#heart dividers by cafekitsune

[tadpolesonalgae]

The Other Woman

Azriel x Necromancer!reader

Synopsis: Coming from a long line of necromancers, you’re bound by an oath of submission to the High Lord. Dark power that many fear concentrates in your veins, a rare and precious gift. A perfect match for the Shadowsinger whose darkness comes to rival your own. Until one day, he seems to have no need for you anymore. Perhaps he never did.

Warnings: adolescent turbulence, beauty, angst, self-hate, violence (self-inflicted and other), general depression all around.

a/n: I think I went a little insane, writing this

Word Count: 15,042

“Did you see her makeup?” You laugh tipsily over your drink, blessed warmth sweeping away the day’s troubles. In truth you’re far from drunk, but a little playfulness never hurt.

Azriel rolls his eyes, wings tucked in carefully to avoid bumping into things despite being in a large private booth, overlooking the restaurant. “Maybe you should ease up on the alcohol,” he suggests, taking a sip from his own drink. “And waste your coin?” You muse, tilting your head to the side. “Never.”

The edges of his mouth quirk, gaze casting out over the busy scene below, waiters weaving in and out of the packed tables with trays practically piled to the ceiling—how anyone can eat that much food and not be ashamed is something you’ll never understand.

“Besides,” you say idly, glancing at the male. “I thought it looked nice.” But Azriel shakes his head, smiling faintly, your own reflecting their movement. “I’m sure you did,” he replies, still watching the tables far below. Hazel eyes following the waitress that had brought your drinks with slight interest. You subtly cast your attention after her—hair tied back, long legs, slim build but sturdy. Your nose wrinkles, lip twitching in disgust. “She could learn to lose that muscle,” you muse lightly, leaning forward to splay your forearms on the cool wooden surface of the table.

“She’s working a manual job,” he replies, still watching her. “Of course she’s going to have a bit of muscle from carrying those drinks around.” You take a sip of your own, watching as the waitress disappears through a door. “She serves as the pretty face of the restaurant,” you comment, “leave the heavy lifting to the others.”

“What are you going to order?” He asks, switching subjects. “Probably a salad,” you sigh, “I doubt I could manage any more. What about you?”

Azriel hums, the deep vibration warming your skin, and you resist the urge to shift in your seat, cunt aching to have him between your thighs.

“Probably a portion of mind-your-business with a side of roast potatoes,” he drawls, peering at you from over his menu. “Hold the judgement.” Hazel eyes glimmer with amusement, locking with your own, a slight smile softening the edges of your mouth. You raise your hands innocently, back curving to subtly showcase the generous neckline—deep but tasteful. “Just my opinion,” you reply, conceding on this topic.

He hums again, and you both settle back into peering through the menu. Much of the contents you can guess will be cooked in oil, making it greasy and fatty, something that would have made your mother’s lip twitch in disgust.

“Salad it is,” you mutter, pushing the menu away and sighing. “I know you like this place, Az, but this really is the last time we’re coming here. The air is practically dripping with sweat.”

“You know you say that every time,” he muses, hazel eyes flicking leisurely over the various meals and side dishes. “I mean it,” you counter, turning your head to once again peer at the crowd below, nose wrinkling ever so slightly before you suppress the inclination.

“There’s nothing wrong with letting loose every once in a while,” he replies casually, seemingly taking him time with deciding. “That’s rich coming from you,” you drawl, pointedly glancing at him. “You’re practically married to your paperwork. We had to set up a schedule for these dinners,” you emphasise, rolling your eyes. “Mother forbid you don’t get what you want exactly when you want it,” he replies, still choosing.

“What can I say? I deserve to be spoiled.” His shoulders shift, a low laugh huffing quietly from his mouth, the sound dripping between your legs. “Isn’t that right,” he drawls, deep hazel eyes settling leisurely on yours, shadows swishing idly over the plush seating.

You arch a neatly groomed brow, lips curving in a feline lilt. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was something you wanted to say?” You angle your head, keeping his gaze. But he shakes his head, that faint smile still on his mouth.

The waitress decided to return at that moment, and you resist the urge to berate her for so clearly interrupting the conversation. Instead you offer a polite smile, requesting a salad, pointedly asking how big it would be. “How big?” She repeats, playing dumb. You nod, keeping the smile perched on your lips, refusing to let her win. “I’m really not that hungry tonight,” you explain sweetly, “I was wondering since I saw you carrying some pretty large trays earlier—how do you even manage to carry that weight?” You ask, laughing slightly as you eye the thickness of her arms.

Beneath the table, a shadow zips up your leg, and you flinch, before shooting him a glare across the table. Azriel watches neutrally, but his gaze seems amused. With curved lips you return your attention to the waitress—so much wasted potential there. “I’m afraid all the salads come in the same size, but if you find it to be too much, nothing will go to waste,” she says smugly, “scraps get sent off to the farms, either for food or compost, so you needn’t worry about not finishing anything.” You smile blandly, not appreciating her bringing up farms and animals in a dining space.

She sucks in a breath, smile tightening as she at last turns away from you. “And for you, sir?” She asks, and you could vomit from her tone. Sprinkled with extra sugar. “This, please,” he replies pointing to something on the menu—tilted away from you. Curiosity simmers in the back of your mind, but you refuse to ask in front of the waitress. He’s probably doing it just to get to you.

She smiles and nods, jotting it down on her notepad before finally leaving, trotting away down the stairs.

“You better not be thinking about taking her home, Az,” you muse, leaning back in the seat as you fold your arms, subtly plumping your breasts. Mischief gleams on his hazel eyes as he casually examines his hands, “I don’t see a ring.” Despite the irritation gnawing at the back of your brain, the edges of your mouth lift at the comment, sighing heavily. “I should be the only female on your mind right now,” you say slowly, pulling out your nails to examine them in the warm light. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore a dinner partner?”

“Forgive me,” he counters, lips quirked, “you’d seemed more interested in the waitress. Trying something different tonight?”

Your lip twitches in disgust. “Are you trying to put me off my meal entirely?”

“I don’t think I said anything particularly foul,” he replies, amusement fading. “Well we both know your mouth isn’t the cleanest,” you muse lightly, surveying the decorations upon the table: a small vase of flora that’s been pushed to the side, some candles, a half-empty bottle of wine and some playing cards. “I’ll use my mouth how I want to,” he drawls, watching you steadily. “As will you.”

Traitorous heat liquefies in the pit of your stomach, bubbling and simmering away at the low timbre of his voice. You hum noncommittally, returning to his gaze. “So long as you aren’t using it on another male,” you say, shrugging. “Then live and let live.”

Azriel’s brow narrows, the edges of his mouth lifting. “You know that’s a contradiction,” he deliberates, relaxing in his seat. “You aren’t supposed to pick and choose who you’ll let live.” Habitually your lip twitches in disgust, but you tamp it down. “So long as it’s not being shoved in my face, then they can go on with their lives and I’ll go on with mine.”

“And Mor?” He questions casually, and despite his gaze having drifted idly to the candles you can feel the weight of his attention. “What about her?” You reply, keeping your features neautral.

Hazel eyes flick over the table, locking with your own. “Where does she fall among your morals?”

“Mor is Mor,” you reply blandly, resting your cheek on your palm, nails prickling skin. “She can do as she likes.” Azriel’s features remain in an unreadable set, but tension lessens as he reaches once again for his glass, sipping lightly.

You watch silently, how the warmth of the candles smooth his naturally flawless skin, shadows flickering in the hollow beneath strong brows, darkness dancing down the column of his throat. His lips remain in a bland line, tongue flicking out to bring in the alcohol, before returning the glass to the tabletop.

Casually, you slide your attention to the three candles that have been pushed to the side. “Want to learn a new trick?” You ask, feigning boredom. “I didn’t think you were one for party tricks,” he muses, an edge of mirth underlying his tone.

Ultimately you ignore him, allowing no more than a roll of your eyes before a single candle is being dragged over. Eyes latched with his, you brush the pad of your thumb and middle finger over your tongue, before clamping them over the flame, putting in out in one swift movement. Digits pull away, revealing the extinguished candle, a glint of victory in your eyes.

“Very impressive,” Azriel replies dryly, just as you had anticipated.

Watching silently, you slide a candle across to him. “Want to give it a go?”

There’s nothing subtle about the way tension ripples across his features, muscle tightening from the talons of his wings to the tips of his fingers. Hazel eyes the candle warily, a faint grimace on his lips.

A laugh spills from your chest at the expression, edging the flame away and instead reaching for the deck of cards. “How lucky do you feel tonight?”

Some of the torsion within his muscles relaxes, but he remains stiff. “Under normal circumstances, very,” he replies, glancing down as you deftly flip the box open, cards dancing between your fingers. “How about a bet?” You muse, eyes locked, shadows flickering at his back, spilling onto the table. “But if I win, you give that trick a go.”

Silence stretches between you, charged and taut.

Hazel drops to the cards being shuffled effortlessly, how they blur beneath your ministrations.

“Okay,” he says after a long moment, “I accept.”

Darkness flares around the booth, your teeth gleaming in a flash of white as a brief grin splits your lips. “Spine?” You ask, to which he nods, accepting the game—not even a sly quip about a necromancer suggesting Spine as the amusement of choice.

The seven cards are dealt out, the top one flipped over. “Ace is the skull. Good luck,” you smile, picking up your hand. “I do remember how to play,” he counters, features shifting to neutral as the game commences.

The rounds tick by, with him winning time and time again, all the while you’re sat opposite, with that bland, lifeless smile on your lips not even getting a single set down on the table. Still, when you reach the final round, your total amounts to no more than thirteen, having been forced to go out on a two during the first round, since the ace was worth twenty five, being the skull.

For the last time, you deal the seven cards, darting like shadows across the table as fingers flick deftly, setting the deck down softly, and flipping over the top card. Putting it face up on the surface.

With vague interest you watch his expression as he takes in his hand. If you didn’t know it was doomed, you wouldn’t be able to tell, his mask set firmly in place, no hint of disappointment or frustration to be found. Not even a curve of his lips with the fulfilment of your mutual knowledge—you’ve never lost to him. To anyone.

(With one exception.)

As expected, all seven of your cards end neatly catalogued into flushes, discarding the skull on the pile—the king of spades.

Azriel sighs, knowing the victory was coming, revealing his score of seventeen. A small smile plays on your lips as you sweep the cards back into their pack, pushing the candle toward him. “Better luck next time,” you say, his turn to fulfil the bet.

He eyes the flame warily, hazel glowing softly as the light warms his usually neutral features. You drink the sight in quietly, memorising the lines of his silky hair, a single strand brushing just below his right brow. How nice it would feel to skate your fingertips across his skin, pushing the inky lock away.

“Is it too late to back out?” He asks grimly, and you prop your chin on your knuckles, peering at him with a faint smile. “You agreed to this the moment you accepted the bet,” you reply softly, attention on him not the flame. Even to a stranger, his hesitance would be blatant.

“I’ll do it with you,” you say dryly, pulling the third candle over. Lick your middle and forefinger, watching as he reluctantly copies. “And…out.”

The flame winks out, extinguished in a heartbeat, casting your table mostly in darkness.

Blown-out hazel locks with you, still smiling faintly.

The grin fades, fingers dropping to the base of the candle to push it away. “Impressive,” you murmur sincerely, “once you wouldn’t have even considered playing.”

