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buckyschair · 4 months ago

Text

AFTERGLOW

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: A sequel part to Flirting, which follows our dear reader (an archivist from Day Court) and the events post-hook-up with Azriel. Don’t worry, his busybody family could never be too sidetracked with running their court to prevent them getting involved in his love life– and, thanks to the properties of transference, yours! Have you stumbled upon something real here with him? Or will it be over before it’s begun? Only Azriel’s shadowy attachment style and maladaptive coping mechanisms will tell! Spoiler: the sex is good.

read part one on tumblr here

A/N: From the bottom of my heart, what the fuck was I doing when I started writing this fic in the second person present tense. Copy editing this was a nightmare. I am completely demoralized. The only thing that can cure me? Your comments and kudos, baby!

Content Warnings: porn with plot, kinda switches between your POVS, female reader, Rhys and Cass and Mor being dickheads (affectionate), smut (featuring aftercare <3), mutual masturbation, thigh riding, unprotected PIV sex, explicit language, alcohol, yearning, idiots to lovers, no use of Y/N

Disclaimers: 1. I’m woman enough to admit that I don’t know how the magic system works in this universe. Who has what powers? None of my business. Yet, somehow, this same author spent an hour researching exactly how people with penises like to masturbate. And that’s showbiz, baby! 2. It’s also not my business where these people live. I haven’t read ACOSF yet so I have no idea where they’re all supposed live so just pretend Az has his own place and they all share a house too idk the river house is new and confusing to me kthxbyeeee

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~14k

Read on AO3

It’s surprisingly domestic, how the morning unfolds in a post-coital haze, breathy moans lapsing into quiet conversation about pillow preferences and the day's looming demands. You’re seriously so glad you went dancing last night, especially since your fun solo night out was cut short in favor of mind blowing sex with Azriel. The male lies beside you, your body tucked into his arm on his massive bed, the pair of you lingering after another round of bliss. You’re reluctant to emerge from your shared cocoon, but you know you can’t stay forever.

“I don’t know about you, but this is my ideal morning,” Azriel comments lazily.

You murmur something noncommittal.

He raises himself up on one arm to look at you, affronted. You see the disbelief in his poised face, his quiet accusation: How could it get better than this? It’s sharp enough to uncover your grin as you answer:

“A bath?” you propose.

Azriel presses a kiss to your temple before grumbling his way out from under the covers.

“Anything for my esteemed guest,” he says sarcastically.

“I’m so honored,” you say, eyes rolling behind his back as he disappears into the washroom.

“I saw that!” he calls from inside.

You give him a rude gesture from your place under his sheets, and you hear his chuckle echoing through the open doorway as he draws you a bath. Even his laughter sounds like a whispered secret. You treasure the sound, storing it away in your memory.

You’re half hoping he’ll join you in the bath, but he leaves you to wash alone once you finally emerge from his bed. Water sluices across your form as you cleanse yourself of the hard earned sweat and stain. While the stickiness washes away, the warmth of your experience remains; an invisible mark at odds with the pale bruises blooming on your chest and thighs. His soap smells of citrus and cedar, a salty scrub that rejuvenates your flesh and invigorates your senses. It was the scent you’d caught in his pillows as you’d been pressed into them this morning. You wipe the images from your mind, clearing your head with some effort.

When you emerge from your much needed bath, wrapped in a towel, you find your things laid out neatly for you atop his fresh sheets. You pick up an oversized shirt included in the pile. Your brow arches in silent question towards the male currently fussing with dirty sheets. Thankfully, he’s donned some undershorts, so you could expect to keep it together for at least a full conversation.

“I couldn’t find your shirt,” Azriel confesses, apologetic. He tells you that he looked all over his room while you were bathing, to no avail.

“Aren’t you a spy? I can’t believe you couldn't track it down,” you laugh as you slip into his tunic. It smells clean, and you’re a little put out that it doesn’t have his aroma. He throws a pillow at you, and you barely catch it before it smacks you in the face. His pout only makes you laugh harder.

He apologizes again about your top, but as you slip your skirt back on, you remind him that you weren’t protesting last night when he threw it gods know where. His ears burn as he imagines it falling out the window, landing somewhere in the city below, perhaps much to some stranger’s confusion.

“Not that it would be out of character for this place, with Rhys and Feyre being the way they are,” he concludes, cracking you up again.

You come to stand before him, in your odd new outfit, short tight skirt and long baggy shirt. Now that you’re dressed, you aren’t sure of what comes next. So far, he’s directed your morning routine, and you’re suddenly dreading the inevitable moment when you have to leave. His eyes are taking you in, and you have no idea how his heart stutters at the sight of you, freshly bathed in his soap and dressed in his clothing. He has half a mind to take you back to bed, if Rhys hadn’t just been in his head reminding him of their upcoming morning appointment.

Before you can ask him what the plan is, your stomach growls loudly, demanding.

You curse your traitorous stomach as you walk through the grand halls alone in search of a meal, disoriented since he’d kissed your temple again right after dispatching you to the kitchen. He’d offered to get the two of you food, but you told him he should bathe first. Truth be told, you just needed a moment to get your bearings. This morning was far more normal than you were expecting, and it unnerved you how easily you’d fallen into a mock domestic routine with the warrior.

Soon enough, you find a well stocked kitchen, exactly where Azriel had explained it would be. You shouldn’t be surprised that his directions were so clear, given the male’s strategic mind.

You do find yourself surprised, however, that he’s allowing you to wander unchaperoned and barefoot through his court’s inner dwelling. The thought had warmth blooming in your chest as you set water to boil on the stove before looking around for some proper kind of tea.

Before you know it, you’ve lost yourself to snooping through the full cabinets, inspecting jars and baskets of dry goods as you assemble your small feast. As an archivist, you can’t help admiring neat collections of any kind. You’re as endlessly fascinated with the contents of cabinets as you are with stacks of manuscripts.

The distraction is why you don’t notice the approaching footsteps until a sarcastic voice calls you out of your reverie.

“Az? Is that you?”

You freeze your snacking at the unfamiliar male voice in the hallway.

“What the hell, brother. So tell me why you tapped out earlier than anyone last night– without saying goodbye, might I add– and yet you’re the only one late to training this–” the voice cuts off as he finally spots you through the door frame.

“Oh,” the Illyrian stumbles before quickly recovering, “Hello.” A boyish smile breaks upon his face as he takes in your state, dressed in his brother’s shirt over a skintight skirt.

“You’re not Azriel,” he observes keenly.

He offers you a wide grin, which you return sheepishly at first but then with real humor.

“No, I’m not,” you laugh, realizing this must be Cassian. You introduce yourself briefly before adding, “He’ll probably be late this morning.”

“I bet he will be,” Cassian quips, but before he can question you further, you excuse yourself with your tea while it's still hot.

“It’s nice to meet you!” he calls after you, your name ringing down the corridor.

Cassian shakes his head once you leave, speechless for a moment before he contacts Rhys. You won’t believe this! he projects excitedly, thrilled to have some gossip on his brooding brother for once.

You can’t hide your giddy blush when you return to Azriel’s room to eat. He takes the tea with quiet thanks, laughing at the mischief you’d gotten up to in his absence, and even more so at your impression of Cassian. His chest warms at your brief brush with his family. You enjoy a peaceful meal sitting in his chair by the window while he tidies his already very clean room, noting how fastidious he is in his motions as he dresses and styles his hair for the day.

Once he’s run out of ways to drag out his morning routine, he turns to you with a serious but soft expression.

“Can I see you again?” Azriel asks. If all logic didn’t defy it, you’d say he sounds nervous. “Perhaps on a real date?”

“A date?” you ask coyly. You don’t bother to hide your smug delight at his words, feeling like you’ve just won a prize. “Yeah, I think I’d like that. A lot.”

His resulting smile is so bright– for a second it transports you back to the grand archival library in Day court, where you’d soak up the blinding noon light that would stream in through the tall arched windows. You could always rely on its warmth for a reprieve from your dusty, tedious tasks. You imagine Az must feel similarly in this moment for his shadowy expression to break with such radiance.

It calms your sorrow at leaving the brilliant palace, confident that you might very well see it again soon. You enjoy this flight more, as he carefully maneuvers through the city’s sky, the journey less disorienting in the daylight. He leaves you on the steps of your accommodations near the library with a lingering kiss and a promise to see you again the next night.

Once he leaves, your mind goes into overdrive, cataloguing all that had occurred and trying to figure out what exactly drew you together. If there was any sort of common thread, it was invisible, but you felt its undeniable pull all the same.

You’d have to do some further research, you decide, on Illyrians, and on shadowsingers. And perhaps on sex positions with winged fae. And maybe you should buy a new going out top… though you certainly wouldn’t be returning this new one anytime soon, you think, smoothing Azriel’s shirt down as you step inside your little place.

You happily plan your list of tasks and activities, unaware of the shadows that slip inside after you, ready to report back to their master, who is equally anticipating your next meeting, even as he arrives unforgivably late to training, only to face the torment of his nosy family.

Azriel bears their prying questions and bold threats with characteristic stoicism, cracking only to say that they’d better play nice, offering scalding threats of his own lest they scare you off. Deep down, he thinks with pride that you could probably actually handle them in their full chaos.

After all, he’d felt something shake loose in his chest this morning as he’d laid watching your sleeping form. He recalls how he’d felt last night, when you were backlit and glowing above him. The magnetism that had sparked, a gravity he stepped into fearlessly when in battle, that now gave him pause. Later, when he had a moment, he would examine it more intently, but even at this glance, he felt it strongly.

He swallows his smile as he falls into the motions of sparring with Rhys, feeling that familiar thrill. He’s found a real contender in you, he should have known it from the moment he saw you squaring up back at the club. Azriel can’t wait to see things through with you.

Hours later, recalling that excitement feels like mockery, as he ponders what one possibly does for a first– second?– date. He curses himself for having such a premature reaction, rather than applying a more rational process to the situation. He’d met you once. He told himself he hardly knew you.

But even as he had that thought, he brought to mind all he’d absorbed about you. Your life in Day, your dedication to your people, your reverence for things of antiquity. His mind wandered to your shared experience, how he’d seen you come alive and undone under his touch. Your small reactions, your fixation on his wings, your quickness to humor. He couldn’t convince himself that he didn’t know you at all. Still, surely many fae knew you better than he could, after just one night.

The thought fills him with an ugly emotion; he didn’t like that someone else might know you better than he. Azriel scolds himself for his juvenile envy. He hadn’t earned special intimacy with you. Yet , he amends.

He is a master of spies, and foremost of a scarce population who could wield shadows as easily as any blade, and the trusted right hand of the most formidable High Lord in history. Even in his own right, he is one of the most powerful Illyrians in existence, he reminds himself as he sets to the task of planning your date.

Azriel is determined to show you a good time. He thinks back to how organic, how right your brief time together at Rita’s had felt.

How badly could this go?

✸✸✸

“You’re an idiot. I knew you were an asshole, but honestly Az, I hadn’t pegged you as an idiot,” Cassian scoffs, his raven locks shaking derisively. “I don’t know why I expected better.”

Azriel just glares at him. He should have known it was a mistake to come to Cassian for advice.

He looks to Rhys, hoping to find more level headed counsel. The three of them were cooling down from their morning sparring the night after his much anticipated date with you, ransacking the kitchen to refuel. Unfortunately, Rhys’ expression isn’t encouraging, the High Lord barely concealing his amusement.

Azriel sighs, supplicating the ceiling for better guidance. He knows that their strenuous exercises aren’t solely to blame for the distant throbbing in his skull.

“Quit it with the hysterics,” Rhys teases.

Azriel levels him with a stare, his shoulders tense and his shadows in pandemonium.

Rhys sighs, relenting, “So, you were saying you took her out to dinner?” he prompts diplomatically.

Azriel nods. He had picked you up about an hour after you’d gotten out of work for the day. You’d been elegantly arrayed, but still casual, since you weren’t sure what he had planned. Your wide smile upon seeing him had left him winded as you’d taken in his generous physique. He’d been drinking you in too, and the sight of those same chunky boots on your feet had had him smirking.

You’d playfully bared your teeth as you laid your hand on his waiting arm. “See something you like, soldier?” you’d teased.

“Very much so,” he’d responded honestly.

His candor had struck you off balance with more punch than any sweet talk or sass could have packed. His eyes held the same intensity that they’d burned with the other night; the same intensity that you’d started to doubt in your memory, thinking you must have imagined it in your blissed out daze.

“You clean up nice, too,” you’d recovered.

He’d mirrored your blush then, his red dusted cheeks relaxing you as he’d guided the two of you along the Sidra into the center of town.

The restaurant had been nice, not too nice, but comfortable and intimate. You’d been thrilled with the menu, the seafood more exotic and the spices more daring than what you told him you were used to back in Day. Perhaps he should have commented more of his own thoughts, but he was so satisfied just to listen to your chatter.

“Dinner was good,” Azriel shares.

Rhys and Cassian share a look at that. They were probably holding a conversation mentally on the side, analyzing and strategizing.

“Well, don’t bore us with the details,” Rhys prompts sarcastically.

Azriel swallows his retort, reminding himself that these were his brothers. As much as they pissed him off, they were his family, and they wanted the best for him. They wanted him to be happy.

“What else do you want to know?!” he groans.

“Did you fuck her?” Cassian deadpans.

Azriel just sputters in response. He is quickly losing faith that his brothers will be any help, if that was the best Cass could do.

“No!” Azriel balks.

“What do you mean no!” Rhys shouts, as Cassian curses and shakes his head more, this time hiding his face in his hands.

“I mean, we… we did sleep together that first night,” Azriel amends, with a meaningful look at Cassian, who stops snickering. “But not last night.”

“Why the hell not?” Cassian demands.

“Is that all you can think about?” Az hedges. He honestly didn’t know why you hadn’t slept together again. He had certainly wanted to. Fuck, what he wouldn’t do for another chance to taste you, to take you back to his place– his real place this time, not the House of Wind– get you in his bed and run his hands over your thighs, and up, up, to brush his thumb through your soaking folds–

“Brother! You’re one to talk, you’re the one going stupid at the thought of her right now!” Cass’s accusation has him cursing and forcing his mind back to this maddening conversation.

Rhys regards him with a knowing look which does little to comfort him. The two males across the counter share another meaningful glance. Azriel runs his hand through his hair, he was going to lose his mind if they kept up their silent conversation.

I’m right here, assholes, he projects into their minds down the bridges Rhys had established centuries ago. Typically, they reserved their use for business, but clearly the High Lord and his Commander had no qualms using their privileged mental bridge to serve their busybody purposes.

Rhys has the decency to cringe, but Cassian dismisses his insult with the ease of one perfectly aware of his gold certified status as an ass.

“What did you do to her, Az?” Cass scorns.

“Okay. So dinner was good. That’s a good start,” Rhys interjects, suddenly playing the diplomat again as his brothers’ fists begin to curl. “What did the two of you talk about?” he prompts helplessly.

“Just… things.”

Cassian swears again at Azriel’s curt response, and even as his temper flares, Azriel sees how weak his answer is. “Okay! Okay. We… Well, she talked about her life back in Day. I asked her a lot about her work, and how their recovery efforts are progressing.”

Rhys nods, encouraging him.

“And I asked how she felt about the security of Day, since a myriad of threats remain unchecked, after everything, and since they don’t discriminate between courts but could affect any of us-”

Cassian groans, and Rhys winces.

“What! She cares about her people, I was trying to be attentive!” Az defends.

“Brother. It sounds like you were doing recon,” Rhys gently explains.

Az opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You grilled her about the status of her court’s border security,” Cass adds bluntly.

“I did not… grill her,” Azriel manages. “I just… fuck. Fuck!” he lets out. “Damn it! I was asking her about her interests,” he helplessly repeats.

Cassian and Rhys just look at him with pity.

He scowls, accepting that the dinner conversation was perhaps not as free flowing as things had been at Rita’s. Still, he’d have sworn that you’d enjoyed the evening. He looks up at his brothers, desperation written on his face. “What do I do?”

“Did you make plans to see each other again?” Cass asks hesitantly, a rare sign that he’s taking this seriously after all.

“No,” Azriel admits, “but she did say she’d like to see me again,” he adds, much to his brothers’ relief.

Rhys claps his hands together, capturing their attention, his shoulders squaring as he assumes his role as their sovereign strategist. “Alright. We can work with that,” he claims. “How do we go from here? What are the facts?”

“First, we have established that Az is an idiot,” Cassian chirps helpfully.

“Right,” Rhys confirms, and Azriel just rubs his temples. This was just like their young days at the training camp, only without the license to punch Cassian for mouthing off. “What else?”

“She wants to see him again.” Azriel opens his eyes and flashes a grateful smile at his brother, who ruins the moment by adding suggestively- ”Or at least she wants to see part of him again.”

Rhys sighs, mentally reaching out to Feyre to tell her that she’ll have to handle their mid-morning appointments solo. Everything okay? she responds. He replies wordlessly with the scene in front of him, his brothers bickering over their breakfast, Cass creating an impressively explicit insult with a chocolate pastry and Az returning in kind.

By the afternoon though, the three males have come up with a respectable plan to salvage Azriel’s tenuous connection with you.

✸✸✸

You’re surprised when you see a shadow slip along the stacks toward your spot barricaded in a corner of the Night Court’s library, poring over some dense tomes. They’re full of oblique explanations that reference texts that are equally inaccessible, even to you in your expertise. You’d just about decided it was time for a break when you see the shadow approach.

It curls around your hand in an affectionate welcome. As warmth flares in your chest, a note materializes, a welcomely legible message compared to the books you’d been buried in. You look around, despite the silent and largely empty library.

No one is present to witness your blush as you lightly stroke the first line. The note is addressed to your name in a neat script.

I’m writing with regard to my concern that you’ve had too grand an impression of my court , it reads. You can hear Azriel’s wry tone in the clear letters.

First the high class of Rita’s, then the dizzying heights of Velaris’ fine dining last night. You smile at his dry, self deprecating words. Your heart thunders as you continue reading.

