#also me??? doing shadow??? unheard of

[charlotte-family-apologist]

Kenshi and bitty Takeda because they’re the father son dynamic ever please (LOVE UR ART SM BTW!!! Obsessed. With the way your draw faces and expressions💕)

He's trying so hard not to smile

Also thank youuuuu 😭😭💕💕 your artstyle is amazing it's so pleasing on the eyes- also sorry if you expected a text post I just really wanted to draw them!

[zaynessbeloved]

Tipsy, hard and needing you

Synopsis: Rafayel doesn’t drink often...but when he does, he drinks to forget how much he misses you. After one too many glasses and one too many thirst-heavy messages, you find yourself in his studio, still in your scratched-up mission uniform. He’s flushed, needy, and harder than he has any right to be. And his drunken mind can conjure one thing, and one thing only: showing you just how much he missed you.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, established relationship, rough drunk sex, desperate whiny begging, body worship, bratty dynamics, dominance/submission themes (soft switch energy), marking, fingering, oral sex (receiving), size kink, overstimulation, intense eye contact, dirty talk, alcohol consumption (consensual), rafayel sending a suggestive pic/public teasing (prelude), rough handling, cockwarming mention, possessive behavior, mild obsession, emotional vulnerability, and unprotected sex.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 7k

A/n: i am insane because he has so many 4star memories of him being tipsy (implied) so i had to write a lil something on how i personally see him being tipsy/drunk. this is just my personal take, enjoy! <3

The mission isn’t long, but it’s exhausting. Your arms are still sore from holding your weapon too tight, and there's a smear of Wanderer dust clinging to your boot. You want nothing more than to peel off your jacket, throw your comm onto the charger, and melt into your bed.

Your phone buzzes. And then again. And again. You don’t need to check the name, you already know who it is. The first few texts are nothing new.

Rafayel: i’m dying Rafayel: this canvas is my mortal enemy Rafayel: come eulogize me, cutie. bring wine

Dramatic, as always. But then the tone of his messages shifts.

Rafayel: need you Rafayel: no seriously. i need you Rafayel: i’m not even being poetic this time

You pause mid-step, boots clicking to a halt in the middle of the quiet sidewalk. Another buzz.

Rafayel: come ruin me. please.

Your heart stutters, because the following message is a photo. Your breath catches the second you see it. He’s shirtless, which, fine, isn’t unheard of—Rafayel has never been shy about his body, and he always knows exactly what he’s doing with that silver chain and half-lidded stare.

But this isn’t aesthetic. It’s desperate. His hair’s messy, mussed from his own hands. His chest is flushed, and the angle is a little off, like he tried multiple times and gave up. One arm is stretched above his head, the other lazily gripping the waistband of his sweats. Low, way too low.

There’s a hint of ink from one of his recent tattoos, the glint of chain, the barest shadow of want.And the message underneath the picture?

Rafayel: if you don’t come over i might start painting with my dick. your choice.

You don’t even laugh, you just pick up the pace. You’re half-jogging now, mission forgotten, boots pounding against the pavement. Because Rafayel doesn’t get drunk easily, not unless he’s trying. And he doesn’t beg. Not like this. Not unless he’s completely unraveling.

You fire off a single reply as you duck into a side alley and cut through toward his studio

You: Don’t you dare start without me, Raf

His reply is immediate.

Rafayel: hurryyy. i’m so hard it hurts. also i think i might have tried making soup and almost burnt the kitchen down???”

You don’t know whether to groan, blush, or sprint faster. Probably all three.

You don’t even knock when you come to a halt in front of his door. You’re too far gone for that. Too wired from the rush of his texts, the photo seared into your brain like a brand, the idea of him hard and messy and waiting for you.

The studio door swings open before your knuckles can reach it, and there he is. Rafayel. Shirtless, barefoot, flushed from the chest up, hair a mess of tangled curls, one side of his sweatpants riding dangerously low. There’s a line of color creeping across his collarbones, the telltale shimmer of sweat glistening beneath silver chains. And, oh…he’s hard. Very hard. Painfully obvious under the thin fabric of his pants.

He opens his mouth, but you’re already grabbing him by the front of those pants and yanking him forward into a kiss that shatters whatever clever line he was about to deliver.

He gasps into your mouth, stumbling slightly, both of you nearly crashing into the frame of the door. His hands fumble at your hips, gripping too tight, a little frantic.

“Getting straight…” he pants, voice thick, breath hot, “…to the point, huh?”

You groan against his lips, tugging him deeper inside, one hand already tangled in the damp strands at the back of his neck.

The door slams shut behind you but neither of you cares, really. His mouth tastes like vodka and heat and desperation—like Rafayel, but unfiltered. His tongue licks into yours with messy abandon, too much and not enough. He moans when your teeth scrape his bottom lip, then pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard.

“You’re…” His hand brushes the rough fabric of your uniform, and he squints. “You’re still in your hunter gear?”

“Obviously,” you mutter, panting. “You couldn’t wait?”

His brows furrow, soft and tipsy. “Shit. Did I interrupt something? You were on a mission, weren’t you?” His hand ghosts over a dirt-smeared scrape on your arm, slow, almost guilty.

You kiss him again, hard. “Don’t care.”

He makes a sound that’s half whimper, half relief. And then his fingers start tugging at your jacket, clumsy and insistent.

“Well then…” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, breath thick with heat and vodka. “It’s getting hot in here, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just starts peeling the jacket off your shoulders, dragging it down with exaggerated care, eyes locked on every inch of skin he reveals like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.

You break the kiss as he pushes you backwards, deeper into the studio apartment section of his loft. Canvases and crushed tubes of paint blur in your periphery as your boots stumble over the rug.

“Raf,” you whisper between kisses. “Why are you drunk?”

He presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing lazily at the corner of your mouth, still breathing hard. “Tell me…” his chuckle is low, wicked. “…should I be a good, honest boy? Or should I play hard to get?”

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard your head tilts back, exposing your throat to him. He takes the bait immediately. His lips latch onto your skin, hot and desperate, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder.

“God, even drunk you’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“And yet,” he pants, “you’re here.”

You drag your hands down his chest, nails leaving faint trails over his flushed skin. He groans again, deeper this time, and it vibrates through his chest like thunder under silk. Drunk Rafayel isn’t loud. He’s needy. Whiny, flustered, and just this side of unhinged. And you haven’t even undressed yet.

Your hands find the hem of his sweatpants as you kiss him again, just barely brushing beneath the waistband, the faintest tease of fingertips over heated skin. He gasps into your mouth, then groans, deep and needy, when your nails scrape softly just under his hips. You pull him with you as you both stumble backward, his footing a little clumsy, until his back hits the edge of the kitchen counter.

The moment jars him, just enough to bite at the fog in his mind. He leans there, flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and gleaming like molten purple under the dim studio lights. Behind him, a bottle of alcohol, nearly emptied, sits beside a forgotten glass, the rim still coated in a faint pinkish smear from his mouth.

You glance at it, frowning slightly. “Why’d you drink so much?”

He doesn’t answer at first, just breathes, or more like pants, trying to regain some sort of self control because he can still feel your fingers beneath the hem of his sweatpants. And then slowly, softly, his fingers curl at the edge of the counter as his head tilts.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he murmurs, breathless, voice slurring playfully, “touching me wherever is rude.”

You raise a brow, lips quirking. “You’re saying that right now?”

But there’s no bite in your voice because beneath the teasing, you see him. His face is flushed to the ears, hair damp at the temples, sweat slicking down the curve of his neck. And his eyes, god…his eyes are drowning in something deeper than just alcohol.

He swallows slowly, lifting those stormy eyes to yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You blink, heart lurching.

“I know it was just a few days,” he continues, voice hoarse, trembling at the edges. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All day, every minute.” He lets out a half-laugh, self-deprecating, breathless. “I tried painting. I tried walking. I even tried folding laundry, which—don’t look at me like that—but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop wanting you.”

Your heart squeezes so hard it hurts. You knew Rafayel was intense—loved intensely, wanted fiercely. But this? This is raw, cracked open and so honest.

He’s still leaning against the counter like he’s trying to hold himself upright. You close the distance, fingers still flirting with the band of his sweats, but now it’s softer, less teasing, more grounding. His hands twitch at his sides.

“Raf…” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he drags you into another kiss, deeper now, hungrier. You press into him, one hand sliding up his bare chest, the other still dancing just under the fabric at his hips.

His head falls back with a ragged gasp as your mouth trails from his lips down the slope of his neck. You taste sweat, vodka, and the edges of desperation, and he shivers under your tongue.

“I think you need to go…” he pants, voice low and wrecked and just a little daring, “…a little lower.”

You smile against his skin, lips ghosting over his collarbone.

“Is that a request?” you whisper.

His hips twitch.

“That’s a warning.” he growls, breathless and already falling apart.

You smile against the curve of his neck. Not sweetly and definitely not innocently. No, you smile like you know exactly what you're doing. Because you do.

Your lips trail down the column of his throat, warm and slow, brushing over the slick heat of his pulse. He tilts his head to the side instinctively, giving you space, almost desperate to feel your lips on his flushed, sensitive skin. His breath catches, shaky and high, when your mouth closes over his collarbone, planting a few kisses, then sucking, just hard enough to bruise.

His hips twitch. You feel it, feel the tension and the desperation. He’s so hard now it must be painful, the heat of his cock burning against your palm where your fingers still tease, just barely dipped under the band of his sweats.

He groans, head knocking back against the cabinet behind him, chains clinking softly against his skin.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, touching me like this…” he whispers.

But you do. You press another kiss to his clavicle, then a mark just beneath it. “I missed you too,” you murmur against his skin. “Every second.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, like the words hit harder than he expected. His hands clench at the counter’s edge, knuckles white, body trembling from how close your touch is to what he wants. He needs you to touch him so fucking bad.

But you don’t move your hand, not yet. You pull back instead, just a little, enough to look at him. And fuck, the sight of him like this steals your breath.

Rafayel, flushed and ruined, his lips parted, throat marked red and blooming, hair falling wild across his forehead, eyes barely open, just enough to look at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. His sweats are tented so hard it’s almost obscene.

You don't even have to speak. You just watch him, his whole body radiates heat and want, and the look on his face is ruinuos, drunk on vodka and you.

His gaze falters under yours, then lifts again, wild and starving. His voice is wrecked when he speaks, low and teasing, but laced with something darker, more dangerous.

“Do not tease me,” he breathes. “If you keep looking at me like that…” he leans forward, just slightly, a tremble in his frame. “…I won’t show you any mercy.”

You smirk. And that drives him insane. His hips jerk, desperate for contact, but you still don’t move your hand. Your thumb brushes just along his hipbone instead, feather-light. The touch is teasing yet promising underneath.

Makeout sessions with Rafayel are always like this—heady, breathless, intense. Full of moans and shivers and pretty bruises. Because when he touches, he touches with everything he has. And you know that. You know what he’s capable of in bed. You’ve felt it, how he unravels you like a masterpiece he painted himself—slowly, deliberately, with obsession bleeding into every stroke.

Which is why now…you’re not giving him exactly what he wants. You want to keep him tethering on this very edge of madness just a little longer. The thought of what that will make of him makes you so wet, and you mentally hold yourself to the promise of him ruining you later on. As he never fails to do.

You kiss him again, harder this time, deeper, and his whole body reacts. One of your hands slides up, threading into his hair and tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth. He doesn't grip the counter anymore. Now it’s you he holds onto, the side of your neck, the back of your shoulder, your waist—desperate hands clinging like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn't press you close enough.

His cock grinds against you, hot and aching, and he whines—low in his throat, helpless—when your hand still doesn’t wrap around him.

He’s burning for you, desperate for your touch, and you know it.

Your breaths mingle, thick with alcohol, lust, and the kind of hunger that makes your knees weak. You can taste the vodka on his tongue, sweet and sharp and drowning in need. And you’re drunk on it, on him.

Finally, finally, your fingers dip lower beneath the hem of his sweats, just a little. Your knuckles brush the thick, hot length of him and he moans into your mouth.

“Someone’s intentions,” he pants, voice shaking, playful but desperate, “are as clear as day.”

You smile against his lips and pull back just enough to start trailing kisses down his neck again. His head falls back with a ragged exhale, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, “keep going.”

You do. You kiss his throat, his collarbone, the chain that dips between his flushed pecs. His chest is warm and sticky with sweat. His hands grip your hair, but not to guide, just to feel you, to hold onto something.

And then you drop to your knees. The motion is smooth, controlled, and so deliberate. He looks down at you like he’s been struck by lightning. You glance up, hands slow and gentle as they curl at the waistband of his sweats. His breath hitches as you drag them down, kissing along the trail of skin you expose, until finally he’s bare in front of you.

His cock is very hard, leaking, flushed red and aching, begging for attention. Begging to be touched, to find release. But still, you don’t touch.

Your eyes lock on his.

“You’ve been such a good boy,” you murmur, voice soft and sinful. “So honest with me. Now tell me…”

Your nails trace up the inside of his thigh. “…how did it feel? Missing me these past few days?”

His jaw clenches.

“Did you think about me?” you ask, lips ghosting over the crease of his hip. “Did you touch yourself?”

His entire body shudders. His hands tighten in your hair, and his cock twitches in front of your lips, but still, you wait, watching him unravel. Waiting for him to break.

For a second, he just stares down at you silently. You see it in his eyes, the hesitation, the pride, the fragile ribbon of restraint he's always trying to keep from unraveling. But then he exhales, deep and shaky, and lets it go.

“I thought about you,” he admits, voice hoarse, chest rising and falling. “Every night. Every damn time I closed my eyes, I saw you, cutie.”

Your eyes glint, lips hovering right near the base of his cock. His hips twitch forward, subtle, like his body is betraying his mind, again.

You tilt your head, breath teasing against flushed skin. “And?”

He swallows hard.

“I touched myself thinking of your mouth,” he breathes, a flush creeping up his chest. “More than once. I imagined this…you on your knees, looking at me like this.”

Your tongue flicks out in one long, slow lick from base to tip. He gasps, head tilting backwards, and you hum—low, sweet, satisfied.

“You’re such a good boy,” you purr, lips brushing the underside of his cock as you speak.

Another lick, slower now, around the tip, then back down.

He moans, and you can feel his whole body shudder. You lock eyes with him as your tongue moves, again and again. You take your time, tracing him with reverent cruelty, just enough pressure to make him shake.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles white.

“Fuck…” he pants, voice cracking, “…cutie, I—I—”

You lick again, this time with more pressure, swirling your tongue just beneath the head. His breath punches out of him. His eyes flutter and his head falls back in pure pleasure.

“Oh my god—” he groans, the sound full of broken want, “please…”

That’s when you finally wrap your lips around him. Just the tip, but it’s enough to make him go insane. He gasps so hard it’s almost a whimper.

Your mouth slides down—slow, sweet, maddening. You feel his hips buck slightly, chasing the heat, desperate to be deeper, and you let him. Because you love him like this. Messy. Needy. Yours.

Your mouth moves, pace steady and deep, tongue tracing the vein underneath as he throbs in your mouth. He moans again, long and low and wrecked, every sound of it tinged with alcohol and craving and utter devotion. His hands find your hair again, not guiding, just anchoring, because he’s barely standing.

And you don’t stop. Not when his hips start rolling. Not when he starts panting your name like a prayer. Not even when he chokes out something that sounds dangerously close to “I love you” under his breath, breathless and soaked in want.

Your mouth works him steadily, slowly—deeper with each glide, wetter with every moan that slips from his kiss-swollen mouth. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the desperate curse that falls from his lips when you hollow your cheeks just enough to make his knees buckle.

And still, you don’t stop. You relax into it, hands firm at his hips, your tongue tracing every inch you can reach, your throat swallowing every groan he offers you. Without words, you tell him exactly what you want. Lose control. Take what you need.

You feel it when he finally gives in. His hips begin to roll, rhythmic and frantic, the hand in your hair tightening. Not to force, never to force, just to anchor. Like he needs to hold onto something to keep from falling apart.

His head tips back. A low, broken moan escapes him, raw and breathless.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps, voice wrecked, thick with desperation. “I want you like this every damn day…”

Your tongue slides along the underside of his cock, and he chokes on a moan.

“I missed you so much—fuck…don’t ever make me miss you again,” he pleads, frantic now. “It’s not fair…you make me feel like this and then you’re just gone…”

You moan softly around him, the vibration making him stutter a thrust. His hips twitch forward, messy and aching.

“I can’t…I can’t, cutie, please…let me—fuck, let me finish—”

His head drops forward like the strength’s been pulled from his spine, his glassy eyes locking onto yours below him and that is what breaks him. The sight of you, kneeling before him, lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowed, eyes shining and so willing.

He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a curse. And then he thrusts forward one last time—deep, desperate—and comes. His whole body convulses, every muscle tensing as heat pours from him, his groan long and shattered, his fingers trembling in your hair.

You keep eye contact the entire time and you take all of it, every last drop. And when it’s over, when his body slumps against the counter behind him and his legs are still shaking, his chest heaving, he whispers something soft, breathless, stunned.

“…I think I just died.”

You smile and lick your lips as you rise slowly, warm palms tracing up the curve of his waist. His hand finds your jaw, the grip gentle but sure, and he pulls you up into a kiss that’s messy and hot and absolutely drunk with need.

He tastes himself on your lips and doesn’t care—if anything, it makes him groan louder, deeper, kissing you harder as his hands slide lower to your hips, clutching them like he’s starving for more, like the high of release wasn’t enough to dull the ache you left behind.

Somewhere between kisses and panting and hands roaming skin, he wiggles awkwardly out of his sweats the rest of the way, nearly stumbling. You catch him by the waist, laughing against his mouth, but he uses the momentum and spins you, backing you up until your spine hits the edge of the counter with a soft thud.

Now you’re cornered. Now he’s the one in control again. His mouth is on your neck before you can say anything—wet, open kisses trailing down your throat as his fingers tug at the buttons of your uniform shirt, clumsy but determined.

“You see, cutie…” he murmurs, voice breathless against your pulse. “You already made my life a beautiful, chaotic mess.”

The last button gives way, and he pushes the fabric off your shoulders, kissing down the center of your chest until he reaches your bra. He groans softly, brushing his nose against your skin as he mouths your breast through the fabric, fingers digging into your waist like he can’t get close enough.

You pant, fingers tangling in his hair again, head tipping back as your hips roll forward, brushing against his now half-hard cock resting heavy against your thigh.

Rafayel growls.

“I barely touched this,” he whispers, warm mouth brushing against your bra as he speaks, “and you’re already flushed.”

He kisses over the soft breast, slowly dragging his teeth along the edge, and you whimper. You are flushed, breathless now, and he knows it. He drinks in every gasp, every twitch of your body like it’s paint running down canvas.

“I missed you,” you gasp between pants, threading your fingers tighter through his damp hair. “God…I missed you so much, Raf. I would’ve come sooner, I swear, but—”

“Don’t care,” he cuts in, groaning into your skin. “You’re here now. You’re mine now.”

His kisses get rougher, hungrier, as his hands slide up your spine, finally touching you properly, and his mouth finds your collarbone, your throat, your shoulder, all the places he needs to mark.

His mouth never leaves your skin. Not when he slides his hands up your back. Not when his fingers fumble with the clasp of your bra—frantic, trembling, almost too clumsy with how drunk he is. But then it gives way, and he lets the straps fall, kissing down your throat, nipping the slope of your shoulder, like he needs to devour every inch of you.

Your bra drops somewhere on the floor, but his hands don’t stop. They hook under your thighs, gripping you tight and then he lifts. You gasp as he picks you up and plants you on the edge of the counter, the cool marble pressing against your bare thighs, shocking in contrast to the molten heat in his mouth.

He is still kissing your skin, still biting your neck and leaving matching marks for his own. He doesn’t even pause to catch his breath, just pants into your neck like he’ll drown if he stops.

And yet, he slows. He shifts the angle, presses soft bites just under your ear, kisses the same spot until your spine arches on instinct, begging for more. But he doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t touch you where you need him most. Just keeps teasing.

You whimper, arching your back again—an invitation, a demand—but all he does is hum against your skin, warm breath fanning over your throat like a confession.

“Silly girl,” he murmurs, chuckling against your pulse, his voice ragged and low.

