t punish her for disobeying. Isn’t that right?”

“Mmmmaybe,” you whine, thighs rubbing together in earnest. In fear. In desire.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing, forcing shaky exhales from your lungs.

“Well, I guess I better help my poor desperate little slut, hm? Is that what you’d like?”

Even just his words have your head swirling, mind going foggy. You missed this, the effect he has on you. You do need him. “Yes, please, Sugu.”

His chuckle is more air than a laugh, almost a purr through the distorted speaker. “Okay, my dear. But you’ll do exactly as I say, yes?”

“O-okay.”

“First, take your hand from between your legs.”

He wants you to…stop touching yourself?

You question the order for a moment before obediently removing it, your fingertips still sticky as they rest along your stomach.

“Now, touch your chest.”

Hesitantly, you drag your palm up, gently groping your tits.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels soft, right?”

And you’re almost too lost in the sensation, the gentle warmth radiating through your body, to respond, letting out a gentle hum as you knead into your flesh.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his own hand falling to palm at his growing bulge. Because even though he’s not saying it, he misses you too - the curves of your body, the swell and dips that make him melt into you. But not everything can be soft. “Place your fingers around your nipples. Start by just rubbing, fingernails circling around them.”

As you do, tingles spread from the surface into your ribs, into the beating of your heart.

“Now pinch. Hard.”

A choked gasp passes your lips at the mix of pain and shooting pleasure.

“Good job, angel. You like when it hurts, don’t you? Like to be reminded you’re nothing more than flesh and bone, a body made to be fucked, isn’t that right?”

“Y-yes,” you breathe, your voice already strained.

“Aw, I know, I know,” he coos, but there’s only a whisper of condescension in it. Because he’s no better, finding ecstasy in the unyielding rub of his swollen cock against his boxers, nails beginning to dig into his heavy balls.

Both of you soak in the throbbing pain for a moment, before he continues.

“Rest your hand on your heart, for me.”

It’s racing.

“You feel how your chest rises and falls with every breath?”

Each beat, his name.

“When you exhale, feel that wave of warmth spreading down your body. That arousal, that desire, that starts in your throat and moves all the way down, down, down. Pooling in your core, building there. Breathe with me, sweetheart.”

Inhale.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Exhale.

“To be mine?”

Inhale.

“To be so desperate?”

Exhale.

Desire.

Inhale.

Exhale

Pleasure.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suguru.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suguru.

Suguru.

Suguru.

Everything feels soft, fuzzy. It’s all him, all Suguru.

You barely even notice the way his name falls from your lips, a chant, a prayer.

His voice is the only thing you can hear.

“I know, angel, I know.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suguru.

“You’re being so good for me, aren’t you? Doing just what I say?”

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suguru.

“Mmhm,” you whine.

Cool air rests behind your back as your hips begin rutting off the bed, searching for salvation. But you obey, your open palm still resting over your ribcage. Each beat of your heart, his name.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suguru.

“You sweet, needy little thing.” His cock is out now, the quiet sound of him pumping his length almost audible to a more attentive audience, but it doesn’t even register as you listen, too lost in the lilting vowels, the softened consonants, the gentle purr of his voice, in everything that is him.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suguru.

“Take your hand and trace that warmth, down, and down, and down. Follow it down your chest, your stomach, let your fingers just brush over your skin. It tingles, doesn’t it?”

Like electricity.

Like love.

Everything feels tight inside you, your breathing growing increasingly rapid.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suguru.

“You’ve been so good for me, I think you deserve a reward for being so obedient, don’t you?” 

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Please, Suguru?”

And he’s smiling. “Slowly, take two fingers and trace up between your legs.”

When you finally make contact with your cunt, you can’t even stifle the moan that leaves your throat. Even at the faintest contact, you feel on fire, back arching off the bed, muscles clenching.

“Aw, you really were desperate, huh?”

“I-”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. There’s nothing wrong with that - you should feel like this, wanting to be touched, fucked, claimed. That’s what you’re made for, after all, isn’t it?”

Everything feels warm. “I-I am.”

“Yes, you are,” he purrs. “For being so, so good, why don’t you touch yourself properly, hm? Take that hand and rub your clit for me.”

When soft fingertips make contact with the twitching bundle of nerves, you practically scream. You never knew you could be so sensitive, heat shooting like lightning up your spine until it lands right back at your heart.

Each time you circle your fingers, your heart beats.

Suguru.

Your lungs expand.

Inhale.

Your muscles tighten.

Exhale.

“Suguru,” you whimper.

“Go ahead, angel.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Cum for me.”

Flames tear across your skin as everything goes white. Wave after wave of warmth crashes over you, your entire body convulsing under its weight.

Suguru.

Suguru.

Suguru.

A mantra.

Suguru.

A plea.

Suguru.

A prayer.

Suguru.

On the other end of the line, ragged breaths echo through his empty room as he releases onto his abdomen, coating his skin. And yet, he finds himself wishing it was your hand stroking his aching cock instead, your lips there to lap up his seed, your cunt there to milk him until you’re leaking with proof of his devotion. God, he fucking misses you.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you find yourself babbling.

Body spent, you collapse onto the bed, now cool with sweat. Your thoughts still swim, treading through the waters of Suguru.

A chuckle breaks the silence of the call.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be thanking me just yet, angel,” he hums.

Your breathing picks up its pace, heart pounding loudly.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Oh, you poor thing. Have you forgotten already?” he hums.

Inhale.

“You still broke the rules.”

Exhale.

“And disobedience deserves to be punished.”

Suguru.

[moesthoughts]

no crash shauna shipman x reader or jackie taylor x reader. BOTH?! maybe where they’re forced in a hotel room arrangement before nationals, so much sexual tension omg 😩

i need both

One bed for three

pairing ⛧ jackieshauna x fem! reader

warnings ⛧ cliche one bed trope, no crash au, cunnilingus r! receiving + giving, threesome, smut with plot, face riding

summary . . While the other girls settled into their rooms, Jackie, Shauna and you headed to yours, your luggage feeling heavy from how tired you were. Once you enter you are all disappointed to see there’s one bed. As you three eventually settle into your room, you find yourself in the middle of something exciting.

The plane ride was too long.

Even though sitting with Javi was a breeze since he was so quiet, jet lag seemed to take place in your body more quickly than you thought. As soon as you were able to grab your luggage you put all your weight on it, hoping for some relief from your exhaustion. All that crossed your mind was the hotel, how soft the bed would be, how nice a blanket and a pillow would be. You just hoped the people you’re rooming with would be quiet; you’d be surprised if they weren’t tired as well.

You didn’t know who was rooming with you, neither did you care at this point. You wanted to crash onto a bed and sleep, a shower could wait till tomorrow. Your brain blurred out the chatter that happened around you, wishing it were quieter. You were brought out of your brain fog once Jackie Taylor came over to you, her face drooping with exhaustion. You mustered up a smile, trying to mask your own wearyness.

“I swear if we don’t get brought to our rooms soon, I’m gonna freak. I’m so tired.”

She whined. Jackie usually came to you to complain, you’re used to it. She’s one of the only people you really talk to on a daily basis on the team, except for Shauna Shipman, who was always hanging out with Jackie anyway. Of course, you enjoyed both of their company equally. Speaking of the devil, Shauna walked over to Jackie and you, seeming more awake than you both combined.

“God, a bed sounds so good right now.”

You laughed while Jackie loudly agreed, throwing her head back with a groan. Shauna and you exchanged a smile before turning to listen to your coaches speak.

“Alright girls, let’s head to the hotel.”

A floury of excited girls chatter fills your ears, and you can’t help but join them as you roll your luggage towards the exit.

The bus ride was too long.

You’re practically falling asleep on your suitcase while Javi giggles behind you, you playfully nudge him in the leg with your foot, listening to his voice slowly trailing away as he looks for his dad. You were instructed to wait in line while Coach Scott gives you the keys to your rooming assignments, you happen to be very unlucky, because you’re at the very end of the line. You let out a sigh as you slowly inch up the line, Jackie and Shauna’s conversation ringing in your ears, you’re too tired to pay attention.

Finally, after what felt like forever. You make it up to the front of the line, Coach Scott wears a worried expression while handing you your key. You can only give him a tired smile, before heading over to Jackie and Shauna, who are already gushing over getting the same room together. Jackie looks over to you with a big smile before taking your key from your hands to look at the room number.

“217.. Hey, you’re rooming with both of us!”

A wave of relief rushes through your body hearing the news, you accept your keys back before walking towards the elevator with your two friends.

The walk to your room was too long.

You hum once you reach your shared room, fumbling to grab the keys from your pocket while Shauna and Jackie chat behind you. They jingle while you insert them into the lock, you’re already getting annoyed at the noise they make. You hear the two behind you stop their conversation as you open the door, muttering a curse under your breath. Your eyes instantly land on the single bed in the room, in a hotel room assigned to three people.

“What? What’s the matter?”

Jackie quickly asks, trailing behind you with a concerned tone lacing her voice. The two girls let out a collective “oh” as they make eye contact with the one bed. Shauna sighs and rolls her luggage into the room, she starts to unpack her clothes. You decide to follow suit, not wanting to think about the sleeping situation until you have to.

“Seriously, you think they would give the three people rooming together at least two beds!”

Jackie starts complaining again, Shauna and you reply with affirmations. She was right, you’re annoyed. Especially with how excited you were to have a bed all to yourself, now you’ll probably have to sleep on the floor while the both of them share the bed. Of course, you’re used to it. Sleepovers always end up with you on the ground, at least you get most of the pillows and blankets.

It felt like forever taking all your stuff out of your bag, You collapse onto the middle of the bed, exhaling at the relief of being able to lay down after a long trip. Shauna and Jackie join you, lying down on either side of you.

“So.. sleeping arrangement?”

Shauna mutters out, the relaxation you just felt drains out of your body. You open your eyes and glance at the two of them, their eyes trained on your body. You let out a sigh before sitting up, your head turns to peer at the itchy rug beside the bed. You aren’t excited for these few nights, maybe they’ll be nice enough to take turns with the bed.

“It’s fine, i’ll just sleep on the floor—“

As you move to get up, Jackie grabs your arm and pulls you back towards the bed. You collapse onto the soft blankets with a ‘oof’.

“No.. You should stay up here, with us.”

You give her a confused look as her freshly painted finger nails trail down your arm, Shauna copies her actions, brushing your hair out of your face. You watch as the both of them share a look, before their attention lands on you. You feel your stomach drop, biting your lip while you try to figure out what they’re thinking.

“Well, we were thinking..”

Shauna looks at Jackie for help, the other girl sighs as her hand starts to wander down your body, fingers curling underneath your t shirt. You shift in the bed, anticipation running through your veins.

“We had such a long trip, why don’t we.. blow off some steam?”

You recognize the tone Jackie is using, the same one before you all have a three-way make-out session. To practice for when you eventually have boyfriends, of course! However, ever since Jackie got together with Jeff..., you all stopped. In some sick way, you missed the way they both would be all over you. It’s causing you to slowly get excited. As Shauna slinks to go between your legs, Jackie straddles your waist, already desperate to pull your shift off of you. Shauna parts your legs slowly, her fingers grazing your thigh. You softly whine, nervous since you couldn’t see her behind the blonde currently on top of you.

“Have you ever slept with a girl before?”

It took too long for them to finally sleep with you.

You moan into Jackie’s cunt as she rides your face, Shauna being a little too good at sucking your clit. Your head is dizzy, not even remembering you aren’t in Shauna’s bedroom, but a hotel room where someone could come knocking at any second. None of you cared, not when you’re rocking your hips into Shauna’s mouth desperately, and how Jackie is pressed against your face, whimpering out your name as you tongue fuck her.

Jackie complaining about Jeff runs through your mind, how he isn’t able to make her orgasm, how he doesn’t treat her right in bed. Your arms snake around her thighs, flicking her clit with your tongue, making sure you get her to that release she’s been needing. She throws her head back, tugging at the roots of your hair. You whimper once Shauna retreats from your core, instead replacing her tongue with her fingers, pumping in and out of you at an unforgiving pace.

“Fuck, just like that.”

Jackie lets out a muffled cry once she reaches her high, she climbs off your face and crashes her lips onto yours, clearly hungry to taste you as well. Her hands wander your body, groping you to get a whine to slip from your lips. Shauna was still inbetween your legs, working you to your orgasm with her fingers. She kisses Jackie’s back, whispering praises directed at you both.

“Such a good girl for me..”

She’d mumble, her thumb pressing down on your clit. Jackie bit down on your neck, kissing the bruises after. You’re overwhelmed with everything that’s happening, the feeling of your release coming, Jackie groping you while nipping at your neck, and Shauna’s pretty little compliments. You’re on cloud nine, while your two best friends pleasure you in a hotel room that has thin walls, with nationals being right around the corner. You gasp once you come, Shauna pulls her fingers out, licking them clean. Jackie gives you one last kiss before retreating to the bathroom to get a towel for you both.

“You did so well for us.”

Shauna leans over to catch your lips, Her tone is as sweet as vanilla. She helps you up to your feet, helping you and Jackie clean yourselves up.

It didn’t take long for you all to fall asleep.

You rest in between the two girls, your brain foggy with love.

Lowkey planned on this being a drabble but I had too much fun writing it so I made it a fic… HOPE U ENJOY ANON 🤍

req me!

masterlist

[1d1195]

Protection - Extra V

Read Protection here | ~4.7k words

Warnings: angsty--Harry's very protective. But very sweet.

Summary: He kissed the top of her head. “I trust you.”

She smiled and rested her head against his chest as they walked. “It’ll make me feel better if you do,” she assured him. It wouldn’t—well, it would. But she knew it would make him feel better and that was the best medicine she could buy for her anxious boyfriend.

“You got it, kitten,” he kissed the top of her head.

“What’s her favorite kind of flower?” Niall asked.

Harry dropped his head back on the sofa and exhaled deeply. He turned to his best friend and shook his head. What a ridiculous question Harry thought. Of course he was going to have her favorite flowers there. It was an integral part of their relationship. But Harry got her flowers all the time. Every week a vase on his kitchen counter was arranged by her to brighten the room. Flowers weren’t special, not really. They were a reminder that he adored her of course, but this was a special moment, and her regular flower order wasn’t going to cut it.

“Seriously?”

“I don’t know,” Niall shrugged and scowled at him. He sipped his beer. She insisted that Harry leave her alone for guy-time. He hated it. Not that he didn’t enjoy his time with Niall, but he enjoyed having her around. It eased his mind of worry even if she was kind enough to wear his favorite scrunchie. “Why was that such a bad thing to ask?”

“M’not going t’propose with jus’ her favorite flowers,” he grumbled sipping his own beer and watched the TV for a few minutes. Niall smirked and shook his head. “What?”

“I’m glad you found her,” he shrugged one shoulder. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” he rolled his eyes. But he would thank Niall endlessly for finding the pretty girl, for recommending him to DSS. If it wasn’t for Niall, there would be no love for Harry. Now that he had it, he never wanted to let it go.

Niall sipped his drink again and grabbed a slice of pizza from the box on his coffee table. “What’s she doing today?” He asked.

“She’s holding a few review sessions on campus,” he mumbled. The fall semester was coming to an end, and she was spending more time with office hours and making sure that her students felt comfortable with the material. Meanwhile, Harry was in the office, Niall a few rooms away, while he was filing paperwork mindlessly. He helped with training and the like but truthfully Harry missed his days of sitting on her couch and watching her study. He missed running errands with her and following her on her jogs in the park.

But really, he just missed her. Which was ridiculous. She pointed it out too and Harry couldn’t even deny it.

“And you haven’t been watching her location like a hawk?” Niall knew all about the little hair scrunchie. He was the only one that knew the extent of her failsafe and Harry’s forethought to track her when he almost lost her for good.

Harry glared at his lap. “M’not crazy, Niall. M’worried.”

“It can be both,” he shrugged again.

“I don’t even know why she thinks I want t’hang out with you,” he grumbled sipping his drink.

“Because your girlfriend soon-to-be fiancée is an excellent judge of character,” he smiled.

Harry couldn’t help but grin. He loved being her boyfriend, but he was extremely excited for an upgrade. He told his mum his plans, FaceTimed Gemma while selecting the ring. It was locked in his desk drawer at work because he didn’t want her to find it while putting laundry away. He knew she wouldn’t step foot in the DSS building for the rest of her life if she could help it.

All that was left to do was figure out how to ask her the most important question in the world. She didn’t really have friends to ask what her ideal scenario would be. He knew she wouldn’t want a big public to-do, but nothing seemed fitting for her. She needed a big to-do. She was his angel. His everything.

He didn’t want it to be a holiday. She deserved a special day all to herself, not overshadowed by a day no one else would remember. There wouldn’t be any family there because...well... and that was fine. Harry thought she would like a quiet private moment, but it didn’t seem like enough for how much he adored her. He wanted to scream it from the top of a building so everyone knew how special she was; his brilliant, beautiful girl.

“Harry,” Niall’s voice was gentle. Calm and kind, not an ounce of joking. It was like when he chatted with him about her attitude while he was on duty when they first started out. Harry could feel the smile on his face as he thought about her. But he was a bit sad too; worried that she wouldn’t feel the love he felt for her the way he wanted. He worried she would miss her mum—although he supposed that was going to happen regardless. How was he supposed to make it perfect for her? “She loves you,” he reminded him. “She’ll love whatever you do, and I know she’s going to say yes. You probably don’t even have to ask her.”