I’d like to amend this most grievous picture with a far less elegant evening. Would you be available to join me for dinner tonight? Same time, and meet me at my place instead.

Please respond at your leisure. I would very much like to see you again–

–He’s included an address and signed merely with an initial, a sloping A , that you trace as you mull over his words.

His place? That last line too, I would very much like to see you again , seems less neat than the rest of his writing, almost hastily scrawled. As if it had been an afterthought. Or as if he’d been nervous to pen it?

You shake your head at his shadow twirling around your wrist, the messenger seemingly in no rush. You’d been confused after your date with the shadowsinger, and now even more so. He wanted to see you again.

The date last night hadn’t been bad. You’d certainly had worse experiences.

He had shown up right on time to pick you up from your doorstep, sweetly admiring you as you’d shakily locked up your place. When you’d caught his hungry gaze, that still novel thrill had shot through you, and you couldn’t help your smile. You’d been excited, and that feeling remained sparkling in your chest as you’d wound your way through the city towards the spot he’d picked out.

The meal you’d shared had been amazing, you were impressed with the whole affair. Azriel had looked indecently handsome in a soft black tunic and sleek charcoal pants, his siphons simmering ultramarine. You’d noticed he wore heavier leather boots…

“Nice boots,” you’d complemented with a small smirk.

“Thank you,” he had spoken sincerely, without marking your innuendo.

You’d meant it as a small temperature check, delicately referencing your previous frenzied hook up where you’d neglected to take off your shoes for the first couple rounds.

Either Azriel had missed your meaning, or he was establishing a boundary. You didn’t imagine the spymaster missed much, so you took it as an indication that he didn’t want to explicitly discuss what had happened between you.

Even that was confusing, since his eyes had still gravitated towards your lips, followed the movements of your throat, and beheld you with a ferocity you couldn’t tear yourself away from.

You held your tongue, though, about the research you’d done on how to get freaky with a winged individual. Honestly, that was probably for the best, you reflect, given how your sources were anecdotal at best. But damn! You’d done your due diligence, and you were hoping it would come in handy eventually.

Azriel had been kind to the staff, who did their best to conceal how unnerved they were by his presence. He’d been perfectly well mannered, you’d enjoyed picking his mind about court security and his entertaining stories about his family. Overall, it had felt like your conversation at Rita’s, free flowing and comfortable. You trace the evening in your mind now, finding it more complex than the books you’d been dissecting all morning.

You were used to speaking your mind, so you had planned to tell him directly that you’d like him to fuck you again, please and thank you .

And when he hadn’t responded to your lingering touches, or your meaningful looks, you figured it was the same pattern as last time; where his respectful attitude demanded he unleash his passion only slowly and incrementally as the night progressed. After he’d walked you home and you’d told him what a great time you’d had at dinner, you’d even gone so far as to invite him up to your place.

But he had declined.

The male who you thought had been undressing you with his eyes the whole way back had dodged your invitation, citing an early morning. You’d been so blindsided that you’d just accepted it.

Azriel had kissed you then, confusing you more as his hot mouth worked yours in a riveting connection. Then he had simply pulled away, his hazel eyes molten in the dark.

“I’d like to see you again.”

You cringe, recalling your words to him as he’d bade you good night. But he had seemed to practically preen at that, his shadows making lazy, arrogant circles around the horns at the apex of his wings.

So, all things considered, perhaps this note before you shouldn’t be a total surprise.

You’ll just have to talk directly with him, you reason. And the best way to do that will be to see him in person tonight. You briefly pen your enthusiastic agreement to send off with the shadow before returning to your work, heart a little lighter.

Azriel smiles as his shadow appears, depositing his note with your neat reply.

I look forward to seeing you tonight. Should I wear my boots? He laughs, spine tingling at his memory of you and those godsdamned shoes. He makes a note to remember to take them off of you tonight. If he’s so lucky…

✸✸✸

Azriel considers himself luckier than he deserves when you actually show up at his place that evening. You look resplendent, he thinks, starlight dusting your hair. Much to his embarrassment, his shadows swarm you the instant he opens his front door to your confident knock. He silently curses them and wills them to behave.

“They say hello, as well,” he says after greeting you.

“Hello to you too, then, you handsome little devils,” you flirt shamelessly with his shadows.

“Don’t encourage them,” Az chides affectionately, watching them as they double back to twirl in your hair and brush along your cheek. “They’re insufferable enough as is.”

You just laugh at their antics, flattered by their attention.

Quite frankly, you’re charmed. You couldn’t find any information on shadowsingers in your brief search on the topic. You aren’t sure how they work or how they speak to him, but you do know that you like them. The more you interact with them, you can sense their personality.

“You look beautiful,” he offers.

He takes your jacket, manners impeccable as he crisply hangs it on the back of his door.

“Thank you,” you blush, slyly admiring his wings as he’s turned away. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

You’re fooling no one. Azriel looks good. Really good. He’s handsome enough to win a best dressed contest naked, but this outfit works for him too. His sleek vest is a deep green, the first hint of color you’ve seen on him. It complements his eyes well, bringing out their gold. You’re enjoying his exposed forearms too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

You had caught the faint scent of citrus and cedar as you’d brushed past him to step inside. Your body is activated by the scent, recalling how it had lingered on his pillows. Overwhelmed by the pleasant picture, you swallow the memory.

Before he can catch you checking him out, you catch a mouthwatering aroma.

“Did you cook?”

His bashful look has your heart melting as he leads you to his kitchen. Indeed, the male had cooked a glorious meal. The dishes themselves aren’t particularly rich fare, but the volume is definitely more than two can pack away. He's gone all out.

As you marvel at his production, it strikes you how surreal this is, how extraordinary. You’re here. In his kitchen. The famed shadowsinger has made you roast fowl from scratch.

To distract yourself from the absurdity of the picture, you focus on the details. There's herbs tied up in bundles hanging from his shelves. You get a glance inside one cabinet as he grabs a bottle of wine, and, unsurprisingly, their contents are very neat.

“I’m impressed.”

“That’s the general idea,” he winks as he pours you a nice glass.

This was one step of his preparation for the evening. One key element of a winning battle was the location, situating your forces in the most optimal position. Now, his simple task is to figure out how to build a beautiful, long lasting relationship with a brilliant female out of a fancy goose carcass and herb potatoes. He grits his teeth. The night isn’t nearly over yet.

You accept the drink with thanks.

“So, this is your place?”

Azriel just nods.

“So, did you rent that palace temporarily, or?” you try again.

“Oh, that was the House of Wind.”

You raise your eyebrows at the lack of explanation. “It sure was windy.”

He catches your question then, “Oh- sorry, yes. It’s essentially our, that is, the court members’, public house-” he launches into the explanation you’d been looking for.

You’d imagined he would be more comfortable in his own home, but he seems uneasy. The male remains as inscrutable as ever. You hadn’t realized how much you usually rely on nonverbal cues to read people. He is so reserved– by training– and also obscured– literally, by shadows.

As you chat amiably about the city and its organization and his confusing housing situation, he leads you to his sitting room. You were surprised at your nerves even as you converse easily, typically you weren’t so easily ruffled. Then again, it’s been a while since you’d been so swept up by someone.

“It’s nice,” you say, looking around the room.

“Yeah? You like it?”

“Yeah,” you nod. It’s cozier than the palace was, the sweeping views exchanged for a comfortable and surprisingly cheerful atmosphere. The furniture is cushy, but practical, sturdy.

“I know it’s not much like the palace,” he reads your mind.

“No, I like that it's cozier. I just don’t know how you fit in the door,” you joke, gesturing vaguely at his scale, between his muscled form and looming wings. He laughs at that, and you banter back and forth about what a pity it is that there’s such a lack of Illyrian sized accommodations. Your shared laughter fades into a silence only broken by the crack of logs burning slowly in his hearth, crumbling voicelessly into embers.

You let the moment stretch, taking the moment to appreciate the relaxed evening ahead of you, unwinding from your long day at work.

Azriel, meanwhile, is counting the remaining threads of his sanity on one hand. Give him a fistfight. Give him an enemy regime to infiltrate. But gods save him from making conversation with a female he likes. He thought the relaxed setting would be more casual, but his chest is still tight as he tries to behave normally. Maybe this was a bad idea…

The pleasant silence continues to grate on Azriel, until he crumbles. “We can eat whenever,” he says, breaking the spell. He curses himself for his cowardice, sidestepping whatever was growing in the lingering quiet between you.

“This is nice, though,” you say into your wine, undeterred. It really is good stuff. You aren’t a sommelier but you know a drinkable vintage when it hits your tongue.

“Yeah,” he relaxes somewhat into the couch next to you again.

Hazel eyes meet yours, the fire from the hearth flickering in their reflection. You really are enjoying the peaceful atmosphere with him. His hair is styled a little differently than you remember, the waves flopping in a charming swoop across his forehead rather than brushed back. Your gaze dips to his lips, damp with wine. His pupils expand almost imperceptibly as they track the movement, like prey scenting a threat.

A loud knock interrupts your mooning.

Azriel frowns, one of his shadows streaking off to investigate the front door. His scowl deepens before his scout even returns, as the knocking continues, adamant.

“One moment,” Azriel says reluctantly, with an apologetic look as he stands. You nod, your attention on his tense form, his wings obscuring the door as he whips it open.

“What are you doing here?” you hear Azriel hiss.

“Rhys has no good wine left,” Cassian whines as he brushes past Azriel at the door. “Oh, hello again!” he says to you with a winning smile as he emerges from the entryway, somehow edging around the imposing shadowsinger.

“Hi,” you say quietly, but not weakly, looking to Azriel for your cues. His face is unreadable, a dark storm clouding his features once more.

“Wait up, you brute!” a female voice speaks, and Azriel’s face darkens further as a stunning female pushes her way in. You recognize her from the bar, she was one of the group Az had pointed out as his family. Mor , her name surfaces in your mind. She was the one who brought them all to Rita’s frequently.

You could guess why she might prefer that particular spot, as her eyes rake over you. She flicks her hair flirtatiously.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says boldly, extending a hand as you rise from Azriel’s couch, making your way to join them at the front of the room. You tell her your name, and she flashes you a smile, all teeth as she bites her lip.

“Mor,” she offers.

“Yes– it’s nice to meet you officially. Azriel has told me a bit about all of you,” you admit.

“Really?” she says with genuine interest, looking at the shadowsinger curiously. Her mind seems to be working at top speed as she takes in the two of you, him sulking by the open door and you standing comfortably by the entryway to his sitting area, your glass of wine by his couch half empty.

“Yes, well,” Azriel begins, trying to reel in his invading family, “we were just about to eat, so–”

“Yes, why don’t you join us!” you suggest. You miss Cassian’s shit eating grin and Azriel’s shocked expression as you turn to Mor.

“We would hate to intrude,” Cassian lies. He’s schooled his face into one of total propriety, a convincing facade only to you.

“No, it’ll be fun!” you encourage, finally looking to Azriel.

You feel bad to take charge, but he is giving you no clues. Welcoming his family seems like a safe play. Even if they were crashing your date, you would be lying if you said you weren’t curious to get to know them after the bits and pieces Az has shared.

Plus, you’d seen the way his eyes had flashed with alarm when you’d glanced at his lips. Maybe he’d be glad of the diversion...

“If you insist,” Cassian drawls at the same time as Mor asks “What’s that smell?”

You grab her arm cheerfully to lead her into the kitchen, eagerly sharing about the enticing meal Az had prepared.

Azriel grabs Cassian, holding him hostage in the entryway as the two females disappear into his home. “This was not the plan!” he spits in a furious whisper.

“It wasn’t your plan,” Cassian corrects in his most infuriating tone: superiority.

Azriel just growls at him as they move inside, shooting him a look that says Don’t fuck this up for me .

Cassian’s silent reply comes with mock innocence, Who, me?

Azriel’s lethal retort is snuffed out as he registers your laugh from around the corner. “Be nice!” is all Az manages before he steps into the kitchen to investigate what potentially devastating story Mor is telling to make you laugh like that. Why did Cassian think that he needed babysitting?

His anger bluffs as he takes in your red face, your grinning laughter directed at him. He can’t bring himself to feel upset when you’re giggling like a fool in his kitchen.

“Did you really steal this wine from Amren on a dare?” you wheeze gleefully, hefting the open bottle with newfound interest.

He mirrors your grin, “What kind of spy would I be if I admitted to it?”

You and Mor squeal at his response, she starts yelling at him that Of course he did it, he could never back down from a dare , and Cassian is laughing now too, butting in to tell you his side of the story, to explain his most elegantly devised dare, as Mor slaps his chest and reminds him about the many shots that had contributed to its flawed design. Azriel takes in the scene, so chaotic and so not what he had planned. You catch his eye from across the small room, your eyes shining with mirth.

You seem perfectly at home, pouring two extra glasses of wine for your unexpected guests. He shakes his head affectionately, surrendering to the new program for the evening.

As he sets the table for you and his family, he tries to remember why he was so angry just moments ago. That fire has faded to warmth, calm radiating from his chest at the familiar scene before him.

Cassian seats himself first, and then Mor insists on sitting next to you, so Azriel ends up facing you across the table. You give him a small smile, a brief look meant just for him, as his brother piles food onto his plate with gusto. You see Azriel swallow his annoyance, his face betraying that he’d cooked those fucking rosemary potatoes for you, not Cass. They’re passed to you next, and you see him relax as you dish yourself a generous portion. As the dishes rotate, the smell of the simple feast nears heavenly.

The chatter pitches higher too, Cassian asking you about Day and Mor describing the miracle that must have resulted in Azriel’s culinary art. Question after question is posed to you, apparently they find you as fascinating as you find them.

This is nothing like you’d pictured, you think, as insults and compliments are exchanged around you. And you had pictured it, what meeting Azriel’s family would be like. What else were you supposed to do with yourself last night, having been declined sex after a nice date?

It had been a clunky vision, more so based on your experiences with the formal dinners you’d attended for work than with meeting a partner’s friends and family.

You’d struggled to picture how you could possibly connect with his inner circle, elite as they were. The daydream had been promptly abandoned after you’d failed to conjure anything remotely pleasant. Azriel was always charming as ever in the imagined scenarios, but you’d not factored in the wholly unpretentious warmth he has with his closest friends.

You see that tenderness now as he rolls his eyes at the two imposing faeries, the pair of them representing a significant part of his family. A memory flashes in your mind at the sight, a memory of tenderness when he’d been admiring you in bed that morning a handful of days ago. But they'd all known each other for centuries. You’d known him for a handful of days. Was it foolish of you to dream that you’d earn a place in his world? You thought of the small case of belongings you’d brought with you from Day. Suddenly, it felt paltry, lacking, especially as you pictured your friends and work back at home.

But who cares if your presence here is inconsequential in the long run? It matters to you that you are here now, and you’re pretty sure it matters to Azriel. You reaffix your smile, deciding to enjoy the moment you’re in.

“Azriel is a total ladykiller,” Mor cackles, and you regret having zoned out during this particular story. Azriel snorts at her words, but you blush at their partial truth.

“Yeah,” Cassian catches your attention by speaking your name in a questioning tone, “Can you fight?”

“Only verbally,” you confess, a little nervous to admit it to your current company of seasoned warriors.

Cassian grunts in acknowledgement, nonjudgmental. He narrows his eyes, humor dissipating as he assesses you. “We can work with that,” he decides, suddenly sounding serious. “I can teach you the basics, but Azriel might want to show you the more advanced maneuvers himself,” he says with a wink.

Azriel blushes and glares at the innuendo, while Mor laughs around her bite. Yet the depth behind Cassian’s proposal strikes you. His offer assumes that you’ll be sticking around.

“I’d like that,” you accept, smiling at the general next to you.

Azriel feels his chest go weightless at your words, like he’s soaring high above the atmosphere. He flashes his brother a grateful look before clearing his throat.

“Don’t go easy on her, Cass. She’s lying,” Azriel warns, with a mischievous glance at you. Your shadowsinger has certainly lost whatever hesitation he had earlier, his bold words matching his newfound audacity. “She was totally squaring up with some dipshit at Rita’s before I intervened.”

You gape at him as Cass and Mor squawk. The two of them launch into an intense interrogation, demanding the full story.

As you recall the evening in question, you feel yourself precariously close to an embarrassing blush. The mortal blow comes when Azriel laughs, the sound noon-bright and ringing, buzzing loud as gossip.

Eventually, after several more glasses of wine, with empty plates to match, Azriel disentangles you from Mor and Cassian’s endless chatter. You’re reluctant to see your new friends leave, and the amused male only successfully ushers them out after you make Cassian swear to keep his promise to teach you to fight. Content, you wish everyone a good night and thank them for their warm welcome to the Night Court.

Once the door closes, Azriel heaves out a good natured sigh.

“What were you and Mor whispering about just now?” you pry, still giddy in the wake of your departed company. You liked them a lot, and you like who Azriel became around them, as laid-back as a seasoned spy could be.

“She was telling me how my head might end up on a pike if I don’t watch myself,” he responds drily, and you notice him rub his temple harshly with a knuckle.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out.

His brows furrow, “Why?”

“I totally invited them to stay when it wasn’t my place,” you explain, shaking your head in regret. “Did I totally ruin our date?”

“Well I ruined the last one,” he says with humor, “so it was your turn.”

“What? No you didn't!” you defend him.

You’re shocked by his candid words. The date had been a bit awkward at the end, but it wasn’t a disaster in your eyes.

“Yes, I did.”

“What do you mean?” you search as you walk back into the kitchen to start cleaning up, “Like how we didn’t have sex?” Azriel chokes, his humor vanishing as you continue, “I was going to ask about that, but I figured it was a topic we should address privately.”

“Thank you for that small mercy,” he recovers. His shadows betray his agitation, floating jerkily around his shoulders in a confused dance.

You realize with a start that he’s nervous. The war hardened fighter is unnerved by a conversation about sex.

You’d really meant to ask earlier, but it wasn’t going to happen in front of Cass and Mor. The conversation at dinner had been enthusiastic and expansive, lighthearted at every turn. You’d assumed its levity was due to the fact that you were new, unfamiliar company. Now, seeing Azriel fight demons to self-reflect, you wonder if he ever really opens up to anyone, even his closest family members.