You groan, rolling your hips forward. “Rafayel…”

Still, he doesn't move, he just sucks harder at your neck, his teeth scraping the shell of your ear.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you whisper, breath breaking between frustration and arousal.

He laughs again, breathless, dazed, drunk on you.

“Yeah…” he pants, voice soft and cocky. “I am doing this on purpose.”

His hands finally slide up your ribs, palms hot and greedy, and then at last, he leans down and wraps his lips around your nipple. You moan, back arching hard, your fingers threading through his hair and holding him there as his tongue swirls, slow and sinful. His free hand drags down and slips beneath the edge of your uniform skirt.

But still, he doesn’t go where you want him. His hands only grasp at your thighs, caressing the soft skin just above your knees, then sliding upward in slow, possessive sweeps, fingers curling tight enough to bruise.

You shudder under his mouth, under his hands, under the weight of his teasing control. And he hums against your chest, smug and starved all at once. You arch harder into him, the curve of your back deepening as you press your chest to his mouth, your thighs tightening around his waist. Your hands stay tangled in his hair, desperate and pleading without words, because god…he’s still teasing.

His tongue swirls around your nipple in slow, wet circles, just barely flicking when he knows you want more. His hands are gripping your thighs, hard, sliding up to the edge of your panties beneath your skirt and then stopping.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-moan, the frustration laced through every syllable. “You said you missed me so fucking much…and now you’re bullying me?”

He groans against your chest, hips twitching where they press between your thighs. Sweat clings to his skin, flushed and shining in the low studio light. His silver chains stick to his neck and chest, tangling slightly as he lifts his face, breathless.

Then he bites lightly at the swell of your breast before meeting your eyes, voice wrecked and fond and maddening all at once.

“But you’re very, very cute right now,” he says, lips dragging against your skin as he speaks. “And I’m allowed to admire what I missed.”

You whimper. He moans again, this time into your mouth as he surges up to kiss you, devouring, hungry, his teeth scraping yours in a kiss that’s too messy to be sweet and too honest to be anything less than worship.

And then finally—finally, his hand slides under the edge of your panties and pushes them aside. You don’t even get to breathe. Two fingers slide into you, deep and unrelenting, and you moan into his mouth, the sound punched straight from your lungs as your body clenches around him.

He swallows it all—every sound, every gasp, every trembling exhale—kissing you deeper as his fingers start to move, slow at first, then harder. Slick. Hot. So fucking good.

You grip his shoulders now, your back arched against the counter, head tipping back as he pumps into you, his breath ragged against your jaw, his mouth dragging down your neck again. Your hips start moving without thought, chasing every curl of his fingers.

The world blurs around the heat building in your core, and Rafayel? He’s already drunk, already ruined, but he wants to see you break before he even thinks about stopping.

Your hips roll into his hand instinctively, chasing the rhythm of his fingers as they pump into you, slick and deep. You whimper as he curls them just right, and your legs spread wider on instinct, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Rafayel—ahh, fuck…”

He groans into your neck, mouth hot against your skin. His free hand clutches your hip now, grounding you, anchoring you to the counter as he fucks you with just his fingers, but it’s so much more than that.

He moves like an artist. Like he’s sculpting pleasure from the very deep center of you. And his mouth doesn’t stop—biting, sucking, trailing heat down your throat, over your collarbone, back to your chest.

“You always break so beautifully,” he whispers against your skin, voice rough with lust, soaked in alcohol and longing. “So flushed, so desperate…”

You moan, louder now, as his fingers hit that perfect spot inside you again. Your hands grip his shoulders tight, fingers digging into the sweat-slick muscle. Your thighs shake.

“Please,” you breathe, “don’t stop—don’t you dare…”

He laughs, low and breathless, and his pace quickens. The slick sound of his fingers inside you is obscene, wet and filthy and so fucking hot you feel your face burn with it. Your moans turn higher, sharper, punched out with every curl of his fingers, and he loves it. Loves you like this.

“Say it again,” he whispers in your ear, breath hot and desperate. “Say you missed me. Say you want me.”

“Mhm, missed you…oh, fuck, I want you—Rafayel, please…”

His teeth sink lightly into your neck and he growls against it. “Good girl.”

You fall apart around his fingers, whimpering, clutching at his arms like he’s the only thing holding you together. The heat’s building too fast—white and burning—coiling in your gut like it’s about to snap. And still, his fingers move. Still, his mouth wrecks you.

And still, he whispers, “Come on, cutie. Show me how much you missed this.”

The pressure inside you spikes—sharp, hot, unbearable. Every drag of Rafayel’s fingers feels like it’s made of fire, and you can’t take your eyes off him. His flushed face, sweat-slicked chest, dark hair sticking to his forehead. The way he looks at you while he ruins you, like nothing else exists.

Your body is trembling. Your hips are bucking into every thrust of his hand now. And he’s whispering filth in your ear, low and unrelenting, the kind of voice that makes your stomach flip.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, licking up the side of your neck. “I can feel it…you’re clenching around me so tight—god, it’s perfect.”

“Raf—” You gasp his name like a prayer, your voice breaking.

He fucks his fingers into you harder, deeper, faster now. Every stroke grazing just right. Your thighs squeeze around his waist, your spine arches off the counter, and your head tips back as the wave inside you crests—sharp and wet and blinding.

“Let go for me,” he growls, voice breathless and wrecked. “Come, cutie.”

And you do. You cry out, thighs shaking violently around his hips, your hands clutching him, clawing at his back. Your walls spasm around his fingers as your orgasm slams into you, hard and messy and endless.

He doesn’t stop. He watches it all—eyes wild, jaw slack, drinking in the way your body falls apart for him. His fingers keep moving even as you whimper and twitch, overwhelmed and shaking.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants, voice full of reverence and lust. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come. Look at you…look at you.”

You moan, half-broken, half-pleading, and finally he slows. But only just. His mouth is everywhere now—pressing kisses over your jaw, your cheeks, your shoulder. His hand stays buried between your thighs, still feeling every twitch and aftershock.

“You’re mine,” he whispers raggedly, soft and deadly against your skin. “You know that, right?”

You nod, barely able to breathe, much less speak. You’re still catching your breath, body trembling, chest rising in frantic waves when his mouth crashes into yours again—a kiss more desperate than any before it. His hand hasn’t moved from between your thighs, and when his fingers stroke your oversensitive clit, your entire body jolts in his grasp.

“Rafayel—!” you gasp against his mouth.

He moans, muffled and low, as if he’s the one being undone, not you. But that’s always been the truth of it—every time he touches you, every time he brings you to the edge, he breaks with you. Falls apart in tandem. Wants you in a way that’s feral and emotional and frighteningly deep.

You know this rhythm. You know what he likes. And you know what’s coming. He lives to drag it out. To keep you trembling on the edge again and again, his control laced with adoration and hunger until you’re begging him to stop and begging him not to in the same breath.

But tonight… tonight he’s drunk. He’s missed you badly. He’s hard and flushed and not even pretending to be composed anymore. And you feel all of it.

His cock is pressed hot and firm against your thigh, twitching each time you grind closer. The thin fabric of your panties is soaked, pushed to the side, clinging to nothing. Every breath is a moan, every kiss tastes like vodka and sin.

You clutch his hair and gasp against his lips, trembling from the overstimulation, the heat, the need building all over again.

“I need you,” you whisper. “I need you, Raf. I need my lover. Please…I need you inside.”

He growls. That’s all it takes. Something inside him snaps. He grabs you hard, almost rough, pulling you into his arms. One hand still clutching your ass, the other around your back, dragging your mouth to his over and over again as he stumbles blindly through the apartment.

You giggle against his mouth as he stumbles into the wall, swears, and then keeps going.

“Where—?” you start to ask.

“Shut up,” he pants. “I’m taking you.”

You don’t argue, not when he makes it to the edge of the bed. Your bodies stay tangled in the heat of that kiss, standing at the edge of his bed, tongues dancing, mouths open and hungry. His hand stays locked around your waist, his cock pressed hard against your thigh, twitching with every pulse of your moans.

You gasp against his lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to reach down between your thighs. Your fingers hook into the edge of your ruined panties, dragging them down quickly, wet and wrinkled from everything he’s already done to you. They fall to your ankles, kicked away without thought. Your skirt follows, bunched and rumpled, shoved down and off. You’re flushed and shaking and so, so exposed.

Rafayel groans as he takes you in, still in your half-open uniform shirt, still breathless, trembling, and flushed from your last orgasm, and now bare from the waist down.

“Fuck,” he pants, dragging you back into a kiss, deeper this time, desperate. “Not fair. You’re gonna kill me, cutie”

You giggle into his mouth and he turns you, suddenly, his hands warm and firm on your hips. He presses his chest to your back, caging you in, his breath hot at your ear.

“I’m going to show you,” he murmurs darkly, “exactly how deep this goes. How fucking much it hurt to be without you.”

His hand slides up your spine, slow and deliberate, until it settles between your shoulder blades, and then he pushes you towards the bed.

“Bend over.”

You do—panting, moaning, letting him guide you forward until your hands brace on the edge of the mattress, fingers curling into the blanket. Your back arches, instinctively, your ass tilted perfectly for him.

He stands behind you, groaning like he’s lost his mind. And maybe he has. Because from this angle, you’re all flushed skin and damp thighs and trembling anticipation.

“God,” he growls, voice ragged. “You’re so perfect.” he palms your ass, carresing it. “My perfect girl.”

You shudder at the praise, moaning softly as your hips roll back once, begging. And of course—of course—he teases you more, because he can’t help himself. You feel his fingers ghost over your inner thigh, then pause, just before they touch where you need it so desperately.

“I guess Miss Bodyguard is still wet…” he drawls, voice lilting with mock surprise, smug and dark and hungry. “Tsk.”

He chuckles low in his throat as his fingers circle your clit once. You jolt, gasping, legs nearly buckling. And then he pushes in, all the way. You cry out, body arching hard, hands gripping the bed as his cock stretches you deep and fast, no warning, no patience.

It’s just him, just Rafayel, hungry and raw, claiming you, filling you, like he never stopped needing you. He groans behind you, loud and ruined, hips grinding against yours as he bottoms out. His hand stays pressed firm on your back, holding you there, keeping you open for him.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s part of your heartbeat, your breath, your very bones. His palm is still pressed to the curve of your back, keeping you arched just right, keeping you his.

And behind you, you hear it. That breathless, broken sound—half a moan, half a laugh.

“Fuck, cutie,” he murmurs, the words slurred with want. “You feel like home.”

Your hands tremble where they grip the bed, legs already shaking just from the stretch of him, from the pressure of being filled so full. You roll your hips back just slightly, and that’s all it takes.

He groans, and then he starts to move. Slow, at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that pull almost all the way out before he pushes back in again with force that makes the whole bedframe creak under your grip.

You cry out, mouth open, head falling forward as he sets the pace—not gentle, not tentative. Raw. He thrusts harder, faster now, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the room, wet and filthy and perfect.

“God,” he pants behind you, his voice deeper now, more serious than it ever is, even when sober. “I missed this…I missed you…”

His hand slides up from your back, wrapping around your waist, pulling you tighter into each thrust. You can hear how wet you are with every slap of his hips, can feel his body curl over yours, sweat slick, chest against your back.

“Every fucking night,” he groans into your shoulder, still fucking you, harder with every word. “I kept thinking about this…about you, ah…about your body… this pussy…”

You whimper, his words sending fire straight to your core, making your walls flutter around him.

He gasps. “Shit, cutie…do that again.”

You rock back, meeting his thrusts, and moan his name this time. He loses it. He slams into you once, twice, hard, his fingers digging into your hips.

“You drive me insane,” he breathes. “You fucking ruin me, cutie.”

“Rafayel…” your voice cracks, moaning, barely coherent. “Please…don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He pounds into you, frantic now, hips relentless, every thrust angled to make you feel every inch of what you do to him.

The room is nothing but sweat and moans and the scent of sex and the low, breathless rasp of his voice murmuring, “Mine, mine, mine…”

Your moans fill the room like music—high, wet, breathless. Each time his hips slam into you, you gasp, and his name pours from your lips like a spell. You can’t even think. You can’t breathe without feeling him, every inch of him buried so deep, stretching you wide and perfectly.

He leans closer, his body pressing to your back, his breath hot against your neck, lips brushing your shoulder in desperate, half-mouthed kisses. Sweat slicks his chest, gluing it to your spine, and you feel how much he’s shaking.

And then his voice—hoarse and frantic, trembling with emotion he never hides well when it comes to you.

“Do you want me to go faster?” he pants, thrusting deep and slow for just a moment. “Huh, cutie? Tell me…tell me how you want me.”

Your head lolls back, the tension coiling hot in your belly, your arms shaking where they grip the bed.

“Yes,” you gasp, voice thin and wrecked. “Yes, Rafayel, faster—fuck, please…don’t stop—”

He groans, a full-bodied sound that tears from his throat like he’s breaking apart.

“You want me to ruin you again?” he rasps, speeding up his pace, each thrust now wild and relentless. “Wanna feel it for days?”

“Please—yes…oh my god…”

His fingers slide around your front, finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles it once and you wail, your body locking tight around his cock.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he whispers, desperate now, breathless. “I can feel you… fluttering, gasping—mine.”

“Yours,” you cry, broken, gone. “Always yours—fuck, I can’t—”

“You can,” he snarls, drunk and feral now, hips slamming faster, deeper, perfectly brutal. “And you will. I’m not stopping until I feel you come again. I need it…I need you to feel me everywhere.”

You’re past words. Past thought. Every muscle in your body tightens as the edge hits again, full force, harder than before, shaking you from the inside out.

And he doesn't stop. Not when you start to tremble. Not when your voice breaks. Not when you scream his name and come hard all over his cock, body collapsing, arching, lost. He fucks you through it, breathless, moaning, yours.

“That’s it,” he gasps, eyes wild, lips parted. “That’s my girl—god, you’re so perfect.”

You clutch the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your body is trembling, your skin burning, your mouth wide open as helpless moans spill out between every brutal, perfect thrust.

He’s still moving. Still buried deep inside you, cock twitching with every pulse of your orgasm. Still holding your hips like they’re sacred. Still panting like he might fall apart if he doesn’t keep feeling you.

“Fuck—fuck, Rafayel—” you cry, voice broken. “I can’t…I can’t, I’m so—”

But you don’t tell him to stop. Even through the overstimulation, even through the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes from how good it still feels—you don’t tell him to stop.

You whimper, loud and high and wrecked, hips jerking with each thrust, and through the haze, you reach back, grabbing his wrist, holding him to you.

“Show me,” you moan, desperate, breathless, trembling. “Show me how much you love me… ah, how much you missed this pussy…how much you need me.”

He breaks. Completely. With a shattered groan, he slams into you harder, losing his rhythm, his hips stuttering with frantic, messy thrusts. His head drops forward, lips parted against your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shoulder.

“Fuck…fuck, cutie—I’m gonna…” he pants, voice rough and wild, “I’m gonna come—oh my god…I missed you, I love you…I need you—”

And then he comes. Your name is the only thing he says as he unravels—half-moan, half-grunt, worship on his tongue—his cock buried to the hilt as he pulses hard inside you. Hot. Wet. All of him.

He thrusts through it, whining against your skin, chasing every last wave of it until he finally collapses—chest to your back, arms wrapping around your waist, his weight holding you both together.

Silence falls. Heavy, warm, trembling silence. Your knees give out first. He catches you, barely, pulling you down with him to the floor, tangled in limbs and sweat and ragged, open-mouthed breaths.

You both just breathe. There are no words yet. Only the echo of his moans still ringing in your ears. Only the slick warmth between your thighs, the tremble in your legs, the whisper of his lips on your neck as he presses kiss after kiss to your skin like an apology and a vow.

“Mine,” he murmurs again. “Never letting you go, cutie.”

And you don’t argue, because why would you? Because you are his, and you always have been.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[senseandaccountability]

"I'm me again"

Yes well this is me getting a little sappy - again - about the spirits/demon thing as a metaphor for the human experience, must be Friday. 

(Yes, this is about Solas.)

Last night my Ingellvar was tending to the graves with Emmrich and she said “demons” and immediately corrected herself, because of course she meant spirits but people outside Nevarra so easily call them demons and Emmrich, one of the kindest and most insightful people in the entire DA verse, would of course never do that. Because he sees them all as spirits. Some of them may be twisted, embittered, furious and cruel but to him they are still, at heart, the same being as their more positive virtues. You are always you, as Solas tells Cole. 

Which is also what Solas argues for all of DAI.

Which is also what Solas personal quest actively shows us in DAI.

His friend, broken and twisted by the mages' bindings, dies a spirit of Wisdom, thanking him and telling him not to be sad. “I’m me again.”

Which is also a very strong theme in Solas entire arc. 

But it’s really not just Solas, or the elves. The eternal struggle of spirits is a reflection of the human soul and what it means to be human. What parts of you does the world let you cultivate, what parts are hidden and twisted in the dark, what virtues would you be remembered for if you died tomorrow? What sort of person have you become? What person could you be? DA is crammed with these themes.

Since the spirit reveal/confirmation, I’ve seen a lot of very detailed and very cool discussions about the specifics of spirit virtues and demon characteristics and that’s some good shit right there, but you can also be lazy like me and very much just read it as various aspects of human nature interacting with each other. We’re all so many things over our lifetime, to different people, in different contexts. We all carry such endless capacity for goodness and gentleness and we’re all so very capable of hurting each other.

In the codex entries we see Solas try over and over and over again to appeal to the better nature of the Evanuris. He is described as brilliant and wise, he is pulled out of the Fade specifically for his wisdom and he tries to get them to reflect that, to listen to his concerns, to use their powers differently. Why don’t you make creatures that can protect the People, he asks Ghilan’nain. Why do you need to push your power further, he asks Elgar’nan, the people are already submitting to your rule, why must you shackle them? War may have twisted him up already but there’s nothing he says that isn’t extremely valid and wise about the Evanuris’ approach to ruling.

But as we learn from the Spirit of Command in Crestwood in DAI, wisdom is considered a soft virtue in a world of war and hierarchy and his reasoning falls flat or gets interpreted as fear or insubordination. Unheard and undervalued, his wisdom grows sour and prideful. He isn’t wrong, he knows he isn't, and he will show them. You are not gods, I will make you see that you are not gods. I will humble you until you understand that I am right. 

This is a profoundly human experience.

The ancient elven empire ultimately falls to its own greed and hierarchies and lack of boundaries - all of which Solas pointed out, all of which he and his rebels opposed. But the Evanuris didn’t listen, they were caught in a power scheme where only individual power matters and everyone else becomes pawns. How ironic then that their empire falls to its own foolish pride and boundless cruelty against the Titans, the first children of the earth. They hurt themselves by hurting them. They wound the fabric that binds them all together. 

Solas as a character is an open, ongoing conflict between "spirit" and "demon" aspects, between light and dark, between identifying as a solitary creature or part of the whole. It’s never more visible than during the final act of DAV where he is at once Solas, standing with the Shadow Dragons against the blight. And also Fen’Harel, scheming to get there in the first place, treating people in his way like dehumanized pawns to reach his final destination, a goal that can be argued to be entirely tainted with pride at this point, a way to soothe his conscience and need to be right more than it’s a way to save the world. And he’s the Dread Wolf, physically embodying the struggle against the corrupt powers since he, unlike the Evanuris, doesn’t believe in binding creatures to fight his battles. It’s significant that while he fights alone, he cannot do it without help from Rook. Elgar’nan directs all of the blight at the Dread Wolf and it takes a sacrifice from the team to free him from its grasp. It’s a battle orchestrated by a god. 

And Solas, powerful as he may be, is not a god. 

That is why it’s so lovely to me that the ending isn’t just a matter between Solas and his conscience or between Solas and Rook or Solas and Lavellan. Because we are not single entities. We are not islands. That’s why we need each other, because we respond to each other, we affect each other, we abuse and love each other and we cannot really understand in which ways until we connect. We use each other to remind us of who we are, or who we could be. Every Benevolence needs a Wisdom, every Command needs a Compassion, every one of us needs someone else in some way, shape or form. We are not meant to be solitary. We all share Solas' deepest fear of dying alone. We all share Solas’ ongoing conflict with the better and worse parts of our nature. We all reflect each other. The ending brings in the past, the present and the person that knows Solas not as a god but as a person.