His heart felt a little less sad as he said it. He knew he was right. So, he would forgo the planning for the time being and just remind himself that she loved him as much as he loved her.

Harry relaxed a bit when his phone vibrated with a message from Miss Wildflower

I miss you 💕 Hope you’re having a nice time. Session 1 is done and went well. Onto session 2. Pizza for dinner? Watch a movie? Love you so, so much

Maybe she even loved him a little more.

Niall and Harry cheered and watched the game in near silence. Chatting mostly about the players and work every so often. When the game ended, Niall turned on his gaming console and all but threw a controller at Harry.

They were midway through their second game of play when his phone rang. Harry answered it before the second ring had finished. “Hey kitten,” he said trying not to sound like a psychopath and anxiously awaiting his phone to ring with her at the end.

“Hi,” she sounded fine, sweet, even. “How’s your night?” She asked politely.

“Good, Derby won, so Niall’s happy.”

“Wonderful,” she giggled. “I’m glad. Are you guys busy at the moment?”

“No, why?”

“Just wanted to say hi,” she had a smile in her voice. “But I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“You could never interrupt,” he murmured quietly. She laughed quietly into the phone.

“I’ll see you later,” she promised. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he responded and waited until she hung up before putting the phone down.

“You’re welcome,” Niall repeated with a smirk.

*

She had gone to the dining hall with her coworker to catch up on a few things before her next class started. There was a mental to do list awaiting her when she returned to her office and when she got back to Harry’s apartment. Except now it was their apartment. It made her heart skip a beat to be in love with someone so lovely. Someone who adored her and all her flaws (although Harry would say she didn’t have any—which was excessively sweet too.)

She was looking at her phone as she approached her office checking on her email and dropped her bag on the floor beside her desk as she opened her laptop. Right inside the her computer was a medium-sized brown envelope. She took a deep breath and opened it. Inside was a standard white envelope with a return address label that she didn’t want.

Immediately, she understood why it was in her laptop. The letter should have just come through the university mail. But all that really meant was that someone went into her office without her permission. Dropping her head back against her chair she blew out the breath she realized she was holding. She tugged at the scrunchie on her wrist and opened her phone to her recent calls once more.

“Niall would be a lot calmer,” she mumbled to herself.

But Harry would be wrecked if she didn’t call him. Didn’t tell him immediately that she was... nervous. It was nothing. He was going to be in jail for a very long time and he couldn’t hurt her. But the thought of someone leaving the letter was enough to make her on edge. Perhaps she should have just left and joined boys’ night. Didn’t Harry deserve a night to himself? Especially without worrying about her.

There was no calling Niall without Harry reaching DEFCON one.

It wasn’t fair to either of them. She knew they would both be here in a heartbeat and they wouldn’t mind at all, but it should have to come to this.

“Ugh,” she groaned and rubbed her temples. “Alright, come on,” she grumbled to herself and dialed his phone once more.

“Hi kitten,” he cooed immediately.

“Hi,” she smiled. His voice was so sweet, his adoration for her so apparent in his voice it made her feel woozy. It was unreal someone as wonderful as Harry loved her so completely. Unlike anything she felt in her life.

“Y’okay?” He asked calmly. It was impressive for him. He seemed pretty relaxed considering he was probably bouncing his knee rapidly in anticipation of the worst.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I am one hundred percent fine,” she said assuredly.

“So... jus’ wanted t’hear m’voice?” He continued. She could hear the suspicion in his voice. There was no hiding from him. No surprising him.

“Ah,” she laughed quietly. “Yes, definitely. But... also... are you guys busy now?”

“No,” he hedged. It was like he knew. She knew he knew that she was the tiniest bit in duress. If you could call it that. She inspected her cuticles while she listened to the silence stretch between them. While Harry worked through every worst-case scenario possible for the short moment he filled in the blank of her open-ended question. “Why?”

“I just... thought you might be able to swing by... if you guys can spare the time, of course.” maybe being casual would work.

“Why?” He snapped.

“Oh, come on, baby. Please don’t freak out, I’ll even stay on the phone the whole time. I’m pretty sure this thing tracks to the—”

“Don’t say it out loud!” He almost shouted over her voice. “Niall. Keys. Now.”

She sighed. “Harry,” she felt defeated and slumped low in her chair. “It’s not—”

“M’on m’way, kitten, don’t move,” he ordered. “Lock your office, please.”

“Do you want me to stay put or do you want me to lock the door?” Maybe a joke would help reaffirm that she was fine, and it wasn’t that serious.

“Not the time, love. Not funny.”

Perhaps not a joke, then.

Harry sighed deeply and she could hear their footsteps hurrying down Niall’s apartment building halls and heading to the parking lot, the main door opening with a squeak that needed to be oiled due to the humidity. They were probably no more than eleven minutes from her including parking and walking to her building and office. She knew that her sarcastic comment wasn’t kind to his frazzled mind, and she knew she shouldn’t have said it but she just wanted him to relax. Poor Harry was going to be subject to a heart attack if she wasn’t careful.

“Can I talk to Niall?” She asked quietly while she locked her office door and immediately went back to her chair to sit still until her knight in shining armor arrived.

“No,” he grumbled. “Niall y’better run every red light.”

“Harry, that’s dangerous and unnecessary—”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he ordered. “Please,” he added as an after fact, but it was hard and she knew he was mad.

“Nothing! It’s really nothing. Honestly, I think I’m just being a little cautious which I thought you would appreciate—”

“I would appreciate it more if y’told me what was wrong,” she could practically see him shaking with anxiety in Niall’s front seat. She wished she was a better negotiator because chatting with Niall would have been a lot easier to calm him.

“It’s just... someone left me a letter in my office and it wouldn’t be a bad thing normally... except... it’s from my dad. So... that means someone...” she took a deep breath. “I think someone broke into my office,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She knew he was going to freak out. But that was what happened. There was no way of explaining it otherwise.

“Niall,” he snapped again.

“I’m going as fast as I can!”

“Harry, I’m fine.”

But it was much too late, and Harry was going to start hyperventilating at any moment. She sighed and looked at the ceiling inspecting the paint for any disturbances. She couldn’t see any blinking lights like she was being recorded. She assumed it was just the letter and nothing more. Nothing appeared to be taken, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Everything was fine.

“Honey,” he said suddenly. Her body warmed all over. The way it did every time he called her the sweet name. Ever since he called her honey in her kitchen while he tended to the gash on her hand. She figured he was plenty aware of the effect it had on her because he used it sparingly, only saying it when he wanted her to remain serious and not her funny self.

“I’m fine, Harry. I promise, baby. I didn’t want to call and—”

“Don’t ever not call me.”

“—worry you on purpose. I’m whole and fine,” she pleaded quietly. Her voice felt softer as she tried to convince him things were okay. “You’re going to stress for nothing, I promise.”

He breathed out a shaky breath. “I jus’ need t’hold you,” he admitted, his voice grumbly. Almost like he was embarrassed to say it in front of Niall. But she knew that wasn’t the case. She knew Harry didn’t care at all that Niall knew how much he loved her.

Her heart shattered into a million pieces because it was the sweetest, most adorable thing he could have said. “I’m here waiting,” she smiled into the phone and counted down the moments until he would be rushing in. She tried to breathe a little louder, made more noises, tapped the keys on her laptop, scrunched a piece of paper to toss into the recycle bin across the room. All little pieces of evidence that she was fine, and everything was okay and hopefully Harry would recognize that.

Not long after, she heard the car door slam and Harry’s quiet breathing increased ever so slightly, indicating that he was running from the parking lot. “Do you want me to unlock—”

“No.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed standing up as she heard two sets of footsteps down the hall outside her door. The lock slid open using the key that she gave Harry with administration permission. There was a whole thing about it, but given he still worked at DSS at the time, they didn’t really question it. He was vetted and whatnot for protecting her.

Lord knew Harry loved to protect her.

With the door out of the way, he dropped his phone the moment he crossed the threshold. He didn’t stop moving even though she was sure the screen cracked, and his case fell off. Even once she was in his arms, he was still kind of moving, nearly pressing her into the windowsill behind her desk. He buried his face into the crook of her neck where he breathed in her hair and squeezed her tighter.

“Hi princess,” Niall smiled gently closing the door behind him as if this was a normal moment.

She grinned, rubbing Harry’s back only pausing briefly to wave from Harry’s embrace. “Hi, Niall. Did you guys have fun?” She asked.

He nodded with an eye roll at Harry. Niall made his way closer to the pair of them. “Loads.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said apologietically.

“Not at all, you could—”

“It’s not interrupting,” Harry grumbled.

She gave him another squeeze. “He was saying that, baby. Just relax, please,” she hummed softly.

“This the letter?” Niall asked, picking it up off her desk.

She nodded.

“A lot of people have the key to your office, no?” He asked breaking the seal of the envelope.

She nodded against Harry who seemed to be calming down ever so slightly—if the rise and fall of his shoulders was any indication. “But... I don’t think they would leave a letter, you know?”

“I’ll get the video from the security cameras,” he assured her. “See who came by.”

“I’m sorry, it’s your day off,” she frowned.

Harry scoffed. “That does—”

But Niall interrupted him before he could finish. “Oh, for you Princess? I love working overtime,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about that at all,” he grinned as he scanned the paper in front of him.

“Anything good?”

“He’s apologizing.” She didn’t say anything. Harry pulled away and kept hold of her hand while he moved toward Niall to read over his shoulder. “Do you want to read it?” Niall asked.

“No,” she shook her head.

Harry scanned the letter as well. “He said he wants you t’respond.”

“I’m sure,” she looked toward the window. Sighing, she realized she would have to come clean about one little truth she had neglected to tell Niall and Harry. “I guess... it kind of makes sense the letter is here. I haven’t answered any of his other ones. He usually sends them to the post office,” she explained.

“He does?” Harry looked at her, his eyebrows raised. This was news to him, that was obvious.

“I don’t read them,” she shrugged. “I’m not really worried about the letter to be honest. I care more that someone came into my office without permission.”

Niall sighed. “Well, you know him better than I, Princess. He seems pretty remorseful—nothing suspicious.”

“He’s probably remorseful because he’s stuck in jail,” she grumbled. “Probably thinks my response of forgiveness, which he will never get, will make his chances better for a reduced sentence,” she released Harry’s hand and began packing up her items to head home. Harry would likely drive her car back to their place and he would get his car from Niall’s some other time.

It was silent for a moment and when she looked up she realized Harry and Niall were staring at one another. Eyes locked with a silent conversation. Harry turned to her, his eyebrows furrowed together and his lips set in a frown. “One more month, kitten, please.”

She huffed. “No. Absolutely not.”

“One week,” he bargained.

“No.”

“Harry, it’s just—” Niall started.

“Please, kitten, I’m begging.”

She shook her head defiantly. “No, he’s not winning, Harry. He’s in jail because he tried to kill me. He’s not going to control any more of my life, alright? I’m sorry you’re scared. I get it, I do. I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through. I would have lost my mind,” she cupped his cheek.

Harry swallowed the emotion in his throat as his mind immediately started thinking about how lifeless she looked; how cold she felt, how her skin turned pale and her lips blue. He turned his face away from her because he could feel his eyes stinging with tears. He swallowed hard, the bob visible in his throat as she rubbed her thumb on his cheek. “But... I cannot let him win. He’s not going to scare me. He can’t kill me from in there.”

Niall was patient. Re-reading while Harry had his meltdown. All while she tried to comfort him. Maybe they would have her followed by an agent or two for a little while. She could see them doing that. She would know—they weren’t very subtle about it and had noticed the other few times they had.

“One day?” He pleaded. “Jus’ one day with a bodyguard t’make sure—”

“Harry, I will make you sleep on the couch,” she warned.

She knew he thought it would be worth it. He turned to Niall for help. “She’s not on our service anymore, Harry. I don’t mind, she’s one of my best friends and I love keeping her safe, but I can’t force an agent on her.”

“I also have free will?” She reminded him. “May I remind you that I do not like security. It’s not necessary. Especially now that he’s in jail. I know you’re both just going to have me followed again until you’re content and I—”

“I told you she knew,” Niall sighed and looked Harry with a shake of his head.

“—don’t want it nor do I—���

“Not now, honey,” he brought her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze even though she was ranting with bitterness. Gently, he tugged her toward him so she was closer to his side. He knew calling her honey would make her soften a bit. He wasn’t fully sure why, so he used the little nickname sparingly. For important moments when he wanted her to know he meant business.

It also helped ease the blow of Harry’s minor freak out because it sort of paused everything they were thinking. She took a deep breath. “Can we go home?” She asked.

“I’ll take this,” Niall smiled. “I’ll come pick you up for work Harry so you can get your car back tomorrow,” he offered. He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Night Princess, stay safe,” he winked and headed out the door.

She handed Harry her keys and let him wrap his arm around her waist (not that she didn’t enjoy it). “You can have Niall pick you up here tomorrow. You can come and sweep my office and classroom if it will make you feel better,” she offered kindly.

He kissed the top of her head. “I trust you.”

She smiled and rested her head against his chest as they walked. “It’ll make me feel better if you do,” she assured him. It wouldn’t—well, it would. But she knew it would make him feel better and that was the best medicine she could buy for her anxious boyfriend.

“You got it, kitten,” he kissed the top of her head.

*

She knew why she was visiting, but it seemed a little weird that Harry wanted to join her. There were a lot of things he didn’t like to let her do on her own, but this was definitely one he preferred to steer clear of most of the time.

Or so she thought.

“You hate coming here,” she said suspiciously as they exited the car.

He shrugged. “I know... I do... but... I come here t’talk t’your mom.”

She stopped walking, her hand went to her heart. “You what?”

Harry shrugged again. “Y’said this is where y’come to talk t’your mom... before everything that happened. That... y’feel close to her here,” he reminded her giving her hand a squeeze as they continued forward. Harry tried hard to forget the time he was last here with her. When he held her cradled in his arms. Her skin cold and blue, the raw red marks on her wrists from the zip ties, and the bandage on her leg falling apart from the seawater. “So, I thought I should come here to talk t’her too. Dr. Petra suggested it. Supposed t’help me cope... but also so I can be closer t’your mum,” he explained.

Her throat felt tight with the need to cry. How she always felt when she thought about her mom. But now it was exacerbated by how thoughtful it was that Harry cared enough to talk to her mom even when they couldn’t physically speak to her. “Why...?” She swallowed, shook her head to rid herself of the tears threatening to fill her eyes. “Why... do you talk to my mom?”

“Lots of reasons, kitten. Mostly though, m’trying t’see if she’s got any ideas on how t’make y’less cranky.”

She smacked him and pouted. “I’m not cranky.”

“I know, it’s working.”

She glared at him. “So, you just come out here to where I almost died to talk to my dead mother and tell her how much of a pain in the ass I am?”

“No, s’obviously not what I talk ‘bout, honey,” he rolled his eyes and smirked to himself. That little word made her heart soften just like always. Harry stopped walking and grabbed her hip to turn toward him. “I tell her how much I adore you and how special you are t’me,” he used his other hand to cup her cheek. He bent to kiss her briefly, making her lips tingle with warmth and love for the perfect, sweet man. “I tell her that she would be so proud of you and everything you do. I tell her that m’going t’make sure I make her proud too. That if she was alive, she would like me because I make your life a little better—a little easier because I love you more than anything.”

She was eerily silent. That did sound more reasonable than him making fun of her. She swallowed and took a deep breath trying to keep the tears at bay. “She would love you.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” he smiled and stepped out of the way and gestured for her to proceed forward. If she wasn’t so floored by his use of honey and his little declaration of telling her dead mother how much he loved her, she would have been a step ahead of him. She would have noticed that Harry never let her lead blindly.

But this was easily one of the worst places in existence for both of them.

There were hundreds of flowers lying on the ground in a circle. A bouquet pulled apart, so they were placed purposefully around the area. A gorgeous array of colors—like a rainbow. Every kind of flower that ever hung in her apartment. Every flower that was part of a bouquet that Harry got her for the length of their relationship. Every flower she ever mentioned and how beautiful it was.

Wildflowers. There were hundreds of wildflowers. “Harry?” She asked. “What—”

“Miss Wildflower,” he said from behind her. She turned, her eyes dropping instantly to meet his gaze. He was kneeling on one knee, his hands holding a small box in front of his chest. A gorgeous diamond glittering in the box. “You’re unbelievably beautiful, beyond intelligent, so stubborn, and my favorite person in the world. I love you more every day. Every minute. It was an honor to protect you, and I plan t’do it every day for the rest of our lives,” he promised. “I hate this place,” he told her. “But you, you Miss Wildflower, you make flowers grow in the worst and darkest of places. You brighten every moment of my life, and I want to spend forever being in love with you and trying to brighten your life half as much as you brighten mine.”

She smiled at him, tears filling her eyes as she nodded at him. “Yes,” she whispered.

“I didn’t ask yet.”

“So ask,” she sniffled. “Yes.”

“I had more. I wanted t’ask here, so your mum could—”

“Yes.”