In all fairness, you aren’t exactly thrilled to talk about it either. You're nervous too, painfully aware that there’s an obvious explanation as to why he didn’t sleep with you again.

The male sighs again at your inquisitive look, his hands scrubbing over his face like he can wipe away his confusion. His brows furrow. “I honestly don’t know why we didn’t,” he says quietly.

You’re surprised at his answer. You’d expected more substance.

“I wanted to, you know,” you admit, pride be damned. If you were going out, you wanted to leave all your cards on the table.

“Really?” He mirrors your surprise. “I did too. I wanted you so badly, it scared me.”

You look at the battle scarred warrior, unimpressed. Even slouching, which he never did, he would still stand at least a good head above you.

You ask with disbelief, “ I scared you ?”

“Well… not exactly like that,” he explains, and he reaches out carefully to grasp your hand in his large palm. “I guess I was being… cautious. I wanted to be respectful.”

His words shatter something fledgling in your heart. That was practically code for I’m trying to be nice, I don’t want to lead you on .

“Oh.” You drop his hand, bracing yourself for the dreaded sting of rejection.

As he sees your expression harden, Azriel curses himself inwardly. This isn’t going the way he’d strategized it at all. His forehead creases as he desperately tries to remember the points he and his brothers had mapped out to help him with this exact conversation. Maybe Cassian was right to spare him from being alone with you, if he’s fucked it up this quickly.

Azriel thinks back to the previous night, when he had declined your invitation to come upstairs. He’d seen the chill on your face, a chill from his own closed door. You hadn’t pushed his boundaries. Rhys had pointed out to him that from his behavior, you probably couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Hell, even from inside his own head, Azriel was struggling to work out his thoughts.

The gravity of his attraction to you is concerning. It was a dangerous thing, the weight of it as great and terrible as a sword in his hands.

He wants your affection, he realizes. The trouble is: asking the spymaster to share his innermost secrets is like asking a busybody to keep just one. It went against his nature.

He pictures you as you were when he first saw you, gearing up for a fight at Rita’s. You’d been fearsome as ever, confronting the challenge rather than running. He wills himself the same bravery. He is a fearsome warrior, he absolutely refuses to allow mere emotion to make him a coward.

“I need you to understand something,” Azriel breathes, his wings tight as his expression. “I can’t do this if it’s just sex.”

You set down a dish heavily, your once sun-soaked heart breaking.

“If you, uh, don’t want this, that’s, that’s fine. I respect that,” you affirm, even as you’re reeling.

But then Azriel is shaking his head and wiping under your eyes, which you belatedly realize with embarrassment must mean that you’re crying. He’s trying to tell you how he feels and you’re crying on him. Gods! Get it together! you berate yourself.

“No, no, no. Angel, look at me,” Azriel panics. You meet his gaze, and you see a tenderness there, as ripe and sweet as the summer plums you used to pick with your mother as a child. “Shit, I’m doing this all wrong,” he curses.

“I can’t do casual,” he confesses, head still shaking, eyes gone glossy.

“That’s okay, I get it if you don’t want this–”

“No! No, you don’t get it,” he interrupts, swearing and speaking your name with exasperated affection. “I do want this. I want you .”

You gasp, teeth kissing the air as he continues.

“I want you. You said it wasn’t your place to invite them to stay tonight, but I want it to be your place. Fuck, I want to see you every day. I want to come home to you, and to know you’re waiting for me when I’m gone. And some days I want to wait for you too, and get jealous of the books you spend your time with.”

You try to say something clever like What the fuck? or Huh? but you’re too shocked to do much more than stare open mouthed as he lays out his emotions for you. At least you’ve stopped crying.

Azriel is looking at you as if you were personally responsible for every ounce of goodness he’s ever witnessed. It scares the shit out of you. How could he say all that? He doesn’t even know you. It doesn’t help that three seconds ago you thought he was going to kick you out.

“Why me?” you finally manage.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he says, unblinking.

In a total inversion of all Azriel had ever known, he felt an overwhelming impulse to bare his soul to you. You’d never been scared of him, even when he’d put on his most frightening persona at the bar. You’d taken his identity in stride, you’d even used it to flirt.

He wants you to know him, he realizes. All of him. Even the darkest parts, the cruel, mean pieces with which he wouldn’t want to burden anyone but himself. For some unknown reason, at this moment, he can think of no greater honor than your involvement in his world, his reality, ugly as it may be. He hopes you’ll want it.

He takes your hand and places it on his heart, gripping it over his chest. When he speaks, his voice is ragged, tender and raw.

“You must know. You burn me,” Azriel confesses. “Surely you feel how you burn me.”

What you feel is your heart in your throat, pulsing erratically at his words. The naked truth on his face frightens you.

Your free hand reaches out to caress his high cheekbone as your mind whirls. His eyes close at the contact, his lips parted in silent prayer.

“I feel it too.”

When your thumb brushes the edge of his bottom lip, those hazel eyes flutter open again. The energy between you is thicker than it was moments ago, something fresh set smoldering in his gaze. His chest heaves under your other palm.

“You do?” he gasps, and you nod, words failing under the enormity of your emotion.

He’s equally choked up, so he opts for actions instead, pulling you against him to capture your lips in a messy kiss. It’s all wine-breath and teeth, but it’s perfect.

Your uncontrollable smile forces you to break away, and when you do he’s smiling at you just the same. His joy is infectious. For a long moment, you just smile at each other like fools, breathing each other's air in the sacred ambiance of the dim kitchen light. You linger in the quiet awe in the wake of your confessions.

When your mouths reconnect, the kiss turns feverish. It’s insatiable, your desire for him, as you suck his tongue, earning a satisfying whine from the hulking Illyrian.

“Shit,” he groans as he lifts you.

You gasp as your weight shifts off your feet, and he sets you against his counter before reconnecting your panting mouths. The insufferable Illyrian pushes one of his thighs between your legs, capturing your muffled groans with his warm mouth, tonguing away your soft cries.

“Make me yours,” you whisper.

“Shit, baby, I think I’d do anything you ask if you say it just like that,” he whines against your mouth.

He pulls away, standing between your legs like it's a place of special honor.

“Bedroom?” he begs, shining with unchecked joy.

“Yes,” you eagerly agree. “We can break in the kitchen counter later.” His laughter rattles down the hallway as he carries you to his room.

Once you’re through the doorway, his movements pause. A tender note hums to life amidst the excitement of your newfound connection. There’s a tender look on his face as he regards you with equal parts lust and affection. It’s a serious step for him, to have you here in his most personal place.

You’re distracted by the new space as soon as he sets you down, fascinated with his room– his personal room, not the one kept for him at the House of Wind. It’s sparsely decorated, too, but there’s knick knacks and weapons lying around in characteristically organized fashion.

“A lot of weapons…” you comment, humor bubbling up from your delight at the novelty of his affection and attention.

There’s several swords on the wall, artfully placed in the columns between windows, and knives and spears are displayed in tasteful and accessible ways. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was compensating for something. Is that a halberd? you think. The last time you saw a halberd was in an illustration on an ancient manuscript.

“What do you do for work again?” you joke.

He laughs, “I’m afraid the tools come with the trade.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that, but, I mean, seriously. That one?” You gesture above the balcony doors, where a grossly oversized sword rests. “Come on, Az!”

“Come on, I bet your place is full of books!” he counters.

You just scoff, so he knows he’s right.

“Come here,” he says, fondly. “You can inspect my quarters later, you freak.”

“Your freak,” you correct.

“My freak,” he agrees.

With that, Azriel grabs your waist, and pulls you in for a sumptuous kiss. The wine on his tongue goes right to your head, while the warmth of him goes due south. You pull away to tug meaningfully at his shirt, but he just follows to place expert kisses along your jaw. His work is so severe that you gasp–

“Shit, Az, I'm not paying you!”

“Are you calling me a whore?” he answers playfully, unfastening his shirt at the back under his wings. He sucks on his teeth, pulling away to look you in the eyes. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually. The payment didn’t go through last time–”

“Oh, no–”

“–yeah, so if you could, perhaps, pay in hard gold this time, that would be–”

“Ah, okay. Could you do a payment plan?–” the two of you banter while he shrugs off his vest. You relish the view of his exposed chest.

He plays into your shameless ogling, flexing to show off his whorling tattoos and the dark hairs trailing down beyond his leathers. The faelights surrounding the room cast a glow through the thin membrane of his wings, softly limning his form with warmth. You laugh at his peep show, but the sound is pitchy with your arousal. The toned male blushes. His easy humor may have returned, but vestiges of his shy personality still remain.

You whistle softly, continuing to torture him with your attention. His blush deepens impossibly. He’s just so easy to tease, and when he reacts like that, it's easier still to justify.

“Your turn,” he says, voice gravelly.

“What first?” you muse suggestively, smoothing down your dress.

“Boots,” he chooses.

Before you can toe them off, Azriel sinks suddenly to the floor. The sight of him on his knees before you sends a thrill up your spine.

Azriel, this most fearsome Illyrian, is totally surrendered to you. Heat throbs through your abdomen at the sight. He’s looking up at you through his lashes, his throat bobbing in anticipation as he pants below you. You haven’t even touched him yet, but his passion is evident, his eyes wild.

He gently grabs the back of your shins. “May I?”

“Please.”

He effortlessly unlaces your boots with capable hands.

“I’m surprised you want them off,” you tease as he grasps your hands to steady you as you step out of them.

“You look so sexy in them,” he agrees. “I am making a real sacrifice here, for your comfort.” His hand skims up the back of your calf, brushing your dress over your knee with his thumb. He places a kiss directly on your knee, heat flaring in your stomach at the soft brush.

“You look sexy in this too,” he compliments. His eyes never leave yours as he hauls himself up, you dress falling back to cover your legs.

“Would you be mad if I asked you to take it off?” His tone is toying, but his eyes are pools of hot desire.

“Don’t be an ass,” you rasp, mad only with anticipation.

Azriel slips two fingers under the straps on your shoulders, kissing your chest as he tugs them down your arms. You’re honestly impressed that he finds the hidden zipper at your side. Nothing escapes him, does it?

His hands come to brush along your freshly exposed skin, whispering praises into your hot flesh. After he peels off your dress with zeal, you raise a finger in warning.

“Be careful with that. I actually want it back!”

“I promise I won’t lose it this time.”

“Your promise is nothing to me! You never found my shirt, huh?”

“No,” he confesses with an exaggerated air of regret, blowing out his lips in sympathy. Your eyes narrow at his suspicious behavior.

“How do I know that you didn’t just steal it like a creep so you could jack off with it or something?” you say with mock sensuality.

“I wish,” he hums, thumbing the discarded material of your shimmering dress as if you’ve given him a brilliant idea. “Honestly, that would have helped me out the other night.”

Azriel freezes, his eyes widening as he realizes his slip. Your grin mirrors his horror at his admission. A dull ache blooms anew below your stomach.

“Did you touch yourself to the thought of me?” you breathe.

“Maybe.”

His voice is thick even as he squirms under your riveted look. His wings flutter briefly before relaxing as he spots the excitement on your flushed face.

“Fuck,” you groan. “That's hot. Please don’t be embarrassed, that’s so flattering!”

Your words do nothing to prevent the hot flush spreading across his cheeks and chest. You push him to the bed, giggling when he falls onto the cushions dramatically before unceremoniously shucking off his pants.

He makes grabby hands at you, and you melt at the sight of him, disheveled and unarmed, and as excited as you were. He pulls you towards him, bringing you to rest on his bare thigh.

You kiss his sternum, looking up at him through your lashes.

“I want you to show me.”

Azriel pauses, and his breathing goes a little uneven.

“Show you?” he repeats, his eyes blown out as you rub encouraging circles into his shoulder from your perch on his thigh.

“I want you to touch yourself,” you purr. “Show me how you like it.”

His brows twitch, his eyes going predatory under heavy lids.

“It might be your last opportunity for a while, since I’m gonna be pretty fucking jealous of that hand if it steals too much time in my territory,” you admit with a meaningful glance towards his crotch.

He laughs at that, but it doesn’t dampen the flame in his vision.

“Okay,” he murmurs devilishly. “Get comfortable.”

It will be a cold day in hell when Azriel denies such a request from you.

He makes a show of shifting to rest comfortably against the cushions, his wings extending lazily to drape across the pillows and trailing to the floor. The wide expanse of his chest shines in the low faelight, his swirling tattoos prominent even in the dimness. The hard ridges of his muscles contract rhythmically in time with his powerful lungs. His nipples are hard, he shivers in the slight chill as he rubs a hand through his dark hair, tugging roughly.

You come to rest just above his knee on his left thigh, essentially kneeling in the center of his bed. The slight contact has you boiling as you watch him trail a hand along his torso, one hand still teasing his hair. Your focus trails his toned abdomen down to his prominent arousal.

“Well you won’t have to use your imagination, like I did, for the first part,” he begins lowly, “because, if you must know, I was already this hard before I could get out of my leathers.”

If you weren’t dripping already, you are now. You’d been joking earlier, but this show really was worth some hard gold. Anyone would kill to see the fearsome Illyrian splayed out like this.

Azriel hisses as he strokes slowly down his abs, his chest rising and falling in a tortured cadence. After some time stimulating himself in this way, his moans become breathy.

With one hand, he deftly pulls himself out of his undershorts, and you can’t help yourself from reaching out to slide them a little further down his hips. Your mouth falls open at the sight of his sharp hip bones and the delicious stretch leading to the base of his heavy cock.

Its red tip bobs temptingly at your knee, but you restrain yourself. You shift slightly, looking for some relief, and your knee accidentally brushes the edge of his wing. His hips buck involuntarily, a whine falling from his lips at the contact.

“Shit, baby,” he cries. He hasn’t even touched himself, but his dick is straining against his stomach.

“Sorry,” you say weakly.

“Liar,” he growls, seeing the hunger in your gaze.

You shrug, unapologetic. Let him see what he did to you. It was his funeral at the moment.

He was focused on you, indeed, eyes roving around your naked form as he flexed his thigh beneath you. You start to circle your hips, your breasts bouncing with the sudden movement, until you hear him hum in pleasure. He was getting off from the vibration.

“Don’t cheat,” you scold.

He just whines, reluctantly stopping his thigh flexes.

“Good boy. I’d hate to have to punish you, baby,” you warn.

You meant it playfully, but his breathing falters and his wings twitch. Interesting. You file the information away for another time.

His fingers catch your attention as they come to play with the soft underbelly of his cock, just under the head. He used two fingers to rub small circles on the tender flesh. The spot was right where it had landed on your tongue when you’d taken him in your mouth briefly the other night. Again, interesting.

“This- this is supposed to be erotic,” Azriel struggles, “and you’re studying me like, like…”

“You’re a very compelling study,” you inform him in your most sensual voice as he struggles to speak.

“Fuck,” he says, “don’t tease me.”

But you see the effect your praise has on him. His fingers finally circle his length fully, pulling short strokes at the head. The whimper that falls from your lips would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so melodic in company with his grunts and moans. His expression is so unguarded, lit as it is by ecstasy.

“You’re doing so good for me,” you murmur.

The shadow singer's back arches off the bed at one particularly harsh tug, his rhythm never faltering. His accuracy is almost uncanny. He must have honed the art of his pleasure with the same rigor and precision as the rest of his work. The test of the room fades as your focus is wholly captured by the male sighing below you. You’re obsessed with the unholy picture of his hand wrapped around his cock.

His shadows shift along his wings in time with his strokes. Sluggishly, you realize they must be stimulating him as well. The thought renders the ache at your core unbearable.

Even through his euphoria, Azriel is receptive to your every expression. He sees your frustration.

“What do you need, angel,” he hums.

You respond reflexively, your hips grinding into his thick thigh. Your face heats as you register the motion. It was just what you needed, though. You certainly didn't want him to stop what he was doing, his fist pumping wickedly.

“Go on then,” he purrs.

The desire in his eyes encourages you to resume the motion, rocking your pelvis against the solid muscle of his thigh.

“You look so perfect,” he praises.

“And you’re sex incarnate, Az.”

You position yourself further up his thigh, balancing on your shins as your knees brush his wingtips again. You’re rewarded with a throaty groan for your flirting. The sight and vibration of your riding his thigh has the male slowing his hand, and gripping at the base of his cock. You’re not faring any better.

You brace yourself against his chest with your arms, both of you sensitive to the barest touch. The slight pressure on his chest has him hurtling towards the edge again. As he holds off his own strokes, he sends his shadows towards your form, your makeshift rules be damned.

The sighs you breathe are far from a complaint. His shadows lick up your form with tender phantom touches, and you feel the pleasure build in your core. Your rhythm starts to slip as you chase your release. His sculpted thigh should not be making you feel this good, but you start to see stars and you know the male can’t be fully mortal.

“That’s it, baby, let go,” he pants, as enthralled with your euphoria as he is with his own.

You barely register his praises as your orgasm shatters you, his shadows licking along with the pleasure racing through your body. As the waves wrack you, he drinks in your scrunched features, the soft cavity of your gasping mouth. You meet his eyes as you hurtle over the edge, the image of his carnal devotion seared into your mind. It would be unnerving if it wasn’t such a reflection of your own feral interior.

“That was so hot,” Azriel praises.

“Pervert. You were supposed to be giving me a show,” you pant, frowning as you catch your breath.

“I think I gave you a proper show, if that was your reaction.”

He’s earned a smug attitude, you figure. Your vision is still a little blurry, but you feel his shadows and fingers rubbing soothing patterns along your upper thighs. A different warmth blooms as you cool down from your blistering orgasm.

As you marvel at the intimacy of his gestures, Azriel’s head is clearing enough to fully appreciate the sight of you in his bed.

He had been on the brink of the most mind blowing orgasm of his life, yet he doesn’t even care about the urgency he’s feeling from his dick as he commits the image of you in his room to memory. It feels so right to have you here, just like it felt right to share a drink with you at Rita’s, and to sit down for a meal with you with his family.