“Maybe a few decades ago,” he mutters, quick to push the candle away, hands sliding beneath the table. You hum noncommittally, straightening in your seat, sensing his aversion to the topic.

Your brow furrows, nails drumming on the table. Lip twitching with annoyance. “How long does it take to prepare a damn salad,” you mutter, pretending not to notice the ripple of ease across his shoulders. “Really, we’re never eating here again. The wait time is obscene, not to mention that server had an attitude on her. Doesn’t she know she’s supposed to be doing her job? All I needed was a simple answer, not a deep dive into their personal ethics.”

“You’d complain to an orphan if you got the chance,” he says, a hint of mirth returning to his eyes. “And you’d sooner destroy your own mind than let someone else have a look at it,” you return idly, reaching once again for your steadily draining glass, spotting the waitress making the journey up the stairs.

“Took her long enough,” you mutter under your breath, before pasting on a bland smile to soothe the male before you, a look of wariness on his features. All irritation is assuaged however, when you spot a smudge of lipstick on her straight, white teeth. Your mouth settles into a deliberate, straight line, glancing at Azriel to see if he’s noticed.

The waitress flashes a pretty smile your way as she sets the plates down, and you bite down on the urge to laugh, keeping your features politely neutral. When she turns to Azriel however, you feel an icy bite at your ankle, startling as one of his shadows nips at the exposed skin and you watch as he makes eye contact with the waitress. He thanks her, subtly gesturing to his teeth to let her know about her little embarrassment. She flushes wildly, a twinge of humiliation in her eyes as she hastily covers her mouth, apologising.

You offer her a sweet smile as she swiftly leaves, making her exit as quickly as possible to the stairs.

As soon as she’s gone, you turn back to Azriel, laughing. “Why’d you tell her?” You ask, sighing with mirth, pulling your plate closer. “Why didn’t you?” He counters, amusement void from his expression. You roll your eyes at his comment. “I didn’t want to embarrass the poor girl,” you reply, picking up the cool cutlery, feeling its weight in your palms. “Did you see how humiliated she looked at the end there? That was awful of you.”

He hisses your name lowly, and you raise mirth-filled eyes to his, spearing a slice of tomato on your fork. “What?” You grin, twirling the small weapon in your fingers. But he pins you with a hard look, shaking his head. “You can be a real piece of work, you know?”

“I had no idea,” you drawl, biting down on the crisp, red skin, delighting in the slight saltiness. A selfish indulgence on your part.

“At least now she’ll switch to a different lip tint,” you muse, watching as his expression turns cold. “Learn through experience, right?”

————

The hall fills with the sound of rustling clothing, voices chatting with pitched cheerfulness, heat pleasantly flooding the great room.

Night settled hours ago, faelights glowing proudly as the scent of warmly spiced mulled wine weaves through the air, sprinkled with sugar. Wreaths hang from the walls, decorating the large glass chandeliers, dripping diamonds.

The dark red liquid swirls in your glass, caught in a group conversation consisting of Mor, Elain, and a quaint looking bunch the latter seems familiar with, along with a couple of other familiar faces from your own circles. Andriette, with the hat wreathed in sparky feathers, laced through with purple and gold thread, accents of silvery aqua running through the deep indigo coloured gown she’s selected for the night. Changria with the vibrant oranges, rubies adorning her fingertips, wrists and neckline, looking like bloody teardrops from her earlobes. Small sequins have been scattered through the deep black of her hair, silky and lustrous.

Then there’s Cordia, the newest addition to your preferred group, still in the initial phase of integrating herself into your world. With rich brown hair and eyes to match, she’s chosen muted colours for the evening, complimenting her skin tone that’s lacking in the ripeness of life. As one of the many Fae of the night Court who organise their lives around the sparkling starlight, you find her a little bland on the eye, lacking the visual charm to fully convince you she has enough to offer.

Elain seems to be content leading the flow of conversation, though you can sense your ladies are getting restless and bored from the discussion, uninterested in the best soil to sow orchids in. A few of Elain’s own friends nod enthusiastically, offering their own tidbits and unnecessary opinions, eyes hurriedly darting across the circle you make up in search of a flicker of approval. Occasionally Mor will nod or laugh, offering one of her own comments, but even she is flagging in the conversation topic.

Changria shifts on her feet, and you take a mild sip from your drink to hide the eager quirk of your lips.

“Speaking of flowers,” she muses lightly, rubies glittering as light refracts through their pure colour. “I haven’t seen you frequenting the Peacock Inn recently, Mor. Spending your free nights at Rita’s these days?”

The vivacious blonde doesn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the slight sneer in your friend’s voice, instead allowing her full lips to curve into a rosey smile. “I find the conversation to be much more stimulating that side of the city,” she replies silkily, swirling her glittering champagne between pearl-tipped fingers, forgoing her signature red for the night in favour of a glittering ball gown that sweeps across the floor like golden starlight. “I’m surprised your sister hasn’t yet managed to pull you over. With how much time she spends there I find it strange you haven’t latched onto the spot.”

Elain’s friends shift uncomfortably on their feet, anxious to return to familiar ground.

“I think you must be mistaken,” Changria replies with her viper’s smile, as clean cut as glass. “My sister has no interest in fraternising with…same-minded folk. We were raised to be aware what counts as polite company to surround oneself with.” She pauses, dark eyes flicking to Mor’s from beneath thick lashes. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your group, of course,” she says with fake sincerity.

The edges of your mouth quirk, attention shifting to the bubbly blonde to see what she’ll do.

Irritation flares up when your fun is cut short, her pretty caramel eyes cutting to yours with enough ice that you have to step up. “And you?” She asks, “do you think this is polite company?”

You take a leisurely sip from your drink, having her wait just a few seconds before deigning her with a response. Both Andriette and Changria hide their mirth well, but you recognise that glimmer in their eyes. “I’m sure it’s all in good fun,” you smile, meeting her gaze, inclining your chin subtly. “Isn’t that right, Ri?” The black-haired female laughs, waving her bejewelled hand dismissively, “of course. My sincerest apologies if you felt otherwise, Mor.”

You smile at the superficial expression on her features, meeting each of Elain’s friends eyes, hurried and nervous smiles quickly pasted onto their lips before you turn to Mor. “It’s been a long night, after all,” you excuse smoothly, “she means nothing by it.”

The blonde hums, clearly choosing to ignore the snide remarks cleverly shot her way. Really though, what did she expect?

She can handle herself anyway—she didn’t need you to put a stop to Changria’s remarks, simply that it was the smartest thing to do.

In your peripherals, you watch as Cordia shifts, spurred on by the sly remarks, tempted to come out of her shell to find her own target.

“Maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink,” Elain suggests easily, eyes weaving through the crowd effortlessly. “There’s a server coming by—maybe have a couple of the snacks to soak up a bit of that alcohol. They really are lovely, those ones.”

“Am I right in understanding you advised what foods should be served, Elain?” You ask, watching as her cheeks flush a little with colour, dipping her head in a nod. The gesture is so imbued with feminine dignity you can’t help but warm to her, as if able to see a fragment of your younger self contained within her frame.

“That’s right,” Elain responds, a small smile on her lips. “Nuala and Cerridwen kindly assisted in preparation, as well as a good handful of others.” She nods kindly toward the gaggle of females she’d brought to the circle, and her friends faces soften into smiles. “You all remembered to wash your hands between gardening and preparing our food, right?” Cordia chimes in, eyeing the tray as it’s brought in.

They’re all perfectly bite-sized, different toppings upon small crackers with an assortment of herbs and spices sprinkled in varying heaviness. You glance tersely at Cordia from the side of your vision, before selecting one of the small biscuits from the outskirts, raising it to your lips to taste. Andriette and Changria follow suit, Cordia following soon after, eager to learn and copy. Elain’s group takes a few of the finger-pieces, nodding and congratulating one another on the different flavours.

You hum, pleasantly greeted by the slight citrine flavour of your tiny mouthful, finishing it off in another bite, aware more than a few sets of ears will be interested in how you judge the food. Moments pass, and you take your time examining the flavours—surprisingly enjoyable considering their size.

“Very nice,” you hum mildly, feeling the piercing weight of Mor’s attention on your lips. “Who’s idea was that one?” You ask, and Elain practically beams. Ushering forward one of the females in a pale blue gown, chestnut hair rich beneath the warm faelight. “This is Idris,” she introduces, and you incline your chin to look down upon the tall female. “It came from a home recipe,” Idris blurts out, and Cordia grins into her glass—at least she knows to hide her mirth. “My father used to make it for me and my siblings when we were younger, and I thought it would be perfect to share.”

“Your father did the cooking?” Cordia remarks snidely, and you send her another sharp glance, growing impatient with how she’s speaking out of turn. “What sort of circumstances led to that situation?” Idris shifts uncomfortably on her feet—shoes worn without heels, likely in attempts to muffle her unusual height. With a nervous glance your way, she elaborates. “My mother passed away when we were young, so my father had to learn how to care for us. Those snacks were the first things he mastered, so I’m proud knowing they’ve been served to such a vast number of people tonight.”

“He couldn’t afford servants?” Cordia questions humorously.

“Cordia,” you call sharply, pleased when she stiffens, twisting to face you—head slightly lowered. “Remember our earlier conversation about polite company?” You ask mildly, sipping from your emptying drink. The female nods, and you don’t doubt she memorised every word. You swirl your glass idly, before glancing at her sidelong. “Make sure to keep to that category. There are very few exceptions I make when it comes to the people I associate with, and you will not be one of them.”

The female flushes deeply, nodding hastily before mumbling a half-hearted apology to the tall but meek Idris, who accepts, likely out of sheer awkwardness.

You turn your attention to the pale-robed baker, meeting her eyes that flit about the room anxiously. With dark, tea-coloured skin, the dusty shade of red looks almost soft on her round and full lips, and you wonder why she’s decided on a pale blue robe when one that was wine-coloured would be far more suitable. With a dusting of gold over her eyelids, she could sweep a fair portion of the night’s attendees off their feet—both metaphorically and practically.

“Idris, correct?” You muse, nails glittering beneath the light. The female nods, fingers stuttering over the stitches in the bodice of her dress.

The very edges of your mouth raise, elegantly shifting your weight to one hip, running an appraising glance over her figure.

“Would you be interested in catering for another event like this?”

————

Footsteps tap softly along the floor of the open balcony, heels clicking as she finds you beneath the moonlight.

The glass has been refilled, and you gaze down at the revelry below, coloured lights dripping like diamonds, bobbing like fireflies between the shadows as fae sing and dance.

She comes to a stop at your side, waiting for you to address her, and you take another sip, just to make her squirm.

“How kind of you to join me.”

Cordia keeps still, attention keyed to your movements—smart thing. “You wanted to speak with me?” She asks, tone carefully neutral, but unable to mask the twinge of hope in her rich brown eyes. Her skin that must have once been livened from the sun in the Dawn court now lacks its vivaciousness, the colour of dried autumn leaves that crinkle and crunch daintily beneath booted feet.

“Allow me to be blunt as you are not someone I’m willing to soften my words for,” you say lightly, swirling your glass, glancing at her sidelong—watching as she stiffens further, and a twinge of fear creeps into her spiced scent. “You have not done yourself many favours tonight,” you muse, returning your attention to the sky, the clouds that have shadowed the moon. “It would serve you well to understand how things work for someone in your position.”