“Niall’s over there taking pictures I think, kitten. I haven’t even—”

“Please ask, before I explode,” she begged, bouncing on her feet a bit as she watched him.

He chuckled, not breaking his gaze. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she whispered and covered her mouth with her hand. Harry stood and wrapped his arms around her, letting the ring box close at the same time. He held her,  lifting her gently off the ground. “You can let someone follow me for one week.”

He laughed. “Yeah? S’that m’engagement present?”

She nodded. “I love you, so, so much Harry.”

“I love you,” he kissed her sweetly. “Do y’think your mum would approve?”

“Yes,” she nodded and tucked her face into his shoulder. “Probably would convince you not to fall for someone grumpy like me.”

Harry cupped her jaw and brushed his thumb along her lip. He pressed a kiss to her mouth and smiled happily while Niall snapped pictures from between the trees nearby. “Honey, no one could ever keep me away from you.”

--

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[manicmanuscription]

Watch Your Step

SJM x Reader Week 2025: Day One @sjmxreaderweek

Prompt: Beginnings / Endings

Pairings: Eris / Reader

Summary: Eris knew his father was going to die today. Afterall it took immense planning. What he didn't expect to meet his mate and he certainly didn't expect to be a blundering idiot as the first introduction.

Tags: mentions of gore, blood, murder, coup, Eris is NOT doing well, slightly evil Eris but he's traumatized so....

Word Count: 875

SJM x Reader Week 2025 | Acotar Masterlist

Eris walked the busy city streets of Herbst with his hands in his pockets, barely noticing the people who passed him by. He had just murdered his father, planned a coup and executed it to absolute perfection. 

None of the villagers even knew their tormentor was dead, although some would be able to guess. The very air itself had shifted when the ancient power found a new host. The blood still staining his hands.

He didn’t know why he had come here, he should be making arrangements for his father’s funeral. Preparing for the announcement of his ‘heart attack’ that would spread through the Autumn Court in just a few hours. Perhaps he wanted a distraction, a reminder of what he had to lose. All he knew was he couldn’t be in that godforsaken house anymore.

The newfound power was thrumming under his skin with a raging vengeance. He felt hot all over as if lava itself had been melded to his very soul. It itched to lash out at any person who brushed against his shoulder as he walked. It begged to be free from the confines of the cage he was struggling to keep intact. 

Everything inside of him was burning and it was overwhelming. His ears rang and he could taste his own blood in the back of his throat. 

It wanted freedom, it wanted to taste the air and dance throughout the forests. It wanted to consume just as much as it wanted to leave and Eris wondered if he would survive it. Black dots dancing in his vision at the restraint it took. 

He briefly thought if this is what drove his father insane and shoved the terrifying notion to the darkest parts of his mind. He would not lose everything he worked for because he could not keep it together as if he was a youngling. He mastered the flame long ago and he would again if that’s what it took.

Eris let out an exhale through clenched teeth, smoke leaving his lips and curling with the very air before hiding in the pollution of the nearby houses all stacked together. He-

Someone ran into him, his distracted state of mind had him stumbling into a cobbled wall. Rage burst along his skin and that newfound beast surged forward with a promise of destruction. Blue sparks of flame dancing in clenched fists. 

He snarled and when he turned to face his attacker the first thing he saw were your hands, hovering over his body as if you reached out to help him but stopped yourself, he trailed the rest of your body until finally landing on those unique eyes and the world shifted on it’s axis for the second time that day. The mating bond snapped in his chest and he swore he heard the ground rumble in response. The universe itself changing the atoms around them to pause time just for that brief moment.

“I am- Holy shit I am so sorry. Are you alright?” You rushed out, studying him carefully, hands still splayed out in the space in front of him. A cautious look in your gaze and Eris was sure he looked like a rabid beast, his clothes rumpled and a vicious stare, smoke curling from under his skin as he burned hotter than he thought possible. 

It was then he realized the hellfire scorching his soul had calmed, instead of urging for freedom it peeked over his shoulder in curiosity. A feeling of calm settling all the way to his bones for the first time in days no-centuries. Hell, maybe for the first time at all. 

Someone called your name from the crowd and he savored the feel of it rolling around his mind. His heart. You cursed under your breath and reached into your cloak, pulling out a few shiny rocks each of them varying in colors. “Sorry this is all I have on me.” You gently dropped them into his hand and he shuddered underneath the brief touch. 

You looked at him expectantly and he realized he hadn’t spoken a single word. When he opened his mouth to try all he could taste was ash. Fuck he needed to say something. Someone called your name again, in a clipped tone and you glanced behind you. “Sorry, again for running into you!” 

And just like that you were gone, whisking yourself away in the haze of people and taking the only peace he had with you. 

That fire reared its ugly head again only this time it had a different purpose a new primal instinct only adding fuel to his newfound power. 

He shook it off and did his best to bury it. Heading back into the streets. Confusion settling over him more than anything else. He would find you. 

No not for courtship. Eris was too determined for love. It wasn’t meant for sadistic monster’s like him. His breathing evened as he settled into his goal-oriented mind. A strategy alreading forming. 

No no, he would find you for the sweet relief you had brought him for he had never felt his fire quiet. Never felt that anxious power be lulled to sleep even before this old power.

At least that’s what he told himself anyways, as he locked that small spark of hope far far away.

[yuriartillery]

Agatha and Elizabeth

“Lady Agatha, I’ve brought you your tea.”

I set the platter down on the end table next to my mistress and pour out her tea. She doesn’t take it with milk or sugar, and she always insists that I oversteep the leaves in the pot. Bitter herbs sharpen the mind, she says.

Agatha is sprawled out on her reading chair in her chamber, still in her nightgown despite it nearly being noon. Lady Agatha purportedly drove away several governesses in her youth with her willful and unladylike attitude, and I have personally seen her drive out a fair score of potential suitors in much the same way. I admit that I almost admire her sharp tongue when it’s turned towards those above me, but all too often her disposition grates on me in the way that only a spoiled child can.

“Thank you, Liz. Would you draw the curtains? I have a bitch of a headache.”

Her delicately manicured left hand covers her porcelain face, as she regards me through spread fingers. My lady’s room has a western facing window, and there’s not a single stream of light flowing in at the moment. A catty remark crosses my mind briefly as I walk over to the curtains to draw them.

“Right away, my Lady.”

She’s not fond of sharp or sudden noises, so I carefully pull them together, taking far longer than I would prefer. Once the are curtains shut, I tidy up her room. The laundry maid has often complained that Agatha’s clothes seem to spend more time as makeshift rugs than on her body. She’s still watching me through her fingers, although she hasn’t yet deigned to honour me by turning her head.

“Lady Agatha, forgive me my presumption, but you seem not to be feeling well today. Shall I send word to that factory owner’s son that you won’t be able to entertain him for dinner?”

Exactly on cue, she lets out a put-upon sigh and slumps further into her chair. Mister John Harker has been quite dogged in his pursuit of Agatha, despite her repeated deflections of his various advances. By society’s estimation he’s a perfectly unobjectionable man, though the arrogance he displays by courting far above his station embitters him to me. Not that anyone of standing minds, her parents have been trying to marry her off to any man who will take her, both to finally rid the estate of her presence and to dispel the rumors that they’ve spawned an unmarriageable hellion.

“I’m afraid you didn’t respond clearly enough for me to answer Mr. Harker’s solicitations, my Lady, shall I return after you’ve had time for the tea to settle?”

My mistress is so predictable. As soon as I suggest that I’m about to leave, she immediately rights her posture, combs her hair out of her eyes, and clears her throat.

“Tell that parasitic bastard that I am indisposed in no uncertain terms, Liz.”

She pauses for a beat, her face twisting as venom decants behind her ruby lips, until her expression settles into a malicious grin barely veiled by an austere half-smile. Just as I’m about to prompt her, my Lady speaks.

“On second thought, I’m feeling much better. Your tea always does wonders for me, Elizabeth. Let him know that I would be honored to dine with him alone tonight.”

I know she’s not touched her tea yet, so Agatha must be plotting something. Typically she would hold a massive party so that she could publicly humiliate a suitor. A solo dinner is well outside of her usual mischief.

“Very good, my Lady. I’ll have a messenger send word to Mr. Harker immediately.”

“You must help me get dressed and prepared first, Liz. I can’t host anyone in this state, certainly not him. My hair’s a mess, as is my face.”

I can’t help but smile to myself. Agatha is always so petulant and exacting when she gets an idea like this into her head. Until the very moment her plans begin, she’ll find something wrong with her appearance or presentation and endlessly correct it such that everything is perfect. She’ll need to bathe, get dressed, do her hair, and have at least four hours to make sure that each room in her scheme is arranged to her need.

“Did you bathe last night, my Lady?”

Of course she didn’t, I was with her until I turned out her lights. My mistress never bathes unless I remind her too. She seems startled when I ask this, snapped out of her plots for a moment by the societal expectation of cleanliness. Honestly, she’s helpless.

“Oh! I, well, no…”

“I see, my Lady. I’ll go draw a bath for you now, and I’ll fetch you when it’s ready.”

“Thank you, Liz.”

“It’s no trouble at all, my Lady. Do you have an idea of what you’ll be wearing tonight?”

“…I don’t.”

“Well my Lady, I encourage you to think on it while I prepare your bath. Please excuse me.”

She’s not listening anymore, and I know it. I don’t particularly mind. The look of her perfectly focused face tells she can’t tell if I take a moment outside of her notice. Some time to alert the staff to the general outline of what will be occurring today. I quietly excuse myself from her chambers and look for Anthony, the estate’s coachman and messenger. He seems genuinely excited to be giving Mr. Harker substantial news for a change. I can’t blame the man, it must be exhausting to constantly rebuff the pesterings of a desperate lovelorn fool.

Lady Agatha didn’t outline any of her plans to me before I left, but they all more or less follow a rote routine, so providing advanced notice to the kitchen and cleaning staff has historically improved the odds of my mistress’s plans going off without a hitch.

The bath has always been simple, but unorthodox, to prepare. Agatha prefers her baths to be as hot as possible, so I nearly boil her bathwater. When she’s ready it’ll be the almost scalding temperature that she so adores. I gently knock at the door and let myself in. Agatha has spread a few different dresses out on her bed and the floor and is in deep deliberation as to which dress she should wear.

“I think the sky blue dress would be appropriate for today, my Lady.”

She starts up, like a cat that’s had its tail tread on. I suppress a giggle. She nods to me in agreement and begins to gather up her other dresses.

“Also, your bath is prepared. Leave the cleanup to me, my Lady.”

I reach down to help her upright and she takes my hand swiftly. She pulls herself to her feet in one sudden motion and walks to the bathroom faster than is necessary. Out of the corner of my eye I catch her alabaster cheeks flushing rose, cut off sharply by the slamming of a door. This is routine as well, a startled Agatha can’t bear to be seen by anyone else. I tidy up her room, returning all but the blue dress to her wardrobe. After all is set into its rightful place, I make up her bed and tidy the mess of romance novels on her desk.

A book titled Carmilla catches my eye as I clean, hidden away behind the headboard of Agatha’s bed. It’s in a horrid state, spine bent and broken, pages yellowed with several dog-eared to hold her place. My lady is still bathing, so I take a break from my chores to peruse a few pages. Within seconds I am absorbed so fully that I nearly miss my Lady crying out for my aid. I clear my throat and tuck the novel back where I found it.

“Liz! Elizabeth! I need your help! Now!”

It’s strange, she almost never requires assistance in the bath, but I open the door to the bath and a wave of heavy steam forces me back. I wipe the fog from my glasses and walk in.

“Liz, what took you so long?”

Agatha’s skin is entirely red from the hot bath, but she hasn’t yet wet her hair. I can’t help but sigh, she’s going to insist that I wash her hair. It’s nearly been two months since she last asked for this, I had almost hoped that she had forgotten that I said I’d be willing to. I move behind the bathtub and prepare the soaps.

“Forgive me, my Lady. I was engrossed in my work.”

She pouts, because she can’t help it. I keep my opinions to myself.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore! Now that you’re here, wash my hair! … please.”

I knew it.

“You’ll have to wet it yourself, my lady. I wouldn’t want to appear to be drowning my mistress on the off chance that someone stumbles into your bathroom.”

With a huff, Agatha sinks beneath the steaming water, giving me another opportunity to remove the fog from my glasses. She childishly breaches moments later, splattering both myself and the floor with her bathwater. Every day it grows harder to suppress my annoyance with my mistress. Each interaction is just another trial from God, sent to test my patience.

“Close your eyes, my Lady. We wouldn’t want it to get into your eyes.”

I lather her scalp and begin the laborious process of cleaning her unmanageable amount of hair. Agatha has been famously opposed to it ever being cut. Trimming it to remove the splitting ends has been a battle enough her entire life, the other maids have told me. She’s made a personal enemy of every salon’s proprietor and all of their employees within fifty miles, and now none will ever assent to seeing her.

My mistress sighs with contentment as I work on her. She purrs like a cat when my nails scratch her scalp and mewls pathetically when I move on to more of her hair. There’s some wordless protestation when I wipe my glasses for a third time, but it’s easily resolved with a bit of pointless fawning.

“Alright, it is finished, my Lady.”

She sinks back underneath the water. I have to wait for her to resurface before I leave, lest I provoke another outburst. It won’t be long, as she can hardly hold her breath above water, let alone below it. When she surfaces this time she doesn’t intentionally splash as a seal would.

“If that’s all, I’ll be taking my leave now, Lady Agatha.”

I’m struck by how wounded she looks as I move to leave. With a sigh I turn around and set my glasses on the vanity, as it seems I might be in this teakettle of a room for quite some time.

“Is there something wrong, my Lady?”

There’s a pause as she thinks over my question. She’s clearly troubled, it’s written all over her face.

“What do you think of that Harker bastard, Liz? And you have to answer honestly! Or else!”

It’s now my turn to spend a moment thinking. By all measures he’s an upstanding young gentleman, cordial and polite at every opportunity. He gets along well with all of the servants in our estate, myself excluded, and he’s absolutely filthy rich, so it wouldn’t be beyond him to provide the lavish lifestyle that Agatha insists on.

But despite knowing all of that, I simply cannot stand the man for more than five minutes at a time. His posture is stiff and bent all at the same time, he never knows when to stop joking about with people, and his tireless pursuit of Agatha, despite her obvious intolerance of his existence, makes me wretch. If I were her mother, I would make it clear in no uncertain terms that he is to leave my darling Agatha alone and never show his face in my house again.

“Hmm. Well, in all respects he’s a wonderful gentleman who any young woman would be delighted to marry.”

I can feel my mistress burning holes through me with her glare as I begin my evaluation of her suitor with the same uncritical praise that she’s doubtless heard dozens of times already.

“But, I personally would resign as my Lady’s personal maid if you were to accept his proposal. I cannot stand to share a room with the man, and were it not my duty to ensure he felt safe and welcomed in this estate, I would have denied him entry long ago.”

Agatha looks visibly relieved to hear such a scathing opinion of Mr. Harker. After I finish speaking, she steps out of the bath without warning and wrings out her hair. I nearly stumble as I go for a towel to give her so that she can cover up. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen her fully naked before, so I suppose she must not mind at anymore. I excuse myself to her chambers to help her dress and do her hair after she finishes drying herself.

She’s returned to her silent plotting once she exits the bath, and wordlessly allows me to dress her, not putting up nearly as much of a fight as I’m used to out of her. I prefer her like this, a nice pretty doll for me to dress and groom. I’m almost shocked not to hear any complaining as I do her hair up into a partial crown braid, but she’s within in her own internal world now. The Day of Judgment itself could not rouse her now.

Once she’s fully prepared for the day she gracefully dances out of her room, stopping to offer me a mumbled thanks for dressing her. She’s likely off to let the staff know her particular requirements for tonight’s dinner. I’ll be following her during the late afternoon, but time has flown, and I’m finally allowed one of my breaks, so I go off to the kitchen to have myself a meal.

The cooks are all abuzz about Lady Agatha’s meal request for tonight. Against her parent’s paltry resistance, she’s asked that they prepare all of the most expensive meat they had on hand, and that they were to make enough to feed the entire staff. Nobody is quite sure what awful prank she’s going to play on Mr. Harker, but they don’t care. Wine, bread, cheeses, all are fair game to the staff tonight, so Agatha likely has their entire support.

It’s already late afternoon when Anthony leads Mr. Harker into the foyer. He looks dazzled by the chandelier when I greet him on behalf of Agatha.

“Welcome to the Rosewood Estate, Mr. John Harker. At present, my Lady Agatha is preparing for your meal with her. Forgive her absence; she’ll be with us shortly. Until then, it would be my honor to entertain you.”

My voice breaks his fascination with the crystal chandelier and he laughs nervously.

“Uh, haha, yes, very good. You’re, wait, don’t tell me, I remember your face, uh, you’re Elizabeth! Right, yeah Lizzy, the uh, maid that’s always joined to Aggie’s hip. That’s splendid, I could use your advice.”

I wince when he calls my mistress ‘Aggie’ with such familiarity. Where does he get off thinking that he can use a pet name she despises when she’s done nothing but ignore his telegrams and letters for months? I offer a silent prayer that whatever Agatha has planned will rid us of this vermin for good.