Azriel reflects on the thought he’d had days ago, how he’s fallen into the gravity of powers like this before, but never in such blissful hues. His mind flashes back to battles he’s fought, the enemies he’s faced. Every time, the contact of such powers results in a brief conflict, a decisive end. The conclusion is inevitable; the force of the challenge undeniable in its strength and direction. This attraction, though. What to make of it?

The intensity is similar– his current adrenaline certainly feels like he’s just seen someone draw a sword, but it’s different. Your power was a challenge, but an invitation too.

The feeling is like the gravity in his gut at the beginning of a flight, when he’s leaping off of a cliff, that brief tension borne in the short moment between the stability of the ground and the strength of his wings. The feeling is prolonged, like he’s suspended there with you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind it so much, with you there, caught up in it just as much as he is. Besides, he’s tired of keeping everyone at arm’s length, he decides. He’s always loved flying, even if he came to it later than the others. Why should love be any different?

“Can you fuck me now?”

Your unsubtle words break his delicate reverie. Oh, he’s in serious trouble, he thinks as he sees you bite your lip.

“I’m not going to last,” he warns.

“Same here,” you admit. You were already feeling overstimulated, you doubt you’ll last long at his pace. “I want to feel you though.”

He presses a messy kiss to your mouth, savoring the moment. You’re just as unhurried, glad to linger in any moment with the gorgeous male below you. Strong hands guide you to straddle his hips, his legs bent slightly to support your lower back as he leans against the headboard.

When he finally enters you, he groans lowly.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

Your response is garbled by your euphoria. What you feel is euphoric relief, his cock filling you with a satisfying burn. Despite his size, the pain is minimal, your wetness helping him slide in easily. He grips your forearms, bringing your hands to anchor on his shoulders.

“It’s like you were made for me,” he slurs, delirious already.

The position is intimate. As he begins to rock you over his hips, your focus falls to explore the stunning male. Azriel is so fucked out already, raw from having edged himself earlier. His body is slick with perspiration, his face set in concentration, eyes blown out. Your hands on his shoulders are broiling with his heat.

His dark hair falls limply against the cushions, and his wings are hanging loosely, like he has no extra stamina to hold his posture. He meets your gaze, and the eye contact somehow feels even more intimate than the position you’re in. He seems entranced. The agony on his face is underscored by his attention fixed on your every move. It's like he’s seeing your soul, plucking the thread of your need and following it faithfully.

Using his broad shoulders as leverage, you start to fuck yourself on him. You’re rewarded with a stuttering groan as his hips thrust in time to meet you. Your head falls back in pleasure when your clit is ground deliciously against the coarse hair at the base of his pelvis as you bounce on him. Between his thick cock and his hard abdomen, you're perfectly stimulated.

The room becomes thick with the heat and scent of your sex. All of your senses are riveted to the male below you, to the pleasure being delivered to your core. Soft sighs and deep groans fill the air as you fuck at an agonizing pace.

His hands release their death grip on your hips, moving to explore your thighs and chest. The rough sensation of his hands over your skin is fuel to the fire of your appetite.

Desperate for somewhere to release your energy, you lean forward to connect your mouths. He hums in delight at the sudden kiss. You taste his sweat and his fervor, and it’s intoxicating.

When you pull away, his lips are shining with spit. Azriel looks like a male possessed.

“Shit, angel. Can we do this, like… all the time?” he begs.

“We haven’t even– even finished, and you’re– you’re thinking about doing it again?” you manage.

“Can you blame me?” he retorts. He emphasizes his words with a particularly vicious thrust that has you gasping.

“Please,” you cry. “We had better do this often.”

“ Awesome ,” he cheers breathlessly with a small smile to himself.

Your heart sputters at the sweetly boyish comment. Here he was, inside you, and he was excited at the idea of fucking you again later. It isn't just your body either, which was a major plus, but he likes you . Earlier he’d confessed that he wants more than sex. He wants to bring you into his life in a more serious way too.

You envision yourself bringing some belongings here, working at the library during the day, dining with Azriel and his family in the evenings. And at night, he would bring you here, to his bed, where he would ravish you. You relax into his body further as you realize you’ll have many opportunities to fuck him. He’d gotten excited earlier when you’d suggested some kinkier things. And, sure, he’d laughed when you’d joked about fucking in the kitchen, but he’d not seemed opposed.

“Are you with me?”

You blink, coming back to the present. If you were going to blame him for getting excited about future sexual escapades in the middle of fucking, you were guilty too. Thankfully, your body kept up the rhythm on reflex, cause you were just miles away in a diaphanous dream of your mutual future.

“There she is,” he smiles at you fondly as he rocks you mercilessly onto his cock.

His stamina was impressive. Despite your fatigue, arousal has your body pulsing with adrenaline. The familiar pressure mounts in your abdomen as you grind onto him.

As he eases your pleasure along, he’s transfixed by the sight of your bodies meeting, your hips swallowing him into your soaking hole. The feeling of your nails scraping at his scalp plunges him further into rapture, the slight sting heightening his sensitivity.

“I’m close,” you warn him.

“I’m with you, angel,” he pants. “Come on, baby.”

You abandon your bouncing to grind selfishly against him, chasing your bliss. He’s content with the debauched sight and the warmth of you around him. When your hand tugs his hair again, his dick twitches. Then your fisted knuckles brush his wings ever so delicately and his hips lurch, his shadows rioting.

Azriel is dangerously on the edge, but he’s determined to watch you unravel first, his competitive and generous spirits united under his indecent desire to see you come undone. Even as he appears depraved, he feels devoted. Your ecstasy was his own.

One last delicious shift of his cock scraping your walls, and your release staggers you. Your eyes flutter shut as crystalized bliss shatters over you. His scent envelops you, the salt of sweat mixing with tangy citrus. It transports you to a realm of bliss, where the only presence is yours and his, a delicious meeting of your senses.

The agonizing image of your ecstasy has him spilling inside you, his whines cresting as he climaxes. His teeth scrape yours in a sloppy openmouthed kiss. You ride out your orgasms, hips jerking erratically, waves of pleasure ebbing languidly.

You’re left with a warm buzz, even the discomfort of your stickiness feels rather like sweetness as you take in the glorious male. When your eyes catch, his lips curl into a smile. Your heart skips a beat at the tender sight of him spent and glowing beneath you. His shadows bleed into the cushions, baring him to you completely.

“Can I lie down?”

“Please,” he shifts to help you off of him.

You hiss as he slips out of you. “Sorry,” he mumbles, concerned.

“You’re good.”

“Are you okay?” His shadows rove over you, assessing for damage, and he winces at the mess between your thighs. You laugh at his concern, waving it off.

“I feel great. Just overstimulated,” you assure him as you curl into his pillows, your muscles grateful for the break. He nods and kisses your temple. The gesture is endearing, even as your thighs burn. You pull him down to rest next to you.

His eyes never leave yours, monitoring your movements and drinking in the image of you snuggled into his bed. You reach out to trace his features, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. It isn’t uncomfortable, you’re just so overloaded already; you aren’t sure you can handle its palpable energy. His skin is soft under your fingers, the fleshiness of his sharp face surprising you. Azriel hums under your soothing touch.

The unmistakable sentiment in his gaze has you melting into the comfort of his cushions, utterly relaxed. After all the uncertainty of the past few days, the surety of this moment is crisp, intoxicating. Nothing was guaranteed, of course, but you like your odds with him. You'd never been one to back down from a challenge.

“I thought you were going to ask me to leave,” you confess into the tender silence of the aftermath.

He frowns. “When?”

“Before,” you explain. “Right before you told me how you felt.”

He groans, regret clouding his features. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t made things easy for you. I definitely didn’t want you to leave.”

You shrug. You’re here now, what was passed is past. “You’re worth a little torture.”

“Why did you think that?” he asks, ignoring your lighthearted response. He avoids your eyes, fidgeting absently with the edge of the duvet.

“Well,” you begin, unsure of how honest to be. You opt for full truth, the words rushing out of you. “You didn’t fuck me! I was throwing eyes at you all night and things were going well–”

“Things were going well? Do you really think that?” he interrupts. “‘Cause Cass said I ‘grilled you on border security’.”

You snort at his air quotes.

“Well, yeah,” you frown, recalling the conversation, “but only after I asked you about how recovery efforts were going here, which is kind of a killjoy topic anyways.”

“We suck at this,” he decides brightly.

“Excuse you!” you leap to defend yourself. “I'm amazing at this– anyways! Totally not the point. You didn’t respond to my hints, so I thought maybe you’d changed your mind, and that you weren’t into me.”

Azriel shakes his head, and his rough fingers tenderly brush your hair away from your face.

“You were way off target, cause I’m totally into you. Remind me never to hire you for intelligence,” he teases, the words affectionate.

“In my defense, you are kind of hard to read,” you admit.

He hums, not denying it.

“Holy shit! See? I was just about to tell you off and you slithered out of it!” you look at him, equally impressed and incredulous at his evasive skills.

Now it's his turn to be unnerved, clearly caught out by your acute perception. You’re satisfied with yourself.

“Wow. Okay, I'll take it back, you’re hired,” he dodges. You don’t take the bait. His words make you think about his long career in intelligence. Suddenly, it makes perfect sense how he struggles with expressing himself verbally. He knew firsthand what the wrong words falling into the wrong ears could do. Pair that with whatever other… unique emotional baggage he has going on… shit. He’s probably actually very well adjusted, given everything he’s experienced.

Shit. She’s good , he thinks as you watch him silently. It was a classic technique, one he used often in interrogations.

He sighs. “Alright. So you may have picked up that I’m… guarded.”

“ No ,” you say with sarcasm.

“ Yes ," he laughs, before groaning and sitting up to look you in the eyes as he continues. “I’m sorry I wasn't upfront about how I felt. Like I said, I can't do casual. So I didn't know what I was doing. I was trying to protect myself from, well, doing what I did, and spilling my guts to you.”

“You were very brave to do that,” you tell him seriously.

He rolls his eyes.

“No, I mean it,” you press, suddenly sure of your recent revelation, desperate to assure him. “I’m glad you decided to trust me. I’m honored.”

You really are. Every glimpse you’ve gotten into his inner world has only deepened your affection for him. Strangely, you feel like you fit into his world, as new as it all is to you.

Occasionally in your work, you would come across a book from the archives, and it would be just what you needed for your project, even though you hadn’t known it had existed. What a thrill it always was, to find a gift in the world, unasked for and unplanned. The same sweet serendipity floods your senses now, as Azriel’s eyes shine with emotion.

“I might need you to be patient with me,” he whispers, like the words are too dangerous to handle in the open.

“Of course. Whatever you need,” you promise him.

With that, you press a kiss to his lips, thick with feeling.

His hand grips your jaw, holding you there to convey the depth of his adoration. He strokes your face fondly.

You pull him close, and he envelops you in his strong arms and soft wings. You lay there for a while, nestled in the security of his warmth.

“Bath?” he offers eventually.

You hum thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’m too tired to move.”

“I’ll carry you.”

A luxurious soak later, Azriel slips one of his shirts over your clean, drowsy form. Drained as you are, you keep yourself awake to watch him towel his hair dry from your place on his duvet.

You exhale abruptly, and his attention fixes on your drawn brows. You raise them as you finally ask the question you’ve been deliberating.

“I was just thinking… you have libraries here, right?” you search meaningfully.

“Yes, we do,” he answers casually, lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. “There’s one just down the hall, actually.”

“Huh?”

“Why do you ask?” Azriel continues coyly, coming to stand before you. “Are you thinking of settling down here, or something?”

“I said, huh ?” you repeat. Does he have a home library? Oh, you’re a goner.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

You shake your head in amusement. “You are so full of secrets,” you accuse.

“Full of surprises,” he corrects, rewarding you with a wide grin.

You wonder if you’d ever reach the last of them, you muse as the lovesick Illyrian moves to make good on his words. You imagine you never will, but it sounds like a nice fate to die trying.

After all, it seems like you’ll be needing a new hobby, now that you’ll have to give up recreational flirting. Azriel is happy to keep you occupied.

✸✸✸

Later, when the night was deep, the stars shining brightly with the soft promise of new beginnings, Azriel remembers a threat that he needs to make good on.

I’m gonna fucking kill you guys , Azriel projects to Rhys and Cassian. You’ll never see me coming. It will be long, and painful. NEVER mess with my plans – never again!

Well! Rhys' response arrives instantly, dripping with sarcasm. That sure was a delayed reaction… I hope you’ve had a productive evening.

Cassian’s reply is more direct. You’re welcome, brother dearest!

Despite his vexation with his brothers, Azriel smiles into the dark, content as he is to have you in his arms. He thinks dimly of your face under the flashing lights at Rita’s, how close he had come to losing his nerve to speak to you, how grateful he’d been to have an excuse to talk to you, and how foolish he’d felt when he left you alone on your doorstep after your last date.

His racing mind quiets as he traces your features, sleeping soundly in his bed. He has no intention of letting you go this time.

A/N: I hope y’all enjoyed!! I really fell in love with these two. It was so fun crafting their dynamic in part one, I had to expand the plot a little to allow their connection to develop more in this one. Sorry to make you read like 9k of plot and banter before the sexy part!

Here’s a little of my thought process behind this part 2: The more I thought about it, I just realized Azriel can’t do casual relationships.

In the books, it’s heavily implied that he pined after Mor for centuries, so like he’s a truly long-suffering loverboy. It would actually be so out of character for him to casually date. Even if he were to turn a new leaf and pursue someone, he's too guarded, too high profile to be comfortable with just a fling. If he’s in, he’s all in.

So I was like how do we break the ice? I imagined that Cass and Rhys could sense how invested he was in Reader, and that they knew he’d flounder in his attempts to approach it casually. Devotion and quiet intensity are just so key to Azriel’s personality. I wanted to explore what it would look like if he felt the green light from someone - personally I think it would unlock some of his private nature and allow him to safely express his feelings (which we see him try for the first time here!). Normally, I don't like it when fics have a love confession after one whole date, but in this case it just felt right.

Not to write a thesis and spend hours critically thinking so that my premises perfectly align to support my porn with plot LOL just girly things :)

#lmk what we think team #sorry the italics formatted weird #rip #14k omg yall are being fed frfr #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel fic #azriel x you #acotar #acotar fic #acotar x reader #azriel smut #smut #my writing

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reidsism · 2 months ago

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➳ A PROJECT — S.R

to nav 𓇙 to s.r mlist 𓇙 to records!reader mlist

spencer reid x archivist!fem!reader

dr reid visits basement three for the first time since joining the fbi. it’s… a little jarring, how empty it is. but the records room is quiet chaos and he thinks it’s a fine place to make a friend

wc: 1.1k

warnings: none!!!!!!! all fluff <3

a/n: WELCOME RECORDS!READERRR 🥳 this takes place second in the timeline so far (but i cant be assed to write in order lol)

You’re halfway through reorganizing three decades' worth of cold case files by updated indexing protocol when you hear the knock—soft, hesitant.

It’s still enough to scare the hell out of you, though.

Your yelp is embarrassingly loud, and you bump your head on the open drawer above you, the sound of metal echoing through the room, bouncing off shelves.

“Sorry, sorry!” comes his voice immediately, full of wide-eyed concern as he steps into the doorway. “I really didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay?”

You’re already scrambling out from behind a shelf, paperclips stuck to your cardigan and a pen in your hair somehow. You look wild and, frankly, you’re mortified.

“Dr. Reid!” you breathe, blinking at him like he’s a painting that suddenly walked off the wall. “Um, yes! I’m fine, it’s just—sorry, it’s a total disaster in here, I was just reorganizing by incident year instead of investigation date, and it sort of…” You wince, looking at the mess. “Escalated.”

Spencer looks around at the utter chaos. Drawers are open randomly, boxes filled with manila folders sit piled on the floor, sheets of paper and stacks of folders labeled in your handwriting scatter the concrete floor. It should be overwhelming, but honestly? He thinks it’s kind of amazing.

“You’re reorganizing the entire cold case section?” he asks, eyes wide.

You nod, nervously fidgeting with your sleeve. “I- It wasn’t in the new system,” you say quickly. “I just thought it might help, y’know… in the future. Make it easier to find them.” You shrug lamely.

Spencer just blinks at you. “...You did all of this by yourself?” He thinks there’s no way. The records room is massive; every single case file dating back to the FBI’s very inception is stored here. There’s no possible, conceivable way that the Bureau rests all of it on one person’s shoulders.

But you nod shyly, glancing away. “I like having a project,” you murmur, tucking your arms in close, crossing them over your chest.

And oh, the way you say that? Like you’re trying to shrink yourself down into nothing, trying to drown yourself in this paper sea of white and beige, like it’s a bad thing to be so smart and passionate and dedicated? He feels it in his chest. “That’s incredible,” he breathes out. He means it. “Really, it’s- it’s genius.”

Your eyes go fractionally wide, the barest hint of a smile twitching at your lips, startled and small. He smiles back. You blink at him like you don’t quite know what to do with the compliment, so you chew at your lip, quickly pivoting back to the task at hand. “Um—what were you looking for, Dr. Reid?”

And it actually takes him a second to remember. He mentioned needing a file, but he gave a fake reason; something to excuse himself from the bullpen and Hotch, and make his way to sublevel three. He could’ve just had it brought up, like always, but something was pulling him downstairs.

He feels… guilty, almost. He’s worked here for twelve years, and not once has he ever stepped foot on the floor beneath the parking garage.

It’s… a little jarring. How empty it is. The short hallway coming off the elevator is barren, all concrete and tile and a single sign reading “records archive”, as if it’s necessary when there’s only one door. The air in the hallway is immediately frigid, but the records room is warm. Too hot. Stuffy. He thinks it’s messing with his head because he can’t remember what he even came looking for. Him—with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory.

You’d been stuck in his head since Hotch had requested your assistance on a case a week earlier. He’d heard of you, of course, through the typical office gossip. The goblin that hides in the records room, who talks to the walls and thinks the people in the files are her friends. The mole-person living in the basement, who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Bush administration, the FBI’s very own cryptid. Some people just didn’t believe in your existence at all, insisting that you were some myth, a fable of the archivist who died in the records room, relegated to “haunting it for eternity,” using you as a reason to head home at the end of the day.