Her round figure is already fully facing you when you turn to her, fingers gripping her drink too casually.

“First of all, if you are going to target someone, do it with grace. Kicking a child does not prove strength, but weakness.” Cordia nods hurriedly, a sharp dip of her chin, eager to learn. “Secondly, do not go for someone contained within a group who will obviously side with them. Targeting that female when she was surrounded by others she was close with was foolish, and brash. A stupid error on your part, and embarrassing on mine.” She flushes wildly, lips parted, but nods again, mumbling out an apology. “And third,” you say voice icing over, “do not lash out with half-developed quips.” Deathly power condenses at your fingertips, like dew sliding along the taut string of a spider web. “There is a time and a place for mild jabs, but if you are unable to go for the throat, then you have no place in my circle.”

The sour tinge deepens, and your magic stirs in response, like a cat stretching out its spine, claws glittering.

“Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” she responds, a little hoarse.

“Prove it.”

“Prove it?” She echoes, and a small smile sharpens the cut of your lips, death haloing your figure as you stare her down. “Prove you can strike where it hurts.”

A blink reveals her hesitance, and you turn back to survey the city, sipping idly at your drink, as if you aren’t about to make or break the female at your side. The seconds tick by and you can hear how her lips fumble, silently scrambling for something sharp and bladed to gift.

Your eyes slide shut momentarily, mouth set in a sour line. “You can see yourself from the party.”

Cordia practically stumbles, but you don’t deign her with attention. “Reconsider,” she requests, gathering her pieces together, holding firm. “My answer is final,” you repeat idly, watching as a small circle appears below, people leaping and dancing as the round the small fire.

“Please,” she repeats, and through your peripherals you can make out as she discards her drink on the balcony, hands clutching the muted tones of her dress as she dips into a deep curtsey, holding the position flawlessly. The edges of your lips raise, before finally giving her your attention.

“I suppose it would be a shame to waste your dancing abilities,” you muse lightly, glittering black earrings tinkling as an icy breeze washes in. Cordia doesn’t dare look up, keeping her gaze trained on the round velvet of pitch dark heels. “Put on a show that will impress me,” you say at last, “and I will reconsider.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she breathes, relief soothing her muscles as she raises to a stand. “It will be the finest—”

“Down there,” you smile, gesturing with your chin to the bonfire far below, where the lower classes thrive and mingle, robes lacking the lustre and vibrancy of rich saturation, a sharp divide between the two spaces.

Cordia’s smile drops faster than a millstone through water, skin leeching further of colour, turning ashen. But she dips her head, understanding the ultimatum.

And so she leaves to dance, even if it will mean setting herself ablaze in the process.

No sooner than she’s out of sight, a familiar figure prowls silently out onto the balcony, stepping out of shadow and into the moonlight, bathed in silver.

“Azriel,” you greet, smiling faintly as he glides from the darkness, all calm quiet and reassuring grace. In a world that’s ever-shifting, he’s a constant, keeping the same cold attitude and unreadable mask wherever he goes. But then there are those moments where something warmer glimmers in his eyes, and your axis shifts a little, centre of gravity swaying as you enter his orbit. Rare moments where flame licks between paragraphs of conversation, small embers being allowed to warm before they’re once again fearfully stomped out.

“You could have chimed in when your friend was practically spitting in Mor’s face,” he says lowly, bypassing you entirely to lean calmly against the balcony railing and you blink, pulled back into your own realm. Features shift into a mask of soothing ease, moving silently to stand at his side. “She can handle herself,” you reply. “Besides, I won’t tell them what to think.” Through your peripherals you mark the slight frown between his brows, the displeasure in his mouth as he looks out across the midnight city, rendered in dark, inky blues and sparking pale starlight. You keep your back to the view, attention keyed to the male at your side, all thoughts of Cordia vanishing along with the task you gave her to complete.

“But you stepped in when it was Elain?” He asks, still not looking at you.

“Would you have preferred I said nothing?” You return dryly, sipping on your drink, casting your gaze back to the ballroom.

Azriel shifts, pushing up from his rest on the balcony, turning to look at you. “What would Rhys think?” He asks, and there’s something in his tone that has your full attention openly moving to him. “He’s like a brother, why would it matter what he thinks? We’ve all done bad things,” you reply grimly, memories pulling across your skin. “He’s your High Lord,” Azriel reminds quietly. “Your master, too.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, “that bond hasn’t been called upon in generations. And besides, he’s too soft-hearted to ever use something as outdated as that.” A note of affection has entered you voice, despite the slander you’re spewing. You peer up at Azriel, smiling faintly, “he refuses to so much as peek into someone’s mind without them knowing, he could never manage the bond. Much less given our relationship.”

Likely dozens of centuries ago, the both of your families had been powerful. Yours powerful enough that the dominant lineage grew wary of the necromancy that passed from blood to blood, never losing its potency no matter who it was bred with. Eventually a bond of submission was forged, rumoured that a hand had been forced, and ever since then, your blood has been bound to the ruling one’s. An oath of obedience sworn with each new ascension.

Admittedly, when Rhys’ father had been killed, and your own mother passing as collateral, you had hoped to escape it. Having grown up together, arranged to be married, lived in the same city for centuries, you’d thought perhaps something would change with you. Instead something had changed in him, after the loss of his family. A proposal had never been offered, and hopes of absolute freedom had been abandoned. You’d taken the oath the day he returned from Spring, blood still dripping fresh from his leathers, violet eyes so abnormally cold and cruel you’d done what you could to return their warmth. Shown you’d chosen to stay by his side, needless of a prompt.

“Still,” Azriel says, pulling you from recollection. “The fact remains. Stepping too far out of line will only force an unpleasant decision upon him. One that will likely be unpleasant to receive, too.”

“You don’t understand what you’re talking about,” you say softly, darkness gathering down your spine, festering and writhing. Fifty years worth of memories he has yet to understand. He watches you quietly for a moment more than usual, before his attention is stolen by a figure entering your shared privacy of the balcony.

Azriel visibly relaxes, standing straighter as Elain walks up to him, greeting the both of you with a warm smile that noticeably reduces the strain in the air. She comes to a stop at his side, and you frown as they exchange a quiet look, feeling too close to the outside of his neat circle for once, having been unaware of the constraints tightening. She leans into him, and you feel a frown emerging on your brow at her forwardness. Maybe she should take her own advice and find something to soak up the alcohol.

“Elain,” you greet, inclining your chin slightly, plastering on a pleasant expression as she turns to you. “Thank you for offering Idris another opportunity,” she says sincerely, voice soft as cotton. Azriel stiffens at the small revelation—nothing Elain would notice, but something you have no trouble spotting, almost perfectly attuned to him. “She loves cooking, though she doesn’t let it show that often,” she continues, oblivious to the Shadowsinger’s tension. “So even if she’s already said it, I wanted to thank you, too. I think it’ll help her in ways none of us can—getting to finally do something she loves, and getting to do it well.” Deep, swirling cocoa rises to meet you, tender and soft with emotion, so easy to target should someone want.

“It’s no concern at all,” you smile pleasantly, the corners a little too sharp to be entirely sincere, an edge in your stomach at her proximity to Azriel. “Though I appreciate you upholding the pretence that it’s anything but a self-serving action—very gracious of you, I must admit.” Her brows furrow a little, tilting her head, but then she shakes it, smiling faintly, “you like your mask, don’t you?”

Before you can ask—or even react to—what she means, she’s turning to Azriel, pushing up onto her toes to press a light kiss to his cheek, before smiling again kindly, and taking her leave. You watch her go, silently, until she’s disappeared between sweeping bodies, turning to Azriel. Raise your glass to your mouth, “well that was interesting.”

The rigidity is beginning to make sense now.

“How long are you going to let it drag on?” You ask, averting your attention to the fire below, fuelled by twigs as fae and faeries dance about. He’s quiet, and you fight against the muscle in your jaw, the urge to grind your teeth at his silence. Jealousy isn’t a pretty colour.

“We’re together,” he says at last, and you scoff.

“And I asked for how long,” you reply, not looking at him.

He’s silent again, and your lip twitches in disgust, pushing up from the balcony, turning to face him. “And when were you going to tell me you were fucking Elain?” You ask bemusedly. “I can understand keeping your other lovers private, but Elain Archeron?” You marvel, voice dripping with fake incredulity. “What does Rhys think?”

“It’s serious,” he replies quietly, and you scoff again.

“Uh-huh. And the Mother’s going to kiss my hands when I go to heaven,” you reply sardonically. “Seriously Azriel, what the hell are you thinking?”

“I’ve already heard this talk from Rhys and Feyre. I don’t need it from you,” he says coldly, and you pin him with a hard look.

A heavy breath blows from your chest, and you return to the balcony, surveying starlit Velaris. “Whatever. Even I can’t stop you from making this mistake.” Your name hisses lowly from his mouth, but you ignore him. Instead you focus on a small, female figure appearing below, emerging from the shadows as she meekly approaches the bonfire. A smile sharpens your mouth, and you lean forward. “Evening entertainment is starting,” you hum to him, shifting the subject.

There’s a pause on his end, and you know he’s considering dropping it, picking up on your cue to change the topic. Move away from the unpleasant conversations in favour of lighter topics. The air shifts, but he glances over the railing to where you’re looking. “Let’s see what the little chestnut has, shall we?”

“What did you do this time?” He sighs, a note of familiar exasperation in his tone, a faint smile softening your mouth. “Why do you always think I’m behind it? Can’t she enjoy a night on her own?” You ask, shifting to face him, jaw resting on your palm.

A muscle flickers grimly in his jaw, darkness simmering in his gaze. “She’s taking her top off.” You blink, turning to peer over the balcony. A sharp, surprised laugh cuts from your throat, more a harsh bark than mirth, because there she is, undoing the corset portion of her bodice, revealing the translucent white fabric beneath, swaying as she joins the revellers. “She’s certainly putting on a show,” you muse, pleasure shimmering across your skin as you wonder at the humiliation she might feel. What you hope she does feel, and what will go unrewarded. You would never have allowed someone like her to join your circles to begin with.

Beside you, Azriel shakes his head. “You’re going too far,” he mutters, “stop it.”

“Stop it?” You echo, “but she’s just beginning to enjoy herself,” you croon softly, watching as a male figure joins her on the ground below, hands greedily skating up her waist. Your name is again pulled from his chest in a warning, dragged out deep and gravelly. “What am I to do?” You muse, returning your gaze to his, now cold and hard, lethal beauty painted in pale moonlight. “I can hardly order her about from up here. Besides, I know what I’m doing, and this is a small price to pay for what she tried to bring my way.”

His lip twitches in disgust, and your heart skips a sudden beat, heat swarming your chest. The familiarity of that gesture—it’s one he’s learned from you. Like how behaviours can rub off on other people, you’ve left your own mark on him, and here it is, presenting itself to you. Nerves squirm around your throat, warmth fluttering through your lower stomach at the thought. Biting back a small, helpless smile, averting your gaze.