We are shattered fragments of a greater whole and it was, as Morrigan points out, Solas’s love for and loyalty to his people that set him on this course long ago. And he broke the world. He broke his people. He couldn’t save them, all the horrible things that he has done and he still couldn’t save them. Ultimately and emotionally to him, this isn’t about wisdom or pride or good or evil or any such dichotomy, this is about grief and regret and broken humanity.

That is why it’s so powerful to me that a romanced or friendly Lavellan is so kind to him in DAV. They approach him carefully, they kneel down beside him to make a connection, they are understanding and compassionate and it may not be what he deserves on some grand justice scale of things, but it is without question what he needs. Pride and regret and grief need compassion, hope and benevolence much more than it needs to be proven wrong or challenged, kindness breaks the cycle.

They reach out to him not the way one would reach out to a god, but to a person. Because that’s what Solas needs to be reminded of - his humanity. That’s what their love and friendship has always reminded him of, that's what the Inquisition taught him - that the world is worth caring about because broken as it may be, it is also full of people. 

And people matter. They might not matter to the Dread Wolf, but they have always mattered to Solas.

That's what the good ending represents.

"I'm me again." 

[sigweiner]

⌁₊˚ Shiver ˚₊⌁ {P2}

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!/Gnc!/Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: You seek advice with an acquaintance before 'reconciling' with Jinx on Silco's office desk. Bonus fluff with Isha in the end.

Warnings!: fluff, smut, swearing, angst, t06!c relationship, substance use, mentions of dark ses and physical stuff.

a/n: I'm working on part 3 and 4 bc I had so much fun writing this. Also, I appreciate everyone that interacts with my posts ♡. English is not my first language, sorry for the weird punctuation and sentences. Minors and creeps dni.

{P1} {P3}

You haven't shown up at the hideout in a week. You've been staying at different places every day since that night as to prevent Jinx from tracking you down, even though you didn't believe she would try to since you were a major jerk to her after what was probably her first time with someone ever. You’ve been punishing yourself for that too even though you weren’t entirely sure you were her first. You’ve been drinking yourself to sleep every night since then. The irony in this whole situation is that that party was supposed to cheer you up and bring you out of gloomsville but it only managed to sink you further into a dark hole.

Maybe you should apologize and try to understand what really happened, but you’re pretty sure she’ll try to blow your head off after psychologically torturing you but at the same time you can’t keep up like this, it’s exhausting. So you think of the only person you know with a semblance of knowledge and that you can go fish for advice. Getting up from the dirty floor you slept on, you throw on your hooded cloak to go meet her and start to move through the shadows of the dirty zaunite streets without being noticed by anybody until you reach an alley where three people are sitting around a wooden crate, drinking, smoking and playing cards.

Sevika has a cigarette in her mouth and grins wickedly at the hand she’s been dealt. You try to figure out a way to alert her of your presence but in no time she’s throwing cards on the table and collecting her winnings for the night. She doesn't linger so you follow her around the maze of streets and alleyways. She keeps looking back, checking if anybody is following her, her instincts probably warning her that someone actually is. She stops to light another cigar and rests her back on a nearby wall so you take the opportunity to come out of the shadows, appearing in front of her.

“Damn, you look like death itself.” She says with a raised eyebrow. “Came to finish the job after all?” But there’s no real concern to her voice.

“Can we um… talk?” You ask, uncertain about how you’re going to bring this about with Sevika, of all people.

“Talk? You sure you’re not confusing me with someone else?” She lets out a dark chuckle and you roll your eyes at her reaction, she wasn’t about to make this easy for you.

“Yeah… have you uh… seen Jinx lately?” You hate how insecure you sound, being this vulnerable is making you want to give up and bolt.

“Jinx huh? Aren’t you two practically glued to each other?” She asks with an amused smirk on her face.

“We had a fight. No, actually I fucked up…” You say looking down at the floor. Sevika lets out a laugh.

“Well that’s not unheard of coming from you.” She teases. You sigh heavily and shake your head but you kind of deserve it. “She’s been looking for you, y’know?” Sevika says seriously now. You look up at her surprised to hear this piece of information.

“Really? Is she still mad? Do you think I should go back to the hideout?” You blurt out, hope growing in your chest.

“Slow down kid. Listen, I'm not gonna tell you what to do. Especially because I don't give a damn about your little lovers quarrel.” She starts explaining her line of thought before taking a break to puff out her cigar. “What I'm going to tell you is this: that crazy girl is obsessed with you and that kid. She's been nagging me about helping her find you this entire week. Which I don't appreciate one bit. So for the sake of my sanity and both of your safety, you should go and take care of this.” She finishes with an annoyed look but you appreciate her words greatly.

“We're not lov-” You star to retort but she gives you a death glare which makes you halt. “Okay fine, I’ll take care of it.” You tell her earnestly.

“Good.” She pushes herself off of the wall and throws the remains of her cigar on the floor. “Now fuck off, Shiv.” That's the first time you ever hear her call you by your alias which brings you a sense of respect. You chuckle, starting to disappear in the shadows.

“Thanks, Sevika.” Your disembodied voice reverberates through the empty alley.

“Tsk, creepy kid.” Is the last thing you hear her say from a distance before you turn around the next corner.

The familiar feeling of fear burns inside your chest when you reach Jinx’s hideout but you find it eerily quiet and still. There's no sign of the blue haired girl but you spot Isha snoozing peacefully on the orange couch. You approach her silently to move some hair off her face and kiss her forehead gently. She stirs a bit but doesn't wake up and you take a moment to just admire her easy slumber.

You're glad at least little Isha is safe and unbothered by this whole ordeal between you and Jinx, although you did cause more instability by leaving unexpectedly. She is the better part between the three of you and not being around her just made everything worse. You wonder if she even missed you because you’ve definitely missed hanging out with her. Before you leave, you cover her little figure with a blanket so she doesn't get cold.

You rack your brain for places where Jinx might be. You check the nearby bathroom and the next door building's roof where you very probably took her virtue, but there was no sign of her. You try not to think of that night, her soft lips, the way she felt around your fingers or your stupid harsh words, but it was all still very vivid in your head.

You wish you could go back in time and do everything differently but there's no point in dwelling on that, you need to find her. So the next place you can think of is Silco’s old office, Jinx had dragged you there before to retrieve something from her secret stash when you were still her prisoner, so you try to remember how to get there.

You move as fast as you can through the shadows but nights at Zaun were very much busy and filled with people, which makes you take longer than necessary just to avoid anyone. You finally manage to reach the abandoned office but you stop outside the door when you hear her speaking softly, then angrily, seemingly trying to process a lot of different emotions.

You take a deep breath before quietly stepping in, careful not to make any noise and alert her to your presence, so you wait for the right opportunity. From where you're standing you can see pow-pow holstered on her hip and that she's wearing different clothes. Striped purple pants and a black crop top, which are certainly new. You wonder what happened to her old clothes.

When you step into the light after she finally gets quiet, she sees your reflection on the big round window in front of her. A bullet misses you by inches, leaving a cut on your cheek that draws some blood. You don't react, shit if she wants to shoot you right through your chest you would let her, that's how much you believe you need punishment for what you did. Jinx lets out an angry grunt and uses her superspeed to come halfway close to you when she suddenly stops to scream at the voices to shut up.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” She screams at you now. “You're MINE Shiv! Don't you fucking get it?! Why did you leave me?!” Her voice cracks in the end and she starts crying, body shaking as she starts to sob uncontrollably. You chance a step towards her but she shoots by your feet making you freeze again.

“I-I know, I fucked up big time, Jinx.” You tell her desperately, tears also running down your face. “Please forgive me. I'll do anything you want. I'll never run again, fuck you can lock me up in a cage again if you want, but please… I'm so sorry.” You beg, reaching a hand forward from where you're standing several feet away from her. She grabs the sides of her head and shakes it, trying to shut down the voices.

“You're sorry? How fucking dare you toy with my feelings like that?! I gave myself to you completely and you treat me like I'm some... animal you can chase away when you're done playing with it… you made me feel so good… called me princess and then treated me like I'm some just street trash…” She rants between sobs and your heart shatters in a million pieces.

“I know, I-I was a total asshole loser. I didn't know you had these feelings… I didn't know you were a… that that might have been your first… everything really. I mean, was it?” You need to know, damn if it’s true you would’ve done everything differently. She huffs angrily and turns away from you, hugging her middle as if trying to close herself from you.

“Does it matter now? You can’t change what happened.” She says with a shaky voice and zaps back to sit on the wooden desk, propping a foot on the swivel chair that once belonged to her father. Her shoulders are still shaking from crying but at least she’s not screaming anymore.

“I guess it doesn’t. But I wish I could’ve done things differently. If I had known about your feelings… I guess I shouldn’t have been so stubborn and ignored my own.” You slowly start to move closer to her when she puts her gun aside.

“Try asking next time.” She says, seeming exhausted. You manage to round the desk and stand in front of her. She glances at you, makeup all smeared underneath her eyes, and looks away. You want to reach out so badly and hold her in your arms, but you don’t want to trigger her any further.

“Okay, then. Do you… like me, Jinx? As more than friends or whatever we have going on, I mean.” You question her honestly. Your face burns furiously though, being this forward feels foreign to you.

“Yes dummy, I’ve been in love with you for a while now.” She finally looks at you and chuckles at your reaction. You’re completely dumbfounded, the look of shock on your face practically comical. What does she mean she’s in love with you? Your brain is trying hard to add two plus two but it takes you a minute.

“You - you’re in love with me?” You ask incredulously. Jinx nods timidly, her cheeks starting to blush a deep pink. “I uh… wow. I really wasn’t expecting that but... if I’m being honest with myself… I think I’ve been in love with you for a while too.” You manage to say before bursting into tears. Jinx reaches out an arm to you and you take her hand. She pulls you towards her, snuggling you between her legs and you practically melt into her, burying your face on her neck as she embraces you.

“Oh my silly Trinket.” She purrs against your hair. She moves a hand to cradle the back of your head while the other rubs circles on your back. You’re both still crying, the weight of all that was said and done falling upon you.

“I should- should be the one comforting you.” You say between sobs. “I’m so sorry, Jinx. I’ll never hurt you ever again.” You promise her, lifting up your head to look her in the eyes. She gives you a teary smile and caresses your cheek, making you lean into her touch.

“You better not.” She says, chuckling. “I don’t think I can survive another one of these.” She gestures between you two. You laugh timidly, wiping under your nose when she leans in to kiss your cheek, the one cut by her bullet. Your eyes flutter from feeling the softness of her lips on your skin and you instinctively rest your hands on her waist.

Jinx wipes your tears and blood gently and pulls you in for a tight hug, snaking her legs around your waist and laying her head on your chest, close to your fluttering heart. You cup the back of her neck to caress it lightly, goosebumps rising to the brush of your fingers. She lets out a heavy sigh and tightens her grip on you. You swear you could stay like this forever, having the heat of her body warm up your soul. And to think you almost gave this up because you couldn't let yourself be vulnerable.

“My chaos princess, I'm so lucky to be yours.” You say against the top of her head. She looks up at you with doey eyes before leaning in to kiss your lips. You sigh into the kiss and cup her face with shaky hands. Gods, how you missed the taste of her so you graze your tongue on her bottom lip seeking entrance and she lets you deepen the kiss.

Your tongues dance languidly against one another very unlike the first time you two kissed, no desperation or urgent desire motivating your actions, just simply wanting to memorize every stroke and every breath and every shiver elicited. You can't help but let out a moan when her hands run up your back, breaking the kiss. She takes the opportunity to kiss a path down your neck, dragging her teeth on the tender skin of your pulse point. You let out a quiet ‘fuck’ when she starts suckling a hickey on the curve between your neck and shoulder. Although you definitely don't mind being marked by her, you pull gently on one of her braids making her move away from your neck so you can kiss her senseless.

Jinx is utterly pliant to your desires and lets you guide her wherever you want, you don't quite remember her ever being this willing to let go of any control except for that fateful night you had her writhing underneath you. In no time your hands start to wander, desperate for a reminder of what her thighs feel like. They're still firm like you remember but only now there was too much clothing covering them. She tries to pull you closer, tightening the grip of her legs around your hips. You smile against her lips before grinding against her crotch, making her let out a delicious moan.

“Getting a little excited aren't we?” You say close to her ear. She whines, seemingly frustrated that you're talking and not kissing her.

“You haven't earned teasing privileges yet, Trinket.” She says with a cute pout on her face. “Now, why don't you make it up to me by making me feel real good, huh?” She says planting that damn attractive smirk on her face.

“Anything for you princess.” You mirror her expression before connecting your lips in a soaring kiss. She hums in approval then lets you explore her mouth with your soft tongue. You take this opportunity to run your hands up her stomach and towards her chest.

“I like these new clothes by the way.” You digress, running your index fingers through her side boobs. “Though I prefer you in way less clothing.” You lick her lips playfully and she chases after your mouth.

“Yeah, I've noticed.” She loops a finger through the hoop on your choker to pull you close to her mouth. “I’ve caught up staring before. Several times.” She whispers and you can't help but feel a little embarrassed by that.

“Fuck, was I that obvious?” You feel your cheeks burn in embarrassment. The blue haired girl kisses your face sweetly.

“Yeah, but lucky for you I was really into it.” She giggles before closing the gap between you. You grind against her again before pulling up her top, exposing her chest to your hungry fingers. She whimpers when you pinch at her pierced nipple and tries to seek more friction on her core with her lower body, making your own arousal pool inside your pants.

You part from her mouth to whisper a suggestion in her ear. “I want to try something, will you let me?” She nods her head positively so you kiss the skin behind her year before looking her in the eyes. “I want to taste you, princess.” You say watching her reaction. Her eyes grow wide and her face turns red but she gives you a quiet okay.

“We don't have to if you don't want to.” You reassure her but she shakes her head furiously before grabbing onto your chest harness with shaky hands.

“No, please I- I want to.” She says timidly but plants a soft kiss on your lips. You hold her face with one hand.

“Okay, but just so you know, we can stop anytime you want, yeah?” You want to make sure she feels comfortable every step of the way. She nods again and it's your turn to kiss her tenderly.

You start to venerate her body by kissing down her neck, leaving a couple of bruises on her throat before showering her chest with attention. You loved on her small perky breasts, licking and biting her hardened nipples until she was a panting mess. Then you move to her stomach and her waist covered with the cloud tattoo you loved so much, not missing the opportunity to leave a few markings next to the line of her pants. You chance a glance up at her and you're met with a sight you wish you never forget. She has a frown between her eyebrows, her cheeks are flushed red and her lips are swollen from your kisses.

You untangle her legs from around you then lower yourself on your knees before hooking your fingers on the hem of her pants. “You okay over there?” You ask with an innocent smile. She lets out a frustrated whine.

“Fuck Y/N, please just take them off already.” She says impatiently. You chuckle but obey anyway, pulling down the offending clothes down her legs, boots going with it in the process.

You kiss her left feet and up her leg before reaching the inside of her thighs. Jinx is already trembling when you spread her legs further, entirely exposing her to you. Your mouth waters at what you find, her wetness already running down her inner thigh, engorged clit pulsating with want and outer lips are puffy from all the blood concentrated on her core. You snake your arms around her thighs and you pull her closer to the edge of the desk. She has a death grip on it, knuckles turning pale already.

“Can you hold my hair up for me, princess?” You ask politely, laying a kiss on her pubic mound. She complies and you feel her grip tighten when you lick a firm path through her pussy.

“Hoooly fuck.” She says, rolling her eyes inside her skull and dropping her head back. You smile at her reaction and continue slowly lapping at her with a firm tongue.

“You're so hot.” You tell her when you take a break to part her folds with two fingers.

“You should see yourself.” She replies, running her thumb through your jaw till it reaches your lips.

You open your mouth to expose your tongue to her, making her slide her finger on it. You smirk before wrapping your lips around it and start sucking and moving your head back and forth to cover the whole length of it with your saliva. She just looks at you, hypnotised. You take her hand, releasing her thumb with a pop, then guide it towards her own chest, smearing your saliva on her pierced nipple. “Shit, I'm gonna lose the rest of my sanity if you keep up like this.” She tells you in awe, pupils completely blown with desire.

“I definitely don't mind.” You chuckle before returning your attention to her dripping center. You massage her clit between your digits before pulling up its hood and wrapping your lips around it to give it gentle sucks. Above you, Jinx lets out an obscene moan that reverberates through your own body, making you moan against her as well.

“Oh fuck, I'm gonna - fuck, fuck, fuck, I can't hold-” She mumbles incoherently, unintentionally pulling on your hair so tight you let out a whimper against her. You let go of her protruding bud before she reaches her peak, making her protest with an impatient whine and she tries to force you back where she needs you by pushing your head forward but you diverge your face towards her inner thigh, biting down at it. She lets out a cry that sounds more like a moan so you soothe the bruise with your tongue.

“Be patient, princess.” You tell her before flicking your tongue lightly on her clit. She squirms and tries to close her legs involuntarily.

“Hah that tickles.” The feather-like sensation making her finicky.

“Humm. Do you prefer it more like this?” You apply more pressure when you lick her this time and you see her eyes flutter at the sensation.

“Yeeah, that's better. Just like that.” She drops her head back once more, mouth agape but still managing to hold your hair away from your face with one hand.

She's a true vision from where you are kneeling between her legs and you realise how close you already feel to your own orgasm just by pleasuring her. So when you tease two fingers on her entrance you decide to slide your free hand inside your pants to take care of yourself. Jinx looks back at you starved when your digits reach the back of her wall and you notice she's fighting hard not to close her eyes so she can watch you satisfy yourself while you fuck her. You finally give her throbbing bud the attention it deserves by sucking hard on it.

It only takes a few pumps of your fingers inside her until she's reaching her orgasm, shaking so hard around your head you need to reach over to steady her. You help her ride her high but you've got no intention to slow down and stop. On the contrary, you fuck her harder and graze your teeth on her clit a few times, teasing it. She gasps and looks at you surprised but doesn't try to stop you. You catch her clit between your lips again when you return your hand to your center.

You want to make you both come together and it so happens when Jinx lets out a long moan and squirts all over your mouth and down your throat. Your eyes roll backwards at your own pleasure coating your hand with your ecstasy. You two moan in unison as you ride your fervor for a little longer before you release her clit and slowly remove your fingers from inside her. She collapses back on the desk, chest heaving, and you also try to steady your breathing.

“You okay over there, Jinxie?” You ask after a minute, worried you might have broken her.

“Better than okay.” She slurs her words, sounding drunk. You chuckle and try to get up but it seems your legs have turned to mush.

“Wanna give me a hand then?” You ask playfully. She sits up and looks down at you with amusement but as she takes in the state you're in, her eyes darken.

“Didn't expect you to be worse off than me.” She says half jokingly and offers you her hand. You reach to take it but before you can she grabs your wrist and starts cleaning your cum off of it. “Hmmm, as sweet as I dreamed you would be.” She says after finishing her handiwork. You feel like a deer caught in headlights.

She manages to lift you up to your feet and pulls you in for a passionate kiss, licking up all of her fluids from your face passionately. Her wandering hands find the swell of your ass and squeezes making you moan her name. You knew where this was going but you didn't know if you were ready yet for it to happen. Jinx starts kissing your jaw and down your throat when you hear someone entering the room suddenly.

“What the hell is going on here?” Sevika says in horror.

After having survived Sevika’s wrath in what you now know is her new office, you and Jinx return to the hideout separately so as not to attract attention to yourselves. When morning comes and Isha wakes up to the sight of you sleeping on a thin mattress next to the couch and Jinx hunched over her workstation, tinkering away at some random project, she lets out a confused sound. The kid sits up and removes the blanket from herself, wiping the sleep off of her eyes before crossing her arms on her chest with an angry look on her face.

As if sensing she is awake, you stir into consciousness and open one eye to chance a peek in her direction but your vision is still blurry from sleep so you lazily throw an arm in Isha’s direction only to feel your hand being swatted away. Oh boy, here we go again. You sigh deeply before sitting up as well and resting your forearm on the couch. Isha gestures to you that she's angry you left and that Jinx was really sad, completely out of control and even burned up her clothes while laughing maniacally at the flames.

“Burned her clothes?” You whisper back. The little kid nods positively and like a tough loving parent, she gestures and demands to know what happened. “I-I know, I screwed up big time. And um… I didn't think I deserved forgiveness, so I left.” You try to explain without getting into what actually happened.