He never believed any of it anyway, he knows office gossip is just about as reliable as a conversation with the dead. But it’s the kind of thing that’s stuck with him. Because you seemed… painfully normal, when you were in the round-table room. Nervous, sure. Awkward, very. But certainly not a goblin, or a cryptid, or a mole-person.

Now all he wants to do is watch you, observe the work you’re doing, nearly forty feet below the rest of the FBI. He’s curious about how it all works, how you manage to handle all of this, entirely on your own. He wants to ask what your favourite case is, which ones broke your heart, which one you reread when you can’t sleep. He wonders if you’ve read his reports.

He swallows roughly. “I think I forgot,” he mutters, awkwardly adjusting the strap of his messenger bag.

You blink at him. “You… forgot the case you needed?” Your brows pinch in confusion, and oh. Spencer’s gone. He can feel it.

“I… get distracted easily,” he offers, and it’s almost smooth. Not quite. The lie stings at his tongue and he winces.

But you? You laugh. And it’s soft. It’s the first time he’s ever heard it, and oh, he already wants to hear it again. Endlessly.

He thinks it might be his new favourite sound.

Spencer clears his throat before he can spiral too far to get himself out. “I should, um,” he thumbs over his shoulder. “I should get back.”

You nod, gnawing on your lip. “For sure, uh,” you cough. “I’ll be here if you manage to remember that file you needed.”

He grins, pursing his lips together tightly before backing out of the room. He slams his palm on the elevator button and takes a breath.

You’re weird. He thinks he likes you.

***

You’re standing alone again, surrounded by a tornado of chaos. You blink at the now-empty space Dr. Reid was standing in.

You exhale shakily before allowing yourself a small smile, turning to the shelving unit again.

He’s weird. You think you like him.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #reid ✧˖*°࿐#mine ✧˖*°࿐#records!reader

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woradat · 26 days ago

Text

SCENARIO: Hall of Record (1/2)

PAIRING – sentinel prime, airachnid, orion pax, d-16 x reader (bonus darkwing)

NOTE – please be informed that scenario-chapter is just an additional part/story that this expands on the HALL OF RECORD (one-shot) not a full series and this might come out a bit weird and a little out of character? I don't know. I wrote this fic with three lattes shot and a lot of confusion, so enjoy?

and you can tell who my fav is. I'm a little biased here

O r i o n P a x

The sound of the metal door—untouched for what might as well have been an eon—whined softly as it scraped against its timeworn track. The hinges gave a creak like an old archivist waking from a nap, cranky and reluctant, groaning at being disturbed after centuries of peace. It was a small sound, really. Barely louder than the low thrum of power conduits far down the hall

But to him, it was the sound of trespass

Orion Pax stepped inside as if the shadows might bite

Faint cerulean light dripped from ancient overhead strips, casting the corridor in the sort of glow usually reserved for ghost stories or forgotten secrets. The deepest level of the archive—the forbidden floor, shuttered by Sentinel before Orion had even existed—still exhaled softly beneath its shroud of dust and disuse. It felt less like entering a room, more like entering a memory that didn’t want to be remembered. He moved like a student sneaking into the dean’s office—half-curious, half-sure he’d regret it

His fingers grazed the edge of a shelf, careful not to disturb the decades of quiet. Or the dust. Especially the dust. It looked like it had unionized

“The Matrix…"

He murmured under his breath, blue optics catching the faint shimmer of dormant holograms “There has to be something here. A record. A clue. Anything” He leaned down, reaching for the ancient relay socket at the base of the console—

“Trigger that, and you’ll wake the whole sound grid"

The voice came from behind him. Calm. Dry. Unhurried. The sort of tone one used when catching a cat burglar who clearly forgot to check for traps. Orion flinched hard enough to rattle a few data shelves and spun around on his feet

You stood there, half-veiled in the shadow of a pillar—taller than he expected, posture relaxed, like someone who’d been waiting for him to trip the sensor just for fun. The faint light from your data reader bounced off your optics, revealing a gaze far too unsurprised to belong to a stranger

It wasn’t your first time sneaking in

“Who are you?”

He asked, voice low but edged with a kind of jumpy defiance. His hand inched toward the nearby control panel—not so much in defense as in that universal gesture of ‘I might make this worse but I’ll do something, I swear'

You didn’t answer right away

Instead, you let out a breath. You sighed—the long-suffering kind. Then tilted your head and gave him a look that could only be described as academic disappointment. You looked at him the way a librarian might regard a wayward patron using a sacred first edition as a coaster

“The better question is: what exactly are you doing here?”

“This isn’t a tourist wing. No one's supposed to be down here. Not unless you're a glitch in the system or a Prime in disguise" Your optics flicked over him like a scanner on autopilot—dusty fingers, light frame, and most telling of all: the cavity at his chest. Empty. No transformation cog. No fancy upgrades

A miner

Your field didn’t spike, didn’t flinch. Just took it in with the sort of ease that said: "Ah. One of those"

He bristled. Just slightly

“And what about you?” He countered, trying for defiance but landing somewhere closer to awkwardly offended “You’re not supposed to be here either… right?”

You smiled then. Not the friendly kind. The kind that curled at one corner like a page in a too-old book “Smart enough…” you said, arching an optic ridge

“For someone who leaves the ventilation hatch wide open while sneaking in"

He snuck into the archives more than once—and more than once, he stumbled into you. Neither of you had the right to be there. You both knew it. But you never sent him away and though you pretended not to care, you always watched him—always

Orion was like a flicker of flame brushing through the ashes inside you. A dreamer, yes—but not a fool. Funny, but never dismissive of history. Stubborn, but when you spoke, he truly listened. He wasn’t like anyone you'd met since the age of the Thirteen

He wasn't afraid to ask stupid questions and he wasn’t afraid of you. You often looked at him with a weary kind of exasperation, the sort reserved for someone who should know better. But he always laughed when you snapped at him, as if the weight of silence in the archive had never once touched him

You told him once—by accident more than intention

The air between you had been dusted with a kind of trust you hadn’t felt in countless cycles. A quiet ease. The sort that hadn’t truly touched you since the age of the Thirteen faded into ash

Orion Pax—a randomly-forged miner with far too much hope and far too little support—was the sort to chase impossibilities like they were his rightful inheritance. He reached too far, spoke too loudly, and stood too often where no one asked him to. And yet, he never stopped. Not even when they laughed

“..I used to be Alpha Trion’s aide”

you said, voice quieter than you expected

He froze. Then—almost immediately—he dropped down beside you, like the truth might vanish if he didn’t plant himself right there, fast enough to catch it. Surprise widened his optics, but so did something else—recognition. The name Alpha Trion carried weight: Scholar. Sage. Keeper of knowledge

“Really? I’ve heard of him, but it was always more like… like a myth—”

“It does sound like a story, doesn’t it?”

You gave a faint huff of laughter, more memory than mirth “But I was there. I walked the Hall of Records with the Primes themselves — I once transcribed battle doctrines meant to change the course of the war. I was Alpha Trion’s eyes. His ears”

“And now?” You gestured vaguely, as if your current state explained itself “..Now I’m ‘Advisor to the Prime’ Sentinel’s pet title”

“Sounds good on a datafile, doesn’t it?”

You let your gaze drift toward the ceiling “But it’s a cage. He doesn’t want my counsel—just my silence. He doesn't want me asking, no more. He says it’s time to let go of the past"

Your voice dipped on that last sentence, quieter than even you meant it to be. Beside you, Orion slowly set his hand—close to yours. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough for the intent to be felt

“So… what will you do?”

“How long will you let him keep you quiet?”

You looked back at the desk. Scattered with restricted data slates—salvaged from sealed archives. A few of which you had, perhaps, allowed him to read. Just fragments

Maybe, in some strange way, you weren’t so different from him after all. You’d slipped away whenever the chance arose. Found your way back into old vaults that should’ve been wiped from the map. You’d pulled truth from the edges of erasure, and hidden it in places no one else would look. In hopes someone, anyone—would find it. Someday

You smiled “It’s not like I’ve been sitting still"

He laughed—low and warm, like it lived in his chest “I think I’m starting to like you”

“No! I mean, I like it when you.. don’t just stay still!” You rolled your optics, but couldn’t hide the fact that the corner of your mouth twitched into a smile as well

“You gonna record me, then?”

“–If I ever turn into something important?”

You stared at him. Long enough for him to shift his weight, then chuckle—awkward and a little sheepish

“Kidding. I know someone like me doesn’t exactly scream historically relevant—”

“Please. I’ve been archiving you every days, spark-for-brains” You cut him off, tone dry, but softer than your usual “And if you ever do become something important… I’ll be the one to write that story. Properly. With footnotes”

He blinked — You didn’t smile–but your optics said enough

D – I6

The underground quarters of the labor miners weren’t much to look at

Concrete walls, low ceilings, overhead conduits that flickered as if sighing with age. Everything smelled faintly of rust and recycled air. It was the sort of place where voices fell flat against the metal and hope tended to decay faster than the tools on the racks. No one expected anything new to walk in and yet—one day, Orion Pax brought someone with him. Not a supervisor. Not a guard. Not an auditor sent from the upper halls

But you. You, who walked in with a step just slow enough to take in the room

Not cautious, exactly—but composed. Observing. Weighing. Like you had done this far too many times, and were still waiting to be surprised. D-16 recognized you before you even spoke. He had never heard your name—not officially. There were no public briefings with your designation, no files that reached the lower sectors. But he had seen you. On every state broadcast, every emergency address, every ceremonial function where Sentinel Prime spoke before the world. You were always there—never in front, but never far like the shadow just behind the throne

Orion had mentioned, in passing, that you had once served beneath the Thirteen themselves. The statement had sounded so absurd at the time—like someone claiming to have dined with myths. But now, standing a few meters from you in the dim half-light, D-16 wasn’t laughing

He swallowed. Then, before his mind could interfere with his mouth— “Did you… really meet Megatronus Prime?”

The words tumbled out like gravel down a mine shaft—too loud, too fast, and entirely unrehearsed

Immediately, he stood straighter. As if trying to fold the question back into his body by sheer posture. His arms snapped to his sides, shoulders tense, expression schooled into impassivity. But even a casual observer would’ve noticed how the plates at his spine had locked up stiff, and how his field—normally tight and subdued—now bristled with mortified awareness

Orion, standing nearby, shot him a sidelong look that all but screamed Seriously and pressed his mouth into a thin line, clearly biting back laughter. His field buzzed with that particular kind of amusement only friends could afford

But you didn’t look offended

You simply turned to D-16 with a slow, deliberate grace. One optic ridge lifted in mild surprise, not mockery. The look you gave him was not one of superiority—but memory. And something just shy of sorrow, your gaze slow and precise, like someone turning over an ancient page

“I didn’t think I’d hear that name spoken aloud” you said, voice soft and even “Not in this era. At least”

Something in the way you said it made the air feel older. D-16 opened his mouth to respond—then overcompensated entirely

“I— I mean, I respect him. Megatronus. I really do. Not that I don’t respect the other Primes! I do! It’s just—his power, it was… I mean, the records say he was beyond classification. Singular”

He said it all in one breath, like pulling off a bandage, or confessing something shameful. The words just stumbled out faster than he could polish them, tumbling over one another in a mess of admiration and awkward intensity. For someone usually so reserved, the enthusiasm betrayed him utterly — The silence that followed was so complete it could have been scripted. Orion exhaled sharply through his nose. If he’d had something to throw, he probably would’ve thrown it. But you—

You just laughed

Quiet. Warm. Deep. A sound dredged up from beneath centuries of dust, as if even your voice had forgotten how to smile “You’re the first to say his name with that kind of light in your optics since the fall”

“If Megatronus could hear you now, he’d probably be baffled that he’s become some kind of hero to miners” You tilted your helm, smiling just a little “Though, honestly, I’m not surprised”

D-16 looked like he wanted the floor to collapse beneath him. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to will away the flush creeping across his faceplates. But then—your voice shifted. Quieter now. Calmer

“I stood beside him. Yes”

You didn’t elaborate immediately. You let the weight of that admission settle, like dust returning to a long-forgotten shelf

“Not as a disciple” you said, after a moment “But as a witness”

D-16 froze. Not just with reverence, but intent. His posture didn’t just still—it listened “Was he really like the stories?”

You didn’t answer at first

Your optics drifted upward, tracing the long silver line of a power conduit above, but your vision reached far beyond it. You were looking back—through wars and ages, through the collapse of dynasties and the silence left behind “He was strong"

“Of course he was. But that’s not what stayed with me” Your gaze returned to him. You didn’t look at D-16 like he was a soldier or a worker—you looked at him like someone who had just asked the right question “What I remember most… was the way he shielded the weak. The way he stood between them and harm like he was born to carry the weight of their world, and never once questioned if it was too heavy..”

Silence again. But not a heavy one this time

A reverent, holding sort of quiet. Then, you stepped closer—not imposing, but deliberate. Your optics met his without flinching “If you want to walk his path…”

“Don’t begin with your fists, begin with what you’d give your life to protect”

You weren’t surprised that Orion kept returning to the old archive. He was persistent like that—drawn to lost records and locked doors the way some bots were drawn to light. What did surprise you, however, was that he started bringing D-16 with him. Not just once. Not as a fluke. But again. And again

Each time, the miner sat with his back straight, posture stiff as if the room itself required reverence. He never touched anything without permission. His focus was unwavering—his questions, clear and concise. Never a wasted word. At first, he spoke like someone walking on thin ice. Awkward, hesitant. Always respectful. And always—always—his questions were about Megatronus

“Did Megatronus ever overrule the other Primes?”— “Is it true he once fought a Quintesson with his bare hands?”– “What did his voice sound like?”

It was always about him in the beginning. D-16 would ask you to recount field notes not available in the public archives. He’d ask what Megatronus thought during the final war—what moved him, what held him back. And you told him. You told him everything you remembered. You spoke of war. Of victories. Of moments carved from metal and memory. You even told him how Megatronus once pulled you bodily from the battlefield—without hesitation

But then—quietly, gradually—his questions began to change. They grew softer. Slower. Less historical. He started asking about you instead. At first, you hardly noticed the shift. His voice was steady, his tone still careful. But the pattern had changed. His curiosity had turned inward—toward the storyteller rather than the story and you realized, one day, mid-sentence— You were no longer recounting the past. You were being recorded into it

He hummed

A low, thoughtful sound—less an answer than a pause, a space carved out to think, to consider. The kind of sound someone makes when they’re weighing the ground beneath them before taking a step they can’t take back and then, it came. The question.

Delivered with the kind of casualness that only made it more obvious

“And—did you… ever have anyone? Back then. During the wars" His voice caught near the end, like the question had tripped over its own boots on the way out

Your optics lifted from the datapad slowly. Not sharply. Just… knowingly “Anyone?"

It was a simple word, but layered with intent. You weren’t asking for clarification. You were asking if he knew what he was really asking

He immediately straightened his posture—a move so sudden it bordered on mechanical. Which was impressive, considering his spine had already been stiff enough to pass for reinforced alloy “I mean—allies. Or comrades. People you… trusted. Fought beside..”

The correction tumbled out like bricks falling into place—too neatly, too fast. His words tried to anchor the moment back into neutral ground, but the field around him betrayed him. It had shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. That buzz of restraint pulsing just a little too sharply at the edges. You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t reach for sarcasm. Didn’t turn away.

You simply let the silence sit between you—undisturbed, like dust in a sealed room “I had those” you said, voice low, level. A truth you’d long since polished smooth from memory “And more..”

That did it. The datapad nearly slipped from his fingers—just slightly, just enough. He caught it without looking, reflexes honed from years in the mines, but his control faltered for a breath. Long enough for you to feel the ripple of heat in his field. Not embarrassment. Something quieter. More sincere

he muttered “Right, of course- makes sense”

His optics stayed locked forward, trained on some far-off point just above the floor. Nowhere near you. Nowhere dangerous. And after a moment that pulsed like a heartbeat— He said it – So softly it barely left his frame “I think… I’d like to be one of them.”

The words didn’t echo

They didn’t need to

They settled into the room like something that had been waiting a long time to be said. You turned to him slowly

Not with surprise. Not with mockery. But with something gentler. Quieter. As though he'd just offered you a piece of himself he wasn’t used to sharing—and didn’t yet know if he should regret it. He didn’t meet your gaze. Couldn’t. But you noticed the tight line of his jaw. The slight tension in his servos. The way his shoulders rose—just enough to brace against whatever answer you might give and his field—normally so disciplined—was frayed at the edges. A flicker of static in his composure. Like a transmission that wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You didn’t press — Didn’t tease. Just… watched him, the way one watches something rare and very carefully offered, without changing your tone, you smiled. Not the kind of smile meant to reassure. But the kind that held memory in its corners. That knew what it meant to be seen

“Then start by asking better questions” you said, voice low—carrying more warmth than he probably knew what to do with “I might even answer them”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there. Not quite a smile. Not yet

But close

You hadn’t said it like a joke. You hadn’t said it to dismiss him. You said it like you meant it. Like there really was a door, just slightly open, and all he had to do was reach and that—that was dangerous

Because he wanted to. He wanted to know more. About you. Not just the archive, not just your history, not just what you’d seen. You. The way your voice changed when you spoke of memories that mattered. The way your optics drifted skyward when you thought no one noticed. The way you never laughed at his awkwardness—only… watched. Quietly. Kindly. Like it didn’t bother you at all

He let his helm rest against the wall

Shut his optics

Let out a slow vent

He shouldn’t get caught up in it. He knew that. He was a miner. A worker. Just another cogless bot trying to survive and you… You were memory incarnate — You carried wars and wisdom in your voice. You stood beside Primes. You remembered gods.

What business did he have wanting to be remembered by you?