“You’re a nasty piece of work sometimes,” he mutters lowly, and this time you allow a fraction of the genuine smile to show, warmth gathering beneath your skin as you accept his invitation, falling back into the cruel dance of life, sparring with sharpened blades. “And you just perfectly captured Elain’s future thoughts when she finds out the things you do, Spymaster,” you reply, amusement lining your features. “She might not see that blood, but I do, and it’s not something you yet know how to fix.”

His features harden to ice, hazel eyes glittering with frozen cold as your words crash against his scar-toughened skin.

Down below, more clothes are being stripped away, and you grin, wondering how far she’s prepared to take this dance. How far she’ll go to preserve her precious face.

“How do you feel about trying a new restaurant this weekend?” You ask, distracting from the show. “After the embarrassment of that last time, I think it’s fair we go to a place I like for once.” You turn to face him, smiling faintly, but you’re met with emptiness.

At some point within the last minute, it seems he’d simply walked away.

Leaving you quiet on the balcony.

————

The ball had quickly lost it’s appeal after the small shock—what on the Mother’s head is he thinking? Elain of all people.

Fingers rub across your chest, just below your collar bones, massaging the area to relieve pressure. Him and Elain. Why hadn’t he told you? From how casually she’d stepped into his side, it has to be something that’s been going on for a while. The others must have known about it…why were you left out? Brows twitch but you pull back on the frown, anxious to avoid any suggestion of lines.

The conversation reworks itself in your mind, repeating until you practically have it memorised.

She might not see the the blood…

With each replay you can see as he walls himself off. Can spot those self-defence mechanisms kicking in, as thoroughly ingrained in him as the scars on his hands. That’s not what’s supposed to happen when he’s with you. He’s supposed to open up, not close himself off. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say… You’d thought it clearly a game, but maybe he’d been taking you more seriously than you’d anticipated.

…but I do, and it’s not something you yet know how to fix.

And he’d left after that. You don’t even know if he’d heard your rather bold dinner invitation, or if he’d winnowed elsewhere. To be at Elain’s side. To enjoy her as he would a ripe fruit. Maybe she is something to be wary of… If their relationship is so out in the open… You can’t remember a time Azriel had ever been okay with any of you meeting a partner, preferring to keep them to himself, hidden away until he got bored or it fell apart. Whichever happened first. It’s unnerving to find your constant shifting, and not in a favourable direction.

The tightness builds in your throat.

While it wouldn’t be long, you’d rather not have to sit through their relationship for the few years or so, even if you know it’s bound to end in misery, just as it always seems to be when it comes to him. Like a little black raincloud.

Your heart stutters in your chest, pulse increasing and you have to even your breaths.

Yeah…you should say something to him. Even if he likely won’t accept your apology due to cripplingly low self-esteem and issues with vulnerability, you hope the effort will be worth it. You don’t want him to wall himself off around you. You want him to bleed and gush, guts spilling, allowing you to see the mess you know lurks beneath his skin. A mess you could easily find in yourself, too. If only you could open up enough to show him your similarities. The connection would be obvious, and maybe…maybe you’d get to have someone who understood you, too.

Maybe he wouldn’t hate his own darkness as much if he was able to see how deeply rooted it is in your own, soulless body.

————

The dinner happens as usual, and you try to resist sinking into the off feeling.

It’s nothing obvious, but it’s lacking the usual cohesiveness, the fluid conversation feels dwindling and forced, and you realise he isn’t pushing back as much as he normally does. The snide remarks you make are left untouched, no disciplinary glances or displeasured frowns when you pass a quick judgement. Even when the comments become unfair to your own ears, he ignores them, instead choosing to pay attention to the food.

Once again, despite all your protests, you’re here at the same place you always go. He claims it’s his favourite, but you can’t bring yourself to believe he could possibly enjoy a place where the air is so thick and heavy, to the point of being stifling. You can practically smell the sweat and grease with each breath, and your skin crawls with disgust at having to frequent the restaurant so often.

Eventually the meal reaches its end, and the two of you leave, Azriel having paid once again. You think it’s only fair, since it’s his spot. There’s no way you’re paying for such a mediocre meal and such poor service.

The skies are heavy and grey, verging on thunderous, the air dense even once you’ve breeched the wards that keep the restaurant alive with heat. Cobbles are slightly crooked in places, and you take care walking, wary of the thin pencil-wide stilts that serve for your heels. All around, folk are enjoying their suppers, sat beneath water-proof gazebos as day at last utterly yields to night, faelights warming the streets dimly through the bizarre heaviness of the darkness.

“Azriel,” you call from his side, voice coming out confident despite being so unsure how to go about touching on yesterday’s subject. He makes no sound to acknowledge he’s heard you, simply continuing on with the leisurely stroll, and yet you know he’s listening. Just as he always is. Ever attentive.

“Yesterday, when we spoke,” you begin slowly, intentionally shifting your gaze to brush disinterestedly over shop fronts and seating areas. Nerves crawl uncomfortably around your throat, tightening but you keep your spine straight, shoulders pulled back as had been drilled into you. “You seemed closed off,” you say, unable to look at him. Not with the stutter of your heart.

When he makes no effort to speak back or elaborate, you push forward, anxious to keep your feelings tightly concealed. “You understand I was joking with you, don’t you?” You ask, counting each step, marking the cracks between the grey cobbles. He hums, not really and answer. Your throat rolls, gaze sliding to eye him sidelong, the clean cut of his profile against the dark blues of the night, skin keeping its soft warmth despite the swiftly plummeting temperature.

“You took your time to tell me about Elain,” you remark, switching topics hastily. Quickly dancing away from the apology that was sat so readily on your tongue—just unsure how to come out. What words to join together to express your grief over his own reactions while not feeling an ounce of regret for what was said. You won’t take it back, but you wish he wasn’t…however he is, with you.

“About that,” he says, and your attention keys to him entirely, as it always does whenever he seems prone to revealing a little more of himself to you. “Things are going to change,” he elaborates, “Elain and I will be going out to dinners together, and because of our lives, this is going to have to find time somewhere else.”

You blink, steps faltering, heels stuttering over the cobbles as you stare at him but he keeps up the idle pace, forcing you to push your body into fluid movement, flowing after him. “What… Az, what are you talking about?” You ask, tone confused, lacking its usual sharp edge as apprehension tightens around your throat. “These suppers,” he repeats, attention remaining ahead, “they’re going to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because Elain and I are together, and we—”

“Shut up about Elain,” you say sharply, voice lowered, coming to a stop on the cobbles. Azriel pauses, features superficially neutral as he takes in your stance. Waiting patiently, as he’s always prepared to do.

“These are our dinners, Az,” you hiss, keeping your voice low, wary of eavesdroppers. “They’ve been our time for almost three centuries. And now you’re trying to replace them because you got laid?” Disbelief drips from your hushed voice, staring at him incredulously, shaking your head. “We’ll talk about this again when the blood’s returned to your head,” you hiss sharply, but his brow dips in displeasure, and you’re kept from walking away.

“Don’t talk like that. About me, or her,” he says bluntly, irritation itching across your skin. “Az, you’re thinking with your cock,” you hiss again, stepping closer to reduce the chances of being overheard. “These dinners are the only times we get to be together. You are not cancelling them just because you want to get between her legs, is that clear?”

Azriel makes a sound close to a sigh, and emotion—raw and unfiltered—sears across your chest, licking like flames as you stare at him. “Don’t bother getting frustrated. I’m not asking, I’m telling you what’s going to happen. Besides, the family dinners are still open.” Even if you haven’t attended one in almost two-hundred and fifty years.

Your heart pounds in your chest, long-suppressed rage rearing her head with such force there’s nothing you can do to muffle her. “Don’t pull that, Az,” you warn lowly. “You know that’s not a solution. You can find time elsewhere, these days are the only ones that work for us.”

“She’s my partner. She comes first.”

“And what about me?” You hiss. “You’ve known her for—what? Two years? Have been in a relationship for less than that, and I’m the replaceable one? Pull your shit together.”

His brows narrow, gaze hardening as he takes you in. Hazel eyes cool, freezing over as his patience is relieved of its duty. “I want to eat with her. I want to spend my time with her,” he says coldly, “you are tiring and draining to be around.”

“Tiring and— What has gotten into you?”

“This isn’t anything new,” he replies, “she and I have been together for a while now, and this is how things happen.”

“How long is a while?” You hiss, feeling as if the cobbles are falling away beneath your feet. “Long enough,” he replies monotonously.

“This is how you treat your century-old friends?” You ask, power writhing in your stomach. “Pushing them aside when something new and shiny comes along?” You hiss, emotion whipping at your heart until blood leaks out. “Fine. Fuck the tightness out of her for all I care. See if you’re still interested once you’ve gotten what you want.”

“Do not—”

“I have everything, Azriel. I’m the most sought-after female in this city,” you hiss, pressure building behind your eyes but you shove it away—you can’t have the kohl running. “Males have crawled on their knees to gain an ounce of attention. My life is perfect, I don’t need anybody but decided you might be worth my time.” Anger heats your skin, features twisted in an ugly carving of rage.

“If your life is so perfect, why do I pity you?” He replies harshly, rain beginning to drip from the heavy skies.

“Pity me?” You echo, faintly. “You pity me, shadowsinger?” You grit out, lip curling back with disgust. “I don’t want your pity. My life is perfect. People would die to be in my position. To be as coveted I am, and I gave you a chance at that.” You spit, seething, keeping an eye on the rain—looking like it’ll become heavier. It’ll ruin the curls you kept pressed in if you don’t get inside soon. “You can’t replace me,” you scoff, staring at him beneath lightly dipped brows—careful of wrinkles. “You’ll never find someone as good as me.”

A vindictive smile stretches across your dark-painted lips, triumph searing across your skin, heart pulsing in a way you’ve been craving for decades—centuries. “I’m everything you could ever want: beautiful, intelligent, rich. Not to mention excellent in bed, anyone would be blessed by the gods to call me their own,” you point out, baring your teeth with victorious rage. “You can’t deny we’re perfectly suited for one another. Everyone and their mother knows we’re a strong pair, practically untouchable. We spend all of our time together—there’d be no difference between how things are now and how they would be if you would just open your damn eyes and realise how much you need me.”

“I’m the one you confess your sins to, I’m the one who absolves you, I’m where you go to seek comfort,” you hiss, wary as a strand of neatly curled hair falls out of place. “And you think Elain is anything in the face of that?”

Breath puffs from your chest, air curling in thick tendrils as the crispness of the breeze deepens in its chill. Fingers tremble at your side, skin immune to the swiftly plummeting temperature, spurred on by self-righteous anger. The need to right a wrong becoming satiated now he understands what an awful choice he’s making.

Azriel’s expression doesn’t shift, hardly shows a grain of emotion, the rain beginning to drip into the soft, inky locks of his hair, weighing the strands down to curl over his brow.

“I spent my time with you because I thought I could fix you,” he says blandly, making you falter. “You’re so self-obsessed, convinced the whole world would pause everything for you—I can’t even begin to understand how insecure you must be to have reached such a severe state of delusion.”

“Delusion?” You snarl, freshly manicured nails piercing the soft flesh of your palms, hours of pampering ruined by a single outburst. “The only one who’s deluded is you, for even considering picking the flower-baring whore over me.” Hazel eyes gutter, taking on a glittering icy hue as his jaw tenses.