She huffs and looks about as disappointed as you feel for having left her. “I'm sorry Isha. I shouldn't have left you and I couldn't stand being away from both of you so I came back. I'm not sure if Jinx has forgiven me entirely but if you can, that would mean the world to me.” A tear rolls down her cheek so you reach over to wipe it away and this time she doesn't reject you.

On the contrary, Isha lunges forward and throws her little arms around your neck, burying her face in your hair. You cradle her head and make soothing patterns on her back as she cries quietly, wishing you could take all her sadness away. “It's okay baby. I’m never leaving you again. I promise.” You reassure her.

There's suddenly a light weight hugging you both as Jinx decides to join in your little moment of reconciliation, probably having overheard what you said. “Yeah, I won't let it happen.” she says resolutely. You smile because even though the implications behind her words are very dark, your heart can't help but flutter at her pledge.

“I've forgiven you, y’know?” She whispers now into your ear. You turn to look at her with tears in your eyes as she backs away slightly. You want to kiss her so badly but at the same time you don't want Isha to feel weird about whatever you've got going on with Jinx.

However she is the one to take the first step and lean in to kiss your cheek. You don't understand how a simple act of affection can make your heart beat so fast and your face burn so hot when not long ago you were doing much more lewd things to her that elicited this same reaction. She smirks at your flustered expression but looks away when she realises Isha watched the whole scene unfold. The little girl looks between you two and mimics Jinx by planting a quick kiss on your other cheek.

“Hey! I'm not willing to share, kid.” Jinx protests but Isha only giggles and sneakily gives the blue haired girl's face a smooch before snaking her arms around both your necks to pull you into a group hug with a huge smile on her face.

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws and @cafekitsune.

[writing-nothing-but-spilled-ink]

No cause you know what would be funny as fuck Ras Al ghul randomly showing up to the Wayne Manor and just letting himself in doesn't wait for anyone to let him in and he doesn't even tell Talia he's stopping by Wayne Manor and it's the anniversary of Jason's rebirth and Ras accidentally missed Damian's birthday because he was out of the country so here he is just waltzing into the manor here's how I think it'll go

Ra's: breaks into Wayne Manor and bee-lines to the batcave cause his spies told him Damian and Jason were down there

Bruce:has his back turned to the entrance in the middle of lecturing Jason for being reckless and for rigging his batmobile to shoot fucking glitter bombs whenever he tried to fire any kind of projectile

Jason: come on it was funny and it worked honestly I thought you'd be happy no one's dead they're just covered in glitter

Bruce: eye twitching

Damian: notices Ras just casually waltzing into the bat cave

Damian: hello grandfather

Bruce:spins around to find Ras in his lair bracing himself for a fight or some type of bad news only for ras to by pass him entirely and beeline to Jason and Damian

Ra's: snaps his fingers and assassin's come out of nowhere seemingly appearing from the shadows one is holding a bear cub with a little bow on its head and hands it to damian and steps back meanwhile another assassin appears with a giant stack of first edition leather bound classic literature and some rare ones that are almost unheard of to have

Ra's: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY GRANDSON'S :)

Bruce: is baffled because why is Ras calling Jason his grandson where did he get a bear cub why is he gifting Damian a bear cub, Damian's birthday was a month ago wtf Bruce's eye is twitching

Jason: oooo these are really hard to get, oh all of these are leather bound this is awesome thanks gramps though it's not really my birthday is your memory going old man

Ra's: this is the anniversary of your rebirth

Jason: ...

Damian: I appreciate the gift grandfather I shall name this bear lilly

Bruce: Damian I ... Look okay.. it's nice your .. his eye is twitching and he's trying to not lose his patience because again wtf.. grandfather has put an effort into this uh. Gift but you simply can't keep a bear in the manor much less in Gotham it's a wild animal

Damian: 😐 so isn't Jason and we keep him around and he gets to waltz around Gotham and the manor

Jason: hey listen here ya little shit

Bruce: exasperated first off your brother is not an animal secondly I'm not sure it's legal to keep a bear cub as a pet in Gotham

Damian: like running around Gotham dressed as a bat to beat up bad guys is legal, or that time you purposely broke into Arkham asylum to free Selina Kyle because her input on your suit was just sooooo important

Bruce: looks to Alfred

Alfred: well we do have the land space to build a sanctuary for the cub and the permits it would be quite an easy task to say the Wayne foundation is funding a bear sanctuary

Damian: ☺️ thank you Alfred

Bruce: turns to Ras why would you gift Damian a bear cub

Ra's: it was on his wishlist, and only the best for my grandsons, also you owe me child support

Bruce: ready to throw hands at this point

Alfred: smirks

Jason: trying really hard not to laugh

Ra's: ofcourse I'll let it go if you let the boy keep the bear cub in fact I have another gift but it won't be arriving for about a week 🙂.. he then turns to Damian you should give your mother a call she said something about wanting to plan something I'm really not sure what it is she's on about but regardless I think she'd like your input ... Well actually both your inputs

Bruce: sighs fine they get to keep the bear and we'll build the damn sanctuary but Damian i expect you to have it at least potty trained and do not under any circumstances let it in the kitchen I do not need a repeat of last time you got a new pet

Ra's: happy that he's annoyed the fuck out of Bruce and got his grandsons Great gifts my job here is done he claps his hands and his assassins fade back into the shadows

Jason: already lounging on a couch reading

Damian: holding the bear in his arms and patting it let's go get you some apples covered in honey 😊 walks out the cave with the bear cub

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 9

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Azriel is a simp in denial

TW’s: None, minor suggestiveness, I guess not really having any plot yet could count??

A/N: omg I really didn’t expect this silly story to get nearly as many notes you’re all angels and I’d kill and die for you all!!!!