But still—under all that logic, that silence, that self-restraint— His spark pulsed just a little faster

S e n t i n e l P r i m e

The corridor stretched long and silent, wrapped in a hush that felt too deliberate to be natural—like a room holding its breath

Ancient murals loomed on either side, half-lit by overhead glowpanels designed to mimic the old morninglight of pre-war Cybertron. Each image painted a different fragment of the same sacred lie: unity, strength, unbroken lineage. The brushstrokes were delicate, reverent, rendered by artists who had believed the Primes were eternal. Immortal. Immutable.

You moved through that quiet with hands folded neatly behind your back, each step measured, silent. You had walked this wing hundreds of times before. Cataloged each pigment, each artisan’s mark, each brittle metadata layer coded beneath the paint. But now—even the images you knew by spark felt… remote. Like they belonged to someone else’s story. Your gaze paused at a depiction of Solus Prime—tall, radiant, her forge-hammer glowing in the cradle of creation. But the dataplate had been changed: “Commissioned in honor of the Divine Reconstruction”

Reconstruction?

That plate hadn’t been there last cycle..

Your hands clenched slightly behind your back, jaw tightened. Then—footsteps. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Just… assured. You didn’t need to turn. The rhythm was unmistakable

“You always did prefer this wing”

The voice came soft—too soft. Like an echo meant to blend in with the art.

“The lighting’s better here” you replied evenly “Less curated”

Sentinel Prime’s presence filled the space behind them long before his frame did. His silhouette—massive, statuesque, lined with cold gold filigree—moved into view with all the ease of a king inspecting his garden. But his steps were quiet. Thoughtful. He approached not like a ruler claiming ground, but like a memory creeping forward on quiet feet.

“I remember” he said, now beside you

His tone was warm. Familiar. Intentionally gentle “You used to drag me here to correct plaques. Spent hours lecturing me on timeline deviations”

“I let you talk. You do know that, don’t you?”

Your optics flicked toward him, then back to the mural “I wasn’t lecturing”

“You were” he said, smiling “But you were right. Mostly” His voice was lower now, quiet enough to ripple through the stillness like heat. He was standing just close enough for his shadow to graze the edges of your frame

You turned toward him at last. Slowly. He was tall. Too tall. The kind of height that once symbolized protection—but now only loomed. You wasn’t small, not by any Cybertronian standard, but beside him, you looked like something meant to be set aside. Kept behind glass. Preserved “That didn’t stop you from rewriting it all”

His smile twitched. Only slightly

“Things change”

“Convenient”

“I’m not here to argue”

“You never are” The space between them was thick with old familiarity, but strained now—like a song slowed half a beat too long, dissonant where it once sang in sync

“I miss when we used to talk” Sentinel said, his voice thinning with a note too careful to be casual “Real talk. You—challenged me”

“so I’m still here”

“You just don’t like the shape of the challenge anymore” He moved a little closer. Not to dominate. But to surround

“You don’t have to fight me..”

“I’m not fighting. I’m resisting. There’s a difference”

His expression shifted—only slightly. Not quite hurt. Not quite angered. But something beneath the surface moved “Then stop resisting” he said, barely above a whisper “Let me in again”

The words hung too heavy in the air

You turned to face him fully now, field flickering slightly—not with fear, but warning “You’re not asking me to let you in. You’re asking me to comply. To pretend none of this happened. That this mural, and the hundreds of others like it, still mean the same thing”

A long pause. Then—quieter “You want me to become part of the illusion..”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his field pulsed faintly outward—magnetic, warm, intentional. The kind of closeness that might’ve once felt like comfort. But now only pressed too much, too close “I never wanted to lose you in this”

“Out of all bot, not you”

The words were too tender. Too particular

And you heard it — The inflection. That little fracture of emotion that didn’t belong in a public address. That wasn’t meant for a former archivist. That—if left unchecked—would lead to something harder to survive “Then you shouldn’t have replaced everything we stood for”

Silence

He didn’t step away. Not yet. But his gaze lowered just slightly. Not in defeat—but in the careful weighing of what he couldn’t control and just before leaving, Sentinel said—so quiet it barely moved the air “You don’t have to be the last relic of the past, you could be part of what's next”

“There's still a place for you, beside me”

Then he turned. The shadows swallowed him slowly, step by step, until only the lingering hum of his field remained—warm, familiar, and unbearably wrong. You remained there, surrounded by murals of rewritten myths and stories you no longer recognized, stared up at Solus Prime one last time. And for the first time in cycles…

You couldn’t remember what color her optics had been before Sentinel repainted her

You had always wondered—quietly, carefully—why the miners had no T-Cogs. Why these workers–those newborns, forged strong and silent beneath the surface of Cybertron, lacked the very thing that made transformation possible.But it was only ever a question left unspoken. Not because you lacked curiosity—but because you knew Sentinel would never answer you

And so speculation took root. Not in accusation, not yet. Just quiet observation—hypotheses formed in the hush between truths, the kind no one dared to say aloud. Still, you didn’t want to believe it. You couldn’t. Surely not even Sentinel could be that cruel, could he? Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Until you could see it with your own optics

He treated you much the same as he always had. The teasing still lingered in his voice, familiar as a memory. The smiles came easily, often too easily—warmer than necessary, threaded now with a tension you couldn’t name. He could have just wiped you off. Silenced you. Replaced you. But instead, he kept you close. Closer than before. You told yourself it was strategy. Easier to watch you. Easier to contain

But perhaps, just perhaps— he couldn’t bear to let you go. Perhaps Sentinel had drawn you so deep into the architecture of his world that the thought of ruling it without you — felt incomplete, dangerous, like failure. And so, in every public address, every state broadcast and ceremonial decree, when he stepped into the light and into the eye of the world— you were always there. Not to speak. Not to challenge. Not to stand as an equal. But simply to stand. Beside him as if that alone would be enough. And it was. That’s all he needed. For the new age he ruled to begin—with you still in it

The plaza had been remade—not merely rebuilt, but reborn for this very moment. Steel arches arced overhead like the fossilized ribs of a long-dead colossus, burnished to a gleam beneath the planetary sun. Between them hung banners of deep cobalt, stitched in gold thread so fine it caught the light like fire

THE ERA OF CONTINUITY, they read

Beneath that, the unmistakable crest of Sentinel Prime—repeated, mirrored, multiplied across every surface like a sigil of divine right. A thousand optics turned as he emerged onto the marble dais. Flanked by honor guard. Flanked by silence.

And flanked by them — You followed exactly half a step behind, as protocol required—close enough to signify loyalty, far enough to signify subordination, your frame was immaculate under the precision lighting, each panel polished, each edge adorned with ceremonial filigree. Upon your chestplate gleamed the freshly-forged insignia of Principal Historical Advisor to the Prime—a title announced only a cycle prior, yet already murmured through the chambers of power like scripture passed hand to hand

Sentinel raised a hand

The plaza obeyed

“My fellow citizens of Iacon” his voice unfurled like silk over steel—calm, crystalline, unyielding “today marks not only remembrance—but restoration. A new page. A unified future”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice carried like gravity—inevitable, inescapable

Behind him, you held your stance with exquisite poise, expression serene, the curve of lips calibrated to precision—not warmth, not joy, but symmetry. The kind of smile meant for monuments, not mouths. You weren’t unrecognizable. You had merely become… curated — A fixture, flourish

“In every age of transformation” Sentinel continued “we must reach not only toward innovation—but to those who hold the lineage of wisdom. And so, I walk forward with those who once stood beside the Primes themselves” He turned—just slightly—enough to cast the gesture like a flourish of choreography, an artist unveiling his favorite piece “My advisor. My historian. My conscience”

Applause

You bowed, flawlessly. An angle measured. A nod practiced

“They remind me—daily—that the past is not to be erased, but honored”

And that, you thought behind your perfect smile, is what a lie sounds like when it wears poetry for armor

The crowd didn’t know. Couldn’t know

They didn’t see the redacted records, the vanishing cross-references, the warped timelines spliced together like a forgery passed off as scripture. But you did, knew every phrase pre-approved for the interview after this, knew which questions to feign surprise at, which answers to lace in ambiguity, which smiles to hold half a second longer—for the press, for the pose, for the pageantry

When the mic was passed to you, you spoke clearly. Without tremor “It is my privilege, to ensure that the light of Cybertron’s past still guides our steps. We move forward… not in forgetfulness, but in reverence”

The voice did not falter. But behind your back, fingers curled

Just slightly

You could feel him watching. Not with threat. Not with command. But with the kind of gaze one reserves for polished statues—an artifact restored, admired, and displayed. He stepped closer. Just enough for proximity to read as intimacy to the cameras drone. Just enough to veil the weight behind the words “That was beautifully said” he murmured

You didn’t even look at him “I know”

“You still surprise me sometimes”

“I shouldn’t”

He laughed. Quietly. It sounded like warmth. But you knew the tone was forged from pressure. You just smiled again— for the cameras, for the world, for the lie. All the while counting the seconds until they could shed this costume of allegiance—

and return to silence. To truth. To records that hadn't yet been rewritten

The applause hadn’t faded. Not truly

Even as the final words of the speech dissolved into the crisp evening air, even as the recording lights dimmed and flickered out, the plaza still thrummed with the afterglow of orchestrated pride. A thousand optics shimmered with patriotic sheen. The banners above caught the wind like the sails of a sanctified warship—reborn, rebranded

Sentinel turned slightly as they stepped from the marble dais. His hand extended—not in earnest assistance, but in something more… choreographed. Just close enough to suggest warmth. Just distant enough to deny obligation

You did not take it. You descended with mechanical grace, each movement refined to ceremony, smile remained a studied curve, not a flicker out of place, electromagnetic field was wound tight, compressed close to frame—static-thick, airtight. But Sentinel didn’t retract. He adjusted A beat. A breath. Then he fell into step beside them. One hand still positioned loosely at their back—not touching, not quite, but present. Suggesting

“You handled that perfectly” he murmured, voice pitched just for them—an intimate register dressed in silk “Even that line about reverence” he added, with a glint behind his words “It almost moved me”

“I was quoting your own speech, from six cycles ago. You just don’t remember”

He laughed—quiet, indulgent “That’s why I keep you close”

His hand settled lightly at the small of your back. A touch that, from a distance, would read as fondness. Dignified. United. Photogenic. The Prime and his trusted advisor—a tableau of loyalty

You didn’t recoil. But felt it. The message in the weight of it. The duration. The confidence. The performance. You tilted your head a fraction—not a glare, not yet, but a signal

“You’re taking liberties” you said, voice sheathed in quiet silk. A murmur passed as jest—but honed like a blade

“I’m taking advantage of optics” Sentinel countered, unapologetic “That’s what this office demands” He leaned just slightly toward you, as if confiding something lighthearted. The angle of his smile curled with practiced ease “Besides” he added, almost inaudible beneath the hum of the crowd “if I wanted to take liberties… I’d be far less subtle”

Your optics slid toward him — Sharp. Unblinking. Glacial “Then it’s fortunate, that subtlety suits you. It keeps your hands clean”

He didn’t respond immediately

Let the silence grow roots. Let the proximity say what words couldn’t. Then, with the grace of a ruler accustomed to applause, he stepped ahead. Half a pace. Reclaiming the lead. Shoulders squared. Expression unblemished. A portrait of command. A symbol of benevolent strength. Behind him, you followed. Impeccably. Your smile still worn like enamel. Uncracked

The drone captured the moment—the Prime descending the steps, his advisor close at his side. A soft brush of proximity. A glance. A smile. Unspoken trust. Unshakable partnership. A unity sculpted for the archives

You kept the pace

Matched the image

“You don’t want me. You made that clear from the beginning”

“No” he said, softer, took a step closer now “I said I could no longer have you in the same way”

Unmasked. Unarmored. No shield of title, no pageantry of power. You’d forgotten how tall he was. Or perhaps he had been refitted—Prime-forged and sculpted for presence. It hardly mattered. What mattered was how close he stood now, and how easily someone like him could end you if he wanted to. One strike. One breath

And yet — He never had. Not once. Not with force. Not with violence. He wasn’t that kind of tyrant

“You were a pillar” he said, voice slow, deliberate “Unshakable. I relied on that. Trusted in it”

“But this world—my world—has no place for things that do not change” His tone was not cruel. It was… sorrowful. Almost reverent. The voice of someone delivering last rites to something sacred “That doesn’t mean I wanted to break you”

“You’re the last piece of a world that made me who I was”

A i r a c h n i d

The hallway this time was brighter

Wider. Less suited to shadows, and yet—still quiet enough for things to go unnoticed

You stood near the polished threshold of a secondary archive chamber—one of the newer annexes built under Sentinel's regime. The walls were smooth. Unscuffed. Sterile in a way that felt unnatural, like something grown in a vacuum instead of history. Every surface gleamed too perfectly. Nothing here had aged yet. Nothing here had memory. You scrolled slowly through the contents of a datapad—not reading, not truly. Just moving. Optics skating over headlines, edit trails, deleted citation links. The silence here was curated. Sculpted

You weren’t here for the records

You were waiting

And right on cue “You're early today”

The voice arrived like a brush of silk through charged air. Smooth. Deliberate. It always was. Familiar now—but still edged like a knife’s smile. You didn’t look up immediately, didn’t have to

You already knew who it was

Airachnid was leaning against the terminal bank, as though she’d been there since the system powered on. One hip balanced lightly against the edge, arms folded, posture relaxed—but not truly at rest. Her helm was tilted just enough to unnerve, like she was watching from an angle no one else thought to use. Her smile was slight, carefully measured. It didn’t quite reach her optics, but that was the point

“You’re very consistent” you said mildly, glancing at her from the corner of your optics “Do you clock in like this for everyone?”

“No” Her tone was a velvet purr, low and intentional “Only the ones worth watching”

“I’m flattered”

“You should be”

The silence that followed was thick enough to hold shape. You looked back down, scrolling through the datapad with a laziness that masked purpose “Do you enjoy this?” you asked, voice light

“Watching me sort metadata? Or is this just another item on your schedule?”

Airachnid’s helm tilted further, just a fraction “Do you enjoy testing the patience of your security detail?”

“I prefer to test the depth of curiosity”

That earned a quiet sound from her. Not quite a laugh—more a click. Dry. Surgical. Like a scalpel being returned to its velvet-lined case “You don’t strike me as the reckless type”

“I’m not. But I’ve spent more time speaking to corrupted code than to people lately. You’re more intriguing than most encrypted files” Airachnid uncrossed her arms with slow precision and stepped away from the terminal bank. Her movement was seamless—gliding, but deliberate. Too fluid to be lazy. Too elegant to be harmless

“Careful. Curiosity makes a poor shield”

“So does ignorance”

They stood across from one another now.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough to read nuance. Like two scholars dissecting the same artifact, each searching for a different truth beneath the same surface “Tell me something” your voice gentler now

“Were you always like this?”

Airachnid’s optics narrowed slightly

The light from the overhead glowpanels traced cold reflections across her faceplate, catching in the sharp line of her jaw, the subtle gleam of her plating “Define this” she said—quietly, but with that razor-curious edge. Like she was offering you a choice: explain, or be dissected

You didn’t flinch

“Loyal to the point of silence. Efficient to the point of invisibility — I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone hold power so tightly… without wanting it”

Airachnid said nothing. She simply looked at you. For longer than was polite. Longer than was comfortable. Not with surprise—no, she rarely wasted optics on emotion but with something like scrutiny. A kind of analytical regard, like she was reassessing a threat level. Then, just a half-step forward. Just enough to be noticed

“What makes you think I don’t want power?”

“Because you already have it. And yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest” You didn’t hesitate, voice remained even

Her smile shifted at that—small, curling inward like a claw retracting just beneath the surface. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t for show. It was closer to truth

“You assume I follow him”

“Don’t you?”

The silence that opened between you wasn’t heavy—but precise. Like a scalpel laid on a sterile tray, gleaming and untouched. No breath. No movement. Just tension wound in stillness “I serve Sentinel Prime” Airachnid said, her tone glass-smooth “Because he knows where he’s going. And because he gave me a place where I no longer have to pretend”

You didn’t blink “Pretend to be what?”

Her optics glinted—cool light on polished alloy, the gleam of a trap sprung just enough to warn

“Anything less than what I am” That landed harder than you expected. Not just the words. But the way she said them. The calm certainty. The unapologetic sharpness. You watched her—still, quiet, measuring

“He trusts you”

“Utterly”

“That’s rare”

“That’s earned”

This silence felt different. No longer stretched like wire across a minefield. It settled between you like cooling metal—coiled, yes, but no longer poised to strike. A mutual understanding, or something close. You gave a small nod

“Thank you. For the conversation”

Airachnid didn’t nod back. Didn’t tilt her head. Didn’t break the mask. She simply said, plainly “I’ll still be watching”

“I know” You turned back to the datapad—but didn’t move. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t type. Your hands rested on the console’s edge, tension vibrating faintly in the joints

Behind you, Airachnid moved with the silence of trained instinct—less like she walked away, more like she was subtracted from the scene — Gone. Clean. Seamless. Somewhere behind her careful silence, something lingered. Not doubt. Not regret. But the smallest flicker of recognition. The way one predator sees another in the wild—not a threat, but a mirror. A different species of survivor. She’d known from the first time she was assigned to monitor you

You were dangerous

Not because you fought. But because you watched. Because you remembered. Because you asked questions like knives and in this golden empire built on curated truths, it was those who asked quietly that had to be watched the closest. As her shadow faded into the long corridor. Airachnid didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. You were still there��rooted in archives, cloaked in dignity, poised like a weapon Sentinel still thought ornamental and if there was war coming beneath the sheen of peace

Airachnid would not choose a side

She was the side — Already chosen, already loyal, already lethal

Sentinel doesn't have the time to watch you every day. To follow you. Track you. Monitor your movements. And that’s precisely why Airachnid does it in his place. He entrusted her with the task—assigned her to keep a careful, unflinching eye on you. To guard you, yes. But also to measure. To evaluate. To intercept, if needed — She has never failed him before and so, Sentinel has no reason to question the arrangement

When you are not with him then you are with her. It’s always one or the other and you’ve grown used to that rhythm. Far too used to it. Used to it enough that you’ve begun to speak with her. Start conversations. Ask things. Curious. And, strangely—perhaps suspiciously—Airachnid lets you

She allows the exchange. Doesn’t cut you down. Doesn’t shut you out. Maybe it’s a tactic. Maybe she’s letting the walls fall just enough to get closer. To make it easier when the time comes—when Sentinel finally decides to erase you but you know how to play this game. You’ve survived long enough by knowing when not to step away. And you’re not about to waste the opportunity now

“You already have power and yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest”

She almost laughed at that. What a foolish perspective. Sentinel isn’t her shadow. He’s her axis. He gave her a place where she didn’t have to soften herself to fit. You doesn’t understand that kind of loyalty. Because theirs is built on memory. On rules. On history. And all of that burned. Still—Airachnid cannot help but.. observe you

You doesn’t speak like a politician. Doesn’t stand like a servant. You carry something harder. Older. The weight of someone who has seen too much truth to be satisfied with a lie, but is too tired to shout it anymore. She doesn’t hate you. That surprises her. She respects. And that’s dangerous. Because it means that if Sentinel ever does order her to remove them— it won’t be clean. It won’t be mechanical. It will leave a mark

The archives were quiet, but that’s nothing new. What was new, though, was the feel of someone waiting in the wings—someone not standing in the open, but lingering just at the edge, just beyond the light, as if they were the shadow. Airachnid’s presence was invisible, like most things she did. The moment Reader began to analyze data once more, she appeared at the edge of their peripheral vision, standing just far enough not to intrude. She didn’t speak. Didn’t even move. She just waited

“I thought you’d be occupied” you said, voice not accusatory but more curious “Or are you always so quiet?”