“You’re the court torturer, and I’m the necromancer—there’s never been a better pairing cast together, and there never will,” you seethe, death and rot simmering at your fingertips that his eyes trace warily. “You’re really so selfish you’d latch onto Elain and bring her down with you?” You ask, watching as the blade finds its mark, hazel flinching. “I’ve seen your darkness, and you’ve seen mine. The mother couldn’t have made our match more obvious.”

“You know I’m right, Azriel,” you crow, taking a step forward, needing to wrap this up quickly—people are murmuring, rain growing heavier. You can already feel it beginning to take the silky sheen from your hair. “I’m the better choice. Now and forever. I will always be the better choice.”

His expression shifts to something you can’t place—almost like sorrow—thick brows narrowing over dark hazel eyes. He takes a silent step forward, the edges of your mouth kicking up with a spark of success. Vicious pride blazing in your gaze—warping into tunnel vision.

“I will tell you only once,” he bites out, glittering fury lighting the deep hazel of his gaze. “Never speak of Elain that way.”

“Or what?” You bark, staring up at him, arms folding indignantly to plump up your chest. “You choose that bitch over me, and it’s over between us,” you declare, victory within your grasp. “You forget I know where her father’s buried,” you hiss viciously, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.

A blind person could spot his kindness from a mile away, as useless as it is. He would never put himself first, especially not before you. You’ve had centuries to observe his behaviour, you know this is his weakness, the cripplingly low thought of himself, somehow unable to appreciate the divine beauty of his own features, looking as if he’d been hewn from the heavens themselves then unleashed upon earth to wreak destruction.

He’s equipped with the weapons to be a heart-breaker, to have whoever he wants, yet has somehow managed to overlook his own beauty. A rare gem for you to take for yourself, to treasure and polish to perfection, to stare at and admire in the guarded privacy of your own heart. He’s the first, and only one who’s ever managed to get past those impenetrable walls of ice, having thawed you out over likely thousands of dinners, and nights out, and not-so-casual brunches.

But Azriel shakes his head slightly, sighing in the freezing air, breath curling in a smooth twirl, whisked away by the chill breeze. “You’re doing this to yourself,” he says quietly, hazel piercing into you beneath a narrowed brow, gaze filled with ice. “I’m not going to choose you.”

“So you’d throw away three centuries of simmering pleasantries?” You spit out, an icy drop of rain slipping down your generous cleavage, goosebumps raising. “Don’t be so arrogant; it’s unbecoming.”

He takes a step forward, casting you in his darkness, his warmth remaining just out of reach, pulling you into his orbit. “You think anyone will love you like I will?” You ask, but your voice shakes as the words slip out. Throat rolls, nails slicing into already ruined palms. “I know you, Azriel,” you grit out, “what you are. What you do.” You shift on your feet, spine straightening, shoulders flattening. “Do you really think anyone else will stick around for that?”

Shadows flick over the peaks of those great wings, wreathing them like dark halos as hazel shutters. “Walk away,” he murmurs, darkness swirling idly about, like early morning mist. “Walk away, and you can keep your fragile sense of self intact.”

“Is it the number of people I’ve slept with?” You grit out, glaring up at him. “We can pretend that never happened, if you want me to be more like her. I can learn botany—it wouldn’t be an effort. I have gardeners that could arrange bouquets, and lace my hair with wild flowers. I’m sure someone’s found a spray to keep bugs away, so—”

“I’m not picking you,” he says harshly, eyes pinning you to the cold, icy cobbles.

“Why not?” You hiss, but he shakes his head, exhaling a short sigh.

“Just go back home,” he replies, a little softer. “Save yourself the embarrassment. I’d hate to be the one to shatter your carefully cultivated image,” he mutters, turning on his heel.

Panic surges, blindly reaching out, heart clenching in your chest as both of you stare at your hand gripping his wrist. The murmurs hurry in intensity, but fall away as hazel meets your gaze, narrowed and wary. You know he must be able to feel the tremble of your fingers, but you can’t let go now, that would be admitting defeat. So you step closer, his warmth washing over you, night-kissed scent wrapping with your own.

“I can change,” you manage, voice hoarse in the freezing rain, weighing and ruining your curls. Tiring and draining, he’d said. “Tell me what to do, and it’ll be done. I can fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” he replies shortly, “I spent a long time thinking I saw glimpses of myself in you—when you used to quieten in the evenings instead of plastering on one of your catty smiles. When you used to enjoy the silence instead of trying to fill it with numbing activities.”

You stiffen in the cold, grip tightening on his wrist, gaze locked with hazel.

“At some point you might have been salvageable, but not anymore,” he continues, small pieces of yourself trembling with each word, raw and tender. “And what about yourself?” You reply, heart tight in your chest. “You think that you have the right to pass judgement on me? With the things you’ve done?” You stare up at him, pulse beating to a nauseous rhythm. “You’ve lied, murdered, and tortured your way to where you are. I’m an angel compared to you.”

“You’re rotten to your core,” he hisses, wings flaring wider, towering over you. “Rotten, spoiled, and utterly unloveable.”

Something faintly familiar stings through your stomach, wrapping in knots and dragging outward, twisting.

“No one would pick you—has anyone even thought of doing so?” He asks, sharp hazel eyes piercing like blades through the thawed out ice of your heart.

“You did,” you whisper, lungs filling with choked-down aches. “You chose me, Azriel. So I’m choosing you back.”

“That’s not how it works,” he hisses, pulling his arm from your grip like your muscles are made from rain-soaked paper. “I gave you a chance to change. You could have been better if you’d tried.”

You shake your head, staring at him, fingers cold as icy water drips over their outstretched tips. “That’s not fair,” you whisper, “I didn’t know I was being tested.” But he pays you no mind, turning on his heel, making to leave you out in the rain.

You’re moving without thinking, darting into his path, blocking his way.

“Fine,” you breathe harshly, fingers trembling as they clench at your sides. “I’ll say it.” Alarm flares in those beautiful swirls of colour, his lip twitching but you ignore the familiar expression, gone with a flash of pain.

Your throat rolls thickly, staring up at him, aware of the whispers from beneath cafe shelters, hardly bothering to keep their volume low. “I don’t—…” you fumble, shocking humiliation twisting across your stomach. Are you really doing this? Is he worth your pride? Worth losing those cultivated defences? They’ve been up for so long, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to swallow the emotion that’ll inevitably swamp you.

Hazel waits silently, all quiet grace and reassuring shadow.

“I don’t have anyone else.”

The words burn across your skin, the admission having nausea roiling in your stomach, pulse pounding wildly. Stripped bare, emotion flayed to a raw, bloody pink.

“She has other people,” you whisper painfully, lip curling in disgust. “She doesn’t want you like— She doesn’t need you like…like I do.” Despite the way your confession sears through your blood, hurting like a scar picked open, he already seems to be done with the conversation. Ready to move on and leave you behind.

“You don’t need me, or want me,” he replies blandly. “You’ve been so emotionally numb for the past dozen decades you’re addicted to the first drop of feeling you’ve gotten. You like the idea of being with someone after such a long period of loneliness, and you’ve misunderstood whatever you’re experiencing as love when it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, heart fluttering in your throat so high you think you might be about to regurgitate it at his feet. “I’ve kept to myself because no one else has been worth it. No one else has made me even consider talking with you like I sometimes do.” A cold wind blows through your skeleton, a shiver shuddering in your stomach, hands clutching your exposed arms.

“I’m far more beautiful than she is anyway—”

“No,” he cuts in, “you aren’t.”

And suddenly you’re reduced to your adolescent self, secretly sneaking into her mother’s purse, snatching at all the makeup you can find and scurrying away to the bathroom to paint yourself beautiful. How heavily the bright lipstick had weighed on your lips, slippery and over-lined. How your eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot once you’d finished with the thick stick of kohl. The pins that had curled your hair into a matted mess, tangled into a unsolvable nest.

How proud you’d been of your work, parading out into your mother’s chambers, eager to show off your likeness.

She’d taken one look, and screamed, landing a hard smack across your cheek. Staining the carefully applied lip tint, pushing it onto gleaming white teeth that bit into your tongue with the force of the impact. She’d dragged you by the hair back into the bathroom, tub filling to the brim with freezing water where she’d shoved you in, clothes and all. Grabbed a towel and started scrubbing at your face, the water clogging your airways as her nails scraped and poked until your skin was raw. She’d wasted no time unpicking the curls from your hair, simply ripping them out, or in some cases, sheering the locks jaggedly from your scalp.

The following weeks had been the worst of your life, keeping your head hugged in a kitchen cloth, not having any of your mother’s precious silk caps to prevent friction and fraying. You’d hardly taken your eyes off the ground, keeping your gaze trained to the pretty bows on your shoes, clutching the straps of your bag tightly.

There had been other instances like that, but none quite as debilitating—the time a month later your’d put together a small breakfast, teetering up the stairs one at a time in your freshly pressed dress, starched and aired, before pushing her door open. She’d screamed worse than last time, and your feet had frozen to the floor. It was only when the glass vase had smashed against your temple that they’d unstuck, hands shuddering as you tottered backward, stumbling until the door had slammed in you face.

Whether it was that specific instance, or the litany of other formative moments of your childhood that had be warped and distorted into something cold and cruel that had led you to this moment, stood opposite him in a freezing cold street, gossiping whispers passing like a sickness between onlookers as the rain drips down cream-smooth skin, you’ll never know. Too many actions uncorrected for too long for you to ever understand when you truly became her spitting image. At what point you went from a young girl trying to fit into her mother’s skin, to fully embodying her rotten perfection.

Plump, rosey lips hiding a mouthful of foul, fetid teeth.

“So you’re—… You’re really…” something warm and wet drips down your cheeks, and you realise with mortifying humiliation you’re crying.

Azriel sighs harshly, the impatient sound slicing across your breast bone. “That’s not going to work,” he says coldly. “Cry all you want, it’s not going to change anything.”

Your heart flutters wildly in your throat, as if trying to break free, stomach twisting and turning in vicious knots. You don’t understand why he’s walking away. “She won’t… She’s not going to treat you better,” you manage, voice cracking along with your heart, shattering with such painful slowness you can practically feel it fracturing. Ice splintering off into shards.

His jaw works, and you resist the urge to turn and run beneath his gaze. He shouldn’t be seeing you like this. It’s gutting your chances.

“I trust her,” he mutters lowly, rain hissing on the cobbles. “I trust her not to take advantage of my weaknesses. To see them and accept them.” He steps closer, and your legs tremble. “Not to turn them into ridiculous little games designed to make herself look better.”

“That wasn’t—… I was helping you.”

“You enjoy succeeding where others fail,” he hisses, his warmth at last brushing over your skin, close enough for his scent to wrap around you fully. “You get a kick out of proving you’re better, no matter how good your life is.”

Your jaw trembles, nails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. “I have worked for my supposedly good life,” you say sharply, tone wobbling.

“Your predecessors worked,” he hisses, “you were born with a power that made you precious. Without it, you’re nothing.”

“Power is everything.”

“And that’s exactly why no one’s ever loved you.”

You flinch.

Stumble a step back.

“That’s not true,” you whisper. “Rhys loves me. So does Cassian, and Mor. You do, too.”

“You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor,” he snaps, and a long-forgotten memory flashes across your skin.

“I love…I like myself.”

He rolls his eyes, brows narrowing in disbelief. “You hate yourself more than I do.”