Also- I promise plot is coming (and the end of this is weird but I didn’t wanna write out like 4 hours of back and forth lol)

~~~

Reader POV

The little friend you’ve made dances between your fingers, tickling the skin with not-quite kisses that make you snort as you stir a spoonful of cumin into your tea.

Heartburn has bothered you from bed, but not from sleep- it doesn’t come as easy as it once did, not since the rumblings of war on the horizon have reached you.

But the little shadow now twisting through your hair helps you focus, helps you forget. At this point, you’re almost sure it knows what a simple relief the company can be in the small hours, the way it dances and plays when your heart feels most heavy.

And, for the second time in as many weeks, burning. Very odd.

You take a deep drink from your cup, savouring the earthy flavour and willing away the discomfort that pulls at your ribs.

The gift from the Illyrian, however, seems far less interested in quiet contemplation than you, changing course and whipping across your counters and walls in a frenzy. The fine hairs at the back of your neck rise to attention, and without thought, you follow the flittering wisp into your shop front, and then to the door.

“What is it? What are you trying to show me?” You’re probably crazy, talking to a shadow, and yet its movements grow more urgent— circling your ankles and then back to the door. It could seep through the cracks— you know this, you’ve seen it in action— but doesn’t. It wants you to open it.

But, you don’t get chance. It swings open itself despite definitely being locked, the little bell eery in the dark. Blinking at the man once again stood uncertainly in your home after hours, you offer a raised eyebrow and a nerve-settling sigh.

“Have you come to pick up your friend?”

——————————

Azriel POV

In the two weeks since he last saw you, Azriel has had little peace. By their own accord (and eventually against explicit instruction), the shadows he usually relies on for state secrets and cautious murmurs have become quite the problem.

Little gossips, he’d called them— rushing to his ear with updates of where you’ve been and how you are. Whether you’ve slept or whether you’ve padded downstairs to drink tea amongst the rubies and diamonds.

It’s odd, but not unheard of. Azriel’s companions had developed this habit before; sneaking away in the dead of night to trail in Mor’s footsteps like lovesick little puppies, updating him of her every move. What makes this so different, so unnerving is the speed in which they chose you— he’s been in your presence for what, 15 minutes total? And yet they’ve abandoned centuries of unrequited affection in favour of your tea and snark in a heartbeat.

Tonight had been more of the same— awake, awake. Sad. Awake. And it was absolutely none of his business, as he’d told them, but the whispers had grown urgent, and he could no longer tell if they were speaking of you or himself.

And so, with no small amount of denial, he’d decided to simply wander by. Another beautiful, sleepless night in the city he loves- why shouldn’t he pass through the cobbled street where your shop windows glimmer in the starlight? What harm could it do?

Then he’d heard your voice- quiet and concerned and muffled by stone and glass, and he hadn’t fought the urging of his shadows to just. Pop in. Check that everything is okay.

But just like the first night, it seems like you’re expecting him.

“Have you come to pick up your friend?”

Azriel’s own hands wave to awaken the fae-lights, and his eyes settle on you with light confusion. You’re in your sleep clothes- a large shirt this time, although your hair seems tamed and your stance a little less steady.

No sleep at all, tonight then.

“My friend?” His voice comes out rough from lack of use, a line forming on his brow. His only friends are asleep in the house of wind, as far as he knows, but he’s discovered Cassian snoring I n enough unlikely places to not completely write it off.

Instead of answering, you raise your hand, and he catches the tail of a flicker of dusk racing to hide from his sight on your palm.

“Go on— go to your, uh, Dad?” Your voice takes the tone of a mother soothing a small child, and he realises with a jolt that you’re speaking to one of his shadows like that, smiling softly at the darkness that sends most running.

He hopes you can’t hear how fast his heart beats.

“Are you their Dad? Or is it more of a pet-owner type of situation?” You turn your wrist, trying and failing to encourage the little traitor that still hides from its masters sight, before offering him a crooked smile. “I think this one likes me.”

“You’d be correct. I’ve never seen one do that before.” He side-steps the question- more because he’s not too sure himself, before outstretching his own palm and silently willing the little shadow to return home. It does, but your eyes follow the movement to his hand and the sort of shame he hasn’t felt in decades fucking burns through his veins.

You didn’t notice the scars before, he’s certain. There were no lingering glances or wrinkled noses, no prying questions. And he’s not sure why it matters- you’re some crazy fae who drinks too much tea and sleeps almost less than him—- but it doesn’t stop the itch under his skin as your eyes linger for half a beat.

But then they move up, trailing his wrist in a slow drag, finally settling on his shoulder, and just for a brief second, he swears your eyes turn sad.

You’ve been following the shadow. Watching it crawl back to him with the sluggish pace of a scolded child, and you’d looked sad as it left.

Stay. Want to stay with her. Sad. Alone. Stay Stay Stay.

He barely has a moment to process this— his shadow outright choosing another?— before you’re once again smiling and trying to usher him further inside.

“So the little thing decided to stick around all by himself?” The warmth in your voice is nearly enough to distract him from the way you’ve walked around— a careful distance from his wings— and shut the door with a gentle tinkle of a bell that wasn’t there before. “Tell him I enjoyed his stay, will you?”

And frankly, Azriel is drawing a blank between the incessant pleading at his ear and the way he has somehow, once again, ended up at the cluttered table.

“Do you want another tea? I just made a batch for heartburn but I can whip up some calming mix if you give me a few minutes?”

He ducks his head, fighting the strange and sudden urge to fuss at her—- and tell her he’s been suffering the same of late. A fresh side effect of too many thoughts and not enough rest.

“The-uh, heartburn one would be lovely, thank you.”

You offer a raised eyebrow and a nod, before again slipping out of view, night shirt swishing with the sway of your hips.

He drags his eyes away from your retreating form with purpose, swatting at the dark curl of shade by his ear that will not stop murmuring about how pretty you are.

Of course, he agrees, but the embarrassment of how something as simple as a bare shoulder effected him last time still heats his ears.

Get it together.

——————————————

Reader POV

Cauldron’s tits, he’s sexy.

You stir the steaming water into his cup slower than necessary, using this moment of separation to will your uncooperative body to relax.

Something about that unruly hair and quiet, uneven smile is enough to send you into the kind of tizzy that you’ve not experienced since adolescence. It’s bordering on pathetic, really- and yet the slight spring in your step lingers as you make your way back to him.

“There,” you mutter, pushing the cup along the well-worn wooden table surface toward him, grin splitting across your face as your little friend practically leaps from his shoulder to tangle at your fingers. “Hey, buddy.”

Azriel’s eyes are on you, you’re sure, but you focus on the shadow as you take your seat. “Am I a shadow-singer now too? Just with a really small hoard?”

The smile in his voice drags your eyes up.

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Mother, he’s beautiful—- but tired again. Hazel eyes are dulled by a ring of dark, and although his expression seems content, the lingering exhaustion is so plain to see.

Your heartburn pulls, and so you take a sip of your tea.

“So it won’t whisper to me?”

He does this half-snort that you remember from last time, and you’re no longer in control of your smile. “Not unless I ask it to.”

Now, that’s intriguing. Your eyebrow raises in challenge, and you try your best to ignore the way his eyes flicker to the curve of your lips—- I must have tea leaves in my teeth— before nodding. A silent agreement, even if he offers a put-upon sigh.

A glance from the man across from you, and your little friend curls it’s way up your arm, wiggling with giddy intent. You feel it settle at your ear, the cold-kiss of its touch forcing you to fight a shiver.

Pretty.

It’s not quite a word—- not quite spoken. But somehow, you know beyond a doubt that is its tiny message, and your eyes lock with Azriel’s.

“Pretty?”

“What?” He sits straighter, brow furrowing and now glaring at the curl of dark at your shoulder.

The laugh escapes you before you have chance to reign it in— a rough bark of noise, startled by the change in his demeanour and pink tint of his ears. “Is that not what it said? I could’ve sworn—“

“It’s not what I told it to say,” and now his voice edges on a grumble, pink spreading to the apple of his cheeks, and your grin has never been wider.

“Can’t control your shadows, eh?”

“That one does seem determined to embarrass me.” He offers the offending creature— is it a creature?— a final warning look, before rolling his eyes. “It was only meant to say hello.”

“I guess my feminine wiles are enough to win over even darkness itself.” It’s meant as a joke, but the intensity in Azriel’s eyes makes your own cheeks begin to colour, and so you clear your throat and quickly switch gears. “So, why are you back again? See an emerald you couldn’t stop thinking about?”

And… he tells you. How he couldn’t sleep, and how the shadows whisper your name and now he knows why—‘little traitor’—, and you tease and try so hard to drag that little not-quite-snort out of him.

It’s good and it’s warm and it’s not quite so lonely, being awake in the dead of night when the man who controls the darkness itself can join you in the dim light of your home. Light that gets brighter and clearer long after your cups are empty and the streets start to stir; dawn is here, and you almost resent it.

“I better go.” His voice is soft with reluctance which curls warmly in your chest, and you offer him a gentle nod as he moves to the door.

“Bye, Shadowsinger.”

And your little friend pools in the dip of your collar bone, in sight but not called away, even as his master slips out into the morning rays.

[4theluvofsapphos]

Maybe a cute little angst comfort turned smut where Lilia only ever hears you sing when you think you are alone because reader is self-conscious of their voice compared to Lilia. Confrontation ensues, sad revelation followed by some comfort, maybe a cute lil duet. And then some soft smut because, of course, Lilia wants to hear your pretty voice...

✧༝┉˚*❋ Sing for me, Birdy. (1/2) ❋*˚┉༝✧

[NSFW] - Lilia Calderu x Singer!Fem Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI!, angst, hurt, bad self talk (R), comfort, use of pet names (L), Lilia wants Reader to 'sing' iykwim...*wink wink wink*, R is kind of pathetic idk HFJHSDf

A/N: WOOHOO WOOHOO W- I love you lilia never change...also patti lupone, ily2!! this was very fun to write, helped me distract from my period pains <3 love being a woman

I had to split this into two parts to keep myself motivated so here's part one KFSDKJf

The shadow of your smile…when you are gone

Will colour all my dreams…and light the dawn

The tune rolled off your tongue, quiet and tender in their crooning words. It would be times like these, in the early mornings when you would sing. Ever the romantic, you would sing about her. The object of your affections, the woman who swept you off your feet and yet kept you grounded all the same.

Lilia Calderu was an enigmatic woman to many. Kooky as she was sharp, aloof and yet somehow so knowing…She, who sang like a chorus of angels, or a raging stormy sea. 

Look into my eyes, my love, and see…

All the lovely things…you are

To me…

You sat in your cramped study– the apartment really only allowing for one desk and a comically small bookshelf to place your literary belongings in.

Your eyes were closed, flickering behind your eyelids were images of Lilia’s gentle smile…Her kind eyes, and those warm hands cupping yours as she shared much needed words of wisdom. 

Lilia, to you, was everything. 

She greeted you outside when you had first moved in across the hall, inviting you inside for a cup of tea, and a tarot reading. You hadn’t really been paying attention to what she said, more so how she said it.

Her deep amber eyes pierced you, seeing your being– as if cracking you open and reading the very letters of your soul. She probed your mind and asked you questions no one had ever considered asking, had you come to revelations about yourself that you never would have known unless she had asked. 

Something about her made you believe that she saw you.

She saw who you were, who you wanted to be, who you will be– all at once. She saw the purpose in your life, the mistakes, the victories. She saw every single little thing that made you who you were.

Our wistful little star...was far too high

A teardrop kissed your lips...and so did I

You were a singer, sure-- but Lilia...she was a Singer. You never found the words to describe the richness or strength of her voice-- none that would do it justice, at least.

But you never sang at home.

It was a sort of sheepish self consciousness mixed with the fear of being judged by someone who you thought to be far better than you were-- at what you considered your 'job'.

Many of your colleagues and bandmates believed your voice was of high excellence. You never entertained the idea, not really-- pitiful as it was.

On the stage you shined, glimmering like a thousand stars, but at home...in the one place where you should've felt safest, you grew scared. You curled up within yourself and closed up like some sort of singing oyster, never to reveal your pearl to anyone.

You were content to just...sing to yourself. Quiet and gentle, your little love songs would go unheard.

Now when I remember spring

All the joy that love can bring

I will be remembering

The shadow of your smile

...

Or so you thought.

A second voice filled the small space of your apartment, muffled only slightly through the thin plaster of the wall connecting you to the hallway.

Smooth and sweet like honey, Lilia's heavy vocals washed over you, causing you to forget yourself in that moment. Quickly, though, you realize you had left your door open a crack, allowing the sounds of your voice to leak into the hallway and across through Lilia's screen door. She must have heard you since you started, the thought mortifying you.

"Y/N, darling?" The older woman hummed, peeking her head through the crack of your door, hand pushing the door open just a little farther. Her wild curls framed her face in that way that made your heart ache, gaze steady and all-seeing as it often was.

"Lilia-!" You squeaked, nearly falling out of your chair as you attempted to stand, scrambling out from between your desk and running to open the door and let her in.

The witch had been in your home countless times at this point, usually resting on your couch opposite to your vintage recliner, sipping tea she brought over and listening to you talk about all your gripes with bandmates or clients. She would simply nod, clicking her tongue or tutting those "Idiot men", as she called them.

"Are you alright, Y/N? You're crying.." Her tone was gentle as she made her way into your room, her hands quickly finding your face and wiping the tears on your cheeks with her thumbs, soft and tender in their touch.

"L-Lilia, yeah-- yes, yes of course...I'm fine I just- You...did you hear me the entire time? I'm sorry, it was terrible, I know. My technique has been lacking and I- I-"

"Y/N." She breathed, one hand coming to your shoulder to shake firmly, maybe in hopes of shaking some sense into you. You stop your spiraling the moment you hear her pleading tone. "Listen to me, sweetheart. You need to stop this abhorrent self talk, always so deprecating towards yourself."

Your teary eyes searched hers, finding only earnest sincerity. "When you say such unkind things to yourself, you are hurting someone I care deeply about. And I cannot let that happen."

Lilia's hand wiped away more stray tears, reaching to your desk and pulling a couple tissues for you to wipe your nose and eyes with.

"I-I'm sorry, Lilia..." You murmured between sniffles, wiping your eyes and blowing your nose a couple times. She only chuckled in reply, shaking her head gently-- pursing those lovely lips of hers.

"Sorry for what? Singing one of the most beautiful renditions of a classic love song I've heard? Or for crying all over my cardigan? Because both are ridiculous reasons to be apologizing, so don't."

Your reddened eyes followed Lilia as she sat down on the couch at the end of the room, beckoning you to sit next to her.

Of course, you listened. A source of much needed comfort, Lilia wrapped her arms around you as you sat down, leaning against her body and sinking into her scent. Bergamot and lavender...a little bit of incense from her divination rituals...Her comforting warmth bloomed into your chest and body like a flower, rippling out into your fingers and toes with a surety that had your sniffles fading in minutes.

Her hands carded through your hair, rhythmic and grounding...her nails gently scratching at your scalp, your tears soaked up by her patchwork cardigan, forehead tickled by wild coils of silvery grey and gunpowder black.

In between your sniffles, you managed to look up at Lilia, your gaze so full of love and adoration as she held you, humming a little tune to calm your difficult emotions. Your hands came up to wipe your eyes, rubbing at your eye sockets until you saw sparkles behind your eyelids.

"Sorry-- for being a hot mess around you...I know it isn't your job to clean up after me, or take care of me...but-- thank you anyway. I really--" You paused, looking away from her kind eyes. "I really needed that...needed you." You mumbled, chewing the inside of your cheek at the admission.

"You...you needed me?" Lilia paused, her lips pursing as she scrutinized the sincerity of your comment. You nodded quickly, looking over to her and wiping your nose again.

"I did-- I do...I do need you-- I-I-.."

'I love you' You wanted to say, your lips twisting and turning and your tongue swelling to try and push the words out, but the sounds never came.

-

BOO HISS I know it was supposed to be a one parter but I literally feel so demotivated so take this for now.

this fic and it's second part dies if this isn't well received so pls like reblog anything PLSSS!!! (I need validation chat help)

[sweeterthanficstion]

— coast2coast (pt. one) || l.s.k

pairing: life guard!leon kennedy x surfer!fem!reader

tags: surfing au! set in malibu, 1998, i wrote this with re2 leon in mind but re4 leon works too, featuring claire (and chris in later parts!), UNEDITED!! so far only fluff (unheard of...) i'll add as i go!

oh actually, my shitty attempt at knowing anything about surfing despite learning everything through youtube, google and malibu rising by taylor jenkins reid (what started this whole thing). i am NAWT a pro --- so if any of you guys actually know a thing or two abt surfing hit me up!!! i'd love to learn more!

summary: Summer is a fickle thing, sticky-sweet and fleeting, gone before you're ready. You've learnt to love it while it lasts. For you, every summer has been the same—surf, sand, salt-water tides and the hot Malibu breeze. But this summer brings a new sort of challenge, a spotlight your not so sure you're ready for, as well as a boy with golden hair, eyes as blue as the waves, and a way of making your heart rattle between your ribs like it’s desperate to break free.

word count: 2.6k

a/n: AHH HI! i'm so excited to post this one!! it's currently summer here in australia and i've been down at the beach nearly every weekend, so it was only inevitable that my fixation on surfer!leon came back full force. i have this big story all set up in my head, but i was too excited to wait to finish writing it so i'm posting it in parts!! ++ oh also i had no idea corral beach was an actual place in malibu so my version is fictionalised. just. take everything in this fic with a grain of salt i have no idea what im doing lol

i also thought it'd be really fun idea since i'm so busy nowadays, that if you guys are interested at all, you can send in little ideas for blurbs for surfer!leon, and i'd love to write them! i'll figure out ways to fit them into the story, just as little extras, but obviously no promises on writing all of them!! i'll likely just pick the ones i think fit best into the plot. i just think that'd be AWESOME!! <3

playlist⭑masterlist⭑AO3 ⭑ series masterlist⭑next part (coming soon)

California is exactly how you’d left it. Exactly how you remember it. Nothing has changed between the sand beneath your toes and the palm trees lining the scorching hot tar roads, their shadows stretching long and thin like sleepy cats in the afternoon sun. The salt-kissed air wraps around you, sticky and warm, a gentle reminder that time moves slower here. Or maybe it doesn’t move at all. 

That’s the thing about California. A time capsule—sun, sand and sky.

June, July, August, Summer melts in your mouth like a sticky popsicle, one into the next, so quick you forget what it tastes like before it’s even passed.

No matter where you are in the world, what waves you're chasing, whether it be in Oceania, the Pacific, the Atlantic, summer melts, fickle and eager.

You’ve learnt to love it while it lasts.

“Another fish and chips!” One of the waitress staff calls from the front—Bunny’s Seafood Diner has been around for as long as you can remember, a weathered little gem perched off the coast of Corral Beach, Malibu. A quick and convenient right turn off the PCH, it’s a lighthouse for road-tripping families and sunburned surfers chasing their next ride.

You flip the fryer around your wrist with a practised flourish, “On it!” You call back, before you dip the metal back in the bubbling oil, the familiar sizzle of golden fries accompanying the bustle of the late afternoon rush. The kitchen smells of salt and grease and the faint tang of fresh-caught fish, a scent so familiar it clings to your skin like a second layer.

Claire breezes past with lazy grace, bumping her hip against yours. “Heading to the surf after?” she asks, her grin as wide as the beach outside, like her mouth was made for holding sweet oranges on hot summer days. She’s balancing a seafood basket in one hand and a plate of fries in the other, weaving through the bustle with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before.

“How’s the forecast looking?” You ask back instead, tossing the crispy fries into a basket lined with deli paper. 

“High tide in twenty,” Claire winks over her shoulder at you, side-stepping a counter corner like it’s second nature. “It’s gonna be perfect.”

You can’t deny that does sound perfect. After a shift as long as the one you’ve worked today, a surf might be all you need to feel alive again. You look back up at the foggy old clock on the wall—ten minutes left, five if you can sweet-talk your manager. You end up counting the minutes in your head, that familiar itch to feel the sand under your feet and the sun on your skin insatiable. 

By the time the clock hits four, you’re halfway out the door, ready to trade the smell of fried seafood for the briny tang of the ocean instead. Claire is hot on your heels, boards tucked under both your arms as she chases you across the tar road that burns under your bare feet, down the splintering boardwalk, and onto the powdered-sugar sands of Corral Beach.

The sun has already dipped far past it’s zenith, and the world feels washed in gold. Golden rays stretch out across shimmering waters, painting streaks of honey over the horizon, the heat settling into a balmy hum that sticks to your skin in a way you can only love.

You follow the shaded path of sycamore trees until the beach opens up to surfer’s paradise—a long stretch of sand, waves that swell and crash, aching to be carved into by hungry surfers. The path curves past a weathered wooden bulletin board, been there as long as you can remember, and you think it might be older than Bunny’s, if that’s even possible. 

“Wait!” Claire stops in her tracks, and you are helpless but to comply. Your eyes stay glued longingly to the beach while Claire’s squint at the array of flyers pinned up—some faded, some fresh. There’s a yoga class, a missing dog poster, and the usual surf report stapled to the corner, its ink smudged from damp fingers. But her eyes zero in on something bright and bold and new. 

“Here we go.” She plucks a flyer off the board, turning it toward you like she’s struck gold. The words Corral Beach Annual Surf Comp are printed in big, blocky letters, accompanied by a grainy photo of a surfer carving into a wave.

“Oh, no,” you groan, already shaking your head.

“Oh, yes,” Claire says, a grin spreading across her face.

Claire’s been singing the same song since you were fifteen and cutting through waves better than most kids your age here on Corral Beach. That you should be out there winning trophies and medals and 10k cheques instead of cleaning out the back of the greasy old fryer’s in Bunny’s. 

“C’mon, you have to do it!” She bugs on, waving the flyer around like some magic wand. 

You laugh, ducking under her arm as she tries to push it into your face. “Claire, come on.”

“I’m serious!” she insists, jogging to catch up with you as you head toward the water. “You’re out here every day. You’ve got the moves, the skill—everything they’re looking for.”

It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. You’ve been surfing since before you could walk. You’d grown up right here on Corral Beach, knew these waves better than yourself. You’d watched your parents chase waves like it was their religion—Bali, Costa Rica, Australia, it was their entire life. Something they loved that was inevitable for you to love too. 

“I’m just not the competition type,” you shrug, gaze drifting out to the waves curling in the distance. It’s not that you don’t want to—well, okay, maybe it is. The idea of standing out there, under the scrutiny of judges, crowds, and strangers, feels about as foreign as the first time you stepped onto a board. Surfing, to you, is about as religious as it is to your parents. An outlet, an art form, the ocean calms your restless soul when you need it most. Putting a score to something like that just doesn’t feel right.

“You’re one of the best surfers out here.” Claire presses, she does it so effortlessly. Poking and prodding, always enough but never so much as to push you over the edge. “Half the people in those comps are just there for a shot at a new wetsuit.”

You meet Claire’s gaze, hesitate, the memory of your dad paddling out at dawn or your mom teaching you how to duck dive flickering in your mind. “It’s not about that. My parents taught me how to surf before they taught me how to say mom and dad. They’d enter comps now and then, but it was never about winning. It was about the waves, the adventure.”

“And you don’t think that’s in you too?” Claire asks, raising an eyebrow as she shields her eyes against the sun.

“Maybe it is,” you say finally. “But that’s their story, not mine.”

Claire’s gaze softens for all of a second before she snorts, shoving your shoulder with her own. “You’re so full of it. You’ve got more talent in your pinky than most people out there. Just think about it, okay? It could be fun.”

You do nothing of the sort.

The second your feet are in the water, you forget all about the comp, all about your job and any other worries on your mind. Salt water seems to have that sort of effect on you. Wasting no time, both you and Claire paddle past the surf, straddling your boards in the ocean, watching as the other surfers before you take off one by one with each new wave that rolls in.

It doesn't take long before the first wave in a gorgeous set comes in, Claire’s all but primed for it. She takes off, gets into position, and pops up on her board, carving into it like it’s breathing. You follow suit as the next one comes in, and just like that, you fall into the rhythm of the ocean.

Wave after wave, you don’t stop until the sun is cotton candy pink, purple, gold. Most of the other surfers have dispersed by now, and Claire’s traded shredding the bigger waves for wading through the calm waters with her back pressed against the flat of her board. 

You, on the other hand, feel like fate is decidedly on your side. You watch as another set rolls in, the first crashing just out of reach. It peels exactly as you’d hoped, slowly to the right, so when the next one rolls in right after, you paddle with it, catch the feeling of the tide underneath you, and like it's simply second nature, get to your feet.