Airachnid remained still, like a spider perched at the edge of its web.

She didn’t look directly at them. Not yet “Sometimes” her voice just soft enough to blend into the silence of the chamber

“quiet is all that’s needed”

“You’re not here for me to ask you questions”

Airachnid shifted her weight slightly, taking one step closer without breaking that eerie calm that surrounded her “I don’t answer questions” she said, stepping into the slight illumination cast by the panel. Her silhouette now clear, framed in the soft light “I observe. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You turned, but the motion was slow, thoughtful “Observing? ..or controlling?”

Airachnid tilted her helm a fraction of an inch, her optics glinting in that same sharp, calculating manner they’d seen so often. Yet, this time, there was a softness, a subtle understanding that hinted at something deeper “If I wanted control, I wouldn’t have left you alone long enough to ask me that question”

There was a moment of hesitation—of silence that stretched far longer than it should have. You lowered your optics, a soft chuckle escaping their lips, though it wasn’t directed at Airachnid

“You do like keeping your distance, don’t you?”

“Distance is necessary” Airachnid replied simply, her voice like ice melting in the sun “But observation... that’s personal”

You stopped, looked at her again—not with caution, but with genuine curiosity. For all her quiet, for all her efficiency, there was something about Airachnid that had always fascinated them. The way she moved—measured and deliberate. The way she saw things others missed

“Why do you stay here? Why stay with Sentinel?”

Airachnid’s optics darkened slightly, but she didn’t look away. Her answer came with a slight, almost imperceptible shift in her stance

“I don’t stay. I’m here because I choose to be”

You let the question settle, watching the way she stood, poised but not impatient and just as your optics lingered too long, just as your mind shifted—Airachnid’s hand moved, almost without a thought. She slid a small data disk onto the edge of the console. Not just any disk. One with new directives “It’s not what you’ve been told to look for” she said softly, almost as if she had read the question forming in their mind “But it’s something you’ll need soon”

You stared down at the disk, thoughts moving a mile a minute, hadn’t expected this. Not from Airachnid, not from someone so loyal to Sentinel. But the glance she gave them—fleeting, calculating—spoke volumes

“Just make sure you don’t miss it”

she added, before stepping back into the shadows, fading from view once more. The disk sat there. Silent. Waiting. As if it, too, knew that its secrets had already begun to spill, even before you had reached for it

She remembers their last conversation—low-lit corridor, quiet exchange. The way they tried to read her.

As if she were text on a slab of archive steel. ‘You can’t catalog a predator’ she thinks. And yet… something in you had watched her not with fear, but effort. Like they wanted to understand. To connect

It was foolish. Possibly suicidal. But it was real and real things are rare — She reports to Sentinel later that cycle. The conversation is short “They’re stable. Contained. But restless” Sentinel leans back in his chair. Fingers steepled, voice soft

“And still trying to find where they belong?”

“You’ve already decided where they belong”

He smiles. That cool, refined smile that has sealed fates without ever raising his voice “Then make sure they stay there”

She nods once. No hesitation and yet—Later that night, she walks past the corridor where you sometimes works late. She does not stop. She does not speak. But she slows. Just for a moment. And in that moment, she wonders ‘If they ever fall… will I warn them first?’ It is a thought that should not exist. So she leaves it behind, buried in silence. Where it belongs

Sometimes when you sneak out to hide in the old archives that are considered a forbidden place for no one to invade, or even when you talk to the bots that you shouldn't, she doesn't report that to Sentinel

BONUS ON

D A R K W I N G

The lower quarry shook with the thunder of drills

Sparks flew. Gravel sang under heavy treads. Miners shouted to one another over the noise—some urgent, some desperate, most ignored. And at the center of it all stood Darkwing. Massive. Smudged with energon soot. Half-snapped shoulder armor from who-knew-what yesterday. He barked at two workers who’d paused too long

“I said get it moving, you slagging excuses for bolts! You want the Prime’s wrath down here next?! MOVE!” He raised a reinforced datapad like he was going to throw it. The worker scrambled back —someone coughed

A soft, polite cough. A very high-ranking, polite cough. Darkwing froze. Turned–

You stood at the edge of the overlook, flanked by two silent escorts and dressed in the calm, formal sheen of someone who did not come here to yell, ust… to observ

“Oh. Uh. Sir—Ma’am—Advisor—”

Darkwing stiffened, saluting with one shoulder (the only one still intact) “Didn’t, uh—didn’t know you were coming down today”

“It was unannounced” you replied mildly, stepping closer “I was told this sector has been underperforming”

Darkwing nodded too fast “Yes! I mean—no! I mean—uh—there were some delays. But nothing that can’t be—! Well, you know. Handled. Promptly. Professionally”

You raised an optic ridge. Behind him, a miner who’d just been shouted at looked up, mouth slightly open at the shift in tone “We noticed an unusual spike in damage reports from your crew” you continued

“Yes—eh—that’s…” Darkwing tried to scratch the back of his helm. Realized he had a dent there. Scratched beside it instead “We’re in a rough phase. You know how ore layers get. It’s the… uh. The fault of… geology”

You stared. He stared back.

Then laughed—awkwardly. Loudly “Heh! Cybertron, right? So unpredictable!”

The silence behind Reader was immediate and cold

“We’ll be reviewing your operation logs and your conduct notes”

“Absolutely. Please. All yours. I love paperwork. I dream of audits”

“Of course you do” You turned slightly to speak with their aide, but before they could finish a sentence— “Would you—like some energon, Advisor? We have, uh, local brew. Very unrefined”

“...No, thank you”

“Good choice. It’s terrible”

You looked at him one last time. Measured “Carry on, Supervisor”

Darkwing saluted again—sharper now. Nearly knocked his own helmplate with the angle. Once advisor and their group disappeared from the walkway, he let out a sound between a groan and a short-range radio malfunction

Behind him, one of the miners whispered “Did you just call geology unpredictable?”

Darkwing glared “SHUT UP AND DIG”

Maybe it was Sentinel’s bad habits rubbing off on you. Or maybe it was your own emotionally-repressed tendencies finally leaking out sideways. Because, sometimes.. you enjoyed bothering Darkwing. There was just something undeniably satisfying about watching him get flustered—just a little. The way he’d fidget, posture, start to sweat wires the moment you casually inquired about the progress reports and mining quotas under his jurisdiction. Naturally, that only made you press harder. Because why wouldn’t you?

It was fun. In a terrible, twisted, borderline-unethical kind of way. It wasn’t you. You swore it wasn’t you. And then when you know Orion and D-16. After that, well—let’s just say you suddenly found a lot more reasons to “personally inspect” the lower levels of the mines. Every now and then, you’d find an excuse to stop by. Just a quick visit. Just enough time for a few questions. Some light conversation. Perhaps a little friendly interrogation

Occasionally, you had to bribe Darkwing with a few of Sentinel’s private assets— Nothing serious. A datachip here, a high-grade component there but most of the time? You just threatened him. Nicely. Harmlessly. In that special way that makes guilty bots break into a cold sweat and confess things they didn’t even do. Honestly, it was probably fine. Mostly …Probably

#transformers #transformers one #transformers x y/n #transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #orion pax x reader #optimus prime x reader #d 16 x reader #megatron x reader #sentinel prime x reader #airachnid x reader #darkwing x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert

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c-is-for-coin · 8 months ago

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Archióthro / Arcchióthro

Gender related to being a head archivist of chióthro / a chióthro head archivist. They are connected to chióthro, chióthro aesthetics, archiving aesthetics, TMA aesthetics. It may also be related to TMA genders, but doesn't have to be

Tagging @radiomogai

#arcchióthro #archióthro #head archivist system #my terms #my flags #chióthro

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technovillain · 3 months ago

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my d.e. fanskills set

these are based on my own personality. so just allow me to be nerdy and vaguely vulnerable for a second.

INTELLECT

SCAFFOLD: call back to past solutions to problems. You are a seasoned professional who can make a Venn diagram of any two situations. This is always appropriate. Cool for: Architects, Think-Tankers, Technical Support

IDEOLOGY: apply your truths. Bring those Philosophy 101 facts to the forefront and show everyone you know how the system works. Fuck the man. Fight the power. Cool for: Soapboxers, Revolutionaries, Activists

REFERENCE: recall previous facts and information you have stored in your head. Cool for: Scholars, Expert Witnesses, Archivists

THREAD: tie unrelated things together to form new concepts or truths. Easily led astray by distraction. Cool for: Conspiracists, Investigators, Crossword Champions

RACONTEUR: tell a story, be it true or false. Is the web you weave convincing? More importantly, does it baffle and dazzle the mind? Cool for: Authors, Compulsive Liars, Dungeon Masters

EVERGREEN: your childlike, everlasting hunger to learn more, and to learn everything. A potted plant frustrated by its root space. Cool for: Finger-Painters, Those Who Pine, Renaissance Men

PSYCHE

APRÉS MOI: look forward to the consequences of the future. See yourself return to the clay and find what remains. Cool for: Dark Poets, Forensic Scientists, Prognosticators

MOTLEY: a fool from a fantasy world. Thinks nothing of the mortal realm and encourages escapism through imagination. Cool for: Spiraling Entertainers, the Absent-Minded, Nincompoops

SOLICITUDE: show compassion and understanding to those around you. You've been there before, reassure them. Cool for: Village Elders, Veterinarians, the Lonely

MATRYOSHKA: connect with versions of yourself long gone. Different names, the shunned, the dearly missed, hold court with them all. Cool for: Introspects, Therapists, Those with Identity Disorders

L'APPEL DU VIDE: think of all the ways it could go wrong. Usually unnecessary and distressing, occasionally enlightening. Occasionally allows you to get into the mindset of a lunatic. Cool for: People on the Edge, Paranoiacs, Health & Safety Inspectors

BREECHES: you're a big boy, you're a grown up, these are facts that you can believe all the time. People take you seriously. You are confident. Cool for: Fragile Egos, Self-Proclaimed Big Boys, Younger Siblings

PHYSIQUE

GUTS: something is stirring in your stomach. Can you handle it? Cool for: Daredevils, the Honest, Dumpster-Divers

SWIVEL: scope out the room. Locate danger and emergency exits. Trust no one. You aren't paranoid, you're just being more cautious than everyone else. Cool for: Bodyguards, Runaways & Fugitives, Petty Criminals

FLOODGATES: Hold it in. Don't cry, don't emote, don't let them know what you're thinking. Cool for: Feeling-Bottlers, Chronic Tough-Guys, Judiciaries

MULTI-TOOL: be resourceful with your tools. Use everything for multiple purposes, get all the juice out of every fruit in your basket. Cool for: The Frugal, Those Who Hate Doing the Dishes, Tailors

ITCH: encompasses most primal desires. Destruction, feasting, sexual gratification, violence. Cool for: Vandals, Hedonists, Party Animals

VIGOR: the overall state of your immune system and physical health. Your body is a well oiled machine. Cool for: Health Nuts, Olympians, Hypochondriacs

MOTORICS

FLOAT: sneak around, light as a feather. Leave the environment undisturbed. You are a gentle breeze. Cool for: Jewel Thieves, Eavesdroppers, the Forgotten

IGNITION: the adrenaline-fed movements of a maniac. How scared are you? How badly do you want to run away? Cool for: Prey Animals, the Guilty, Cowards

FLUIDITY: loosen your jaw and unclench your fists. You're in control of the situation, and none of this will matter a year from now. Cool for: Yogis, Enlightened Monks, Trusted Leaders

PANACHE: move your body in all the right ways. You are unthinkingly perfect at knowing where to put your hands and feet. Cool for: Masters of Charisma, Dancers, Impressive Show-Offs

CROSSHAIRS: make precise and accurate motions with your body and the tools that you wield. Cool for: Court Stenographers, Sharpshooters, Sign Interpreters

BRUNT: bear a heavy load. You don't need any help with this. Your muscles and joints are forged of steel. Cool for: Heroes of the Working Class, Shot-Putters, Powerlifters

#fan skills #disco elysium #i have no good tags to put on this #you're just going to have to look at it and tell me i'm a cool person thanks #i worked hard on this :]

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ashes-in-a-jar · 1 year ago

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I haven't thought much about Jonathan Sims for long enough that I kinda feel like I've started thinking about him a little more divorced of the emotional attachment I might have had once. Because I just saw a post lamenting his slow descent into inhumanity and losing his identity, becoming the archivist rather than Jonathan Sims, losing his friends, his house, everything he loves.

But is that true? That put upon head archivist persona he had in the beginning, was that really him? The way I see it, real life has already leached him of any identity he might have had, he didn't really have friends, Tim and Sasha clearly weren't, as we saw in their season 5 recording. He chose to make them his subordinates over beib friends, pushed away Georgie, he became so desperate for approval that he agreed to take a job he clearly has no idea how to do, let his stress over it isolate him from everyone around him, had a desperate need to assert himself in the beginning of every recording as 'head archivist of the Magnus institute london'. Forget about even having a home, he often slept in his office for heaven's sake.

The way I see it, this story is about him finding himself, finding the perfect place for himself in this already doomed world that was already strangling him and everyone around him. He became the Archivist, no longer needing to connect himself to some godforsaken capitalistic institute to identify himself. found his role, he enjoyed its power, even admitted to it. He found love. He found purpose in trying to save the world. In the end he was surrounded with the friends he made along the way (as friendly as they could be under the circumstances). He was finally allowed to make real choices, have true responsibility over himself and not be some tired corporate worker, part of a tired pointless system. Sure his choices weren't that great, and getting there was through outside manipulation and his own ignorance and he had to suffer immensely and pay an awful price of what we like to call his "humanity" but he Became and found what we all look for - his calling.

"It's still me" he says in the last episode. Because he is. He lost nothing and gained everything. Even dying in his lover's arms.

Forget about being human. In the end Jon achieves apotheosis and truly becomes Jonathan Sims

#i should relisten i feel like im talking out of my ass here lol #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #honestly im happy for jon good for him. i wish i could find apotheosis in my career #i feel in recent months ive become way more sympathetic to selfishness and so called inhumanity than i used to.#this world is leeching the concept of 'good' from me #its such an entitled concept of course you can be 'good' when the world makes it easy for you.#no dilemas or choises. root for the underdog and for so called 'justice'. okay bitch. imma focus on what and who i love now #this world be damned. which it already is whether i try to do better or not.#sorry rant over

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

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Dark Shelves 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, bullying, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes (archivist AU)

Summary: your new job is much of the same, with a hit of new misery.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

"We'll start you off with cataloguing. I trust you can handle that." James, or Bucky, whoever he is, says as he crosses his arms. "Figure we get the students to do as much. Title, creator or origin, date--"

"I'm aware. I've done a lot of it. In my previous role as an assistant. I believe this role is for junior archivist."

"Junior," he tilts his head. "It's your first day. Don't stress."

You tug on your blouse. It's hot among the shelves.

He untangles his arms and taps the table to his right. "You can set up shop here."

"I believe the role came with an office." You reply.

"Easier here," he motions to your left. "Those boxes."

You glance over at the banking boxes marked with sharpie. "Library two counties away. They had a fire. Municipality cut funding after that. We got most of their historical documents."

"You said the students usually do this?"

"It's a good learning activity. I said I'd train you." He shrugs and hooks his thumbs in his front pockets. You bite on your cheek to keep it from twitching.

"I can more than handle your leftovers," you assure him.

You step past him and grab a box. You heave it up and turn awkwardly. It's not too heavy, just heavier than you expected. He comes up to you and grabs the other end of the box.

"Let me do that," he tries to slip it out of your grasp.

"I can do it--"

He forces it free so the cardboard chafes your fingers. He snorts and turns, carrying it easily to the table. He drops it without mind to the noise.

"Don't think we put heavy lifting in the job description," he rests his hand on the lid. "Don't want you hurting yourself, doll face."

"Respectfully," you circle around the table. "That's not my name."

You turn to the table as you pull out a chair. You drag the box across it and put your bag next to it. You push your sleeves up and lift the lid. You take your time as you stir in your bag. You set out your things meticulously. You have a system.

You sit as you slide out the first document. He comes around with tags and sets them by you. You thank him without looking.

"One hour for lunch. Your choice when. Noon usually works. I'm sure you'll be counting down the seconds." He drawls.

"Sounds good," you adjust your glasses.

He lingers. You tag the first document. You'll alphabetize them as you go.

"Am I missing something?" You glance up.

He stares at you, cheeks dimpling as his eyes scale you. He shakes his head.