“I’m flattered, Mr. Harker. Not only do you remember a humble servant like myself, but you think so highly of my opinion that you’d ask for my advice. If you would give Anthony your coat, I’ll guide you to the sitting room, where it’d be my utmost pleasure to answer any questions you may have.”

Mr. Harker’s face lights up with an awful juvenile smile as he hands off his filthy longcoat to the coachman. I lead him to the sitting room, opening the door for him and he immediately takes Agatha’s favored seat. His posture is positively uncouth as his miserable form seeps into the chair.

“Should I have a servant put on some tea, Mr. Harker?”

“Tea? No, can’t stand the stuff. I only drink coffee. Lizzy, you wouldn’t believe how rough the journey here from London is, but after months of silence, my beloved Aggie has finally seen sense! Everyone told me that she’d never respond, uh, that she’s always going to be unmarried but I sure showed-”

I can’t bear to hear anymore of his blathering, so I cut him off.

“I’m as pleased as anyone else is that my Lady has finally graced with you an invitation to our humble estate, Mr. Harker. If you would forgive me speaking above my station, what did you intend to ask me about?”

His surprised expression at my directness fills me with equal parts pride for silencing him and anxiety for speaking over a man.

“Uh… right, right, so you know Aggy better than anyone else right, Lizzy? I mean, uh, of course you do. I’ve never seen her without you by her side, uh, so, in your opinion how do you think it’d be best for me to uh, spring an engagement on her?”

Die. I want him to die right now.

“Lady Agatha has always hated surprises. I’m sure someone who cares for her as deeply, as you yourself do, would understand that instinctively. She’s also quite sharp, trying to trick her into saying yes would only put yourself in danger of one of her infamous rejections. Were I in your position, I would be upfro-”

“Ha! Upfront? You’ve got to be joking around with me, right Lizzy? I’ve always uh, been upfront with Aggie about my intentions and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Honestly, were I a more cynical man, I’d think she’s uh, preparing to embarrass me like she she did to Georgie, and Percy, and Willy, and…”

He trails off getting quieter and quieter as he lists a number of Agatha’s potential suitors that he personally knew. I take the moment to breathe, trying to quell the seething rage I feel after being so sharply cut off by a dimwitted half-common fool who asked for my advice, then decided he knew better instantly.

“Yes, my Lady has discerning taste. But not one of the unfortunate men you listed were ever personally invited to a private dinner with Lady Agatha.”

Mr. Harker looks up from the fingers he was counting his former rivals on, genuinely shocked at what I had just said.

“Wait, uh, really?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re not pulling my leg, are you Lizzy?”

“This is not the proper time to make jokes, Mr, Harker.”

The smile that appears on his face on hearing this turns my stomach.

“Splendid! Right, uh, sorry for doubting you Lizzy. You’ve been so helpful. Uh, take this as a sign of my thanks.”

He shoves a crumpled wad of banknotes into my hand, then returns to Agatha’s chair, somehow spreading himself in a less dignified way than before.

“Sir, I can’t accept these, I haven’t done anything for you.”

I gently set the money onto an end table nearby Mr. Harker. It stinks like he does. I’ll have to wash my hands once I have some time to myself. When he speaks again, his voice is in a lower tone.

“Oh Lizzy, you’re so humble, I insist. And uh, just between you and me, uh, Percy said the reason why he stopped pursuing Aggie wasn’t because of all of the drinks she spilled on him or the kissing some other man while he was watching or any of that. Percy’s a good-natured chap after all. You could probably cut off his leg and he’d thank you.”

“Forgive me, I’m not sure I understand-”

“He said it was because uh, whenever you’d look at him, he’d uh, feel the chill of the grave. So, uh, if Agatha does become my fiancee, I’d like to have a good uh, you know, relationship with you, Lizzy.”

I notice that I’ve been clenching my fists in my lap during this entire conversation. I relax myself, and give him a halfhearted half-smile.

“Whatever my Lady desires, I will make so. If she truly does wish to marry you, Mr. Harker, I’ll gladly serve you with her.”

“Brilliant! We’ll be thick as thieves in no time, won’t we, Lizzy?”

As if Lady Agatha has any intention of spending one more moment of her precious time with this imbecile after tonight is through.

“I’d imagine we would be, sir.”

Another maid opens the door to let us know that dinner is ready to be served. Harker gets up right away, boundless energy pouring out of his every step. I follow behind and over his shoulders I see Lady Agatha. She’s done her own makeup for this dinner, and though it’s competent, I still wish she had given me the opportunity to do it for her. Even so, at this moment she is the pinnacle of grace and beauty, her dress flowing like water with each step she takes.

“John, it’s so very good to see you tonight. I trust that Liz was a satisfactory substitute hostess while I was making myself presentable?”

Her voice rings out clear and wonderful as church bells, contrasted to Mr. Harker’s boorish mumbling.

“Uh, yeah, Aggie, she was an uh, a great hostess. You uh, look pretty tonight. Uh, Lizzy said it would just be the uh, two of us dining?”

“Yes, I’ve had my staff prepare the meal beforehand so that it can just be the two of us alone, John. I’m quite proud of what my chefs have waiting for us tonight.”

Agatha offers her hand to Harker, which he takes, not even kneeling to kiss it, and then pulls her into the dining room. The doors close behind them and I rush to the washroom to scrub his scent from my hands.

It’s been nearly thirty minutes as I wait alone by the door, hands red and raw from the washing. The air stings. All I can here through the polished oak are polite murmurs as the two eat and chat, though try as I might, I can’t discern the direction the conversation is going.

Doubts begin to eat away at me while the minute hand crawls iota by iota across the clock face. Did Agatha actually have feelings for Mr. Harker that I simply hadn’t noticed? Was this not going to be a prank of hers? Without being able to hear, anything could be going on behind those closed doors. I fall to my knees and offer another prayer to whatever saint can be bothered. Ask God on my behalf to kill that man on the spot.

As I strain my ears I hear a glass shatter and a slight scuffle. I ignore it dutifully, if I am needed then she will come ask for me. Then a dull thump as something hits the floor hard. It is none of my concern, my imagination must be overactive. Then a strangled, gurgling scream. I disregard my station and throw open a door to see if my Lady is safe.

Within the dining hall I see my lovely Lady Agatha on top of a fallen John Harker, her face pressed against his neck and hand covering his mouth. He’s gripping the tablecloth with one hand and clawing desperately at the air with another. The red wine is all over the floor and my Lady’s dress. Harker’s eyes dart towards me and he forces out another gagged scream.

I begin to apologize for my intrusion and turn to leave, when I catch from the corner of my eye thick crimson pool oozing from Mr. Harker’s neck. There’s a tearing sound as she looks at me from atop the bleeding man. She looks up at me and spits out a chunk of his flesh. A jolt of envy courses through me.

“Oh Liz. Right outside my door. Ever my faithful dog. Did you hear that scream and get worried that John was attempting something improper with your master?”

Harker had sunk his teeth into Agatha’s hand, hard enough to make her bleed, but the light is already beginning to leave his eyes. I come to my senses enough to speak.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Agatha?”

She smiles far wider than she’s ever done before, showing off all of her perfectly straight bloodstained teeth. Her voice remains even and tempered, as if she were speaking to her parents or another noble. I’m beckoned over by her free hand and I approach warily.

“John was just blathering on and on and on about his life and how he’ll treat me if we were to get engaged and about his work in the city and all of his terribly boring friends and it was so mind-numbingly dull.”

Her voice is excited and lilting as she continues, but she isn’t talking past me. All of her attention is on me now.

“You know how I get when I’m bored, Liz. I started to look at his neck instead of his face. When he gets excited did you know one of his veins throbs just a little? I got to wondering what it would feel like if I were to sink my teeth into it and then before I knew it-”

She laughs clear and innocent as a church bell. It brings a smile to the corner of my face despite the circumstances.

“I was on top of him ripping out that throbbing vein with my teeth!”

Blood has started to seep into the edges of her dress, the floor is slick with Harker’s life. I get closer to her, and she wrenches her other hand out of his mouth. I kneel beside her and she rests her head on my shoulder.

“And it felt so good, Liz, the heat of his blood pouring into my mouth, the feel of my teeth cutting through skin and muscle alike, the terror in his eyes as he realized that I was going to kill him.”

Agatha lets out a dreamy sigh, running her uninjured hand over the chest of Harker’s corpse. I glare at it. It’s still too much affection for him, from her.

“And the struggle, he bit my hand, you know. How improper of him, he’s meant to be my suitor.”

She takes my cheek with her unbitten hand and turns my head to look her in the eyes. I ask instinctively.

“Is there something you require, my Lady?” My Lady Agatha kisses me on my lips, the bitter iron taste of Harker’s blood fills my mouth, my cheeks reddening from the directness, the impropriety of it. I feel my heart quicken when her tongue meets mine and at this moment I forget about the dead man beside me, the stains to my clothes, and every thought about what I should do now.

The kiss ends abruptly, and I’m still left reeling from the intensity of the situation. Agatha stands and present her injured hand to me. I wrap it with a napkin to staunch the flow of blood. The same smile is still on her face.

“Now Liz, I seem to have made a mess of my dinner. Could you clean up for me?”

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

A FAMILIAR FAILURE.

tangerine x fem!reader

wc. 929 synopsis. you're fairly used to your father's failure to fulfil plans. tonight, yet another arrangement falls short, and tangerine is there once again to pick up the pieces cw. father issues (duh) hurt comfort bc it's my fav // I haven't been able to write anything for so long, so it's only fitting I go back to my roots

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Expectations of others are always such a finicky feeling. It’s easy to let your brain run rampant with hopes of those around you, and it’s just as easy to watch those said hopes crumple into a bundle of disappointment. 

You had become well acquainted with the feeling of despondency over the years, often welcoming the possibility of being disappointed before any such plans were to fall through. But it’s never like you were asking for too much, rather simply that others were not offering enough.

So, when you received a message from your dad earlier in the week organising dinner at a restaurant, you remained skeptical, keeping the idea in mind that it’s likely that no such plans were to happen. With your father, you knew it was silly to cling onto arrangements — your past with him teaching you as such.

And when the day finally arrived, you waited. You waited and you waited, sitting on the small ledge of the doorstep, staring down the driveway in hopes you’d see a set of headlights soon. In hopes that you’d be proved wrong.

You see a shadow cast on the gravel by your feet, your lover’s silhouette looming in the light of the hallway behind. 

“It’s nearly half past, love,” Tangerine says quietly, speaking like the words pained him to say.

You hum absentmindedly as you nod, merely acknowledging him. 

“I can wait with you,” he offers, hesitant footing keeping him in place. 

It's as if he’s viewing a concoction of your prior life stages all merged into one. Like he’s watching a four year old version of you waiting on the steps of the front door, sitting on one of your first heartbreaks. An eleven year old you once again on the steps, awaiting him to show for a trip to the museum. The contempt growing in the heart of your sixteen year old self when plans fell through yet again. Your dad’s lack of arrival being the root cause to all those moments of anguish.

It was truly a saddening sight on his part — watching you fall into an all too familiar habit. 

“I knew it,” you whisper to yourself, head hanging low. 

You hear Tangerine sigh faintly from behind, the heavy feel of his hand on your shoulder following after the sound. He rubs it briefly before stepping around you, taking a seat beside you on the cold concrete. 

He stills, seeming to be unsure of how to comfort you with words — knowing that words very may well feel pointless to you by now. And so, he silently slips his hand into yours, guiding it to his lap.

“I’m disappointed for you too, darlin’,” he says softly, his thumb drawing small circles into your skin. “I really thought he’d show.”

Though that part was a lie; Tangerine knew that man is not one for change. But he could not aid the hurt in your heart by sharing his pessimistic thoughts. He had to pretend for the sake of you. 

“I didn’t,” you humorously scoff, head shaking as you stare at the stones on the ground between your feet. “He’s full of shit.”

Before long, those scoffs had turned into small, faint sobs — the switch ever so subtle it could go unnoticed. But that’s not the man you married. Tan will forever pick up on the smallest changes within you.

“Hey hey hey hey,” he draws out, offering his comfort with soft coos. “Come here,” he releases your hand, placing it on your furthest shoulder to pull you into him. “Come on,” he mutters, briskly rubbing up and down the upper of your arm. His loving touch an effort to replace the hateful feeling in your heart.

He rests the side of his head atop of yours as he pulls you into his side. It’s like he’s trying to maximise his presence, make it known to you that he himself, is there. 

You couldn’t quite figure out why you were so upset. You knew it was more than likely for this evening to end in tears for you, and yet, it didn’t make the feeling any easier to stomach. Maybe the disappointment was felt more so in yourself, as opposed to your father — being so overtly aware that you had fallen into that trap of hope and wonder once again. 

“Let me take you out,” Tangerine's voice interrupts your string of thought — the interference appreciated on both parts. 

“Where?” you ask, peering around slightly to look at him. 

“Wherever you’d like to go, my love,” he smiles sadly, head tilting to see more of you. He extends his spare hand towards your face, thumb gently flicking away the wet under your eyes. “I’ll take you wherever,” he repeats, voice warmly stern — ingraining into you the promise he won’t fall short on.

“Can we just drive around for a bit instead?” 

He nods certainly, the action juxtaposing the fragility of his expression. “Go pick,” he nods across the way, gesturing to his collection of a dozen cars on the driveway. 

Finally a smile.

“Uh…” you squint, trying to see in the night's sky. “The green one.”

“The Bentley?” he smiles, following your eyeline. It would probably be his choice too. 

Tangerine stands, groaning slightly in that way he often does, and turns to face you. His hands reach for yours and he pulls you up onto your feet, guiding you just that bit closer to him. Pressing a quick kiss to your lips, he nods inside — gesturing into the house. 

“Go put on something comfy. I’ll get the keys.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[rj-anderson]

I've just realized I never posted another update here about how we got my 93-yo mom into assisted living a couple months ago, and it is THE ABSOLUTE GREATEST STORY and I'm still just reeling with amazement over how it all came together, so here it is under the cut.

As you will know if you read my earlier posts about Mom, I've been her primary caregiver for the last few years, especially since my dad passed away in early 2020 (we were able to hold a beautiful, well attended memorial service for him right before the first lockdown, another bit of timing I am still very grateful for).

And as you will also know if you read those previous posts, Mom's mental clarity and ability to look after herself has been going downhill for the last couple years, and despite her overall sweet disposition and gratefulness for everything I was doing, by Dec. 2024 I was at my wits' end and really close to burning out. Only a blessed last-minute increase in respite care, thanks to a pilot program coordinated by my local hospital and Alzheimer's Society, enabled me to keep going while I waited and prayed for a long term care placement for Mom.

That being said, we'd already been warned that it could be up to five years before Mom got an offer, because despite her acute nerve pain attacks, chronic vertigo and increasing cognitive issues, she was not considered to be "in crisis". (I was definitely having a crisis as her caregiver, but that didn't count.) So from an outside perspective, it looked unlikely if not downright impossible that we would find a place within the next 12-18 months, unless Mom had a major health crisis.

Despite that, though, I had a strange deep-down confidence that something was going to change soon. In fact, part of me really felt sure that it would happen by spring at the latest. Now this was a bewildering feeling to have, because I am one of the least mystical woo-woo people in the world, and objectively it didn't seem likely to happen at all. So I found myself praying that God would keep me from clinging to false hopes (if they were false) and prepare me not to be discouraged or bitter if my feeling turned out to be groundless.

But I also found myself praying, "Lord, I don't how this is going to work out with Mom, but I look forward to praising you for whatever you're going to do." Because I remembered how things had gone with my Dad's care, and how the best plans I had in mind turned out to be not nearly as wise or good as the way God arranged it in the end.

Anyway, a number of things happened in December that made me question my belief that Mom would be best off in long term care, despite all the efforts I'd gone to choosing the right places for her. I took her to see the closest home on our list, thinking it would be a positive experience and put some of her fears to rest, but EVERYTHING about that tour was a disaster. It was far too big, and noisy, and overwhelming, and my mom kept saying "I could never go to a place like that, I would be totally lost. I'd rather be out on the street."

So I ended up having to take that particular home off the list, which brought our options from three down to two and made it even less likely to get a room offer. But that experience did make very clear what kind of place Mom wanted -- small, homey, quiet, and easy to navigate, with fellow residents she could talk to, and ideally some opportunity for Christian fellowship. Unfortunately, I didn't know of a single long term care home in our area that fit that description.

Until the first week of January 2025, when I joined my regular Zoom prayer meeting with three women from my old church. And as I was telling them about my difficulties, one of them said, "Oh, I wish your mom could go to the home where [a woman who also used to go to our church] is living! It would be so perfect for her!"

Now, I had heard plenty about that woman and the wonderful Mennonite assisted living home she'd moved into a few months earlier, but I never thought it could be a fit for my Mom. However, after that conversation I looked up the home's website and realized that not only was the place much closer than I'd thought it was, it sounded like they might actually be able to provide the level of care Mom needed.

I called the care home. We had a good, thorough talk about Mom's needs. I set up an appointment for a tour. And from the instant I stepped in the door, I knew this was the place our family had been praying for. Not only was it newly renovated, small, quiet and cozy, offering home-style meals and regular church services, there was a lovely vacant room with a view that immediately made me think, "This is Mom's room."