Shoulders bunch together, curving inward. “Doesn’t that make us perfect?”

He blinks, caught off guard by the tone, bathed in broken curiosity. He’s known for a while there’d been something wrong taught to you, but you’ve never really allowed him close enough to find out what.

Then he shakes his head, turning away. “Mutual hatred doesn’t equate to love,” he mutters, pausing. Looks at you from over his shoulder. “We spent three centuries together, and you couldn’t even figure that out?”

You remain silent, lips parted as you search for an answer.

He huffs in disbelief. “No wonder you’re always on your own.”

————

You’re hardly able to stumble your way back home, looming before you in a great mass of shadow.

You’re at the threshold of the tall gates, when a voice calls your name, and you turn to find a female with rich brown hair with deep eyes to match, skin just a little to wan for your tastes. Cordia.

“Leave,” you order coldly, the tall iron gates swinging open upon your command, power thrumming beneath your veins as you make your way up the road, thick forestry lining the edges. Breath drags raggedly from your lips, lungs spasming as emotion rages in your chest, ripping itself open upon the now jagged shards of ice that he’s splintered, damaged and bruised.

“You’re in a sorry state,” she calls mildly, following behind you as you march up the steep road with little difficulty, body shaking and trembling as raw feeling strikes at your core repeatedly. Teeth grit together, nails digging into your upper arms as you huddle against the cold, choosing to continue along the rain-soaked path in favour of winnowing.

“That was quite the performance you put on there,” she hums, and you freeze in your steps. “Oh? That got your attention,” she smiles, stepping into your path. “Yes, I saw your breakdown. So did Andriette, so did Sangria. Anybody who is anyone will have heard about your little-girl tantrum within the hour.” Terror thuds in your throat, stomach lurching as your meal is upended into the shrubbery nearby. You hear Cordia make a sound of disgust while tears prickle at your eyes, nostrils burning as your stomach spasms, retching over and over until you’re struggling for breath.

“And to think after all that effort too,” she gloats. “All that beauty and power, and you still couldn’t have the male you wanted. Serves you right for being so picky,” she hisses gleefully, watching as you remain hunched over, knees sunken into the dirt after your legs gave out. “I guess you’d call that karma. You destroyed me, now you’ll hit the bottom of the barrel too. How’s it feel to be in the shit-gutter with me, huh?”

The tremors become violent, and she laughs, stepping away. Breath shudders in and out, hyperventilating as you spiral away, discipline and control turned weak and mushy from flayed emotion, humiliation and terror mixing in a deadly combination. “Does rejection feel good to you?” She asks, arms folded across her chest, and you barely gather the strength to stand.

And that’s exactly why no one’s ever loved you.

You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor.

No wonder you’re always on your own.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, stomach lurching again, retching and a palm presses to vomit coated lips, the taste bad enough to make you try to throw up all over again. Cordia makes a sound between disgust and pleasure, relishing the moments she’s being gifted. “Everything you have,” she marvels, “land, money, beauty, power. At least you’re an ugly crier. Who’d ever want to kiss piggy lips like yours.”

Rage burns you alive, hands wrapping around her throat, ripping her life away in seconds, reduced to dust, mixing with mud that you take minutes trampling deeper into the wet road. You wipe your mouth, staring grimly at the mess on your shoes, stomach turning but you feel a little better now that things are fairer.

When you reach your home, you make no effort to dampen your power, allowing it to roll in thick waves from your soaked body, rat-tailed hair slicked away from your features. Let the message convey itself, for every maid and servant to leave immediately, or face the consequences. Livid emotion rocks and shatters across your chest, swirling with unstoppable intensity and you kick off your shoes, heading up the stairs, treading rain into the clean white rugs.

A maid rounds the corner too quickly, slamming into you, and your urge to kill finds its target, power piercing into the quaking female. You grit your teeth, yanking at its leash, guiding it elsewhere to keep from murdering an innocent. Instead your hand pulls back, taut like a bow string before lashing across her cheek, the sharp jewels on your fingers biting and tearing at her skin as she’s shoved backward. “Get out,” you hiss, voice distorted and raw, power recoiling and refocusing, licking its lips as it finds the maid again, but she’s already scrambling away.

Breaths rage in your lungs, and you manage to make it to your bedroom, eyes skittishly darting to and fro in search of something, something you need—

Tears spill heavily, a sigh of relief and wonder releasing from your body as the razor drags across your forearm, short and sharp breath stuttering as that pressure builds and builds, the steel flying across your skin until you could peel the flesh apart like the crusty pages of an old book.

You pant heavily, arms trembling unsteadily with adrenaline you haven’t felt in years, suddenly crushed by the weight. Groans drag from your chest, sobbing wretchedly as you settle on the floor, ripping the clothes from your legs, slicing and slicing and slicing as you cry and smile and scream and die— Like it’s all condensed into fluttering feelings, passing through, forcing their way so intrusively through your mind it’s shards of glass nicking at your head, wrapping your brain in a bag of needles then tossing it down a flight of stairs.

Blood paints your floor, dripping heavily and exhaustion sticks to your skin like sweat, the compulsion to purge the poison dulling with your heartbeat, thudding weakly in your chest and life bleeds thickly and fluidly from your body, gashes torn through your skin already beginning to stitch themselves back together. Exhaustion fills you, taking adrenaline’s place, and the last thing you can manage it a flick of your wrist, transporting the blood-stained rugs to the large kitchen sink a few floors below, filled with water to keep it from setting.

You’re slumping to the floor, bones digging jaggedly into flesh as it’s ground into the hardwood floor, body relieved of consciousness, shuddering strain seeping away, washing like a cool breeze in the peak of summer up your spine. The world fades away, taking with it the heaviness of emotion, the searing ache across your breast bone, lungs stuttering with deep-seated pain.

At last escaping it.

————

Heavy thuds pull you ungraciously from sleep, coming from your front door.

The first thing you feel is a deep ache across your body—back and shoulders stiff from lying on the floor. Your lids feel thicker…heavier than usual, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as you peel it away.

Memories hit you like a sack of bricks, passing in a flash before delightful numbness banishes it to some dark and lonely corner of your body. To sit until you’re ready to face it, or until it rots away to something harmless and unbothered. Whichever comes first.

The thuds repeat, and you close your eyes, sinking into your floor, skin thick with imagined grease, hair tangled at the base of your neck, skin hurting with stinging pain when you attempt movement. While the cuts have faded, the echoes burn beneath your flesh, small needles embedded beside bone, prickling and spiking with every motion. Whoever’s at the door can dissolve into the wind for all you care, you’re in no state to deal with anyone.

Magic clicks through the house, and you startle, as if zapped by a whip of static. Your heart pounds as the door unlocks, disobeying its enchantments and allowing entrance to the stranger. Except it’s no stranger, the only soul who has access to your house is the High Lord himself, a condition of the bond that stretches between you, malnourished and untouched.

Quiet steps to the staircase reveal him stood in the hallway, hands placed with deceptive disinterest in his pockets, clothing fine and tailored perfectly. Just as it always is.

Cold, violet eyes flick to you, stood atop the case, but even he’s unable to entirely conceal that razor’s edge in his gaze, glint cutting through purple-blue. Sharper than steel, colder than ice.

“What do you want?” You ask, not bothering with pleasantries. He clearly isn’t here for tea and biscuits.

He’s silent for a pause, gathering his patience, or…you don’t know what. But he takes his time, as if to set you on edge. “Come down here,” he says at last. There’s not a single note of inflection in his voice, lethally soft, whispering effortlessly across the marble of the front entrance.

Your features remain set in their hard, bland line, gazing down at him with mild hatred. Whether it’s a side effect of the bond, or his natural terror as High Lord, something inherent warns you not to disobey, reluctantly descending the stairs, glittering black dress still clinging to your body, hair a ragged mess at your shoulders, lips likely stained and eyes smudged from the kohl.

“What do you want?” You repeat lowly, bare feet settling on the floor, level with him. Darkness seems to whisper at his back, thrumming throughout the halls, muffling all those usual noises, becoming abruptly silent. Vibrations dying in his wake.

Cold, violet eyes run over you appraisingly, though he makes no comment over your dishevelment, and it’s somehow worse than if he had struck the mark. As if he knows he doesn’t need to sink that low to hit where it hurts, biding his time to deliver the fatal wound.

“Can you guess why I’m here?” He asks softly, wrath underlying his poisoned tone, hairs prickling at the nape of your neck. Your pulse spikes as his attention skims the lavish halls, entirely empty, before turning for the door that will lead him to the sitting room. “I’m too tired for your games, Rhys,” you mutter bitterly, following after him warily. “There’s nothing playful about the decision that’s about to be made,” he replies icily, nodding to one of the sofas as you pass by. “Sit down.”

“I think I’ll remain on my feet,” you say with forced calm.

A muscle feathers in his jaw, features remaining cold and disinterested. Warning chimes drill up your spine, alarming you to the off-ness about him. The tautness to his usually elegant movements, fluid and lethal. Now cut to something harsher, hewn to something more brutal.

“Tell me,” he orders quietly, “why you think I’m here.”

You stare at him silently. Sullenly. Stinging all over your body.

“You wanted to say hello?” You say at last, lacking any humour to the response, too drained to muster up even a spark of emotion.

The edges of his mouth quirk, no mirth to be found in his face. A grin a he would have given Under the Mountain. A grin you’ve come to despise, and one you thought would never be shown again. Sharp, glittering talons prickle at your mental shields, hardened to steel on their outer walls, utterly impenetrable without permission.

Or so you had thought.

In one clean slice, the razors have cut through your adamant as if it were fatty flesh. Not a single brittle bone impeding the clean incision. Shock paralyses you, breath stolen as that faint grin ices over, threat now rolling visibly from his shoulders, darkness condensing into something almost solid, gaining density as it slinks closer to the ground.

The sound of skin smacking against skin cuts through your mind, a sharp inhale stolen after, shuddering gasps rasping through the silence, followed by panicked footsteps as she flees. Your cheek burns, feeling the metal bite of jewelled knuckles upon rubbed-raw skin.

Fingers rise, trembling as you check absently for a mark, brushing lightly across the afflicted area self-consciously.

“Why do you think I’m here?” He repeats, the whisper as quiet as a last breath on dying lips, cold and utterly lifeless.

For the first time in three hundred years, terror filters through your veins. Cloying, and dominating, pinning down and twisting your senses. “It was for good reason,” you breathe, becoming acutely aware of the lethal brush of darkness. A single touch that could reduce you to a red mist.

“Stop,” he says, quiet and sharp, like scissors snicking through hair. “You’ve been toeing the line for a while now, and that was the last step you’ll take in my city.”

My city. Velaris.

Your mouth opens to speak, nausea rising, stomach twisting as emotions begin to seep back into your body, satiating your mind with painful vibrancy. But the words are stuck in your throat. You stare at him, eyes round and wide, at once blank and contorted with raw feeling. Rushing and spilling as guts twine together, restitching themselves after being sliced across the floor.

“You’re an infection,” he hisses lowly, talons tightening at your neck, and you remain helpless. Powerless. “I don’t care for whatever excuse you’ll try to spin. I’m done with you. We all are.”