This is where you feel most alive. There is not a second to spare for the other noise in your head, not about the past nor the future nor anything in between other than right here and now. Nothing but the instinctual insistence of how much longer can you stay on? How much longer can you keep your balance? Lean left, right, forward. Better, longer, more, more, more.

And when you’ve finally completed your balancing act, you dance up to the nose, hovering there on the tip of your board, arms out to steady yourself like sails catching wind, and then you close your eyes and let the crash of the wave topple you off.

It’s only once you’ve resurfaced, board nowhere to be seen, that you realise you didn’t feel the familiar tug of the leash around your ankle. By the time you drag yourself to shore, breath heavy and hair clinging to your face, you see it—the measly cord trailing behind you, frayed and snapped clean.

You huff a sigh, not surprised. It had been old crap for a while now. So had the board, but it carried enough summers in its scars to mean something. A history you weren’t quite ready to part with.

Claire’s already gathering her things by the time you meet her on the sand, shaking out her towel and tossing it into her worn tote bag.

“What happened to your board?” she asks, her tone casual, but her raised brow suggests she’s caught the fraying leash.

You lift your ankle and let the cord dangle, the sad state of it all the explanation she needs.

She winces, offering you a sympathetic smile. “Ouch. Guess it’s finally time for a new one?”

It’s only when you’re halfway up the beach that you spot it again. Your board? Your board!

It’s leaning lazily against the base of a lifeguard tower, looking as though it had simply wandered off and decided to wait for you all this while. Relief blooms in your chest, and you call to Claire that you’ll catch up.

It’s only when you’re closer that you notice him.

He’s standing by the lifeguard tower, a red rescue can slung casually over his shoulder. Blonde hair catches the light, tousled and damp like he’s been in the water himself. His broad shoulders are framed by the white-and-red uniform shirt that looks a little too crisp for someone who spends their day in the sun.

You can tell he’s new. There’s a hesitation in the way he stands, like he’s trying to look comfortable in a place he hasn’t quite claimed yet. But there’s something magnetic about him, the way he surveys the beach with quiet curiosity, like he’s soaking in every detail.

And you don’t mean to stare, but you’re caught in the moment, the way he looks like he belongs there despite it all, carved from the same sun and salt as the beach itself.

You’re still staring when his eyes meet yours.

They’re blue, impossibly so, the kind of blue that reminds you of the water when it’s so clear you can see straight to the bottom, the kind of blue you could fall into and forget how to breathe. His mouth quirks into a smile—easy, natural, like he’s been doing it all his life.

For a heartbeat, the world shifts, tilts ever so slightly, like the two of you are caught in some half-remembered dream. Something stirs in your chest, familiar yet unnameable, like déjà vu soaked in sunlight. You freeze, caught like a fish on a line, just before his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he lifts a hand in a casual wave.

“Hey,” he calls out, his voice carries over the sound of the waves, warm and low, and you think there’s a hint of the coast in it—just not this one.

You blink, salt-sticky and sun-drunk, realizing belatedly that you’re still rooted to the spot. “Hey,” you manage, shifting your weight on your feet.

He doesn’t move, but his attention is all yours now, quiet and steady, as though nothing else on the beach exists, like you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Nice ride out there,” he says, nodding toward the water, his voice dipped in easy admiration. “That last wave—you made it look easy.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, unplanned but genuine, a flush to your cheeks at the notion of being watched and noticed. You hope he mistakes it for sunburn. “Easy? You sure you weren’t watching someone else?”

“Nope,” he says, the smile widening just a fraction. “Definitely you. The board gave it away.” He says, nodding towards the board that’s still propped against the lifeguard tower like a loyal dog.

“Ah,” you say, realising. “So it was you.”

He shrugs, sweet and boyish in his sincerity. “Figured it deserved better than drifting out to sea.”

You glance down at your battered shortboard, the paint long faded from years of sun and surf. The edges are chipped, and the wax is uneven, but it feels like a part of you. “Thanks,” you say, meaning it. “Guess I owe you one.”

And before you can really think it through, the words escape you all at once. “You surf?”

“Not like that,” he hums, tilting his head toward the waves. Not like you. “Still trying to figure out how to make it look as easy.”

“That’s how it starts,” you say, a grin pulling at your lips despite yourself. “You’ll get there.”

He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “We’ll see. I’m mostly here for this,” he hefts the rescue can with a crooked smile. “Started lifeguard training last week. Figured I’d better get to know the locals.”

“Locals, huh?” You arch a brow, a subtle quirk to your lips. “And I’m one of those?”

“Definitely,” he grins, his voice sure now, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like this is where you belong.”

The words hang in the air, sweet and sticky like the heat of the day. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

“Well,” you manage, recovering with a nod toward the tower. “Welcome to Corral Beach. Try not to let it chew you up and spit you out.”

He laughs then, and it’s warm, golden—like sunlight filtering through the trees. “I’ll do my best.”

He steps back, making space for you to collect your board, though his gaze lingers, like he’s reluctant to go but knows he should. 

“See you around?” he asks, the question carrying a hopeful edge.

“Maybe,” you say, the word feeling light and easy as you turn toward the parking lot.

You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes linger, and it leaves a quiet sort of thrill in your chest, like the first rush of catching a wave.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[saaturnia]

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Non-Cliche Astro Takes:

☾𖤓 hey there! I’m Deidre, I’m a professional tarot reader and musician, and I’ve been studying the occult for about a decade. Here are some less-commonly noted astrology observations that I’ve picked up on over the years. For more posts like this, tarot readings, esoteric content, and music, give me a follow. Enjoy! ☾𖤓

꩜ Aries aren’t loud for no reason, and depending on their aspects to Mercury/where Mars is, they may not be loud at all. What people mistake for “loudness” is them being chronically unheard and/or repeatedly needing to express their softer feelings by way of frustration. They often feel that their softer emotions aren’t taken seriously until it turns to anger. It’s the only time their feelings are seemingly given any attention.

꩜ That stubbornness in Taurus that y’all love to poke fun at? A lot of the time, that’s them recognizing what they’re worth and accepting nothing less. They’re the type to turn down a “chump change” gig because they know it’s a waste of their energy and effort. Additionally, being Venus-ruled, they tend to are good at being “home-y” people. This only becomes a problem when they extend that cozy energy to the wrong people — they’d do well to learn from their sister sign’s (Scorpio) knack for privacy.

꩜ Gemini (especially Venus’) mean what they say when they utter the phrase “oh, I listen to anything.” Their playlists have the widest genre variety, easily. Their wardrobes are the same. One day, they’re rocking a goth getup, and the next they’re sashaying around in a Gunne-Sax gown like Florence Welch. Their versatility knows no bounds, which is often mistaken for being a “poser.” Their Mercurial minds hold much more information than they get credit for.

꩜ Cancer are much more vindictive than we realize. I’d argue much more than Scorpio (especially Cancer Moons). Don’t get me wrong, they’re sweethearts and are quite sensitive to the energetic world, but they pack a punch. Never forget that they’re a Cardinal sign just like Aries! They are most easily motivated when their tender hearts are considered by those around them.

꩜ Looking for a hype-person? Look no further than Leo. They’re like the intimidating “it-girl” except they want YOU to be the “it-girl” alongside them. Don’t be turned off by their confidence and bold exterior because they’re more than willing to spread that light to their loved ones. They are judged for being a bit selfish, but selfishness is not inherently bad/negative. Leo shows us how to shine without being ashamed.

꩜ Virgo is so much more than Excel, deep-cleaning, and organization. While yes, they value order, they only do so because they are a purifying energy. It’s easier for them to be their best selves and truly lean into the ‘healer’ archetype if their space, and mind, is clear. I’ve personally found that they have incredible intuitions, particularly Virgo rising. Being ruled by Mercury gives them one hell of a perceptive mind. They also are very good teachers/work well with children (Virgo moon/Mercury especially).

꩜ Why does everyone think that beautiful Libra is all golden-hour, Aphrodite, and Coquette aesthetics? As much as those things do play into Libra’s energy, we can’t forget that this sign is exalted in Saturn. Their shadow side is often over-looked or assumed not to exist at all because they are ruled by Venus. Many people are drawn to Libra initially because of their beautiful aura and natural glow, but those that understand Libra stick around because they recognize their depth. Libras can’t forget how multifaceted they are, though — don’t fall victim to the short-sighted projections of others!

꩜ Scorpio, the fiery water sign! Similarly to Libra, I see Scorpio get labeled as moody, brooding, dark, suffering artists. While they do have a tendency for the macabre at times, they cherish the opportunities they get to embrace their lighter side. Curling up with their favorite person and playing Animal Crossing on a couple of bean bags is a dream night to a lot of Scorpios. They have a vast inner world and a similar temperament to Aries (they’re both ruled by Mars, traditionally).

꩜ Sagittarius are, arguably, one of the more open-minded energies in the Zodiac. I feel sometimes their endless questions come across as judgmental to others, when it’s truly just them trying to satiate their curiosity. At their worst, they play Devil’s Advocate, but it’s mainly because they know what it feels like to have your voice dismissed (Sag moons/Mercury, imo). They are open books and love to spend time around different cultures, belief systems, languages, or anything considered “foreign” to them. Very prone to go down Wikipedia rabbit holes.

꩜ Capricorn is often viewed as rigid and cold, but that’s just their auto-pilot persona for before they’re comfortable. Their dry, sardonic humor is truly goat’d (pun intended). As with any Saturnian sign/aspect, these folks tend to carry a heavy burden from a young age. Often times, they love things from the past. History, literature, music, clothing styles, etc. Their “obsession” with money is more so a craving for stability. Capricorns (moons especially) have no problem playing the long game so…do with that information what you will.

꩜ As much as I love the alien Aquarius stereotype, these folks are truly outside-the-box thinkers. They seem “alien” and unable to relate to because they do not fit into any mold that has ever been expected of/placed on them. Also ruled by Saturn (traditionally), Aquarius takes the lessons they go through and usually want to use them to improve the world/their community. I think of them as the more “public” provider rather than an “interpersonal” provider like Capricorn.

꩜ Finally, my lovely Pisces. They’re not crybabies (really, they’re not…that’s Aries)they just have really bad allergies this time of year so give them a break! These little fish are hard to pin down and that’s how they like it. Being perceived really does bother them at times (Pisces stelliums/Moons, esp) so a healthy amount of alone time is a must. I’ve noticed they tend to love statues, plushies, and other artsy/collectible figurine-adjacent things. They’ll also watch holiday movies year-round (Halloween, Christmas, doesn’t matter).

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[teencopandthesourwolf]

He freezes. Doesn't know what the hell else to do. 

He can't picture it: Derek can't remember the last time somebody put their arms around him. 

Was it Laura?

Of course it was Laura. How could he forget that? Derek has gotten pretty good at blocking things out—a little too good, it seems.

She didn't tell him anything before leaving New York. Didn't say a fucking word, just up and vanished. Derek had woken up one morning and she was gone, because she'd known without a shadow of a doubt that Derek would've only followed her if she'd have said a single word to him.

Nobody ever granted Derek’s wishes, no matter who he prayed to. Those desperate pleas where he asked to go back and get a chance to fix things, they all went unheard.

Laura left to go back to the place they both wished still existed just as it had; a place they were wanted alive, not dead. It wasn't fair that it was the very same place they would be hunted down if they did return, like the rabid animals the Argent's presumed they were.

Leaving the way they did meant they hadn't gotten the chance to see if anything was left at the house. They couldn't even mark graves, to grieve properly. 

That same place also happened to be the place they'd been born, the place they'd grown up and called home.

Derek had never wanted Laura to face all of that alone.

The burnt down house. The nothing where there was once everything.

The thought still haunts him. One of so many. 

Beacon Hills is home—but it's the home Derek had helped raze to the ground with his selfishness and stupidity. Everything he and Laura had ever known, everyone they'd ever loved, it was all gone, now. Derek had taken those things away from his sister and hadn't even had the guts to tell her. Tell Laura they were all gone because of him, tell her that everything that had happened to their family, to them, was all his fault.

In the aftermath of the fire Laura hugged Derek, and had kept hugging him, over and over in those weeks and months and years that followed. She would pull him into her arms hold him tight, whenever she could sense it was all getting to be too much for him again.

Alpha.

Big sister.

But Laura only knew about some of the reasons why it sometimes felt like too much effort for Derek to keep on breathing.

He never told her about Kate.

And Derek, the fucking coward, he'd allowed Laura to hold him, feeling the flames of shame on his cheeks every time, hot as those that took the lives of his parents. His family. His pack. 

Now, he remembers that last time. 

“I'm going out.” 

Laura stood up, walked around the two mismatched armchairs and stopped him by throwing both her arms around his neck, pulling him into her and hugging him, scenting him. 

It always took him a moment to respond these days, but Derek hugged her back. 

“What's this for?”

“You. Because I know whomever's bed you end up in tonight, you won't be asking for one of these.”

Oh, fuck no.

Derek couldn't handle that. Did she think he was out sleeping with people? Never again, not after…

He pushed his sister off him, gently; a stark contrast to the harsh words that followed. 

“Don't fucking coddle me. And fuck you, Laura—I don't sleep in anybody's bed but my own.” A single mattress on the floor of the lounge of their shitty one bedroom apartment. Derek had so many shameful memories, and crawling into his sister's bed every night for the first year after the fire was one of them. “Just—leave me alone.”

Laura was the one—the only—person Derek had left in the entire world, yet his guilt was constantly pushing her away. 

“Where do you go to, little brother? You might not be clinging to me anymore, night after night, nightmare after nightmare, but you're rarely in your own bed most mornings.”

She hadn't meant it as a dig. Derek knew that. She was his sister, and she loved him.

Maybe she thought he was making progress? Seeing people. Moving on.

Derek spent his nights waiting outside of dive bars, and hanging around in back alleys and dark places, desperate to find scumbags to taunt who were big enough and hard enough to at least attempt to kick the living shit out of him.

Derek hated being a werewolf, now. He wanted to get hurt and stay hurt.

“Just—out.”

Then Derek turned his back on Laura, leaving her to stand there and watch him walk away as he left her to go out looking for a fight, without looking back. 

That was the last time somebody put their arms around Derek—and the last time he saw his sister alive.

It was two years ago. Derek doesn’t think he has taken a full breath, since. 

Now here he is—standing in his stupid big loft that he bought for his betas, yet another pack he managed to destroy—having given away more than he should, with skinny yet strong arms wrapping as far around his shoulders as they'll reach. 

Stiles.

“You don't have to hug back. But you can, if you want to. I won't tell,” the kid jokes. It's his way to connect, his connection to the world. A coping mechanism, Derek thinks.

He knows all about those.

“I…” he doesn't have the first fucking clue of how to handle this. Or how to admit he needs it—to himself, let alone somebody else. He doesn't know how to admit that he wants it. 

But this is Stiles. The one person in Derek's life who seems, for some unfathomable reason, to give a fuck about Derek. To care about him.

Slowly, very slowly, Derek lifts an arm and awkwardly rests a hand on Stiles's upper back, feels the muscles jump slightly under the kid's baggy clothes as he tentatively spreads his fingers and finds the back of Stiles's neck. 

Stiles's voice hitches just a touch as he says, “These can be on tap, you know. If you want them. Stilinski hugs are the best hugs, dude. Believe.”

And Derek finds he does believe. For the first time in forever, Derek believes there could be something good in his life again.

More confidently, now, he brings his other arm up to wrap around Stiles's waist and hugs Stiles tighter, properly, and allows himself to be hugged back.

Derek wonders how he has gone so long without this kind of closeness. Lived without this kindness.

He decides to let the 'dude' pass. Because maybe—maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all, to be somebody's dude? 

Stiles's dude.

It's a fucking ridiculous moniker and yet Derek suddenly couldn't care less. 

“I think I'd like that,” he whispers into the forbidden place where Stiles's jaw meets long, pale neck. "Dude."

Derek can feel Stiles's smile as the kid squeezes him harder. And ironically, Derek feels as if he can breathe again. 

.

for @greyhavenisback bc i want to hug you in person and can't <3 (unedited, forgive me!)

[astroa3h]

Lilith Through the Signs ✨

Let’s talk about Lilith, because she’s that dark, seductive part of your chart that you’re probably a little afraid to look at, but trust me—you need to. In astrology, Lilith shows us the hidden, raw parts of our psyche, the things we suppress or even deny. She’s our wild side, our deepest desires, and sometimes, our untapped rage. Wherever Lilith is in your chart, she brings out this primal energy that cannot be tamed. And let me tell you, she doesn't play nice. You’re going to feel it. If you don’t confront her, she’ll push until you have no choice. 

If Lilith is in Aries, then honey, you’re all about raw, impulsive energy. Lilith in Aries doesn’t ask permission. You fight for independence at any cost, and sometimes, that can mean bulldozing through life without thinking about the consequences. People might call you selfish, but really, you’re just unapologetically you. You struggle with authority and anyone telling you what to do. In relationships, this placement is about the constant power struggle. You want freedom, but you also crave someone who can handle your intensity. Here’s the thing: you have to learn how to channel that fire without burning everything down. Maybe take up martial arts or something that lets you express your aggression in a healthy way.

With Lilith in Taurus, you are drawn to the pleasures of life, the sensual side of things. It’s about indulging—whether that’s in food, sex, or luxury. But here’s the shadow side: you can become possessive, even obsessive, about holding onto what you have. You want security so badly that you might cling to things (and people) that are no longer good for you. This placement craves comfort, but you can get stuck in your comfort zone, unwilling to let go even when it’s time. In your love life, you’ll likely attract relationships that push you to confront your fear of losing what you hold dear. Learn to trust that true security comes from within. You don’t need to hoard it; it’s already yours.

Lilith in Gemini? Oh boy, you are a master of words, and you know exactly how to twist them to get what you want. But watch out, because this placement can make you feel like you’re always wearing a mask. You can say all the right things, but inside, there’s a part of you that feels unseen and unheard. You’ll attract people who are intrigued by your mind, but they might not get the real you. In relationships, it’s all about mental connection, but sometimes you use communication as a weapon. You can be manipulative when you want to be, and if you’re not careful, you’ll push people away with your mind games. The key here? Be honest. Be vulnerable. You’re smart enough to know when someone isn’t on your level, but that doesn’t mean you have to hide behind cleverness.

With Lilith in Cancer, you’re dealing with deep emotional wounds. There’s a part of you that craves nurturing but also resents it at the same time. You might have grown up feeling like you had to be the caretaker, even when you weren’t ready. And now? You have a hard time letting anyone take care of you. You build emotional walls, but inside, you’re yearning for someone to break them down. In relationships, you might sabotage things when they start to feel too safe, because deep down, you’re scared of being abandoned. Your healing comes when you stop looking for that motherly figure in other people and start giving yourself the care you need. You have to learn that vulnerability is not a weakness.

If Lilith is in Leo, girl, you’re the queen—and you know it. You want to be admired, adored, worshipped, but you also fear that you’re never enough. This is a placement where ego and insecurity collide. You want the spotlight, but you’re terrified of what people will see when they look too close. Relationships become about power. You want someone who puts you on a pedestal, but the second they don’t, you’re out. The challenge here is learning that your worth doesn’t depend on external validation. When you own your power without needing applause from the crowd, you’ll find that the right people are drawn to your light.

Lilith in Virgo brings a complicated relationship with control. You strive for perfection in everything, but the more you try to control, the more things slip through your fingers. You might have a tendency to obsess over the details—whether it’s your appearance, your work, or your relationships. But this perfectionism is exhausting. You attract situations where you’re forced to confront the idea that control is an illusion. The real work is in letting go. In love, you might feel like no one is ever good enough for you, or worse, that you’re never good enough. But the truth is, you don’t have to fix anyone, least of all yourself. Your healing comes from accepting the messiness of life.

Lilith in Libra? Oh, this is a tricky one because you want harmony and balance, but deep down, you might feel like you’re constantly at war with yourself. You attract people who reflect your shadow side, and it’s easy to lose yourself in relationships. You want to please others so badly that you forget your own needs, and then you resent them for it. This placement has to learn how to set boundaries and stop giving away power just to keep the peace. In love, you might find yourself drawn to partners who are controlling or manipulative, and it’s because you’re not owning your own power. Stand up for yourself. Relationships are meant to be equal, not a battleground.

If your Lilith is in Scorpio, honey, you’ve got intensity for days. This is one of the most powerful Lilith placements, but it also comes with deep emotional wounds around trust and betrayal. You crave deep, soul-shattering connections, but you’re also terrified of being vulnerable. In love, you attract relationships that push you to confront your darkest fears—jealousy, obsession, control. The challenge for you is to let go of the need to dominate. You’re not going to lose your power by being vulnerable. In fact, true power comes from letting others see the real you, scars and all. The key here is to trust that you won’t be destroyed by love. It’s transformative, not destructive.

Lilith in Sagittarius is about freedom—wild, uncontained freedom. You’re always looking for the next adventure, the next thrill, and you can’t stand to be tied down. But here’s the thing: running from commitment isn’t going to fill that void inside. You attract situations where you feel like your wings are being clipped, but it’s because you’re not allowing yourself to fully engage. You might avoid deep connections because you’re afraid they’ll hold you back. In relationships, you crave freedom, but you also want someone who understands your need for independence. Your journey is about finding a way to commit without feeling caged. Trust that you can have both stability and freedom.

If Lilith is in Capricorn, you’re all about power and control. You crave success, but deep down, you fear failure more than anything. You’ll push yourself to the brink just to prove you’re worthy, but this placement often comes with a deep sense of insecurity. You might feel like no matter how much you achieve, it’s never enough. In relationships, you attract people who challenge your need for control, and it forces you to confront the fact that true success isn’t about power—it’s about vulnerability. Learn to let go of the idea that you have to be the one in control all the time. It’s okay to let someone else take the lead. You’ll find that it makes you stronger, not weaker.

With Lilith in Aquarius, you’re the rebel. You don’t like being told what to do, and you’re always pushing against the grain. But this can also make you feel like an outsider, like you don’t belong. You attract relationships where you feel like you have to sacrifice your individuality, but deep down, you know that’s not the answer. Your challenge is to find a way to be in a relationship without losing yourself. Don’t be afraid to stand out. The world needs your unique vision. In love, you might push people away because you’re afraid of being controlled, but real freedom comes from allowing yourself to be fully seen.

Finally, Lilith in Pisces is a placement of deep emotional sensitivity. You feel everything, and sometimes, that can be overwhelming. You might have a tendency to escape through fantasy or avoidance because reality feels too harsh. But this placement also gives you incredible intuition. You attract relationships where you feel like you’re drowning in emotions, and it can be hard to find your footing. The key here is to set boundaries—emotional boundaries. You don’t have to take on other people’s pain as your own. Your healing comes when you learn to stay grounded in reality while still honoring your deeply spiritual side. Embrace your empathy, but don’t let it consume you.

xoxo Ash 💓 Get your own reading at astroash.net

[veloursdor]

the thing about larys strong is that i think he's been lonely his entire life, lonelier than even he realised/admitted to himself. he craves connection, someone to see him for who he is. and that's what's been guiding most of his actions throught the entire time we've known him.

when he saw alicent being unheard and unseen, he tried to form a connection with her as he saw himself in her (through manipulations of course, but his intention there when saying "i could be your ally" were sincere). but she rejected him (by refusing to see him as a man, by being horrified at his true self (the harrenhal fire), etc) and thus he grew to resent her and want to control her/humiliate her like she "humiliated him", probably thinking it was enough because of the power she gave him.

but then viserys died and alicent's power died with him.

spoilers for season 2 of house of the dragon below the cut

i think his "love" for her... changed or was put on the back of his mind after 2x04, especially after he sees the moon tea and she's in pain. when he asks her about criston, his reaction to her words is as if he is confused, as if he's recalculating what he thought of her because he's seeing her in a whole new light.

and maybe he is seeing her truly for the first time ever.