Long story short -- and skipping over a multitude of other unexpected blessings and mercies of God along the way -- we moved Mom into her new apartment in mid-February. They even allowed us to paint the room her favourite colour, and set it up with all the furniture and pictures she needed to make it feel like home, before we brought her in. And since then, she's been getting all the medical and personal care she needs, I've been able to enjoy regular visits with her while also having a life of my own again, and despite having had twelve acute pain episodes over the six months before the move, Mom has not had even one attack since she got there.

Despite all the hardships, discouragements, seeming dead ends, and other ups and downs of the past year -- even because of them, in some cases -- God has been faithful and very, very good. So I am keeping the promise I made a few months ago, when all seemed utterly hopeless, and praising Him for what He's done.

[medeaft]

Demon seed

Author's note: This is a scene from before the events of Bloodlines, during the time that my self-insert PC is getting to know their future Sire. Maybe it bears explaining that the "symmetrical sensations" is just a thing that I do; sometimes I feel a sensation, and I feel an urge to feel it on the other side to make it symmetrical, and maybe repeat it a few times on each side. This scene was prompted by the excellent idea of @essie-essex, as written in this post.

Contents: slice of life (unlife?); friendly conversation; discussion of reproduction (with unfavourable sentiments); discussion of semen; discussion of food substances; very cursory discussion of illness; secrets

Characters: Kai (Tremere PC's Sire); Medea of Angelopolis (future Tremere PC, at this point still alive, viewpoint character)

881 words

I crouch and scoop the can out of the vending machine. It's cold and smooth and slippery with condensation, so I run it along the inside of one arm, then the other, then one arm again, then the other again, so that the sensation is symmetrical. Then I straighten up and pop the tab.

At that moment I hear a familiar voice calling out "Wait!", and before this brief word could even be completed, the can is snatched out of my hand by an extremely speedily returning Kai.

There is a moment of silence as I stare at him in confusion, still arranging the events of the previous second in my mind.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you."

I'd probably be angry normally, but I trust him, and he's looking like he just managed to pull me out of the way of a car in the nick of time. So I just ask, "Why, what's wrong with it?"

He grins lopsidedly. "Well, not wrong, it's useful for what it is. I've used it as a reagent before. Don't drink it though. It's called that for a reason." He holds the can out to me so I can see. It reads, 'LIQUID DEMON SEED - Genuine demon semen - Stygian flavour'.

"They can't really make it out of real demon seed, right?" I ask. "Besides, I eat fish sperm just fine, you know, in soup. I'd drink demon seed if it tastes good and has good texture."

He turns the can around a little and puts it back in my hand. "The label is more obvious on the bottles," he says apologetically. "You'd probably have noticed if you saw those first."

The label is legible enough now that I look at the can from the other side. 'Win a real demon baby,' it says.

"Most people think it's just there to be edgy," Kai says. "It's absolutely for real though, you could get pregnant. It's not probable, but it's possible, and you can't take that chance."

If it was anyone else saying it, I'd take it for some kind of fundagelical tinfoil-hattery. But it's Kai, and what use is it to be friends with an occultist if I don't even believe him about demon seed? So I nod.

"Or is it okay as long as it's not human?"

"No," I say. "It's better if it's not human, but make no mistake, I'd still rather disembowel myself than reproduce."

He nods. "I thought so."

I look warily at the can. "I mean, I'd be putting it in my mouth, normally that doesn't, you know, cause reproduction…"

"Normally. But this does. It's meant to, I mean, it's sold as a drink, and it's as a drink that it says you can get a demon baby, so…"

"Right."

"Not that you should put it in any other orifice either."

I laugh. "No, now we're looking at a yeast infection and a demon baby."

"Exactly."

"I admit I'm curious what 'Stygian flavour' is, though," I say. "Or any of the other ones. …Do you think one gains arcane knowledge from ingesting demon seed?"

"Not by itself," he says, "or Los Angeles would be full of wizards."

I smile and raise my eyebrows. "I mean, I don't know that it's not. I did meet you here, and I don't really know anyone else…"

"Okay, that's fair." He grins. "But it's not. You were just lucky."

A feeling of warmth spreads in my chest. "I really was, you know. I'd like you even if you didn't have arcane knowledge."

His expression grows very earnest all of a sudden. "Thank you," he says. "I hope I can be your friend forever."

I'm so flustered I don't know how to answer, even more by his tone than by his words; I just sort of crumple the edge of my cloak and pull it to my face, like I'm playing peek-a-boo, which I'm sure is extremely dignified of me. So I eventually go back to my previous thought process. "I really am curious about this though. I wouldn't ever actually drink it, but I'm very curious."

"I very much understand. You know," he says, "if you do want to try, someday it will be safe."

"After menopause?"

"Oh no, I wouldn't put it past this thing to still work after menopause. After the initiation. It'll make sense, I promise."

I fall silent for a moment. I mean, I kind of knew. It was in the air. There were obviously things he was waiting to reveal to me, it was already pretty clear he must be in some kind of secret society, so I already have been assuming there had to be the prospect of an initiation of some kind if he is talking to me the way he is. But I think this is the first time he's said it openly, and it makes my heart beat faster. "The initiation," I say. The word tastes like honey and destiny.

He nods, his expression serious but warm. "The initiation."

"Can you tell me about it?"

He smiles. "It's a secret, of course. You'll find out soon."

I hand the can back to him. "So… do you want this, to use as a reagent?"

"Thanks," he says. "I'll get you something else to drink. Fruit juice?"

"Yes, please."

[klonnieshippersclub]

Just Nik

It’s Day 3 of Klonnie Weekend, and the prompt is “Arranged Marriage!” Inspired by Queen Charlotte, Bonnie's already planning her escape from a marriage she never wanted. But when she runs into a handsome stranger in the garden, things take an unexpected turn.

The gown was too tight, the jewels too heavy, and the garden wall far higher than it looked. Bonnie hiked up her skirts, braced her foot on the ivy, and scrambled over with a graceless thud into the grass below. She ran away from the palace, the altar, and the judgmental eyes of the court.

Then, from the hedges, a figure emerged. He wasn’t a guard. Or a royal. Just boots, an open shirt, and eyes that watched her in confusion.

“Forgive me,” Bonnie said breathlessly. “Are you lost?”

The man chuckled. “That depends. Are you offering directions or looking for a companion?”

“I’m offering nothing.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you know of any women nearby willing to take my place.”

“Your place?”

“In this gown. At that altar. In that life.”

The man looked her up and down, slowly. “Doubtful.”

“Doubtful?”

“I doubt any woman would look half as good in that gown as you do. A beautiful woman,” he said, “is not so easily replaced.”

Bonnie was startled by his flattery. “That’s not even the point!”

He smirked. “Oh, forgive me. What is the point?”

“This was never supposed to be my wedding. Or marriage. My mother left years ago—fled the country, left her debts behind. And now I’m the one meant to pay for it all. With this.” She gestured to the palace behind them.

“I see,” the man said quietly.

“You’re handsome,” Bonnie said bluntly. “Surely you know women—young women—who would gladly marry a king.”

“Most women,” he said, “would give anything to be a queen.”

“Well, I don’t care for titles.” She crossed her arms.

“Strange sentiment. Why do you care so little for power?”

“Because I’d rather have freedom.”

That gave him pause.

He tilted his head. “And where have you not been free?”

Bonnie sighed. “Everywhere. My entire life, I’ve been the one who cares. Who gives. Who cleans up. Who stays behind. Now I’m meant to marry a man I’ve never met, live for him, breathe for him, bear his children, and what do I get in return? Nothing. I don’t know anyone here. I have no allies. No way out.”

She took a breath. “Running away is an act of treason. But staying feels worse.”

The man folded his arms, thoughtful. “Power,” he said, “is freedom. You could have anything you wanted. No one would force you to do anything. Not as queen.”

She looked at him. “And what if the king doesn’t agree with what I want?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Then the king would be a fool.”

That startled a laugh out of her.

“You’re kind,” she said. “But it’s still a terrible idea to go back.”

“Perhaps.”

“There has to be another woman who’d take this life. This crown.” She looked at him. “What do you think of the name McCullough?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Or Annie. Annie McCullough. I’ll need a new name if I’m to disappear. Something… plain. Easy to forget. I’ll have to be comfortable never seeing my family again.”

“It’s a fine name,” he said carefully. “But not as fine as Bonnie Bennett.”

She smiled, barely. “You like alliteration?”

“Quite.”

“Shame,” she said, voice quieter. “I don’t want there to be a wedding. I’ve heard things about the groom.”

He arched a brow. “Things?”

“Terrible rumors. That he’s cruel. Cold. Aggressive.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “He might be a monster.”

“Mm,” he said. “He might.”

“You already know my name. Shouldn’t I know yours?”

He hesitated—just for a moment. Then offered a hand.

“Klaus,” he said. “But you can call me Nik. Just Nik.”

Bonnie took his hand, and he placed a kiss upon her knuckles.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For the kindness. I know I’m… dramatic.”

He bowed his head. “Not at all. It’s not every day a beautiful woman runs away from marrying me.”

Bonnie stiffened. “What?”

“I mean,” Nik added casually, “a mere hour before the ceremony, no less. Very theatrical.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. “I—what?”

He smiled wider now, teeth flashing. “Cold feet, was it?”

She gasped, face flooding with heat. “I didn’t mean—I was joking! I mean—of course I wasn’t really leaving. That would be treason! Beheadable treason!”

Nik chuckled. “Relax, darling. You weren’t wrong. Most people are terrified of me.”

She stared at him. “So… you’re the king.”

“I am.”

“And you let me ramble about fake names and treason?”

“I liked hearing what you had to say.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t speak to me like a king.” His gaze softened. “You spoke like someone who wanted something real.”

She examined him with uncertainty. “And what do you want?”

“Someone who challenges me,” Nik said. “Someone who doesn’t bow unless she damn well chooses to. Someone who tells me when I’m being a nightmare.”

Bonnie studied him. “You might regret saying that.”

“I might,” he agreed. “But I don’t think I will.”

[blueofthesun]

i already know the new akuro no oka is going to be my top song of this year

[sawruhh]

Boy do I have updates

[alygator77]

just a little drabble for my current wip. arranged marriage with clanhead gojo.

warnings: mdni, smut, breeding kink, lots of breeding, praise, creampie, bit of angst.

arranged clanhead! satoru who still isn’t used to sharing his space, even after months of marriage. the grand Gojo estate, once his sanctuary, feels smaller with you in it—your scent lingering on the furniture, your soft hums echoing in the halls—not unpleasant, but… unfamiliar.

arranged clanhead! satoru who notices how your shampoo smells so sweet, clinging to his pillow. how your hair clogs his drain and it drives him fucking insane, yet he still finds himself instinctively reaching for your favorite brand of conditioner while he’s out, tucking it into his basket without a second thought. he doesn’t know why—it’s not like he cares… right?

arranged clanhead! satoru who steps into the kitchen late one evening to find you leaning against the counter. your hair falls in loose strands around your face, messy but still maddeningly pretty, and you sip tea from a mug—his favorite mug. you’re draped in one of his shirts, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh—your bare legs illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead light.

for a fleeting second, he freezes. you look… almost at home. he doesn’t want you to look at home. or does he? he shakes the thought away.

“couldn’t sleep?” he drawls, his eyes lingering on the curve of your legs. “or… were you waiting up for me? ‘cause I could really blow off some steam.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who emerges from the bathroom later that night, his snowy hair damp and tousled, a towel slung lazily over his broad shoulders. he’s wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, the defined lines of his abdomen on full display as he rubs the towel through his hair, his gaze sliding over to you lying on the bed.

“ready for tonight?” he asks, tilting his head with that signature nonchalance, as though he isn’t about to fuck the hell out of you, as though his sole intention isn’t to fill you so full of his cum that there’s no question the Gojo Clan will get their heir.

arranged clanhead! satoru who pushes you into a mating press the moment he’s on top of you, his large hands gripping your thighs as he folds your legs back against your chest, pinning you beneath him. his cock slides against your slick folds before splitting you apart, and his breath shudders as your cunt swallows him greedily.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, panting through thrusts. “always so good f’me. always takin’ me so fucking well.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who hates himself for the shameful thrill that bubbles up within him, the sick satisfaction of watching you come undone beneath him. the way your pussy clenches around his dick, the way your gasps and moans echo in his ears, drives him to thrust harder, deeper, as though his very existence depends on filling you—which it does.

arranged clanhead! satoru who’s pace is merciless, hips slamming into you with an almost feral hunger. he tells himself it’s just biology, but deep down he knows better.

“good fucking girl…” he smirks, pushing your legs higher as you squirm beneath him—your nails digging into his arms, but the sting only spurs him on. “don’t worry sweetheart—haaa—this time, for sure, m'gonna breed that pretty pussy. gonna make you drip with my cum ‘til you can’t hold it all…”

arranged clanhead! satoru who watches your eyes roll back as his cock slams into you, the bed shaking beneath you as his focus narrows on the way your breasts bounce with every forceful thrust.

“you’re mine,” he groans, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum painting your walls. his body trembles against yours as he buries himself to the hilt.

“fuuuck, take it…” he rasps, his forehead dropping to press against yours. “so fucking good f’me.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest pressed to yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. your breath mingles, warm and uneven, and for a fleeting second, he almost forgets why he’s here. why you’re here. but then reality creeps in, sharp and cold, and he pulls out slowly, watching as the mix of his cum and your slick drips onto the sheets.

arranged clanhead! satoru who remembers his duty as clanhead, as the leader of the Gojo Clan. like a good husband—like a good leader—he doesn’t waste a single drop. he shifts, his fingers dipping between your legs to scoop up the cum leaking from you.

“can’t let this go to waste, sweetheart,” he mutters as he pushes the thick mess back into you. his thumb presses against your clit, and he smirks when it earns a soft gasp from you—his fingers sliding deeper. he watches, transfixed, as his cum disappears inside you again, his cock giving a weak twitch at the sight.

arranged clanhead! satoru who rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaves with the effort of catching his breath. he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t hold you, and you don’t reach for him. the silence afterward is louder than any moan you could make. he tries to ignore the ache in his chest, something he refuses to name.

arranged clanhead! satoru who lies awake long after you’ve drifted off, his arm slung over his eyes as he tries to ignore the ache in his chest. he won’t admit it—not to you, not to himself—but he’s starting to crave more than your body. he craves the softness in your voice when you call his name, the quiet way you laugh when you think he’s not listening.

but this is just obligation. just duty. just… fucking. right?

full fic in the works 🫶🏻 lmk if you wanna be tagged. update: it's out! read it HERE!

[specsthesecond]

🃏👑🃏

You were married off to the king as a young noble woman. The arrangement was rather rushed in your opinion, not that anyone asked for it. The king only needed a show queen, a quiet but present symbol for the kingdom and you suited well enough for that.

He didn’t need a wife for pleasure, he had plenty mistresses for that and he seemed to be in no rush for a successor. You suspected it was because he had no intent to hand over power to anyone else anytime soon. Although, that's just what you assumed, others never blamed him for it. You were always the target of the hushed whispers and silent accusations of infertility, unruliness or even infidelity when it came to the subject of an heir.

The people's gossip aside, it was an easy marriage. You didn’t have to share a bed with a man you didn’t love and you didn’t have to raise his children. Many more deserving women would kill for such a life, which only made you feel worse about the utter discontent you felt. It was the loneliness, mostly. Such a privileged life and yet not a single companion in the world to share it with.

The king and his advisers only speak to you when they need you to make an appearance as queen. Their orders always dripping with condescension and near mockery. They’ve made you smile and wave for hours, waltz until your feet blister and recite a holy text’s worth of pompous poetry, but this most recent ploy was particularly concerning.

You sit on your throne next to your husband, hands in your lap, staring at the colourful figure in front of you. The bells on his ridiculous hat jingle as he bows his head so low they almost touch the marble floor. Quiet chuckles emit from the nobility crowding the massive ballroom and the unease in your stomach only builds.

When the jester picks his head back up, you can’t help fiddling even more with your dress, just like your husband's advisers have scolded you not to. The jester silently stares with his sheet white face, big red grin painted across his mouth. You want to shrink under the jesters stare, the blue diamonds painted over his eyes make his gaze feel piercing.

The king grins when he catches your nervous gaze.

“Do you like your surprise, my love? I thought you could use some cheering up lately. As did my advisers.”

He chuckles, looking over at the old men in the corner of the room. They smile back, amusing in a joke you're not a part of.

You just nod your head as politely as possible. You don’t know what's happening, but whatever they have planned can’t be good.

The jester skips up to where you and the king sit. He gives an exaggerated curtsy to the king, earning a laugh from him and the various nobility.

The bells jingle as he springs back up and steps closer to you. He stretches his hand out, you stare at it and then back to your husband.

“The fool wants a dance, my dear. Give him a dance.”

You try to hide the apprehension on your face and reach for the jesters white glove-covered hand. He doesn’t squeeze or pull you up like you expected, instead he holds it gently, waiting for your next move. You rise from your throne and cast one more glance at your husband, who only offers a self-satisfied grin in return. This whole time all they've wanted from you is a perfect queen and now they want you to dance with a fool?