The talons retract, and air burns at your lungs, nostrils and eyes prickling as you gasp, hunched over, stomach spasming enough you think you might vomit again, and you’re thankful you didn’t put anything in it. The thought of reaching for your own magic hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Whatever remarks you want to make, I will tolerate. You are, and have always been your own person,” he says lowly, prowling forward on predator’s feet. “But the second you lay a hand on one of my people, it’s over. You will not return from it.”

“I hardly even touched her,” you choke out, lip curled back from your teeth, emotion thrashing and raging against your ribs, volatile in your blood as you stare up at him. At once having given you everything, and left you with nothing.

“I saw the memory,” he hisses, “she told me what happened. How you treat—” His nostrils flare, freezing in his tracks. Pupils dilate then contract to slits, and you stare as he turns on his feet, making for the closed kitchen door. Where the blood soaked rugs and sheets remain.

“Rhys…” you rasp, stumbling forward. “Rhysand.”

The smell of iron is sharp, bursting throughout the room with a potent tang, saturating the air with its distinctive metallic scent. The water is a deep red, concentrated with cold blood, almost opaque with its thickness.

The High Lord is utterly still in the doorway, taking in the devastation of the kitchen, some of the sheets laying strewn wetly across the floor, and it occurs to you he will not know that it is your blood dripping across the white tiled floors. That’s it’s your blood staining the pristine surfaces.

Undiluted terror crushes into you a second before his own darkness does, breaking across your skin as you’re flung across the room, smacking against the ground as the air is knocked from your chest. Your ears ring with the impact, lips parted, back arched in pain, hands trembling as memories flash across your skin.

You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor, he had said.

You stare up at cold, merciless violet.

Both of you know what he’s just done, but only one of you cares.

Words fail you, unable to admit to your own stupidly self-inflicted disciplines. Shame ruptures across your skin, unable to move from the shock of being floored in a heartbeat, after having had centuries to put between the last memory of pain this deep. It always scars more when it’s from someone close by.

“I don’t know when you lost yourself,” he breathes heavily, staring down at you, twisted and warped from the force of his magic. “I don’t know when, or how, or why. And I don’t care.” The words break on your skin like whips, cracking and splitting still-healing flesh to put the pain deeper. “You hurt one of my people,” he hisses lowly, watching as you struggle to your feet, limbs moving disjointedly from pain he’s unable to see.

He takes a step forward, and you have to force your legs not to stumble back, to hold strong as he prowls closer, night rippling through the room. “Many people are hurt in your city,” you grit out, “many people are hurt in your court. And yet you’re finding fault with me?” You shake your head sharply, glaring at him from beneath your brow. “You went too far,” he hisses, the sound like hail and ice slicing skin. “Every day you pushed a little harder, and I let it slide because I thought you needed the freedom, that you needed to at last understand you were free of her.”

“Fucking shut your mouth,” you spit, death leaking across the floor, rising to meet his own.

Both of you know who would win this battle, but you don’t seem to care any more.

“I kept my mouth shut for too long,” he counters, striding closer and magic sparks and crackles, tendrils colliding then recoiling as it’s mixed in the confined space, pressure building in your fingertips. “I let you get away with too much. Leeching off Az until even his patience ran out. Putting Mor down because you couldn’t stand to see someone from your own position escape, and live. We offered you help and you chose to walk away.”

Fury lacerates through your heart, burning at your mind as you meet his step, moving forward as you bare your teeth, the house quaking as more power is funnelled into it’s contained space. “You dragged me beneath that godsforsaken mountain, Rhysand,” you hiss lowly, “I stayed with you for fifty godsdamn years, while they got to stay here, because I was the one who was common knowledge.” You shove at his chest, but he hardly budges. “I was there for you, whenever you fucking needed me. So don’t you dare try and spin betrayal on me.”

“It is your duty to stay by my side,” he snarls, hand gripping your jaw in a vice-like hold, muscle spasming beneath his touch. “Everyone suffered in those years. Everyone sacrificed something. Everyone had something taken from them.”

“You chose them over me!” You spit, nails tearing at the rough skin of his knuckles as heat burns at your eyes. “You protected them. You suffered, and gave up pieces of yourself for them. None of it was for me.”

He stares at you, unreadable emotion raging behind writhing violet, lips parted as darkness rumbles through the house. “Why would it be for you?” He whispers, still staring at you. “You’re so wrapped up in your own life you forget anyone else exists.”

“You’re lying,” you mutter, “that’s a fucking lie, and you know it.”

“You threatened to bring their father back from the dead,” Rhys snarls, the damper on his power coming clean off, air growing thin as pressure crushes down on your bones, too much to possibly be contained.

“I don’t care if you’re bound to me until the day that I die,” he hisses, and you can feel that fatal strike being prepared to wound. “I don’t care if you have no way to disobey me should I give you an order. I don’t care if I could command you to never abuse your magic like that again.”

“Rhys…” you breathe, staring at him, fear bubbling away. You’d told Azriel he would never touch the bond, that he would never do that to you, and yet… “Rhys, don’t…”

“I can’t,” he hisses, defeat lining his features.

Relief washes over you like a wave of cool water, shoulders slumping from their tension, magic beginning to dissipate.

He shakes his head, a lock of neat, blue-black hair falling out of place. “But if you aren’t out of Velaris by the time the sun rises tomorrow…”

He’s in front of you in a flash, but your power doesn’t respond. Not as he appears before you, or as his hand slides around your throat. Not even as he forces a bargain upon your flesh, ink burning as it’s stamped in plain sight.

“You will not only lose your powers over death, but your life, too.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut

[fivc-applcs]

🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎 Apple delivery! ((And the rules have been read!))

" Woah! That's a lot of apples! Thank you so so much! Now I just gotta think of what to do with all of these! "

" We'll send you a slice of pie once our ma's back! What else can we do with so many apples- "

[xxsabitoxx]

JJK Men: Who is Most Likely to Have a Daddy Kink

Warning: this contains smut but not like... explicit smut. More so NSFW talk about kinks and such hehe

A/N: Listen... I used to have a real big daddy kink and I grew out of it forever ago... but sometimes y'all use "daddy" just right in some of your fics and it has me kicking my feet. So, for funzies, I wanted to share my personal HCs on who has a daddy kink and who doesn't lol

Geto Suguru

Sitting pretty and number one is none other than Suguru. Listen, I think this man has a massive daddy kink. I think this man gets off on you calling him daddy in and out of the bedroom. Like honestly? If you are really into it just like he is, he wouldn't mind it if you called him daddy all the time. Like, maybe save for calling him daddy in public or around friends. But in the privacy of your own home? In bed? When no one else can hear you? He'll be putty in your hands if you sweetly call him daddy. Part of the reason I say this is because I think Suguru is 100% a brat tamer, I think he lives for you being a little brat to him just so he can assert his authority over you and put you in your place. He thrives off of the ability to feel superior.

But, roughness aside, he will absolutely give you the best aftercare. Suguru will make sure you know how loved you are, he will constantly ask you for your reassurance that you are alright and he wasn't too hard on you. He'll shower you in love and praise and assure you that you are everything to him. He can get mean when he's in the mood to put you in your place, so he always prioritizes the aftercare.

2. Nanami Kento

I think Nanami has a daddy kink but he's kind of shy about it. Nanami actively hopes that you take the initiative and call him daddy. He's a bit embarrassed about the fact that he really likes the idea of being called daddy. He fantasizes about it when you aren't around to help him get off, stroking himself to the idea of you whispering that one word to him when he fucks you stupid. If you aren't going to take the initiative and call Nanami daddy, he'll eventually give in. He'll likely be balls deep in you when he grits out that you are to call him daddy. He'll be too lost in your body to even feel shame or embarrassment about the request and fuck will he come fast when you finally utter that one pretty word to him. All breathless and fucked out, you'll have Nanami falling apart every time you call him daddy.

Nanami also enjoys alternatives to Daddy, like calling him "sir". Unlike Suguru, he enjoys how respectful it sounds. Nanami won't make you call him daddy or sir outside of the bedroom, it's strictly a sex thing for him unless you express the interest in trying it outside of that scenario. Then, just maybe, Nanami will entertain the thought.

3. Ryomen Sukuna

Before you come and chew me out for the king not being at the top of this list... hear me out. Sukuna is from the Heian period, the man canonically speaks in old Japanese. Hell he asked Megumi to bewitch him. The term "daddy" is a little too new for Sukuna. That's not to say he won't grow to find interest in it. Sukuna much prefers when you call him things like "my king" or "my lord" he even enjoys "sir". But daddy will definitely take some getting used to for him. Once Sukuna gets acquainted with the idea, he will thoroughly enjoy it. He rather likes how flustered you get when you utter the word, making you say it in front of others just to watch them get uncomfortable as you so politely refer to him as daddy. He gets off on the embarrassment more than the word itself, but he does enjoy the nice little ring it has.

Aftercare can be mildly nonexistent with Sukuna. Sometimes his form of aftercare is making you cock-warm him after he just spent hours abusing your most sensitive bits. But other times he'll wrap you in his arms and whisper about how "nobody will ever love you like daddy does." brainwashing you into being content with him.

4. Gojo Satoru

Satoru has mixed feelings about the whole "daddy kink". Depending on your relationship, it may not be rare for you to jokingly call him daddy. Just as he will jokingly call you mommy. But these little "jokes" take a steep turn one night when he's fucking you stupid and he asks you to call him daddy for real. For some reason, it does him in. You'll later learn that you rather enjoy when he calls you mommy while you fuck and then it turns into this awkward little "we shall not speak of this outside of the bedroom" topic. You'll use the words against each other when in public just to see the other get worked up. But, much to Satoru's dismay, he realizes he really does like it when you call him daddy. He can't even explain it, especially since he would relentlessly tease Suguru for having a daddy kink.

Satoru loves aftercare, especially after times when he's punished you. The same can be said for when you provide aftercare after punishing him... having a daddy and a mommy kink is a whirlwind for the two of you. Satoru will clean you up and the tuck both of you in under the nice comfortable blankets, whispering about how he adores you and appreciates you for letting him live out his little fantasies.

5. Fushiguro Toji

Toji isn't really into the daddy kink... mostly because it reminds him of the responsibilities he ran away from... but if you really have a thing for calling him daddy, he's not going to stop you. Toji actually prefers it when you're mean to him, calling him filthy and rude names, belittling him, and calling him a nasty old pervert. He gets off on you being rude to him while he fucks you stupid. Nothing gets him off more than being called a sleazy fucking perv. He doesn't know why but you degrading him will have him blowing his load shamelessly in minutes. But if you really want to call him daddy, Toji will for sure entertain you. Because fuck does he love putting a brat in their place.

When it comes to aftercare, it really depends on your relationship. Toji may just blow his load and then dip, leaving you to clean up and pull yourself together. But if Toji has feelings for you, or if you fucked him really good? He'll clean you up before collapsing in bed beside you.

[songsofadelaide]

King Laios x succubus!reader who are both doomed by the (my) narrative™️ because: he is being pressured to find a wife to secure the future of the kingdom but he simply cannot help his fascination with the only (not so) monstrous creature that managed to bypass the Winged Lion's curse— a succubus who was shunned by her coven because of her lack of appeal and inability to seduce victims.