"No, looks like you have it all figured out."

He taps the table with two fingers and pushes away. You ignore his departure even as he makes his steps especially distracting. It isn't the first time you've dealt with passive defiance. He might be your superior but you've done nothing to earn his suspicion.

You fall into the familiar with only a hint of resent. You're doing the work they give to temps. Not like it isn't important but you were looking forward to doing more than just tagging and bagging. Still, you won't complain. That's what they want.

The chafe of paper is the only noise aside from the scratch of your pen. You work efficiently as you make piles for different letter groups. A-F, G-N, so on and so on.

You pause to strip off your chest as sweat slakes down your temples. Your scalp is itchy with the heat. You tug at your collar as you blow out a deep breath.

"How are you liking it?" The deep timbre breaks your concentration. You finish the tag and sort the file into one of the stacks.

"Nothing too unusual," you answer the man. The one who called himself Rogers. "Simple enough."

"Uh huh," he leans on a shelf, one hand on his hip. "Quiet work. Easy."

"Better than sitting in the boxes untouched," you toss back.

"Ha, fair enough. They've been doing that a while." His lips curve slightly. "So, you fresh out of grad school?"

"I have experience."

"Oh, I can tell," he tilts his head. "I just figured... I read a study that attractive women tend to do better in interviews."

You flinch. Well, that didn't take long. You suppose if you cared, you would take that as a compliment.

"From my experience, competence tends to leave a better impression." You say calmly and slide out the next page.

"Seems like you have that in spades," he stands straight and nears the table. He touches the corner of the tallest stack. G-N. He touches the corner as he bends to read the top tag through his lenses. Suddenly, the paper flutters over the edge. "Oh, clumsy me." He steps back. "You know, my hands get dry in this heat. Can't seem to hold onto anything."

You look at him and your brows rise just a little. You set down your pen and stand. You round the corner of the table and bend, gathering up the pages. The brush together loudly as he backs up. You get them in hand then feel something against your trousers. You twitch then it presses firmer, right against your backside.

"Oops, sorry, it's so tight in here," Rogers says. "Archives are always so crowded."

He wiggles his pelvis so you feel him clearly through the layers of fabric. You stand up and spin away from him. You stare at him in disgust.

"Are you serious?"

"Hm? What? Look, I'm sorry about the paper. I was only looking--"

"You just--"

"Huh, imagine that. Junior archivist, not liking all this menial work so she presses up on the senior archivist, trying to get special treatment," he clucks. "She could just ask nicely. No one would need to know."

"I-- would never--"

"I'm sure. You must have a flourishing personal life."

You scoff. "You... you did it."

You look around, searching the edges of the ceilings and the corners.

"Cameras in common spaces only. The wiring is a fire hazard for the amount of paper in here." He explains. "Everything here is our little secret."

You gape at him. You shake your head and go all the way around the other side of the table. You sit and clear your throat.

"What secret?" You focus on keeping your voice steady. "I've only been cataloguing."

You set down the stack and start sorting. You ignore him as he remains. You don't look up even as you sense his movement. He rubs himself through his pants, barely a foot away.

"Lots of work to do," he growls. "I must be distracting you." You don't answer as you stay on task. He groans and drops his hand. "Alright, sweetheart. Keep up the good work."

He pets your head and walks away. As he disappears behind the shelves, you pause. You clutch the papers and stare at the blurred letters.

They're testing you. You're not going to let them win.

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #dark bucky barnes #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #library au #au #marvel #mcu #captain america #winter soldier #avengers #dark shelves

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lets-try-some-writing · 8 months ago

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I read the story about the tiny feral Orion Pax and I want a second part where Alpha Trion randomly showed up at the Autobot base and told stories about how feral Optimus was when he was just a sparkling to the Autobots and humans alike. I think Ratchet might remember the incidents as he might have had to repair the little monster a few times

Hmm well I doubt he'd actually turn up at base proper, but I CAN see Smokescreen being the one to speak of things Alpha Trion told him. Bonus funnies if he has no clue that "Orion Pax" Is Optimus Prime.

The other piece with Trion can be found here. Plus the series of Smokey things this is attached to can be found here.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

For once, the base was filled with laughter and cheer. After a particularly stressful battle, Wheeljack had seen fit to bring out high-grade for everyone's enjoyment. To 'let off steam' he said. Ratchet attempted to shut down the idea before it could fully root itself in the minds of those present, but surprisingly, Optimus permitted it. Perhaps the rumors weren't entirely true. Maybe Primes did party.

It hadn't taken long for the Wreckers to pull out cubes and start handing out Wheeljack's special brand of high-grade.Smokescreen had never been given the chance to indulge in the drink, but now that he was a warrior and Alpha Trion wasn't breathing down his neck, the overcharged liquid flowed freely. He felt a bit like a sparkling with his servo caught in the goodie jar, but he relaxed upon seeing Bumblebee whip out a straw and start going to town on his cube.

Admittedly, watching Bumblebee fuel was a bit unsettling since he lacked a good portion of his jaw, but Smokescreen simply refocused on his own treat.

The high-grade was sweet, almost like candy that had been melted down. And yet it was also bubbly, bordering on the texture and taste of a ration a few cycles from going bad. Despite both those things, Smokescreen found he enjoyed the drink, especially as a pleasant buzz started to run along his systems. The world seemed all the brighter as the high-grade quietly sent his auxiliary sensory protocols into hazy inactivity. Was this what the humans felt like all the time? Limited just to sight and hearing?

It was kind of novel.

As the high-grade flowed, Smokescreen noticed that the team seemed to share his feelings on the matter of overcharge. Before too long, bots laughed and sang; a few even began to open up. Smokescreen watched it all from the sidelines for the most part, listening as the Wreckers began exchanging stories and Arcee went into detail about a few of her more exciting missions. Even Bee chimed in with a retelling of some fun events that went on during training. But the story swapping didn't really get wild until Ratchet of all bots spoke up.

"There was this one time I had to patch up Orion. He apparently decided it would be a fantastic idea to attempt parkour like Jazz. Without any training, no less." The team laughed. Smokescreen snickered into his drink. The name Orion sounded familiar, but it was not something that immediately registered in his memory banks.

"Jazz dragged him into my clinic with a broken leg, one dislocated shoulder, half his plating shredded, and his right audial half torn off." Ratchet laughed, nudging Optimus with a shoulder. The Prime didn't comment and instead smiled softly as he sipped his drink. The team joined the medic in his mirth, commenting quietly and giggling like younglings.

"According to someone, 'it seemed like a great idea at the time'." The medic chuckled into his high-grade, more than a little buzzed due to it. As he did so, Smokescreen recognized the name at last.

"Oh, I think I know who you are talking about! Orion Pax! The head archivist! Alpha Trion told me all about him!" Smokescreen's words, thank Primus, didn't end up coming out too slurred as he spoke up. The team paused in their activities, their optics falling on him in interest. Even Optimus's optics widened in what he could only assume was interest. Smokescreen suffered momentary stage fright, but he continued on with his thought.

"Trion said that Orion was brought into the archives when he was still a sparkling, and that he was a little menace." Ratchet laughed outright at the statement, slapping Optimus's shoulder in amusement before going back to his drink all giggly. Wheeljack poured himself and the rest of the team another cube in response.

"Well, don't keep us waiting, kid. What'd the old cogger say?" Wheeljack grinned like a terrorcon, earning a baleful glare from Optimus. Smokescreen, however, in his high-grade fueled stupor, didn't recognize any potential danger and continued on with his story. Everyone seemed to be enjoying it after all.

"I never would have guessed the head archivist would be the way he was, but according to Trion, he liked to lick datapads." There was a momentary silence, one only emphasized by Optimus staring at Smokescreen in horror. He almost regretted opening his mouth, but that fear went flying out the window as Ratchet cackled and promptly slapped the nearest surface as he wheezed out his laughter. He was almost incoherent as he pointed at Optimus, his optics flashing with emotion only brought out by overcharged drinks. "I fragging knew my medical texts had fluid on them!" Smokescreen stared at Ratchet in momentary concern, but his focus was drawn back to the story he was telling as Arcee gave him a wolfish grin along with a question.

"He licked datapads?" The two-wheeler looked to be trying desperately to keep her composure. Smokescreen couldn't exactly blame her. There weren't many bots who had habits like the old head archivist. Licking datapads of all things, he could hardly picture the sanitary concerns. But then again, Smokescreen wasn't much better with a few of his well-hidden preferences.

"Yeah! Guess the head archivist thought they tasted good or something. Trion said Orion Pax never really got over the habit and occasionally gnawed on them when stressed." That was enough to have Bulkhead leaning against the nearest wall for support. Ratchet for his part dropped to his knees, clutching his abdomen as his vents flared in response to his howling laughter. He seemed to find it far more funny than anyone else, but the Doctor's reaction urged Smokescreen on, especially as Bumblebee snorted into his drink and splattered it on his face.

"That wasn't all he did, though! Alpha Trion told me all about how the head archivist used to climb the pillars in the archives! There were still claw marks in the metal when I was there." Another round of spark clenching laughter met his declaration. Arcee outright wheezed, trying desperately not to look in Optimus's direction. Bumblebee wasn't much better, or Wheeljack for that matter. Both looked a moment away from combusting as they tried to hold back laughter. Bulkhead just leaned harder against the wall, a servo brought up to his mouth as Ratchet cackled on the ground.

Smokescreen paused in his story, watching the team and their frantic attempts to not look at their Prime. He tilted his helm in confusion, watching as Optimus held his cube with a neutral expression. However, looking closer through his auxiliary heat sensing systems, Smokescreen could catch the faintest hints of what looked to be a blush of all things. Was this what the rumors meant when they said Primes didn't party?

"I was given the head archivist's old room while I was there, for that matter. It was just me with Trion most of the time, so I got the closest room to his, which just happened to be Pax's." Smokescreen rubbed his neck a little sheepishly, sensing that there was something he might have missed.

"He had some weird habits, sure. But I got to see a few of his old records, and he seemed really nice! Just a bit off is all." Somehow, his attempt at easing the strange tension coming from Optimus did the exactly opposite. He could almost see the way Optimus's shoulders slumped as Ratchet continued to lose his mind on the ground, drink forgotten.

"What sort of habits?" Bumblebee chimed in, his binary tones still a bit difficult to decipher, but not impossible. Smokescreen paused for a moment, unsure if he should continue seeing how stressed Optimus appeared. He wasn't sure why the Prime seemed so uncomfortable, but it was probably a good idea to not tempt fate.

"I uh… I don't want to damage the poor mech's reputation since he's probably not around anymore." Smokescreen fiddled with his drink, his enthusiasm dimmed. But before he could fully close himself off, Ratchet hobbled his way over, grinning and tapping Smokescreen's chassis.

"Go on, tell us about it. I can assure you, as one of Orion's oldest friends, he won't be upset." Smokescreen reset his optics. But seeing the entirety of the team, save for Optimus, looking enthused… well he couldn't exactly say no, now could he?

"Well, Orion Pax had a hero wall in his room. It was well hidden. I found it behind a wall panel that I kicked by accident." Every passing moment made Optimus look more and more willing to perish. All the while, the team leaned in closer, eager to hear to an almost rabid degree. Smokescreen was more than a little nervous, but he continued on.

"The whole thing was covered in posters and snippets of gladiators, various political figures, and a LOT of Soundwave pics. Guess Pax was into freaky mechs." Uproarious laughter met Smokescreen's words as Ratchet moved over to Optimus and slapped his arm, his optics bright and hazy from the high-grade and amusement. Finally, Optimus frowned in discontentment and Smokescreen took that as his cue to wrap up.

It seemed like the Prime was done with the whole partying business.

"To be fair, it was very beautifully put together!" More laughter met him, this time from Bumblebee and Wheeljack who had to lean on the nearest surface for support. Arcee just shook like a bomb about to go off, her grip on her cube shaky and uncertain as she fought back a smile. Bulkhead just wheezed in the corner.

Smokescreen fidgeted with his digits nervously.

"I… I saved something from his room, actually." The laughter eased for a moment as the team looked over at him curiously. Even Optimus's frown relaxed a degree as Smokescreen hastily dug through his sub-space. He didn't have to know why Optimus seemed so uncomfortable with the discussion. For all he knew, Orion might have been a good friend. It seemed like a good idea to pull out something less humorous.

It took him a moment, but soon enough, Smokescreen pulled out a small vial. It glowed blue, showing the innermost energon within it. Smokescreen almost felt bad holding the thing. Innermost energon was only meant for mecha important to an individual, and here he was, some random guardsmech who rooted around in the head archivist's room. The only reason he'd picked it up and shoved it in his subspace to begin with was because he originally intended to give it to Alpha Trion for safekeeping. Of course, that had to have been the very same night the attack on Iacon occurred.

"Is that-?" Bulkhead spoke up, but cut himself short as Optimus stepped forward, his optics wide.

"Innermost energon… a gift intended for an amica." Any laughter died in it's cradle as Optimus tenderly reached out. Smokescreen didn't hesitate to pass over the vial, watching as the mood shifted into something more solemn.

The Prime ran his digits over the small vial, his optics cycled wide as if he were a newbuild. His field pulsed in waves of old sorrow for a long moment, earning him a gentle touch from Ratchet once the Doctor composed himself enough to come closer. The rest of the team stayed silent, each of them seeming to know something important regarding Optimus and Orion Pax that Smokescreen was not privy to.

"Did you know archivist Pax? If that's the case… I'm sorry for throwing his secrets around. I just assumed that with the war and all, considering he was a civilian, he probably didn't…" Smokescreen trailed off, not wanting to meet the gazes of anyone present as the high-grade in his system eased enough to let him think clearly. What sort of aft mocked the dead? Slag, he'd messed up.

"I intended to gift this to Soundwave in the hopes that by being amica, we might be able to grow close enough to help Megatronus more efficiently." The words registered, but they did not fully compute as the Prime lifted the vial, watching it sadly.

"It was to be a bond to bind us for a lifetime, as Megatronus's right and left servos. His guides and aids in the battle for Cybertron's freedom." Ratchet held Optimus's arm, his field pulsing in age old grief that Smokescreen could hardly comprehend. The rest of the team simply observed.

"I planned to gift this token after our meeting with the High Council… but that event destroyed any brotherhood that might have lingered between us." A deep sigh escaped the Prime then, the air growing heavier with ancient regret.

"I lost more than just Megatronus that cycle. I lost so much more than him." With a weary flare of his field, Optimus held the vial a little longer before passing it back to Smokescreen. Only as he held it did everything click.

"You are Archivist Pax?" Optimus smiled ever so slightly at that.

"I was, long ago. But Orion no longer lingers here. He is but an echo of a happier time." With that, the Prime turned to leave, seemingly done with it all.

"Please, enjoy your evening. Do not allow my lamentations to ruin your celebrations." Without another word, Optimus hurried off toward his hab. The team watched in worry for a while, and Smokescreen fiddled with the vial while contemplating the implications of everything. But eventually, the team returned to their activities. Wheeljack put on a movie and poured more drinks. Bulkhead set up makeshift seating, Bumblebee sat down to watch the film with Arcee. Ratchet, for his part, passed out without meaning to five kliks into the movie.

Smokescreen took the opportunity to step away and follow after Optimus, soon finding himself knocking on the Prime's door.

When it opened, Smokescreen held out the vial, his door wings dipped in anxiety.

"I'm sorry for saying all that stuff about you! I didn't mean anything by it! And… I'm sorry I brought up bad memories." He didn't look up, he couldn't bring himself to. Without intending it, he'd hurt Optimus's reputation and brought up old losses. He'd messed up.

"Smokescreen."

Optimus's voice was gentle, almost sad as he reached out and pressed the vial back into Smokescreen's servos. His optics widened in shock, quickly forcing him to start up at the Prime in confusion.

"Do not feel guilty for what you have done. It was in good faith, and I know your spark." The Prime smiled tenderly as he clasped Smokescreen's shoulder, a fond gesture that seemed both so very right and wrong all at once.

"This is yours. It's your innermost energon. Don't you want it back?" His question rang out, unanswered for a long while. But after a klik, Optimus shook his helm.

"It is a remnant of a time long gone by. I would rather it come to new servos and represent something other than what it was originally intended to signify." With that, the Prime's servo moved down. The next thing Smokescreen knew, Optimus was holding his servos, a kind expression on his face.

Why? Why would Optimus trust him with such a thing?

"I don't understand." He murmured faintly as he heard the distant sounds of the movie playing in the background.

"You were also a student of Alpha Trion. You served him as I did, so long ago." Optimus, to Smokescreen's shock dropped to a knee to put them on equal level. He had no words. How could he? Optimus was on his knees just so they could speak at the same level.

"We are all that remains of our master, and in a sense, that ties us together." Smokescreen's field flared in disbelief, but also… relief. He'd been alone in his thoughts since his arrival. The team didn't know him, so they didn't really talk to him. The humans were nice enough, but they could never understand.

To know he had someone who cared? Who knew the loss?

"We're kind of like brothers then." Smokescreen laughed softly, nervously even. But Optimus didn't refute him. The Prime simply hummed and squeezed his servos. Somehow, that simple act conveyed more than words ever could.

"Keep this token of my youth, Smokescreen. Erase the sorrow it brings with a new promise, or perhaps remembrance for our departed teacher." Quietly, Optimus released his grip and stood back up, his expression strangely peaceful. He stood in his doorway for a while, seemingly thinking. Then, he nodded.

"If all else should fail, remember me, little brother." Then, just like that, the door slid closed.

Smokescreen stared for a while, unable to move. When he did, he meandered back to his room in silence, staring down at the small vial.

"Brothers…"

He murmured into the night, and as he did so, his view of the Prime shifted. Optimus was his leader, his idol, his Prime.

But beneath all that, hidden behind layers of rank and order, was someone he could trust. Someone who understood.

A mech he might one day dare to openly call a friend.

#well this got angsty without meaning to #whatever its good soup #transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #optimus prime #team prime #ratchet #bumblebee #bulkhead #arcee #smokescreen #smokey optimus brotherhood for life

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