The jester walks you to the middle of the room, encircled by leering nobility. He places your hand on his waist before dramatically correcting the mistake and placing it on his shoulder instead, looking bashfully to the audience who snicker at the joke. He takes your other hand in his and gives you a little nod before the musicians starts playing and he guides you into step.

Now obviously you know very well how to dance, you enjoyed it quite a bit when you were little although, now it’s just become another part of your queenly duties. Did any of that even matter now? Now that it’s clear the king and his peers see you as just as much of a joke as the man you’re waltzing with.

Your deep thoughts are broken when said man unexpectedly twirls you in a dizzying circle. You flail slightly in your surprise but you’re brought back into his arms just as quickly to continue your steps. You fully focus on him now and you wonder what his features look like under that gaudy clown makeup. Even in the bright chandelier lights of the ball room, you can’t make out the colour of his irises. Earlier, you thought they were hazel but now it seems they're an impossibly dark brown.

The dark pools look as if they could swallow all the colour from his face and your own. Actually, has he blinked even once during this dance, or at all for that matter?

You’re not sure if it was your mistake or the jester’s but you step on his foot and he suddenly pulls away from you. He clutches his foot and jumps up and down in theatrical pain. The room bursts into laughter, bellows and cackles. These elite men and women delight in the humiliating performance you’re both putting on for them. It takes everything in you not to cave right there in the middle of it.

While the jeering continues, you try your best to steel yourself, replacing the need to cry with spiteful compliance. If they want a dance, they can have a dance.

You curtsy at the jester, offering an apology and hold your hand out to him. He looks around and then points to himself. You can’t help but smile and nod your head.

He takes your hand and when the music starts back up again, you step in time to the beautiful melody. You try and put your full attention on the jester, not anyone else in the large room, which proves to be quite easy as he is by far the most interesting person present. You can just make out the small smile under the red painted grin, his relaxed eyebrows under the bright blue diamonds, the crook of his pointy nose.

While moving in sync, you become almost lost in trying to map out his face under the make-up. You look for imperfections in the face paint but can’t seem to find a single smudge or brush streak, in fact the paint looks impressively even, like it’s a second skin.

It truly does feel like its only you two and the music, for the first time in a long time you feel wanted by someone else.

But when the king grows bored he demands new entertainment.

He motions for the musicians to stop their music and you’re brought back to reality. The jester bows for the crowd, he gestures to you and you offer a little curtsy before being escorted back to your throne. Form there, you watch the rest of the strange performers routine. He juggles an impressive amount of miscellaneous items, he folds himself into ridiculous positions, walks on his hands and generally makes a fool of himself for the crowd.

You watch in delight, though your husband doesn't seem as interested as he was before your little dance.

You think about the jester all the way back to your courters that night. You think about him as you slip on your night dress and slide into bed, and you think of him as you stare up at the ceiling for possibly hours. There is too much on your mind, the fun of watching the jesters performance has subsided and thoughts of what this means for your reputation and position in the court remain constant. A sigh leaves you as you lift yourself up and open the doors to your balcony.

You lean on the balcony ledge and stare out at the starry night sky, not even the strange jester can distract from the humiliation ritual you were just a part of. He could have been in on it for all you know and you're just naive enough to think he was being kind to you during the whole thing.

A shuffling sound from behind you makes you turn your head and it takes you just a split second to register the very colourful jester standing in the corner of your balcony.

The screech you let out is smothered by your own hand. You clutch the edge of the balcony, staring at the slender man who puts his hands up, waving apologies while moving his chest as if laughing, nothing comes out of his mouth. You clutch your heart, breathing quite heavily as you stare at him bewildered. You look around trying to discern where he could have come from, and how you only now hear his bells jingle as he waves his hands, still apologising.

He steps closer and stands tall in front of you, he’s much more imposing than you remember him being. He holds up one finger and then mimics a waltz. His head bows low and he holds his hand out for you to take. He’s asking for another dance but is there really much of a choice at all? Has this also been planned? If you say no, will he just leave? Do you want him to leave? The dance you shared was the most delightful time you've had in so, so long

You stare at him for a good while, he stays with his hand outstretched, bent over at a near 90 degree angle, not straining even a little. The longer you wait, the more uncomfortable you feel in his unwavering presence.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. He curls his fingers around yours and stands upright. You let him bring your hand to his shoulder, place his hand on your waist and step closer. This time is different from the last time. Now it really does feel like his attention is only on you, not with the other guests, not with the performance. It should be frightening, but you find no malice in his eyes, no ridicule in his demeanor.

As he steps into motion, you begin a slow waltz in the small space of your balcony. It's slower than in the ballroom, it's more intimate. While you dance with this complete stranger, your thoughts run rampant, you second guess your judgement again and again. Maybe the kindness you sense from him is a ruse. Maybe he is here on behalf of the king, setting up another degrading show. He could even be an assassin, come to rid you quietly in the middle of the night.

You would deserve such a fate for giving in so easily. You slowly spin in his arms and this time you don't hear the snide laughs of the nobility, just the sounds of the night. Both of you step in time and you let him guide you to the edge of your balcony. You hold your breath as he dips you over the ledge. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out what could be your last breath ready for him to let go and let you fall.

But he doesn't let go, your grip on his shoulders never slips. You open your eyes, a bit blurry from wetness but you can make out his face, because it's right in front of you even though you're bent over the balcony far enough that your feet have left the ground. You stare back at his unrelenting gaze. In the dim light of the moon his eyes look even darker than before and something new swims in the deep black of his pupils, something sad.

They are lidded as they examine your face, your entire being. His hand on your back presses your chest further into his until you're sure he can feel your rapid heartbeat through your very flesh.

He lifts you upright again, turning you away from the ledge and out of harms way. You’re still chest to chest, he’s so close but you can’t feel him breathe. Your wide eyes stare up at him, trying to discern his expression. Your breaths are short and your grip on him hasn’t let up a bit.

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, the warm fabric of his gloves on your cold cheeks has you easing into them far too easily. His eyes examine every inch of your face while his thumbs stroke your cheeks, you can just barely see the frown on his lips behind the painted smile. He brings your face closer to his, slow and methodical, making it very clear what his next move is. You’re not sure if this was due to his own hesitation or to give you time to pull away, regardless you let him inch closer and closer until his lips grazed yours and you finally feel him breathe out one long breath.

The kiss is deep. Despite being slow and gentle, it still forces a struggled breath from you. You would’ve thought he tasted like paint but he doesn’t, he’s warm and inviting. It’s nice.

Your eyes close, surrendering all hesitation to the stranger in your arms. Fingers dig into the fabric of his puffy striped sleeves as your body melts further into his. You quickly learn to breathe through your nose, out of necessity and unwillingness to part from his affections.

You let him work your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. The feeling is so foreign, you can’t help but whine. The backs of his fingers flutter over your throat and you shiver.

His tongue fills your mouth, sliding along yours and savouring your taste. The wet muscle reaches far into your mouth, farther than you thought normal but your experience is slim and you don’t have the awareness to fully question it. It’s overwhelming. Your knees tremble and he lowers you both to the cold stone floor. His tongue reaches into your throat, a feat you know is impossible.

You’re too lost to even think of the implications of this, as you gag and convulse around the thick muscle in your throat that no longer feels like a normal tongue. He reaches so far, your eyes roll back, your lower region warms uncomfortably and you forget how to breathe. You tap his shoulders quickly, a plea for air, and he retreats from your throat. He holds you as you cough and heave, wiping the spit from your chin.

You look at him with the an expression full of shock and fear and bewilderment and every other emotion shooting through your fuzzy mind. His expression is hard to discern but he seems both amused and sad.

He stands and brings you up on shaky legs. When he starts to back away, you panic and clutch his hands tighter. You don’t know what you were hoping for. That he would stay? That he would spend the night with you?

His face is full of what you hope is longing and not pity, you know what pity looks like. He holds you close in what you know is a goodbye embrace. He presses his forehead to yours and he places one last short kiss on your lips. Its playfull and very much not what you’d consider a proper good bye kiss. You search his gaze and you’re met with rather boyish mirth, lifting your spirits slightly. Maybe this isn't goodbye then?

He winks at you and takes your hand, spinning you around once, twice and three times before he lets go. When you rebalance yourself and look around the balcony, there is no sight of the jester. It's just the pitying sounds of the night and your only other witness, the moon. Like he was never there at all.

[simpjaes]

wife material.

Anonymous asked: Being arranged to jay in a marriage and hes distant at first but notices his new partner who has a nice plush ass, wide hips and plump tits. His brain goes mmm breeding material but youre just an innocent girl with a pornstar body?

WORDCOUNT: 1.1k

NOTE: tumblr wouldn't let me answer it as an ask :/ also, not proofread.

So, you're in an arranged marriage for more than one reason. Rather than being "innocent", you're just a total bimbo. Fr, everything you've ever wanted or needed has been handed to you on a silver platter. Your parents are super protective of you though, mostly out of fear that you'd be taken advantage of, right? right.

So, you've never had a boyfriend, no girlfriend, no friends [outside of the maids and nannies that you spend so much time with.] You were homeschooled, never expected to go to college either, because why work if you're already well taken care of and financially protected?

Your parents suggest an arranged marriage, mostly so they can choose and judge who you will be spending your life with. They don't trust you to go out into the world and find someone suitable, after all, so....why not make an arranged marriage work for the whole family? Jay is the first son of a rich C.E.O and is expected to take over the business sooner rather than later. He's polite, bordering too-stoic, but very much a good man in your parent's eyes. He appears to see the arrangement as a business deal rather than anything else, after all, he was raised much like you were except...he's a man. He has needs, and they are frequently met by using the lovely little black card. He's not looking for love anyway, the late nights to the VIP club lounges is really all he needs. Until he saw you. Until he fucking saw you. What he thought would be a great boost to business and a good little photo op, where you're married to him but both of you just do your own thing....turns into, well-

"Shit, are you a virgin?" Jay shushes you before you can answer. Your little whimper of "It hurts" ringing too loudly in his ears. Still, he feels the nod as he presses your face into the pillows with a hand at the back of your neck.

His eyes roll back in pleasure at your nod. Honestly, with a body like that? A virgin? He'd have figured you've fucked around by now. But you haven't, and that just might be the greatest thing he's heard all fucking day. So, he points his hips with intention now, penetrating deep. If at all because he can't fucking help it.

"Can't believe they're just giving you to me." You can't answer with the corner of the pillow in your mouth and all, but even if you could, you wouldn't know what to say to him. Marriage. Business. He'd support you, wait on you hand and foot? Yes. That's what you expected. Honestly, the idea of sex has been forbidden from you for so long that you half expected your father to keep that rule with Jay too, even after marriage. And here you are, meeting him briefly at his house just a week before the wedding. Your driver had dropped you off, the intention of the visit being to finalize all of the wedding details and put in any last opinions considering neither of you are planning it. You really didn't expect to find yourself face down on Jay's bed, where he ushered you the moment he saw you. Muttering something along the lines of "You're alone? Fucking finally." It's not like you entirely mind either, it's not like he didn't immediately make out with you all the way to his bedroom. It's not like you didn't make out with him right back, even if you were surprised. It's really just the fact that you were totally unprepared to have a cock that big shoved in you for the first time on a Monday afternoon. You've wondered for years what it was like to have sex, anyway, always fumbling around with your fingers and never quite feeling as good or as full as you do now. It's overwhelmingly hot, pleasurable, even. And the fact that Jay is handsome only makes this that much better. You'll be marrying him next week anyway, why does it matter if you're letting him do this right now? After next week, your father will no longer be controlling what you do. It'll be Jay, if he wants to. You can only imagine the amount of sex the two of you will be having after it's official, so...you enjoy it. Moaning, groaning, feeling that pit in your stomach intensify with each push of his cock inside of you, his breath on your shoulder, whispering filth to you between questions to get to know you. To anyone else, it would seem insane. But the fact of the matter is, you've never actually been together alone. Never had the opportunity to really get to know each other. "You want kids?" He had whispered right against your neck, pushing deeper into you and holding himself there. You nod. "How many?" He half-groans. You managed to moan out a "4", which had him moving faster, harder. "Yeah?" He hummed, kissing your prickled skin and well aware that you're going to have him wrapped around your fucking pinky. "You feel that?" And there it is, the feeling of his cock pulsing inside of you, thick ropes of cum shooting deep against your cervix, the promise of pregnancy coming along side the ring he's about to put on your finger. You moan out, surprised by how you can feel it spilling out of you with each sensitive thrust he offers to you, seemingly pushing his cum in and out of you while simultaneously snaking his hand under you to reach your clit. A whine falls from your lips at the sudden orgasm, so so sensitive, a feeling so intense and new because even when you played with yourself, never did you reach climax like this. You shake under him, clenching his spent length through your own orgasm until he gently pulls out and flips you over. He eyes you over, only now able to see you this closely because he finally got you alone without one of your parent's attached to your side. You really are totally his fucking type. And you're all his. "I think this is going to work out." He mumbles, inspecting you even more closely, ashamed that he didn't even get your top off before pressing you down on his bed. Embarrassed that he didn't have you facing him through your first time. He'll make it up to you next time.

"I'll take good care of you, and I'll be more gentle too." He continues, watching you try to regain your balance of breath. "I didn't know you were a virgin..."

You smile, eyes drowsy, suddenly feeling very sleepy...comfortable. Knowing that this will be the very bed you'll be sleeping in soon enough.

"It's okay." You whisper, clearing your throat and then repeating it in a more confident voice. "If I didn't like it, I would just tell my dad."

Jay's eyes widen, fear reaching his expression as he stares down at you, but you're quick to reassure him.

"I did like it, by the way."

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Two

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: You and Azriel are struggling with the aftermath of your heated argument. Unfortunately, you both cope in very different ways.

Warnings: angst! (with a side of some friendship fluff)

Word Count: 5.2k

Part One | Series Masterlist | Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The room reeked of stale arrogance and cold stone— like it always did.

You could handle Keir alone. Azriel knew that. You did, too. But that didn’t make it easy. Az’s presence was enough to silence Keir’s snide remarks with a single look. Without him here, Keir was running his mouth like a common court gossip, his words dripping with the kind of entitlement that made your skin crawl.

He was droning on now, his voice a low hum in your ears like the buzzing of a persistent, uncatchable fly; rattling demands, complaints, thinly veiled insults. It was always like this.

You were barely listening. 

Your mind kept drifting to Az, to the conversation the night before. 

Your chest simmered with a new emotion every time you replayed it. Anger, disappointment, betrayal. You weren’t sure which stung more: his sharp tone, the way he’d dismissed you, or the bitter fact that you’d never had Azriel talk to you like that before.

Where was he now, anyway? What had Selene needed so urgently that he’d decided official court matters could wait? Somewhere far more comfortable than this gods-forsaken pit, you were sure.

“…and the resources we’re requesting are more than reasonable, given the sacrifices we’ve made to maintain this arrangement.”

Keir’s voice sliced through your spiraling thoughts, slick, self-satisfied, and grating. He had quite the punchable features, you observed. How had he lasted this long without a good deck to the face?

“If Rhysand truly values his court,” Keir continued, a mocking edge creeping into his tone, “and not just his little city, then perhaps he should send someone who understands the importance of negotiation.”

Your mind jumped again—to Azriel, to the way he’d looked at you like you were the one who’d crossed the line. You couldn’t figure out where you’d gone wrong. Was it the mention of Elain? That small, stillness you’d felt in him? You hadn’t intended it to be a jab, hadn’t meant to make him feel guilty. You were concerned. Your approach was good-natured. Or, at least you’d thought so. 

Keir’s voice drifted in and out of focus as you stared at him, boredom spreading through you, a dull throb in your chest. You were ready to leave. Ready to escape the suffocating air of the room. You were annoyed at yourself, too, if you were being honest. Here you were, seething, ungrounded in a way you rarely allowed yourself to be, simply because of a five-minute argument. A spat. 

Usually, during these meetings, Azriel helped you regulate your dislike for Keir. When the male’s mere existence stirred memories of his cruelty to Mor, Azriel’s presence would be a steadying hand at the small of your back, a quiet reminder to keep your temper in check.

But he wasn’t there. And your thoughts were all over the place. And Keir only wanted to talk to Azriel—why did everyone need him so suddenly?

“Your attempts at diplomacy are largely symbolic. A pretty face to soften the High Lord’s more… aggressive tactics. And, well, without the Spymaster— ”

Something snapped inside you. That diplomatic part of you, the skills you’d fought tooth and nail for, had perfected over centuries, crumbled completely.

“Shut up!”

The words hit the room like a thunderclap. The two males beside him stiffened, their hands twitching toward their weapons.

“For the love of the Mother,” you said through gritted teeth, “Shut. Up.” 

Keir’s eyes widened, his mouth hanging open for a fraction of a second before he recovered, his features twisting with irritation— with offense, with shock. “Excuse me, girl?”

You stood slowly, your chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. You knew you should grimace, should feel some pang of guilt for letting your temper get the better of you. This wasn’t what you were here to do. This wasn’t how you tended to be.

But you didn’t care.

You were tired, irritated, and in desperate need of a drink, a joint, or someone to hit in the face.