he said "you and i are the same", was always listening in on her conversations to gather information, maybe even convincing himself by doing so that she truly was like him. but, i think that, when larys says "you have not been yourself" is his way of saying "who are you? are you who i've always thought you were or someone i do not know?" and has to change his view of her, of what he convienced himself he saw in her.

maybe he sees that he's been living in a lie made of his own words.

so, when the council scene happens, he pities her and rejects her idea, because it has no ground and she's grasping at straws. (i do think he does feel sorry for rejecting her but he also doesn't have enough solid ground with aemond as regent (his position in the small council is fairly new) and slighting aemond would cost him the power he has, so he stays quiet and looks away).

however, he also manages to drive a nail to alicole's coffin but he walks away without looking back at the mess it left.

they then don't share a scene at all for the rest of the season.

from then on all his scenes are with aegon, and we see a side of larys we haven't seen before.

ageon gave him power (of course larys manipulated aegon with the Hand comment) because of his "loyalty" following blood and cheese (i still believe larys "let it happen") and made him his master of whispers. he placed larys in the small council (when alicent never did in the 6 years she acted as regent) and gave him status outside of the dungeons. he "brought him [larys] out of the shadows" in a way.

the show has made a point to tell us, since episode one of season two, that larys has been looking at aegon the same way he used to look at alicent in season one, staring him down as if he could see what he's made of, constantly analysing and calculating how to best approach him.

he made small attempts at conversations and funny lines ("that castle is more crippled than me") as the whole alicent thing is going on.

and then the battle of rook's rest happened.

with aegon barely holding on, we have a scene where larys is honest, vulnerable, sincere maybe for the first time ever (yes there's manipulation, but also genuine compassion). he sees the struggles aegon will have to face because he lived them himself.

like with alicent in the weirdwood, he tried to form a connection with aegon. but where alicent "rejected" his true self, aegon instead listened to what larys was saying, saw the truth in it and raged, which made larys feel seen and heard, beyond manipulation and twisted words, probably for the first time in his life

larys, for all his talk that love is a downfall, craves connection, the desire to not be alone in the world. he does feel love.

and whereas alicent rejected his love and was disgusted by his true self, aegon welcomed his help, invited his advice, and embraced his aid to become stronger

i think larys will be loyal to him as long as aegon allows his love and it does not fester into resentment, like his love for alicent did

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter twelve: Lights out.

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3

word count: 6.3k

------

The PA system crackled to life, its robotic voice slicing through the heavy silence.  

"Lights out in ten seconds."  

The air thinned, stretched tight. No one moved. No one breathed. A collective inhale before the inevitable drop.

Nine.  

Your pulse thrummed in your ears.  

Eight.  

Your fingers curled into the thin mattress beneath you.  

Seven.  

Across the room, a shuffle. The sound of someone shifting, adjusting. Were they moving to get comfortable, or to get ready to kill?

Six. 

You turned your head, breath steady. Young-il’s gaze was already locked on you, sharp and steady, like he had been waiting for you to look at him.

Five.  

His face was unreadable, but you knew that look. The quiet kind of knowing, the kind that didn’t need words.  

Four.  

He nodded once.  

Three.  

You inhaled slowly.  

Two.  

And nodded too.

One.  

The lights snapped off. For a moment, the world disappeared.  

The dormitory was plunged into darkness. Even the piggy bank above had gone dark, the familiar glow of cash reflecting off the glass now swallowed whole. The only light left came from the floor—the cold, sterile blue of the O players' mark, and the harsh red of yours. It cast eerie, broken slashes of colour across the walls, stretching out in sharp angles, illuminating just enough to make out shapes, but not details if you’re not close.

You turned your head again. Young-il was already moving. Without hesitation, you rolled off the bed too. 

No noise. Your hands hit the floor first, steadying yourself as you pressed your body flat against the cold tile and slipped underneath. The chill of the floor crept through your clothes, but you forced yourself to stay still. Invisible. Unheard.  

A few seconds later, another movement. Instead of sliding under his own bed, Young-il moved toward yours. 

The warmth of him cut through the cold, a contrast so sharp it nearly rattled you. But there was no time to focus on that—because beyond the safety of the bed frame, the O players were moving too. Slow, quiet shifts of weight. The careful creak of old springs. They were getting up.  

You forced your breathing even, pressing yourself tighter to the floor as your eyes adjusted to the fractured light. Their shadows stretched long across the ground, moving carefully, deliberately. Hunting. 

And in their hands they held forks.

A shadow passed inches from you. Too close. Your fingers twitched against the floor, but you didn’t move. Beside you, Young-il didn’t move either. You could almost feel him listening. Waiting.

The O players weren’t frantic. They were calculated. A single, fluid motion as they crossed the blue and red lines dividing the dormitory. The first step was quiet and slow. The second, quicker.

Then, they broke into a run.

You flattened against the tile, vanishing into the shadows. Feet pounded against the floor. The first beds in their path were hit immediately. They never stood a chance. They woke up to hands gripping their throats, to metal slicing flesh, too late to even panic.

The first strike landed silent. The second was loud. 

Someone shot up from their bed, a scream tangled in their throat, their hands reaching for something—anything—to make it stop. Someone lurched forward, crashing into another body. The sound of struggle filled the room—flesh slamming into flesh, objects being grabbed, metal clattering.

A laugh cut through the screaming. Slow. Measured. Enjoying it.

The fight escalated within seconds. Shadows lunged in the dim glow. Someone smashed a glass bottle over another’s head. The body crumpled. The glass glinted red and blood sprayed across the tile.

You spotted Player 124. He wasn’t fighting defensively. He was grinning. His fork drove into the side of an X player’s neck. He twisted. Blood gushed out, spraying onto his sleeve. The body slumped, twitching once before going still.

What you were doing wasn’t survival. It was sitting back while people you swore to protect bled out on the floor. But you weren’t going to sit back anymore. You couldn’t. 

Young-il practically saw the gears turning in your head.

His hand clamped down on your wrist. His hold was iron-tight. Before you could struggle, he yanked you toward him, pulling you flush against his chest under the bed.

“You’re not doing this,” he said, voice quiet, firm, unshakable.

You shoved at his hold, twisting, pushing against him. He didn’t let go. His arm locked around your waist, keeping you still.

“Let me go,” you snarled, shoving at his hold. 

He didn’t even flinch. “No.”

A body hit the floor near you.

There was no space for you to move and no air to breathe. Just his arms locked around you, holding you against him like he could physically keep you from doing something stupid.

“You promised,” he murmured, low and firm.

I know. 

You never meant it. Not really. He had to have known that. Because what was a promise worth in a place like this? A desperate attempt to convince him you’d play along, to not break the group apart with a heated argument?

You exhaled sharply. “And?”

“You said you’d only get involved if it was one of us.”

That wasn’t how this worked. It had never been that simple. He expected you to just sit here while good people died? It didn’t matter if you knew them, it mattered that they were human. You met his gaze. Steady. Unapologetic.

“I lied.” 

Young-il let out something between a sigh and a quiet laugh. Bitter. Almost amused. 

“Of course you did, you stubborn girl. Thought I didn’t know?”

How long? How long had he known? How long had he been expecting this exact moment? The second the lights went out, had he been bracing for the fight outside or the fight to keep you still?

The dormitory was chaos, pure and bloody. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, with the sharp bite of fear. Bodies hit the floor. A wet, sickening crunch. A scream cut short. You could hear it all. Smell it all. Feel it thrumming through the floor beneath you. And you were just laying here. Like a coward. 

“You can’t stop me,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the fighting.

Young-il leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear. “I can try.”

You hated him for it. Hated the way he knew you better than you knew yourself. Hated that he wasn’t wrong for pulling you back. The logical part of you knew that he was right. That if you ran out now, you’d die. That you weren’t built for this the way others were, that you didn’t have the raw brutality of Player 124 or the soulless precision of Player 100. Yet.

Your hands were still clean. But blood came fast in this place. You wouldn’t leave without it on you. But did that matter when people were dying anyway?

Another choked cry cut through the room. A final breath. A body went still. You should be out there. 

Your breath slowed. He felt it. You knew he did. Knew he was tracking every tiny movement, waiting for the exact second you’d attempt to break free. And then his voice dropped even lower. So low it felt like a knife between your ribs. 

“I didn’t risk everything for you just to watch you kill yourself.”

The words slammed into you harder than any punch. It was the truth. The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, heavier than the rage you’d been clinging to. He wasn’t just stopping you—he was protecting you like he always had. Every warning, every risk he took, every time he put himself between you and danger—it was never just obligation. It was you. It had always been you.

You forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. If you let yourself get distracted—if you let yourself feel this, even for a second—you’d hesitate. 

And then you saw her. Player 380. Still standing. But not for much longer. 124 was moving fast. He was closing in, fork raised, a predator going in for the kill. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even stop to think. He knew he had already won.

No. No, he fucking hadn’t.

You were done waiting. Done sitting back while monsters like 124 laughed. While good people bled out on the floor. While the ones who didn’t deserve to die were left behind, always too late, always just out of reach.

You didn’t care about survival or logic or the promise you had never intended to keep. You moved. Young-il cursed when you tore out of his grip, you got out and bolted forward. Young-il cursed behind you, but his grip missed. Your body had already made the choice.

The floor was slick with blood, but you barely felt it. Your body had already made up its mind. 

Get there first. Reach him before he reaches her.

Your fingers brushed the back of his head, so close— And then something solid slammed into your chest. The impact sent you staggering back, your spine slamming into the cold floor. The wind was knocked clean from your lungs.  A tight hand clamped down on your arm, lifting you back on your feet.

You wanted to punch him before you even looked at his face. You already knew. Player 100. 

His grip was like steel. His smirk was worse. Slow. Satisfied. He had been waiting for a moment alone with you.

“You’re not going anywhere, you bitch.”

It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Just a word. Just a fucking word. But that didn’t matter. You went still for a second. Not from fear. From something much worse. 

Something crawled under your skin, tightening like a wire around your throat. Your head turned, slow, almost reluctant, like some part of you already knew—already felt it sinking its claws into your skull.

The dormitory disappeared. The screaming, the blood, the chaos—it all faded into something smaller. The smell of liquor. The dim, flickering light of a busted ceiling fan. The sting of a slap that landed before you could even brace yourself.  

Bitch.  

The word curled around your throat, squeezing. 

Anchor yourself. Breathe. Don’t react.

Bitch. Your father’s voice. The same mocking, sneering, condescending drawl. The same venom in the syllables. The same fucking word.  

Your voice came quiet, too quiet, "What did you just call me?"  

Player 100 smirked. Like you were weak. Nothing. Small. Like he hadn’t just snapped something vital inside you.  

Your breath left you in a slow exhale. Your limbs went cold, but your blood burned. He saw it too late. You moved before you could think. Before you could stop. Your fist slammed into his face, knuckles cracking against bone. His head snapped sideways. He staggered.  

Not enough.  

You hit him again. Harder. He growled, tried to grab you again—but you were already on him. You tackled him, full force. Took him down. The air left his lungs in a choked grunt as he hit the floor. You landed on top of him, your knees driving into his ribs.  

His hand shot up, reaching for your throat—you caught it. Slammed it down. His eyes went wide for half a second. Fear.  

You liked that. 

You could hear your own breath, harsh and ragged. He was beneath you. Just like before.

The floor shifted. Not tile. Wood. Not the dormitory. Home. Your childhood bedroom. You saw the walls of a house you swore you’d never go back to. And him? He wasn’t Player 100 anymore. You saw him. He was your father.  

His face. His voice. His rage. His drunken, sluggish laughter when you cried, his taunts when you begged him to stop. All of it.  

You didn’t remember pulling it free. You didn’t even remember putting it in your pocket. But suddenly the knife from dinner was in your hand. And suddenly… You lost it.  

It plunged into his chest. The first one was hesitation. The second was certainty. He released a gurgled breath. 

You did it again. And again. 

The blade stuck. You yanked it, but it didn’t come out, so you wrenched it sideways. Something tore. A loud crunch. He gasped—a high, wheezing sound, ugly, desperate—like a fucking cockroach scurrying its last breath. You stabbed again. Missed. Hit his collarbone instead. Hard. Jarring. Didn’t care and didn’t stop. Stabbed again. And again.  

Blood hit your face. Hot. Sticky. The iron taste filled the air, sharp and suffocating. It soaked through your sleeves, down to your skin. Thick. So warm it felt alive.

He bucked underneath you, twisting, gasping. His fingers clawed for your throat, your face, your eyes—anywhere he could reach. He almost got you. Almost. You drove his wrist down, knuckles cracking against the tile.

“Stay. Down.”

The blade tore through muscle again, bone, flesh— easy.  

Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.  

A scream tore out of your throat—ragged, unrecognisable. His nails raked your arm, weak but desperate. A wheezy gasp escaped his lips as his eyes darted, pleading. His mouth moved, but no words came. Just blood.

You couldn’t stop.  

His face kept shifting beneath you— his eyes, his mouth, the fucking fear. You used to look at him like that. Now he was looking at you.  

"Shut up." You drove the knife in deeper and pulled out again, ”Shut the fuck up."  

Each word was punctuated with steel. The body beneath you convulsed. You saw your father choking on his own blood. Begging. And you laughed. Like he used to.

You barely registered the way someone snatched your arm mid-strike, stopping the knife just inches from another blow. Fingers dug into your wrist—iron, unyielding. A sudden tug pulled you backward with enough force that your spine slammed against a solid chest. Your body twisted in protest, breath ragged, eyes still locked on the ruin beneath you.

You thrashed. Tried to lunge. Tried to finish it. But the grip on you tightened like a vice, one arm locking around your waist, the other pinning your knife hand to your chest. You heard a sharp inhale. Warm breath near your ear.

"Enough."

Young-il’s voice was steady, but there was something sharp underneath it, something that cracked through the haze drowning your mind.

You sucked in a breath and moved your eyes down.

The world snapped back into place like a slap to the face. The dormitory. The fighting. The blood. And the body beneath you.

Not your father. Never had been. Just… Player 100. Just another dead man. 

And it had been so easy to kill him. His chest was a mess of open wounds, red and ruined. His mouth opened, a broken gasp—his last, final breath. A fresh wave of nausea slammed into you. Your hands were shaking. Coated in blood.  

What the fuck have I done?  

You weren’t breathing right. The body wasn’t moving. You had wanted this. Hadn’t you? 

The blood on your hands felt sticky, thick, suffocating. Your fingers trembled against the blade’s handle, but you couldn’t let go. Couldn’t breathe. The world was narrowing, collapsing inward. Then Young-il’s arms tightened, grounding, anchoring.

"Come back to me," he murmured, voice barely audible over the chaos outside. "You promised me you wouldn’t lose yourself in this game."

Your chest hitched. You forced your fingers to unclench, forced your lungs to pull in a breath, forced yourself to feel the warmth pressing against your back instead of the cold corpse beneath you.

The knife slipped from your grip. Clattered against the tile.

Young-il’s fingers dug into your wrist. Hard. And you froze, “You don’t have to be like him.”

He meant Player 100. You knew that. But your body didn’t. Something inside you twisted in on itself. Your mind tripped over the words, over the meaning, over the one name it shouldn’t have landed on. 

Oh, god.  

Wasn’t this exactly what he did? The anger, the control, the violence? The way his hands never shook, the way he always made sure you did? The body beneath you was cooling. And your hands? Drenched in red. Just like his.  

No. You weren’t like him. You couldn’t be. But for a second—for a terrible, gut-wrenching second—you believed it.

“You promised me you wouldn't lose yourself in this game."

His eyes. His fucking eyes. They burned into yours—raw, unrelenting, searching for something, anything. A flicker of who you used to be. A sign you hadn’t gone too far. Like he was begging you to prove him wrong.

Tell me you’re still in there. Tell me I didn’t just watch you become one of them.

Your chest clenched. You wanted to pull away, to fight back. To tell him this was different. That you hadn’t lost yourself. But could you? Could you meet his eyes, covered in blood, standing over a still-warm body, and pretend you hadn’t crossed the line?

fAnd then, softly—so, so softly, like it wasn’t even meant for you to hear—

"Or was that just another lie, too?"

You could take anger. You could take yelling. You could take anything but this. The quiet hurt woven into every syllable, the kind he wouldn’t say out loud, the kind he didn’t have to. That was worse than anything else.

Your throat closed. The weight of it all—the blood, the bodies, the game—it wasn’t crushing you. He was. 

You opened your mouth but nothing would come out. Because there was nothing left to say.

And Young-il? He just exhaled. Slow. Hollow. Like he had already known this moment was coming. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

Your vision blurred, tears pooling, threatening to spill. You blinked hard, willing them away, forcing yourself to breathe, to swallow the lump in your throat, to pretend this moment wasn’t unraveling something inside you.

But it was. And Young-il saw it. Of course he did. Without another word, Young-il pulled you into him, arms wrapping around you with a force that wasn’t rough, but desperate—like he was trying to hold you together before you shattered completely.

The lights flickered. 

Off. 

The screaming stretched. A second. Two. 

On. 

Blood had spread further. The fork was still buried in her throat. A jagged, ugly wound.

Off. 

Someone's breath hitched—maybe yours. 

On.

Every second of darkness stretched too long, dragging everything into something unreal. 

But you barely registered any of it. Because across the room, sprawled on the ground in a growing pool of red, Player 380 wasn’t moving.  

Her body was still, eyes wide, blood soaking through her clothes, her skin, her hair. It was too much. Too much. And standing over her, casual, like he had all the time in the world, was Player 124. He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t running. He just stood there, watching the blood spread beneath his work, his fork still in his grip, dripping.  

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Too late. 

The words circled in your head, looping over and over, a sick mantra you couldn’t shut off.  

Too late. Too late. Too late.  

124 must have felt you staring. He turned, slow, like he was savouring it. And when his gaze locked onto your—when he really looked at you—he grinned. Like this meant nothing.  

"You kept acting like you’re better than us." he mused, tipping his head. "But look at you now."  

His smirk widened, eyes gleaming under the flickering light.  

The lights snapped off again. And in the dark, he took a step forward.

Panic gripped you so hard it felt like something living inside your chest, something wrapping around your lungs, your ribs, crushing down until you couldn’t move—couldn’t breathe. Your fingers trembled, reaching for Young-il’s hand, barely lifting before dropping back to the blood-slick floor. Your limbs wouldn’t work. Your brain wouldn’t work. You needed to move. You needed to move.

But you couldn’t. Your vision blurred at the edges, static creeping into your ears. 

You could hear 124 taking another step forward. 

But once the lights flickered on again and 124 almost reached you, you were gone.

Before the lights turned on, a violent jolt ripped you backward before you could react, before you could even scream. The world spun, darkness swallowing you whole. The floor blurred beneath you, a dizzy smear of red and black. 

You didn’t even register moving. One second you were reaching for something. Anything. Anything that, even if just for a second, could make everything disappear. 

The next second you were under the bed, crushed against warmth, trapped in iron arms.

Young-il’s grip was unyielding, his fingers digging into your arms as he shoved you beneath the frame. You hit the floor hard, the impact knocking air from your lungs, but you barely registered it before he was on you—pressing you into the shadows, caging you in.

You thrashed weakly, but your body still wasn’t working. Your muscles weren’t responding, your mind spinning out of control, looping back to the image of 380 lying motionless, of the blood pooling beneath her.

She was dead. She was dead, and you hadn’t done anything.

A sob clawed its way up your throat. Young-il caught it before it could escape, his hand clamping over your mouth, muffling the noise.

"Not here," he murmured. "Not now. You have to be quiet."

But you couldn’t be quiet, not for much longer. You were shaking so hard it felt like your bones were rattling, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps against his palm. Your hands twitched at your sides, flexing, curling, searching for something, anything—

But there was nothing. Only his arms around you, locking you in place. And for a split second, you felt an ounce of comfort.

His breath was hot against your temple, his chest heaving against your back, his pulse thundering just as violently as yours. His breathing was too fast—like he was trying to control his own shaking.

"Hate me later. Hit me, scream, do whatever the fuck you want—later.” he whispered, softer this time, the words barely a breath. "Right now? You survive. Just fucking live."

You did hate him. Hated the way he had pulled you away, the way he had stopped you.

“Not now. You can fall apart later. I swear to you, I will let you break, I will hold you while you break—but not now.”

Young-il didn’t let go. You weren’t sure how long you lay there, crushed beneath him, suffocated by the scent of sweat, blood, panic, and him. You tried to focus on his scent, how it made your brain silent. His arms stayed locked around you like a vice, as if the second he loosened his hold, you’d slip through his fingers—disappear completely. Maybe you already had.

Your chest hurt. Every breath came in jagged and wrong. Your ribs felt too tight, your skin too raw, like something was breaking apart from the inside out. But you couldn't keep doing this. 

You had to stop.

The sobs still clawed at your throat, but you forced them down. You clenched your jaw so hard your teeth ached, pushed back the horror, the grief, the sharp, the unraveling ache.

You knew this feeling. You knew it like it lived inside you, burrowed deep in your chest where no one could reach it. This was how you survived. You swallowed it down. You buried it. You shoved the pain deep enough that it couldn’t touch you again.

It had worked before. It always worked.

But when you tried now—when you tried to lock it all up, to shove it behind the steel walls inside your head—nothing happened. It wasn’t working.

Your hands still shook. Your throat still burned. Your ribs still ached like something inside you had cracked open, wide and ugly and exposed.

You sucked in a sharp breath, tried to get your body under control, tried to force yourself to be okay.

Young-il’s grip tightened.

"Don't," he murmured, barely audible over the chaos outside.

You tried to keep your expression blank, tried to steady your breathing, tried to pretend this wasn’t killing you from the inside out. But he turned you around in his arms and slowly, his hand left your mouth. His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and steady in the fractured light, searching, seeing too much.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, forcing your heart to slow. You forced yourself not to feel. Young-il didn’t move for a long moment. You expected him to let go, to pull back, to give you space. He didn’t. Instead, he pressed his forehead against yours. The contact was so gentle it nearly shattered you.

"You don't have to do that," he whispered.

It felt like you were choking.

"Do what?" you rasped.

"You know what."

His breath was warm against your skin. His voice was quiet, almost careful, like he knew he was walking a knife’s edge, like he knew the second he pushed too hard, you’d bolt. But you weren’t sure you could bolt anymore. You didn’t know if you had it in you to run anymore.

"Stop," you muttered, turning your head, trying to pull back, but there was nowhere to go.

His arms were still around you. You were still under the bed. The dormitory was still full of monsters.

"Let me—just let me—"

"Breathe," he said softly.

The word sent something cracking down your spine. You realised, all at once, that you weren’t breathing. That you had been holding it in.

Not just now. Not just tonight. But for years. Ever since Jonah.

The realisation was so sharp it almost knocked the wind out of you.

Your hands were still curled into fists and your shoulders were rigid, spine locked so tight you thought it might snap. Every muscle in your body was bracing. Bracing for what?

A hit? A scream? The cruel, familiar slap of laughter in your face? No one was laughing now.

Just Young-il, pressed so close you could feel the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, his breath ghosting against your skin.

"You have to stay with me," he murmured.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Stay.

You weren’t sure you knew how. Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps. You clenched your jaw, squeezed your eyes shut, tried to force it all back down—the shaking, the panic, the fucking truth. But it clawed its way up anyway, burning your throat, spilling out before you could stop it.

“I don’t—” You swallowed, shook your head. Your voice came out thin, wrecked. “I don’t know how to stay. I don’t know how to stop this.”

Young-il didn’t say anything. He just held you tighter. Your fingers curled into his shirt like you could anchor yourself there, like you could hold yourself together through sheer force of will, but the words wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know if there’s even anything left to fix.”

Young-il inhaled, slow, measured. "There is.”

You sucked in a breath, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough. Your chest still felt too tight, your ribs felt like they were caving in, your throat felt raw.

“I’ve been like this for so fucking long—like something’s broken inside me, but I don’t know how to put it back together. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore. I don’t even know if there’s a way back.”