“Do you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” you said, gesturing sharply with your hands. “Or do you enjoy the sound of your own idiocy too much to notice how pathetic you sound?”

Keir’s eyes narrowed, his smirk returning, like he enjoyed your bite. Found a worthy opponent, even. “Careful,” he said, his voice low, threatening. “You’re out of line.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You’d give Mor a tight hug this week, praise her once more for being able to survive seventeen years under the suffocating arrogance of a male like Keir.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you snapped. “You are not some untouchable ruler. You leech off the power Rhysand allows you to have. Do not forget that.”

Keir’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white where they gripped the arms of his chair. One of his soldiers shifted slightly, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. You turned your glare on him.

“Try it,” you said coldly. “I dare you. Lay a hand on me, and you’ll find out just how thin your leash really is. Do you think Rhysand wouldn’t love an excuse to raze this pathetic little agreement to the ground? You think Morrigan wouldn’t personally take that sword and shove it somewhere creative? Trust me, they’re looking for an excuse.”

Keir inhaled sharply as he stood slowly, placing his palms on the table before him and leaning forward with a snarl. The gleam in his eyes was predatory, animalistic. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes.” You mirrored him, placing your palms on the table and leaning forward, still holding his gaze tight.  “Would you like to see if I’m bluffing?”

Silence blanketed the room as Keir stared at you. You could see it in his eyes—the horror of recognizing that you might actually be his equal. Or worse, his superior. He was struggling with how to approach the situation, how to balance his newfound realization with the need to maintain authority in front of his males.

After a long moment, Keir shifted his gaze to his men and motioned for them to stand down. Their hands dropped, spines stiffening like statues at his sides.

You took the silence as your answer.

“That might be the smartest move you’ve ever made,” you said with an amused hum. Straightening, you brushed your hands off and smiled. “The Spymaster will be back next week to negotiate terms about resources. Pray he’s in a better mood than I am.”

A sense of satisfaction bloomed in your chest as you turned to leave. It felt good to finally tell him off—Lord knew it had been coming for centuries. You’d been biting it back at every meeting, every forced smile, every empty negotiation. It had been far more tame than you’d liked, but it was something, at least. A small victory. 

The relief washed over you for a fleeting moment before it began to slip away, replaced by that familiar unease, the stirring of anger still simmering beneath the surface.

You knew why.

Keir wasn’t the male you were truly mad at. 

At least, not in the way that made your heart ache. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You’d barely gotten out of the bath and dressed when there was a soft knock at your door. You let out a deep sigh, running your hands along your face before walking into the bedroom proper, feeling the slight chill of the air against your still-damp skin.

The thought of Azriel hit you almost instantly, your body tensing at the possibility. After all, it was just the two of you living in the townhome, and it was late—no one else was expected. As much as part of you wanted to see him—to curse him out, maybe, or pull an apology from him, you weren’t sure—a bigger part of you just wanted to sit alone. To wallow in the strange self-pity that had bloomed in your stomach since the meeting with Keir.

“Go away, Azriel. I don’t want to t-”

Your gaze landed on Mor instead. She stood in the doorway, hands behind her back, a small smile on her lips.

“Good thing I’m not Azriel,” she said, stepping forward. Her familiar perfume drifted through the room. “I’m much more attractive.”

You stifled a laugh despite yourself, the corners of your mouth tugging into a reluctant smile. Mor had always been infuriatingly good at that—chipping away at your mood, no matter how sour. Tonight, she looked less mischievous than usual, wearing a simpler gown—still stunning, but more comfortable.

“What are you doing here?”

Mor’s presence instantly lightened the weight on your chest, even just slightly, but a glimmer of disappointment sparkled in your chest, threaded through your ribs and refused to leave. Part of you had hoped it was Azriel at your door. Even if you’d have sent him away with biting remarks, at least he would’ve tried. At least he would’ve been there.

“I heard through the grapevine that there was a messy meeting in the Hewn City.”

Your stomach twisted. Shit. Keir had worked much faster than you’d thought. You wondered, briefly, how long it had taken for him to go run and complain— had he waited an hour? Perhaps two?

You grimaced, offering a sheepish smile. “Oh, right. That,” you drawled. “Is Rhys mad?”

“Not at you,” she replied. “He’s mad he missed it. I am, too.”

A grin tugged at her lips, and it wasn’t long before identical ones broke across both of your faces. You looked down, scuffing the carpet with your toe. “I don’t know what got into me.”

Mor snorted. “My father got into you.”

You looked up and raised a brow. She shot you an unimpressed look, the kind that would usually mean you were inconveniencing her with your childish humor. But there was amusement in her eyes, glinting like sunlight on glass. She wanted to laugh.

“You know what I meant,” Mor grumbled, lips twitching again. “Keir tends to bring out the worst in everyone.”

You nodded at that, tucking a loose stand of hair behind your ear. “I know I tell you this all the time,” you said, “But gods am I sorry you had to grow up with him.”

Mo shrugged, waving it off with a dismissive hand. The other stayed behind her back. “Character development and all that,” she said breezily. “Anyway, I have something for you.”

“If it’s wine, I think I’ll pass.”

She shook her head and brought her hand around, revealing a small to-go box. It was unmistakable—the kind used by your favorite bakery, all the way in the Day Court. 

“Ta-da,” she sang.

Your chest warmed at the sight. Slowly, you took the offering, running your fingers along the box’s edges. When you looked back at her, she was watching you with a tender smile—the kind only Morrigan could give. It wasn’t the playful smirk or sharp grin she wore for the world. 

“What's this for?”

Mor tilted her head. “You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. I thought you could use some comfort treats. And company.”

Your heart swelled. You’d told her and Elain little of the fight with Azriel when they’d sought you out, pacing outside your door until they decided you were ready. Elain had apologized profusely, saying she hadn’t meant to spark the argument when she suggested you talk to him. You’d assured her there was no apology needed—not from her, at least. She’d only sped up the inevitable: the realization that Azriel didn’t seem to value your opinion the way you so often valued his.

Mor wrapped an arm around your shoulders, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “I also did bring wine. It’s downstairs. We can sit, talk—and if Azriel comes home, I’ll make sure he doesn’t hear us. Or see us.”

You let Mor guide you downstairs, where she opened a bottle of wine and drew you into a conversation—a deliberate distraction about her and Emerie, about apartment hunting and her attempts at civility with Nesta. You listened as best as you could, grateful for the reprieve, and even forced yourself to savor the dessert she’d brought.

It was as good as you remembered. That was something, at least. Azriel hadn’t managed to ruin that, despite the bitter taste your argument had left behind.

Mor waited about half an hour before gently steering the conversation where she really wanted it to go: what happened with you and Az, how you were feeling.

The problem was, you couldn’t quite put your finger on why you were so upset. You told Mor the things you knew for certain: that it was unfair for Azriel to assume he knew what you were going to say, that he hadn’t given you—his best friend for centuries—a chance to speak or express your concern. That he hadn’t trusted you enough to even hear you out. Mor nodded along, agreeing that Azriel had been out of line, that it was unlike him to take someone else’s word over yours so easily.

But even as she agreed with you, it didn’t ease the pressure in your chest. It wasn’t just about him being unfair or dismissive. There was something deeper, something you hadn’t yet figured out how to say. Something else about it that bothered you so deeply. 

Maybe it was the way he’d so easily twisted your intentions, the way he’d looked at you as if you were an inconvenience, made you feel like every word you’d spoken had been some elaborate ruse. Like your concern wasn’t genuine. Like the years you’d spent knowing him, understanding him, recognizing the subtle shifts in his behavior, didn’t matter at all. You were just finding a convenient excuse to meddle, to dig your claws into his relationship, sabotage what he had so you could steal him away in the middle of the night. 

It was possible you were being a little overdramatic. And you’d definitely emphasized his words in your retelling to Mor, but it didn’t change the intent. What he’d said. What he’d believed. To imply that after everything, you couldn’t be a good friend to him. That you couldn’t care without an ulterior motive.

He hadn’t even tried to talk to you since. Not a word, not a glance. You tried to reason with yourself—it had only been a day. Maybe he needed time to cool off, to think. Maybe he was as confused as you were, unsure of how things had spiraled so fast. Maybe this silence was just him giving you space.

But a part of you didn’t think that was true. There was a possibility that his silence wasn’t for your sake—it was for his. Because he didn’t think he owed you anything.

That thought was the worst of all.  That he didn’t even care.

And you were furious, too, that Azriel had tipped you so completely off balance, that these feelings had bled into your lashing out at Keir. The memory of it was already clawing at you, leaving a faint sting of embarrassment. You knew it would follow you like a stray dog, nipping at your heels. You’d gotten emotional. You—the Night Court’s ever-diplomatic emissary—had been anything but.

You were certain you’d care more about it in a few days, when you had the energy to think clearly.

“Y/n?”

You blinked, startled out of your daze, suddenly aware of how tightly your fingers had curled around the small fork in your hand.

“Hm?”

Mor gave you a sympathetic smile. “I think you should get some rest,” she said, crouching down in front of you.

You hadn’t realized you’d ended up on the floor, leaning against the table—a habit you fell into when you were upset, like grounding yourself by sinking as close to the earth as possible. Mor extended a hand, helping you up with that steady, no-nonsense kind of care only she could offer.

She started tidying up without asking, brushing away crumbs and organizing the small mess you’d both made. Her eyes flicked to the pastry box on the table. “Are you gonna finish this? Or do you want me to toss it?”

You glanced down, confused, at the small leftover piece in the box. That was strange. You usually devoured these, barely leaving crumbs, let alone a full bite. For a moment, you thought nothing of it.

And then it clicked. It was instinct, an old habit of sorts—leaving a bite for Azriel to try.

You bit back a disappointed sigh. What had once been second nature, something you did without thinking, now felt deeply embarrassing. Sickening. Too intimate, like a little girl with a crush.

“Toss it,” you said quickly, your voice tight, sharper than intended.

Mor didn’t comment, simply folded the box closed and tossed it into the trash. Before she left, she pulled you into a hug, warm and unhurried.

“It’s okay to focus on the anger right now,” she murmured into your hair. “If nothing else makes sense, you’re entitled to it. I think you’re a few centuries overdue.”

You let out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah,” you replied, the word heavy on your tongue. “I think I have a few more remarks left in me.”

Mor grinned as she stepped back, smoothing her hands over your arms before heading for the door. “Atta girl. Make him miserable.”

You lingered on her words as you climbed the stairs.

A grudge sounded great. It sounded righteous. It sounded like something you could do—at least for now, until your feelings settled.

Lucien really was better than you. He’d endured so much, and somehow, he still found room for forgiveness, a way to let Azriel off the hook.

But you didn’t want to let this go. Not yet.

You’d given Azriel centuries of friendship, of loyalty and unwavering support, and he hadn’t even deemed you worthy of the benefit of the doubt. Maybe later, you could be like Lucien, could forgive Azriel for his shortcomings and his idiocy.

Not tonight.

You curled up in bed, willing yourself to embrace the cold, sharp edges of your anger. But, despite your best efforts, that wasn’t what stayed.

The sadness did.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel didn’t apologize. 

Not verbally, at least. It was a habit born in the aftermath of the first war, when he’d been forced to reckon with who he’d become, the things he’d done as Spymaster.

He’d learned quickly that some things were too heavy to face, too raw to acknowledge. Easier to tuck them away, seal them behind his silence. Apologies came with a price he couldn’t play. Because if he started apologizing for those things—acts born of desperation, of blind obedience to a High Lord who demanded it—he’d never stop. He’d be drowning in it for centuries.

So he didn’t. He wouldn’t. And if he refused to apologize for the horrors of his past—if the shame and pain of it were too much—then he had to be consistent. If he didn’t do it then, he couldn’t do it now. Not even for the people he loved.

Instead, he accepted the damage he caused. Accepted that he’d make mistakes. That he’d hurt people.

He stored those moments away in the ever-growing, aching place inside him that proved how unlovable he was—how destined he was to hurt the people he cared for most. How inevitable his failures were.

On the worst days, when the silence felt unbearable, he’d reach for those memories, let them remind him of who he truly was. He’d sit with them, twist them into hatred—at himself, at his failure, at the fact he couldn’t change it. He could never seem to stop.

But Azriel loved his family. He truly did. He’d die for them. He’d commit every horrible act over and over if that was what was needed to ensure their safety. So he usually found other ways to apologize.

This time, though, Azriel felt… embarrassed. Ashamed, even. Humiliated. He’d acted like a child, reckless and unthinking, had been dismissive of someone he loved.

He valued the females in his life, respected them deeply. And usually, for them, he could set aside his twisted need to avoid apologies. Instantly.

You and him had argued before—fought, even. It was bound to happen over centuries. But it had never been like this. This felt different. Everyone knew.

He wanted to apologize the night it happened. But he couldn’t. He’d gone too far. He told himself that his apology needed to be big enough to make up for it. 

All week, the memory looped in his mind, relentless and punishing. The second the accusation left his lips, regret had consumed him—an instant, choking thing. Even his shadows had recoiled, letting out a sound that might’ve been a gasp. But the worst part, the part that kept him up at night, was your face.

Your features had twisted into something he’d never seen before. Not in all the centuries you’d been by his side. Something like offense. Or maybe, Azriel thought bitterly, something worse. He’d convinced himself it was disgust. Pure, unfiltered disgust.

It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Azriel was used to people being upset with him. It came with the territory—his silence, his sharp edges, the anger he carried like armor. He could be difficult; he knew that. Could be impulsive, cold, quick to anger. Over centuries, he’d learned to live with it, to endure the way disappointment settled in others’ eyes when he pushed too far.  But it never suffocated him like this.

He had disappointed you. You were angry, disgusted by the accusation he'd thrown your way—why had he done that?

Selene's words lingered in his mind, over and over, such meaningless, small words. They’d burrowed themselves deep, driven him borderline mad. He couldn’t figure out why.

It made him itch, made him unsettled in a way that didn’t make sense. He had assumed that itch meant the words bothered him—something about them, something he couldn't quite grasp—and that had gotten under his skin, gnawing at him.

He’d been avoiding you since that night.  It was easy, despite the fact that you were the only two in the house. After all, you had been avoiding him too.

He was being a coward. He knew it. Avoiding you when he knew damn well he needed to find you, get you alone, and apologize. Profusely. Repeat it until there was some hope of undoing the damage. But avoidance was easier. Safer.

It was what he was best at.

The thought of apologizing only for you to turn him away, for you to look at him with disgust, with anger, was more than he could stomach. And he'd convinced himself that that was the most likely scenario—and it would be valid. Completely, utterly valid.

So, he did what he did best: he retreated into himself. Into Selene.

But a few days had passed, and now the ache in Azriel’s chest was gaping. Raw. Unbearable. He couldn’t breathe.

The guilt had started before the sun rose, creeping up Azriel’s spine as he pulled away from Selene’s warm embrace. She’d stirred when he slipped out of bed, her lips parted to protest, but he hadn’t stayed to hear her argument. It wasn’t comfortable—none of it. Not the weight in his chest, not the way his shadows murmured disapproval like a broken melody on repeat.

He needed to be here—at family brunch. He wanted to be here. And for the first time in days, his shadows seemed content with a decision he’d made. Thank the gods for that.

The house was full by time he arrived. He didn’t need his shadows to tell him. He could hear their laughter from the doorway, could smell the pull of a sweet feast. Rhysand was the first to notice his presence, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back in his chair. 

“Look who decided to join after all.”

Az didn’t reply, not in the way he usually did. Instead, his gaze immediately found you, his breath stalling as he caught the subtle stiffening of your shoulders. You didn’t turn. You didn’t so much as glance back.

Mor, seated beside you, did. Her brown eyes flitted from you to him, a semi-scowl in her expression as she turned her gaze to Emerie on her left, dismissing Azriel entirely.

Another person he’d probably have to apologize to.

Az swallowed, his shadows tugging at him like restless children, desperate to curl around you, to offer something—comfort, perhaps, or a plea for forgiveness he hadn’t yet put into words. But you still didn’t move.

Clearing his throat, Azriel finally said, “I’m sorry I’m late.” 

It was Feyre who responded, casting a quick glance towards you before offering Azriel a smile. “No worries, Az. We’re glad you’re here.”

That was a lie. But the chatter began once more, anyways. 

Az moved forward, gaze flicking to the one empty chair at the table— the chair beside you. Just as he reached for it, your head snapped up, eyes meeting his for the first time in days. 

“Are you sure you want to sit there?”

Azriel froze. “What?”

You tilted your head at him, eyes narrowing in a way he hadn’t quite seen before—a look that was, if he was being honest, downright unnerving. But then, just as quickly, the emotion fell away, replaced by something sharper, crueler, and laced with exaggerated concern. “What if I’m overcome with lust and expose myself to you?”

From across the table, Cassian choked violently on his drink, Nesta muttering something under her breath as she thumped his back.

Azriel closed his eyes for a brief second, forcing a steady inhale before lowering himself into the chair anyway. He could feel his shadows retreating reluctantly, curling tighter against him, sharing his discomfort. Only when the conversation resumed once more did Az lean closer to you, dropping his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Can we talk?”

“I don’t know, can we? Did Selene give you permission?”

Azriel clenched his jaw, willing himself to take another deep inhale. Before he could pull a response, your face shifted into something exaggerated, all false excitement and mock sweetness. “Don’t tell me I’m being considered as your third? Oh gods. Should I throw myself at you now, or—?”

“Y/n, come on,” Az murmured, his voice tight— pleading. “Please.”

For a beat, Azriel thought you were mulling it over, almost expected to see your face soften like he was used to. But it didn’t. 

 “Rhys,” you said, your voice carrying as you turned to the High Lord. “Would you like to tell Azriel what to expect during his meeting with Keir next week? He’d like to know.”

Az’s stomach twisted at the sound of his name—not Az, but Azriel. Cold. Formal. Foreign. He hated the way it sounded coming from you, devoid of the warmth or familiarity he’d always taken for granted, like he was a stranger. Had he truly made you that angry in the span of a few minutes? 

This, Az thought bitterly, was why he opted to never speak unless it was needed.

Rhys nodded, though his gaze flickered between you and Azriel with something like caution. Before Azriel could protest, or even try to get another word in, you turned to Mor, engaging her in conversation as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all.

The rest of the meal passed in a strange limbo. It wasn’t hostile—if anything, it felt painfully normal. Conversations swirled around the table. Laughter floated between bites of food— and his shadows had danced whenever the sound of yours had reached them.

Azriel was willing to admit that, with the situation aside, he’d missed this—missed his family. The time spent with Selene lately had only highlighted how much he craved the sense of home that these moments brought. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for his absence.

He’d been nervous to disrupt what he and Selene had, even if “alright” was the only word he could muster to describe it. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t love—but it was... something. It could develop into something. Right?

But as good as the meal could’ve been, your silence weighed on him like a stone. You ignored him completely. No more snark, no insults, not even a glance. It got to the point where he wanted a petty remark, wanted you to look at him and tell him exactly how stupid he’d been. Usually, you were vocal when you were angry. Confrontational. He’d seen it over centuries, the way your fury blazed as brightly as you. You didn’t let things stew. You didn’t let him stew.

Why were you so quiet now? Why weren’t you yelling at him, demanding answers, or throwing his mistakes back at him like daggers?

Why had you accepted him—and his stupidity—with the same quiet resignation as that night?

It was worse. It was so much worse. Your anger felt different with him. And he hated it.

When the meal ended, Azriel stayed seated, watching as the others began to leave. He watched as you leaned down to Nyx, your hand brushing the baby’s cheek with such tender care it made his chest ache. Feyre’s expression softened at the sight, and you smiled at her and Rhys, thanking them for the meal before leaving with Mor, Emerie, Cassian, and Nesta.

None of the females spared him a glance. Cassian offered him a small, apologetic smile. He wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

Thank the gods Amren wasn’t here. Small blessings, Az supposed.

He sighed, clearing his plate and bringing it to the kitchen. He rinsed it, the sound of water doing nothing to drown out the weight in his chest, and when he turned to leave, Rhys was there, Nyx balanced on one arm.

“Good luck, brother,” Rhys said. Az didn’t bother asking what he meant. He already knew.

The wistful, pitying smile Rhys wore was infuriating. The amused gleam in his violet eyes was worse. Rhys looked almost... grateful, as if relieved it wasn’t his head on the chopping block.

“A fight with the one member of our family collectively loved by everyone else,” Rhys mused, shaking his head. “Phew. You’ve made an enemy of a pack of vicious, beautiful wolves.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Rhys shifted his attention to Nyx.

“Can you say, ‘Uncle Az is screwed?’” He cooed. Nyx babbled nonsensically, waving a tiny fist, and Rhys grinned. “Yeah, he’s gonna have to grovel, huh?”

Azriel glared, his shadows bristling as he brushed past him with an unamused glare. Rhys’s laughter followed him down the hall.

Must grovel, his shadows repeated, Grovel. Apologize. Admit.

Whatever the hell that meant.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Part Three

authors note:

me trying to write reader and getting sad that shes lowkey gaslighting herself and downplaying her emotions bc she cares about az: ☹️

me writing az as someone who just accepts he hurts people and doesnt realize he can like...just apologize: 😒

me knowing this angst is gonna be so fun:🥰

anyways thank you for reading!! i've already written a lot more, so expect 2-3 more parts! <3 (i have their makeup written😏) every comment or ask yall leave gets me so inspired

but until then... how long do yall think its gonna take for them to talk? tehehe

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore @m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking

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@inkedinshadows @mellowmusings @paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch

azriel tag list 🫶🏻:

@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder @mortqlprojections @ushijima-stits

@honethatty12 @chillymountsjess @velaris-avatar-formula1 @idkitsem @kazbrkker

[7nuh]

WAS IT 'CASUAL' WHEN...? — TWST 1ST YEARS

Headcanons on the 'casual' things you do with him that made him wish that there was something more between you.

CW 𓂃 sfw, gn!reader, reader is implied to fit in Deuce's clothes in his part, pining

CHARAS 𓂃 Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Jack Howl, Epel Felmier, and Sebek Zigvolt

AN 𓂃 mostly* edited now 😎👍

ACE TRAPPOLA — you slept in the same bed?

Ramshackle isn't exactly known for having the best facilities or furniture, and that is a fact Ace has to make peace with whenever he gets kicked out by Riddle. It's always a little too chilly at night and the floors still creak beneath his feet. Even with a makeover, half of the beds are broken and that stiff couch downstairs is your next best bet at getting some semblance of sleep.

You insisted you really didn't mind sharing a bed at all and Ace took you up on your offer. In his words, "if you say so then!" Just create an invisible partition down the middle and the two of you should be fine. Sure, yeah, that'll be infinitely more comfortable than the couch, and Ace absolutely agrees. He repeats the thought to himself over and over again— this is supposedly the better alternative, isn't it?

Yeah, totally. He tries to convince himself that it's really not a big deal for him to be inches away from you at night and feel your warmth spreading through the sheets. God, you'd think he's a weirdo if you woke up and caught him staring right now, but he could always twist it into a dumb joke about your sleeping face looking like an ogre. Consequently, he would have to watch your face twist in annoyance and pretend he wasn't watching every rise and fall of your chest. He would rather lose his magic entirely than admit the ugly truth and make himself vulnerable to you.

Ace does realize he's being embarrassingly sappy and romantic, and he's disgusted at himself for these thoughts, but he can't help it. He can't change the fact your lips look so soft and your eyelashes are so pretty. This is freaking him out so much more than it should. Does this really mean nothing to you? Do really only see him as a friend? Fine, then the two of you are just friends sharing a bed then!

It's really nothing! Ace was the one who joked about it months ago, after all. But things (and his feelings) have changed and he cannot ignore that. Back then it wouldn't have been such a big deal, but now it is and he cannot calm his heart down no matter how hard he tries.

You're right there. It's not the first time he had to share a bed with someone but it's different now because it's you. He did the math and the two of you are only 10 inches apart. Ace almost reaches for you in his weakest moment until he remembers that the two of you are supposedly just two friends sharing a bed. You're doing him a favor by sheltering him for the night, that's all.

Ace retracts his hand right away at the very last second. He might have as well taken the goddamn couch (lest either of you wake up in each other's arms).

DEUCE SPADE — he lent his clothes?

You came here with next to nothing. You had exactly one change of clothes and pocket lint for change, so Deuce, being the righteous and honorable student that he is, decided to lend you some of his clothes for the meantime. It's what a good friend would do! It's a temporary arrangement that would last only until Crowley spares enough change for you to buy another set of uniforms.

But this arrangement drags on for so long even when you have a functional closet and multiple sets of better-fitting clothes. Deuce never really noticed until recently that a third of your (albeit very limited) wardrobe actually belongs to him. But whenever you tug on his sleeves for his latest sweater, he doesn't have the heart to tell you no.

When he went home during break, his mom even noticed that certain sweaters and shirts had gone missing. "I left them at the college," he tells her as to not worry her. It's technically the truth— it's back with you in the college (and you're probably wearing them right now; the mental image is enough to fluster him all of the sudden when it never did before). He has to get them back eventually since those clothes are his. He's sure you wouldn't mind? Right?

Simply asking for them back is the difficult part for Deuce. You're there in front of him wearing one of his older shirts that fit snugly around your figure and he's at a loss for words. It's worn down and outright hideous as hell but the very first thought that comes to mind is that you look good in it.

Ah, yeah. You walk around campus on non-school days wearing his clothes 1/3rd of the time and nobody else knows that those jackets and shirts and sweaters and button-ups are all his. You make even the ugliest ones look good, or maybe it's because you're the wearer and you always looked good to him? Do his eyes need to be checked...? Deuce is tortured by these thoughts while merrily go about your day. You're laughing at something stupid that Grim said and he can't hear anything else. There's a fight in the courtyard but he can't see anything else. There's a midterm tomorrow but he can't think of anything else. You're too distracting.

When you finally do remember to return a shirt or two, Deuce tells you there's really no need to return them. He insists that they're better off with you, but you laugh and remind him that you're no longer the same pathetic charity case you were at the start of the year.

The truth is, your scent still lingers on recently returned shirts. It's the closest he'll get to being skin-to-skin with you, and Deuce is supposed to ignore that but he cannot. Or maybe he's the only one making this weird for the two of you because it doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest (and he's bothered by that).

But when Deuce looks at the recently returned shirts in his hands, he hopes he has a chance. He hopes you think of him as much as he thinks of you. He hopes the odds of him not actually liking you after all make your guts churn and set butterflies in your chest at the same time. He hopes he isn't the only one yearning for used shirts, lingering scents, and ghost touches. But at the same time, you've only ever asked these kinds of favors from him... Deuce doesn't want to assume anything, but a blush creeps upon his cheeks all the same and he continues to hope for more.

JACK HOWL — you played with his ears and tail?

Beastmen weren't a thing back in your world, so seeing them regularly made you morbidly curious about their animalistic features. Jack was easily the best candidate to satisfy your intrusive thoughts because just who else could you ask about this? Leona wasn't exactly an option and Ruggie might rope you into some scheme of his. And Jack owed you a favor, after all, so this is what you decided to ask of him.

Jack's ears twitched— did he hear you correctly? His face scrunches up in confusion because you barely knew each other for you to be asking something like this. How could you ask something so personal from him? It's in your innocently eager expression that he realizes what's going on... you just didn't know. Fine, it should mean nothing to you and thus he agrees to let you pet his tail and ears for five seconds. Maximum.

It's supposed to be a one time thing but he finds him involuntarily offering up his tail whenever you look him like that. He's not even sure how it got to this point. After all, there are romantic connotations of having your tail petted by someone else and... nevermind. Ruggie and Leona have started simultaneously teasing him over it the very moment they caught wind of this peculiar arrangement. It doesn't help that Jack's tail is particularly sensitive and reactive, but he keeps a straight face no matter how much it embarrasses him.

Jack doesn't understand why you're so fascinated by his tail and ears because there are so many others just like him. However, he supposes it's not an entirely terrible feeling, though, to have your fingers absentmindedly rake across his tail and hair as the two of you study. It's relaxing, even, but he won't tell you that. Jack will never tell you that it gives him goosebumps all over and makes him shiver whenever you play with his tail. Or that he's begun wondering what it would be like to have your hands elsewhere, or for him to touch you in similar ways in return.

He doesn't understand why he craves your company but doesn't question it either. All he knows is that your hands are so soft and gentle and that he likes the way the corner of your eyes crinkle when you smile in satisfaction. And when you hum a soft tune as the gap between the two of you closes, he wonders if he's the only one feeling this tension.

"Again?" Jack huffs. The pretext of this being a silly favor has been long forgotten. He should probably tell you soon that you shouldn't be doing this, but you just look so pleased with yourself when the two of settle down in a lesser-known corner of the library. The routine persists, the cycle continues. Hours later, the both of you have gone through multiple bags of chips, two movies on his laptop, and his tail is now comfortably curled around your abdomen as you read a book and he tends to his beloved cactus.

Again? Jack silently asks himself whenever he sees your face in a crowd. Could the two of you spend hours in a comfortable silence while the unsaid implications haunt him? He's started to ask himself— were you just playing dumb at this point or just plain stupid? Or what if you had known all along and the two of you were just dancing around it?

EPEL FELMIER — you kissed him?

Epel eventually learns to use the way others perceive him to his advantage; there's strength in appearing to be weak and striking when the iron is hot. Still, he couldn't help but wish to be seen for his talents and strength instead of his beauty at the first glance. The first assumption everyone makes of him, for god's sake, is that he's a fragile little thing from a rich family, and, quite frankly, he's sick of it.

So he's secretly delighted when none of his charms worked on you and you yank him by the ear for even attempting. A few curse words and rough shoves later, both of you are on the floor, grappling and wrestling against each other. The two of you are laughing so hard and swearing so loudly that you'll probably wake up the rest of Pomefiore at this rate, but neither of you care. It's just the two of you right now grasping at each other like your life depended on it.

It's a nice change of pace to be openly exchanging insults instead of restraining himself. He enjoys the comfortable rhythm the two of you share— from all the brawls and the bantering and the hugs and to the kisses on the cheek. Yes, kisses. They started as simple thank you's after a few favors here and there, and just one of them is enough to make a mess out of Epel for weeks. Better yet, you only seem to be showering him with more and more of your attention and he relishes in it.

Ah, things are finally working out for him! He found someone he could confide in and he's sure that there's a spark between the two of you. By the end of the year, he might have someone to bring home and brag about to his relatives—

All the momentum halts when he sees you across the hall granting the rest of your friends the same levels of affection. From all the brawls to the bantering to the hugs and the kisses, none of those were ever solely his to take delight upon. It doesn't matter that he opened up to you about all his fears and insecurities because he was never special. You were just the kind of person who got along and felt comfortable with everyone around you, but Epel hates that he has no one to blame but himself. He willingly walked your warmth but it was never his to take.

It finally dawns upon him that you have never seen him in a romantic light and that was why you were so comfortable around him. In retrospect, the bond you two shared was more sibling-like than anything— and believe him when he says he's incredibly grateful that the two of you were that close —but it doesn't make it hurt any less to know that your affections never carried any romantic intentions after he had pinned for you for so long.

Even when he takes a step back, you're cruel in a roundabout way by continuing to be so kind and loving towards him. How was Epel supposed to make sense of your relationship after realizing he misunderstood you...?

And he also hates to admit this, but his self-confidence takes a huge blow from this. Epel genuinely thought he could be loved for who he was based on the time you spent together. It gnaws at him and eats him alive to finally know the truth, and sometimes he wishes he never found out at all.

SEBEK ZIGVOLT — you wrote him love letters?

So, Sebek asked (demanded) to be penpals...

It's all because Lilia told him it would be a good exercise of diplomacy, he insisted. As the young master's bodyguard, he will have to be as courteous as possible even in unpleasant company. He also rationalized, admittedly partly because of you, that forging bonds with magicless humans may be a worthwhile endeavor after all! It's all rather suspicious (and you suspect his real intentions have something to do with your friendship with Malleus), but Sebek has never been one to lie about his intentions. If anything, the popular opinion was that he's a little too honest and should learn a thing or two about holding back.

There's something very unconventional in sending handwritten letters in this day and age of modern technology, but also something very romantic and fantastical— much like the many fictional knights he had read about. It helps a lot that he's not directly confronted by the fact you are very much a magicless human who shouldn't be in NRC whenever he spills out his heart's contents unto multiple pages. It was a way for him to release his frustrations, celebrate his achievements, and talk about the dull, little things thats happened in his day-to-day life to someone who listened.

And listen you did. Turns out, when you're not subjected to his 1000 decibel shouting, Sebek is a rather earnest guy who worked hard and acknowledged others who also worked equally as hard no matter their disposition. To say the least, you understand why Lilia found it so entertaining to tease him.

It completely flies over his head that you had been flirting with him for months through these letters. Your everyday interactions with each other had been completely normal, so how was he supposed to notice?! It takes multiple rereads and many late-night discussions with the other Diasomnia dormers to decode and understand all the double entendres and hidden 'i love you's' in each and every letter. It was so needlessly difficult, but Lilia laughs in his face and pats him at the back for a job well-done.

"There's no way," he thinks to himself late at night and finds himself doubting Lilia's claims for once. But when Sebek steals a glance in your direction and you smile back in return, he's never felt weaker in his knees. You're absolutely and undeniably magic-less... but somehow you had casted a spell that made his chest tighten and shut him up. He hadn't even realized how much time he was spending with you and thinking about you when he wasn't.

Except nothing has changed in-person. You're acting like you hadn't meticulously hidden your affections for him in those letters, and he was starting to seriously doubt all of it. Yeah, were you event smart enough to pull off all that? As some magic-less human?

Actually... Sebek realizes that you are capable of outsmarting him after getting to know you much better through those letters. He's never been one to deny where credit it was due. Now, Sebek's just deeply ashamed that he failed to accurately assess your character before making judgements based on superficial traits. He knows better than anyone that you're witty, charming, brave, kind, beautiful, ambitious—

Oh no.

Oh no.

Sebek simply explodes on the spot once he realizes that he had been oblivious to his own feelings for you too. He had thoroughly examined every aspect of this conundrum except from within. Quite embarrassing from an esteemed knight of the prince of nocturnal fae to be this slow, really.