Your voice wavered, and you hated it. Hated the way it sounded, hated the way your hands shook, hated the way your body remembered. Every fight, every failure, every single time you were too weak, too slow, too late— Every time your tough persona slipped.

“I—I keep trying. I swear I do. I tell myself I’m going to get better. That I’m not like my— like them, that I’m not—” Your breath shuddered. You forced yourself to keep going. “But then—I feel it, and I just—” Your hands curled into fists against his chest, nails biting into your palms.

Young-il exhaled softly, a tremor in his breath. "I know."

“No, you don’t,” you snapped, voice cracking mid-sentence. “You don’t fucking know, because you—you still have control. You can still stop. But me?” Your chest heaved. “It’s in me, Young-il. It’s in me, and I don’t know how to get it out.”

He swallowed, but you kept going. You couldn’t stop.

“It’s like—it’s like I keep trying to be human, but I don’t even know if I ever was after I lost him. Maybe this is all I am.”

Young-il’s grip tightened around you. "That’s not true."

“Isn’t it?” A hollow laugh left your lips, jagged and sharp. “You saw what I did. You saw me. I—I killed him, Young-il. I didn’t even think—I just—I just kept going, like it was nothing, like it was easy—”

Your breath broke. You broke. And then, finally, you sobbed.

Not just a quiet, muffled cry, but something deeper, something ripped from your chest, something raw and ugly and real. You shook. Gasped. Fear curled under your ribs, tightening like a vice.

“I could’ve done more,” you whispered. "I could’ve saved her. I should have. I was right there—I almost had her.”, your fingers curled into fists. “But I didn’t. He stopped me. And then—”, you swallowed hard. “And then I just… let it happen.”

Because when it mattered most, you didn’t move.

Not when Player 100 knocked you down. Not when you could still fight. Not when she needed you the most.

Just like before. Jonah.

It was the same. The same gut-wrenching failure. The brutal, suffocating realisation that you weren’t fast enough. That you didn’t do enough.

Your hands curled into Young-il’s shirt, gripping so hard your knuckles ached.

“It’s always too late,” You whispered. The words tasted like ash, like surrender. “Jonah. 380. I keep trying, but it’s— it’s always too late.”

Young-il’s arms tightened around you, but it didn’t change anything. The truth was already there, carved into your bones.

Maybe you were always meant to be too late.

Young-il pressed his forehead against yours again, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steady against your back.

"You have to stop. You have to let me in. You’re tearing yourself apart, and I can’t—I can’t just fucking watch it happen. Please, let me help,” he said again, quieter now. Like he was begging. Like he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold you down forever. "I don’t know how to keep you safe if you won’t let me."

Your throat closed. Your fingers dug into him, nails pressing deep into fabric and skin. You wanted to believe him. But how could you, when all you could see was blood on your hands?

"You’re not a monster," he murmured, voice thick. "You’re not."

You almost laughed, because what the hell else could you be?

"Then what am I?" you whispered, broken, desperate. "Because I don’t know anymore. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to make it stop."

Young-il inhaled sharply, like it hurt him just to hear you say it. His arms caged you in. He let out a slow breath, steady, grounding.

Then, softly, like he was giving you something to hold on to, something to keep you from slipping further away, he whispered—

"You’re still human.”

Not a monster. Not beyond saving. Not the thing clawing at your insides. 

A wrecked, broken sound escaped before you could stop it—somewhere between a laugh and a sob, something ugly and exhausted, something dragged out from the deepest part of you.

You tried to smother it. You failed.

"The fact that you care—that is what makes you human. And you don’t have to fix whatever is inside you alone," he murmured. "You don’t have to do this alone.”

If he would let you do one thing, it was this. Let you break. But he wouldn’t let you shatter.

"That’s all I’ve ever known how to do,” you admitted, your voice wrecked and small in a way that made you hate it. 

Break. Survive. Pretend you weren’t already bleeding out from wounds no one could see.

Young-il exhaled softly, pressing his lips against your forehead, lingering for a few seconds too long. It felt safe. It felt warm. It felt like a mistake. Because nothing was ever safe here.

"Then let me show you another way."  

The words barely had time to settle before you moved. It wasn’t a decision, wasn’t something you thought through—it just happened. Your body closing the distance, your hands clutching at his shirt, pulling him in because you needed to feel something solid, something real. 

And Young-il—he didn’t hesitate. The second your weight pressed into him, his arms came around you, steady and sure, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had been waiting for it.  

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his shoulder, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the steady rise and fall of his chest. His warmth seeped through your skin, through the cracks in your armour, into the parts of you that felt like they were unraveling.  

Then—another scream tore through the dormitory. Your entire body flinched. A sharp, involuntary tremor.  

Young-il felt it. His hold tightened. No words, no questions. Just his arms, locking around you, keeping you there, keeping you safe—even if safety didn’t exist in this place. He shifted slightly.

His hands covered your ears.  

It wasn’t perfect. The sound was still there, buried underneath something softer. But it wasn’t as sharp anymore. The dull, heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. The screams that dragged through the air, stretched too long, tangled and broken. They were blunted. Like being underwater. Like something was trying to pull you under, and he wouldn’t let it.  

It wasn’t an answer—just something else entirely.

And then, a thought struck you—sharp, unsettling.

How does he always know?

It couldn’t be just because he was a previous winner. You were certain that he was more than that. It was the way he carried himself, the way he was always a step ahead, the way he never seemed surprised. Like he had seen this all before, but from a different point of view. Like he knew exactly how it would play out.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, barely tightening before letting go again. 

You should ask. You should say something. But the words tangled in your throat like barbed wire.

Because if you asked, you had to be ready for the answer. And you weren’t sure you were.

You tried to shove the thought down, force it into the same place you buried everything else that refused to be dealt with. But it stayed. And he watched you.

His gaze was steady. Unreadable. He had let the silence stretch, let the moment settle—but he wasn’t looking away.

It wasn’t just a glance. He was waiting for something. And you hated that you didn’t know for what.

For you to realise something? For you to figure it out? Or for you to simply ask?

Your teeth sank into your lip  before you could stop yourself. Hard. Too hard.

You barely felt it at first, too caught up in the mess of your own thoughts, in the crushing weight of everything closing in on you. But then you felt it.

A sharp sting. A slow bloom of warmth, metallic and bitter, flooding your mouth. The pain startled you. It was grounding. A cruel, ugly way to remind yourself that you were still here. Still breathing. Still alive. Barely.

His hand shifted against your face, slow, deliberate. You barely had time to register the movement before his thumb dragged across your lip, smearing the blood before you could wipe it away.

It should have been nothing. Just a touch. Just a reaction. Just him wiping away the blood before it could drip. But it wasn’t.

Not when his movements were slow. Not when his eyes stayed locked onto yours, watching, waiting, like he was testing something. But you didn’t move. You just watched. Watched as he lifted his hand. Watched as he slid his thumb past his lips. Watched as he licked it clean.

He lifted his hand, slow, deliberate, like he wanted you to see exactly what he was doing.

The way his lips parted slightly, the way his jaw tensed, the way the dim, fractured light cast sharp lines across his face, did something to you.

His tongue flicked over the pad. He licked it clean. A brief pause, like he was savouring the taste, before he swallowed. And never once, not for a second, did he look away. 

Oh my god.

You should have been disgusted or shocked. Anything but this. But everything about it made you feel all hot and bothered. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Your body felt too warm, too tight, like every nerve was suddenly too aware of him, of his touch, of the weight of his gaze on you. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to look away, forcing your thoughts back into something rational, something steady, something that didn’t make you want to close the distance between you and see what he’d do if you pushed just a little further.

There was no time for this. But still. Your heartbeat refused to slow.

The lights flickered once. They snapped back on.  

[elvenbeard]

Old and Happy

😭 my feels have been all over the place since I finally finished this! Don't even remember when I started, as I kept working on and off on it over a couple of months. But I think it was after writing something particularly angsty and going "you know what, they will get their happy ending though, so it's all good".

Some details and thoughts below the read more cause it got long hhhh ;A;

This is in about 2087 maybe, roughly "ten years later". Vince changed his hair, ditched the rattail for good (or again xD) for something still colorful but a bit more easy to style. But he might change it up again, he's done so repeatedly and still likes to experiment with his hair.

Not visible, he probably would've added some elements to his back tattoo after surviving all of 2077. Johnny's tattoo he covered up as well, he would've done that first probably before the back piece. Adding some things here and there over time, with colors and patterns and wings, some cherry blossoms ('cause a thing of beauty will never truly fade away - hence just not getting laser removal but covering it with something that suits him more, but keeping some elements like the J and V visible). It started with three roses below the "V" as a little homage to Jackie, and 2077 as the year that finally put him on the right track in his life, even if it almost killed him in the process.

Overall he is a healthier weight than he was for most of his life, and finally got some therapy he desperately needed to deal with all the crap he went through pre-2077 already. He's not dyeing his first grey hairs because hell, that he's even still around to get some is amazing with his line of work and life story. And he realized that there's no need to be super well put togeher 24/7, clean shaven and whatnot, when you know you're just gonna be hanging out with your man and cat all weekend (and actually allowing yourself to something like that - leisure time and pizza in bed, unheard of to 2077!Vince). He's doing good and feels good and comfortable, physically and mentally.

Kerry also changed, also embracing the dad bod over abs, probably still experimenting with his looks a lot now and then whenever the label feels like they need to draw attention to him for whatever reason. But to the brown eyes he returned in 2078 already in my headcanon for the Sun ending timeline, and he stuck with them.

Overall I think he might finally care a little less about other people's opinions too, the buzz and the drama, cause he knows that at the end of the day there's always gonna be someone waiting for him at home who loves him unconditionally. He's a bit calmer and at ease, but of course still up to no good whenever he gets the chance to stir shit up xD Vince and him remain to be a dangerous duo you don't wanna mess with. At that point Vince is a well-respected, even if somewhat elusive, fixer, so he's probably even more dangerous now than he used to be as a mere merc with an arsenal of connections and resources at his disposal that can almost rival Kerry's.

I also gave Kerry a lil new cyberware piece on his hand - he is an old man and I think, using his hands as a musician on the daily, at some point there's just gonna be some wear and tear to your bones and joints only tech can fix anymore... Especially if you're stubborn and refuse to retire cause no, you're not done yet, you still have so much to yell into the world and music to make, stuff to add to your legacy and all.

Last but not least: Nibbles is an old lady already as well here, but living her best life with her dads spoiling her rotten, of course!

And then öalkshjdfagsdföasgdfaösfh ;___;

Y'know, "to bad decisions" and all, and two very different pieces still fitting together perfectly somehow, and light and shadows, and the sun and moon and yeah. ;___; Brb crying, the feels are back xD

Thanks so much for reading if you made it this far!! They mean so much to me and aösdjhfajsfhasfk could go on forever about every little detail xD On to the next drawing!

[thelov3lybookworm]

I was listening to hyunjin's Ice Cream and this idea came to me loll. Idk if you do these kinda requests but can you do a fic inspired by the ice cream lyrics? 🥹🥹

Azriel with reader who's really cold but he's still hopelessly in love with her? (I love hopeless romantic az 🫶🫶) but not too much angst please I need fluff and happy endings, otherwise my heart wouldn't be able to take it 😔

Ice to cream

Summary: Azriel has a stoic exterior, and no soul has ever really seen what is underneath.

But then he met someone as cold as ice, and was ready to be her sweet cream.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: okayyyyy i feel like sweet cream sounds weird but my brain thinks its cool so ignore it 😉

also, i looooove you anon, thank you for this ask ❣️

enjoy!

•○🌑○•

That day had been like any other.

Azriel had been walking down the winding streets of the city of starlight, whistling to himself.

It was rare that the shadowsinger whistled, but that day he had simply been feeling like it. It was also shocking to his own self how carefree he had felt that day and had decided to take a walk instead of locking himself up in his office and finishing up reports while wallowing in self pity since Rhys had banned him from visiting the third Archeron sister.

The day was beautiful, nothing to signal that the shadowsinger's life was about to be turned upside down.

Azriel had been walking past a bookstore, and there was nothing that could have prompted him to turn his head to look at it, but maybe some unseen forces were at work, because he glanced at the storefront, and then decided to step inside for a moment.

The inside was cosy, the light streaming in from the multiple windows not too harsh, dust motes dancing as if to an unheard song. The store was quiet except for the occasional turn of a page or the purring and meowing of a cat.

Azriel had no reason for going into that bookstore, but once there, he decided to see if he could find a small book to read when he felt like lazing about and not writing reports.

Walking through the multiple aisles, Azriel let his gaze wander.

It was some time later, when his fingers were absently caressing the spine of a book in the fantasy section and he was about to leave without a book because nothing caught his fancy, that a loud, irritated meow sounded nearby, and Azriel winced.

A blur of orange fur in his periphery caught his attention, and the moment he glanced to his left, a cat shot out from between the shelves, knocking over some books and racing towards him.

Azriel stood frozen, until another meow sounded, and a black cat and pretty female came into view. She had an annoyed look on her face as she chased the two cats, and, in his whole five hundred years of existence, Azriel had never thought he would experience at love at first sight.

He wasn't one to judge whether people deserved his time and love by their looks. He usually tried to know them personally before he did.

But here she was, chasing two cats as they knocked over books, and Azriel could not breathe.

Azriel's shadows whispered that if he caught hold of the cats, he might be able to talk to her.

The spymaster wasted no time, scooping up the orange cat as the female picked up the snarling black cat.

She panted heavily, holding tight to the wiggling cat. Azriel didn't have to struggle though, the orange cat simply stopped moving the moment Azriel's shadows swirled in front of its eyes.

The female sighed, muttering something about food in the black cat's ear, and that finally managed to get the animal to calm down.

She glanced up at Azriel, shaking her hair out of her face, her face emotionless.

She walked forward, grabbing the orange cat from him with a mumbled thank you, then walked away. Azriel raised his hand to call for her, but she had already left.

Disappointment hit him from all sides, from his own self as well as his shadows, and he was left to wonder why.

Azriel left the store without a book that day, and the pretty female had not even glanced at him as he left, and that gave Azriel a purpose.

He would have to return.

To get a book, of course.

•○🌑○•

Azriel feared she would beat him in his broody spymaster act if given the chance.

It had been a month since Azriel had first visited the bookstore, and so far, he had come nearly everyday to the store in hopes of getting her to talk to him. And, obviously, to find a book to read.

He had been unable to get any responses from her as of yet that were not one word answers, but Azriel pretended that he was making progress. That he was beginning to crack the hard shell around her.

Currently, she was arranging some books, balancing precariously on the ladder that lay against the tall shelf. Azriel watched, alert and tense in case she lost her balance and would need assistance.

It didn't take long, as she winced a moment later and started rubbing her eyes with one hand, his shadows whispering of how dust had gone into her eyes.

Azriel was next to her in a moment, his grip tight on the ladder as he smiled up at the female, and she glanced down, a frown on her face.

She put the books in her hand back into their place before she began descending the ladder. The moment she touched the ground, she scowled, turning to Azriel.

He blinked in confusion, though he still kept that smile on his face.

"Were you trying to look up my skirt?"

His smile faded, and his eyes went wide as his brain registered how inappropriate his actions might have seemed.

"I- no- I would never- I-" He sputtered, at a loss for words.

The female gave him an unimpressed look, turning away.

Azriel was frozen in place for a moment until his shadows whispered to him about how this was a good opportunity to talk to her. They screeched in his ears, and that finally got him moving as he followed behind the female, tripping over his own feet as he tried to get her attention.

"Hey! Hey wait!"

She paused behind a shelf, half turning to him.

"I was not trying to look up your-"

"Doesn't matter if you were. Happens often enough that it doesn't bother me."

Azriel froze, his brows scrunched. She made to continue walking, but his shadows shot out, the ones next to his ear letting out an exasperated sigh.

The female glanced down at her hand in confusion, to where the shadows were twisting around her wrist and weaving through her fingers.

The female's eyebrows rose, and she looked up at him.

He pulled them back hastily, heat rising in his neck and face. "Um. Forgive me. They sometimes don't want to be controlled and do whatever they want."

She turned to him with a sigh, and Azriel had to wonder if he was dreaming when he saw her lips twitch in the slightest.

Master is not dreaming. He is simply dumb. A shadow whispered as it bobbed away from Azriel's ear, swirling around itself as if in a dance.

Azriel squashed the urge to snarl at it.

"What do you want?" Azriel whipped his head to look at the female, finding her staring at him with a bored expression on her face.

He cleared his throat. "I would like to know your name."

"Why do you want my name? Are you going to put some enchantment on me?"

Azriel opened his mouth to deny any harmful intentions, but again he got distracted by his shadows' whispering.

We wish to engrave it on master's skin.

The heat Azriel's face increased.

"I-I just want to know. No reason..."

She studied him for a moment. "Y/n."

Oh it will look beautiful carved on master's chest.

It will look better on his face.

On his forehead. No one would then try to steal him away.

Or maybe on his hips-

Or butt-

To the outside world, it would simply look like his shadows were floating leisurely in the air, but Azriel could barely think straight through their unnecessary commentary.

"A-Azriel. I am Azriel."

She snorted, turning away. "I know."

He followed her as she stalked through the shelves, his mind having stopped working the moment she gave him her full attention.

"How do you know that?"

"You are not really subtle with who you are."

"Oh?"

"Everyone knows you are the spymaster of this mother forsaken court."

If anyone else had insulted or even thought something bad about his court, they would be chopped into pieces and thrown into the Sidra before they even took their next breath, but then again, Azriel's brain had stopped working, and all he could think about was the fact that she knew who he was.

"So you've heard about me?"

"Yes."

"So can I ask you out to eat with me?"

She froze in her tracks without warning, and Azriel, who was usually very good on his feet, rarely stumbled, even when drunk, slammed into her, taking both of them down.

She wiggled under him, trying to get him off of her, and he scrambled to follow her wish.

She glared at him as she straightened into a kneeling position, dusting off her clothes.

"What makes you think that?"

"Nothing." He mumbled, embarrassed that he was acting like a young boy who had only learned the concept of reproduction and how it happened.

She climbed to her feet, but Azriel's hand shot out to grip hers.

Master finally did something right without having us guide him.

We must celebrate.

Azriel decided he was going to kill his shadows, but that would have to wait for now.

"Please. I want to take you out."

Y/n studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed.

"Fine."

A sudden burst of excitement took over Azriel, and he jumped to his feet.

"Amazing. Can I pick you up at sunset today?"

She nodded, and before Azriel could even realize what he was about to do, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against her cheek. Then he simply turned away, and sprinted out of the shop, already thinking about what he would wear and wich restaurant to take her to.

As he left, he didn't watch as the female who had captured his attention with a few cold looks, who was as cold as ice, lifted her hands and ran her fingers over where his lips had been a moment ago, her eyes blown wide and lips parted.

She stood there, unmoving, for mother knew how long before she glanced around, hoping no one was near.

And then, she let herself smile.

A shy, unbelieving smile as her face flushed.

And there, in the dark shadows between the shelves, her ice exterior began to crumble.

Cracks appeared.

Cracks in which he would plant himself so deeply, so thoroughly, and begin to weaken the mighty walls around her heart.

•○🌑○•

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[s0apmactav1sh]

Minors, fem alinged do not interact with this blog you will be blocked!!

Taskforce 141. A tight knit group made up of monsters. Soldiers who were on a whole other level to the rest all because they were supernatural. Price, the captain of the TF and a dragon hybrid. His boys were apart of his hoard, the things he found irreplaceable and precious. Even with one wing enemies trembled at the sight of such a large man coming towards them. Ghost, the lieutenant and a wraith. What could be said about him, with shadows at his mercy and the darkness being apart of him there wasnt a way to kill a man who was already dead. Soap, sergeant number one and a werewolf. All hell breaks loose when hes able to transform, the team being his pack so he does whats needed to protect them. And lastly, Gaz, the harpy hybrid. The taskforces eyes in the sky. A bird of prey as other soldiers call him.

Thats all the infromation you had been given when you were first introduced to Kate Laswell. You had been handed files but most of the information on them had been classified and blacked out. Laswell had mentioned breifly how she had to practically seek you out, going to people she assumed would have an idea on where you would be. However no one could tell her what you were or where you were mostly because you kept on the down low and only popped up on the map during certain times. How she had caught you while you were in a bar in blackpool was a question you held back from asking.

"Whats in it for me?" Your voice was gruff, not in the way johns was from his years of smoking and barking orders, but in a softer way like you werent expecting to have to talk tonight. Help always came with a price. Yours especially, since you'd be working with monsters you were unfamiliar with. It wasnt like you were different persay but mixing your type of monster with theres didnt seem like the greatest idea in your mind but with Kates promise of a large sum of money and the few pints she bought you it was enough for you to agree to work alongside the taskforce for a few weeks until you were no long needed and could slip back into whatever hell you came from.

-

A Nightcrawler, a monster so unheard of they practically didnt exsit anymore. A creatures that lurked in the darkness where it could lure its victims into it and get rid of them, feasting on them after. Price had to put down your file the minute he read what type of monster you were, everyone knew that trusted one of you would end with death. The shiver that crept down his spine had him removing himself from his desk and leaving his office going directly to the resting room he knew his boys would be in. If he was going to accept kate purposal of accepting you into the taskforce, even if it was for a few weeks, he needed them to voice there opinions first.

"No. Not a chance" Was the first answer he got from ghost once it was finally brought up. Soap was to busy tryna keep his tail still so Gaz could brush out the muck and dirt he had in it from the missions they had been on. "We'd never be able to trust something like it." Ghost was set on declining having another person invade his space. He had enough trying to deal with a werewolf a harpy and a dragon, thrusting a nightcrawler into the mist would cause chaos.

"Its not a good idea, nightcrawlers have a tendancy to go rouge and attack everything within range" was the next response price got from gaz this time, the harpy also turning down the idea of having a nightcrawler join them. Although he voiced his reason as to his decline a lot more clearly than the wraith did. Still Price was hoping atleast Johnny may say something positive so he doesnt look like an asshole for not listening to them even though Kate had went through the pain of trying to get you to come and help them. But with prices luck so far with getting his boys to agree to allow you onto the team there was little hope that johnny would agree.

"Are you mad? A nightcrawler on our team. Ain't no way thats happenin" like he expected he was instantly turned down by the werewolf. Now explaining to Laswell that none of them wanted you on the team because you were a nightcrawler would be the difficult part since the woman was so persistant on getting them another to work with them. Dialing her number once in his office, all price could do is hope she hadnt gotten a chance to even figure out were you were.

-

The sound of kates phone ringing knocked you out of your small buzz as you picked it up and handed it to her turning away and getting another drink for yourself in hopes of drinking yourself to sleep once more before you set off to this taskforce. The sound of irritation soon hit your ears as kate tried getting whoever was on the other end of the phone to agree and take you in even if was just for one mission. Clenching your jaw you reached over and took the phone listen to the sound of the voice coming through.

"Kate there isnt a thing I can do to get the lads to let him join. They dont want a nightcrawler on the taskforce I cant force them."

A small scoff leaves you before you hang up the phone and pass it back to kate. "Thought they were on board with me joining."

-

JDBSJSVDUDBDV i have struggled i mean struggled to finish this. I honestly hate it with a burning passion and I have half a mind to delete it all and start over but here is part 1 of a fic im not even sure Ill finish.