You swore that you weren't there to steal his life force, which easily convinces Laios to strike up a friendship with you (despite Marcille and Kabru's dissuasion). You visit him every night to converse with him about kingdom affairs. He doesn't ask questions about how you feed and maintain yourself since he considers it a private matter. You bond over his desire to see monsters again and your wish to form a more meaningful tie with humans.

The more time you spent together, the more you realised just how enticing his energy was to you, so you disappeared— not wanting your growing desires to pose a threat to the only human who saw you as an equal, who saw you as a friend.

Many years pass but Laios never married, opting for the wisest men of the kingdom to select his successor among the most brilliant men of the land instead. He often wondered where you were and what you were doing. Some nights, you let your curiosity get the better of you and check in on him, and you feel somewhat relieved that he shared his bed with no one else.

One night, he caught you leaving through his window and cornered you. He asked you where you've been and what you've been up to, and even commented about how your beauty hasn't changed even after all those years. You remarked on how handsome he still is even though he is already an old man. He finally asked you the most taboo thing of all: what did you feed on?

(You tell him the truth: You fed on the life force of living creatures— not enough to hurt them, though— rather than having intercourse with men. How could you bring yourself to harm humans after being friends with one?)

Laios was both pleased and relieved with your answer. He then offered you to take his remaining life force, eventually admitting that he wanted to offer it to you long ago but was afraid you'd rebuff him or be offended. You granted him a night of blissful dreams but not enough to bring him to his grave and vanished from his life for good— in fear you might kill him from loving him too much.

[bungalowbear]

Heart-Shaped Box

Pairing: Sukuna x f!witch!reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Sukuna has been locked away for centuries. He’s convinced you are the witch who can free him.

Warnings: piv sex, reader drugs men with wine, murder (reader kills someone), brief choking, blood, slight noncon, masturbation

A/N: This has been in the drafts for about a year. This was inspired by the film “The Love Witch” and by Nirvana’s “Heart-Shaped Box”. I hope you enjoy!

Playlist

The antique shop opens for business on another cold February morning. Pendants, tomes, and other ornately shaped vessels line the shelves. Nestled among them is a heart-shaped box, crafted by expert hands out of the finest wood and blessed by a collective of holy men, with the malevolent spirit known as Sukuna sealed inside.

Since his entrapment nearly a millennia ago he’s sat dormant. As the box changes hands and drifts from one location to the next, Sukuna watches and waits for someone powerful and worthy enough to free him from his prison.

His patience is rewarded when the bell tinkles above the door and the atmosphere of the shop shifts. Four red eyes latch onto your form and follow your leisurely movements as you browse through the aisles of cursed objects. At least that’s how the old hag who owns this place advertises them. Nearly all of the items here are mere trinkets with not a single ounce of malice in their fibers. There are a few actual cursed objects, a ring and a handful of paintings, but none of them hold a candle to Sukuna.

You come closer, eyes glossing over the other contents on the shelf where Sukuna sits. Your curiosity is visibly piqued when your gaze lands on the heart shaped box. You brush your fingertips over the lid, picking up a thin layer of dust from the dark wood. A shiver runs down Sukuna’s spine. With a maniacal grin, his pearly white teeth are on display. 

There’s no doubt about it. You’re the one he’s been waiting for.

Dangling from your finger tips is the brown paper bag Sukuna travels inside of to your home. Your studio apartment is cozy with dark wood floors, a sturdy old bookshelf in the far corner, and the earthy aroma of herbs and oils wafting from the kitchen.

When you enter, a black cat rubs itself against your leg to welcome you back. It purrs when you lean down and scratch under its chin.

Taking the box out of the paper bag, you set it down on your bedside table. You procure a cloth then take a seat on the edge of the bed. You bring the box into your lap and begin wiping away the lingering dust and rubbing out any minor blemishes. The cat leaps onto the mattress beside you, stretching out its neck to sniff at the air around the box. Sukuna scowls and, as if it can sense his hostility, the feline hisses before scurrying away and climbing onto its tower by the window.

You laugh as you place the box down, standing from the bed and opening up the windows to let in the late morning air. You do some general tidying around your living space, dusting the shelves and fluffing up the cushions on the small couch, before you settle in the kitchen. 

You take out several bowls and jars filled with dried herbs. Sukuna studies each of your movements closely as you lightly toast some and boil others. You bring out other ingredients. Fruits, varieties of infused water, and several vials of…blood. 

Sukuna hums appreciatively, having found himself a witch.

Within the heart-shaped box, Sukuna sits upon his throne atop a mountain of skulls with one legs casually crossed over the other and his fist resting against his cheek. His expression is the perfect picture of neutrality, but his eyes are pools of red irritation.

Of all the witches out there you had to be a love witch.

The rhythmic creaking of the bed is like knives to his skull. This is the fourth man you’ve brought back to your apartment this week. Sukuna can’t establish a pattern other than them all being undeniably pathetic in their own way.

The man currently above you huffs and moans as he unskillfully penetrates you. Your arms are laid out beside you and your gaze is fixed upward, silent and scrutinizing.

You’re obviously receiving no pleasure from this encounter. So far only one other man that you’ve brought back pulled an expression other than boredom from you. He must have hit a particular spot inside you, by accident Sukuna was sure, that made your eyes shine with expectation only for you to be let down when it didn’t happen again.

Before you bed these men you give them a glass of mulled wine you brewed yourself. Sukuna isn’t sure what the desired effect of the wine is supposed to be, but he thinks if this is the best you can do then maybe he was wrong about you.

But just when he’s about to mentally check out, Sukuna notices a change in your bedfellow. He begins to thrust harder and your brows pinch together. Your body tenses and pain flashes across your face. Your hands move to his chest as you tell him to slow down, but he doesn’t listen. His eyes are crazed, pupils blown wide with unhinged lust. You try to push him off you but he swats your hands away and locks his own larger ones around your throat.

You attempt to pry him off but his grip only grows tighter. Slowly, your face begins to swell. Your mouth opens and closes with the effort to take in air without success. Your body arches upward in a final effort to push him off you, but the man doesn’t budge.

Sukuna leans forward, intrigued to see how this will end. His lips curl devilishly as he watches your hand slip beneath the pillow. The gleam of sharpened steel catches his eye and Sukuna wonders if you actually have what it takes.

His answer comes only a few moments later when the man’s hips abruptly stop, spluttering and choking on his own blood gushing from where you plunge the knife in his throat. You gasp in relief when your neck is finally released. Sharply withdrawing the knife, your face is sprayed with blood before before your victim collapses beside you.

Disappointment draws your features downward as you rise from the bed. Not with your victim, but with yourself. Not knowing where you went wrong.

Sukuna has a sneaking suspicion this isn’t the first time you’ve taken a life. After all, you don’t seem shaken as you stand over the man and watch him slowly succumb to his death.

After the incident, as you call it when talking to a friend on the phone, you decide to go away for a few days. A day later, Utahime comes to check on the apartment and the cat.

She lets herself in with a spare key, putting your mail on the table and starts tidying. She waters your plants and opens the window to air out the room. As she’s dusting, she approaches your bedside table where the heart-shaped box sits. She picks it up and Sukuna frowns at the feel of her hands. Irritation singes along his form. Where your presence is shrouded in darkness, Utahime’s is the opposite. A layer of light outlines her form. She isn’t any kind of witch, but she does possess powers to connect to the supernatural. Sukuna guesses miko.

Utahime inspects the box with a keen sense of scrutiny, mumbling to herself about what trouble you’ve made for yourself this time. She tries removing the lid but it doesn’t budge. 

The cat suddenly appears beside her on the bed, causing Utahime to startle and drop the box on the floor. She picks it up and places it back on the table, not noticing the splintered edge, before going to feed the cat.

You return three days later. Your life goes on without further interruption, as if the incident never occurred. The only change Sukuna notices is that you go out with your friends more frequently. You stumble your way back home tipsy and giggling, but you’ve yet to bring along another one of your guinea pigs. 

Tonight you return more intoxicated than usual. As soon as you shut the door behind you, you throw yourself on your bed and shove a hand between your thighs and plunge two fingers inside your wet hole. Your breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling with every wanton sigh escaping through your parted lips. But frustration soon follows when your fingers aren’t enough. 

Sukuna watches you struggle. You can’t seem to find a good angle, and the pout of your lips makes his dick twitch when a single tear leaks from the corner of your eye. 

Through the damaged edge of the box, Sukuna decides to perform his own experiment and send a sliver of his essence toward you. It works. He watches the wispy red tendrils of his aura float toward your form on the bed.

“Look at you,” he whispers in your ear. Your breath hitches and your fingers freeze inside you. “Does the little witch want to feel good?”

You nod.

“Keep going,” Sukuna commands roughly.

Your fingers resume their movements and Sukuna travels further down your body. He urges you on, whispering filthy things in your ear, and you respond with a pleased moan. The wisps of himself hover above the skin of your hand, guiding your movements. He helps you reach deeper, warms your pussy with the breath of his flames, and gives you what you want.

With a cry you reach your climax. Limp on the bed, trembling and out of breath, your look over to the box on the table.

“It’s good to finally hear your voice,” you say.

You lay on your side with your head propped up in your hand, the black cat perched atop the curve of your hip. The box sits in front of you on the bed.

“How did you get in there?” you ask, poking the lid three times with your index finger.

“A sorceress trapped me,” Sukuna replies dully.

“Why?”

“She was in love with me, but I didn’t return her feelings.”

“Love can make you do crazy things.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Sukuna’s tone betrays his boredom. “Poisoning all those men. Killing the last one.”

“It’s only happened a handful of times where I was off on the dosage.” you say flippantly, shrugging. “They’re overcome with desire and sexual energy that it turns the human part of their brain off. That’s the trouble really. Heightening those intense animalistic tendencies, but keeping the higher brain functions intact.”

“Sounds bothersome.”

“Truly,” you agree. “Figuring out how to free you was so much easier.”

Sukuna frowns. “What?”

“What?” you parrot.

“What did you just say?”

“It was easier to figure out how to release you. I noticed the love spell as soon as I saw your box in the shop.”

Sukuna’s voice drips with barely contained anger. “You’ve known how to free me all this time?”

“Of course.” You place a hand to your chest, lifting your chin haughtily. “It’s not that hard for a witch of my caliber.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” Sukuna snarks. “You can’t even turn any of these pathetic mortal men into your perfect mate.”

“Well humans are a bit trickier than wooden boxes.”

Sukuna scoffs. “Sure.”

“You should be nicer to me. Otherwise I won’t feel the need to set you free.”

“Listen here, brat—”

“Did she seal you away just because you didn’t return her feelings, or are you actually incapable of loving someone?”

“I don’t see why that matters.”

“Well, it would explain why you couldn’t figure out what kind of spell is on the box.” You run a gentle hand along the back of the cat’s back. Its yellow eyes don’t look away from the box, irritating Sukuna further. “It’s pretty genius actually. Trapping you with the one thing you’re incapable of truly understanding.”

“Since you’re so well versed in all things love,” Sukuna’s voice drops to a rumble, a sultry tone that seeks to entice you, “why don’t you prove how good you really are and free me?”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Your attitude is chipping away at the last of Sukuna’s resolve. The fact that even on top of his mountain of death he has to look up at you from inside this box doesn’t help any.

“I will give you one more chance to change your answer.” Sukuna speaks slowly, each word laced with a promise of retribution should you give him an unsatisfactory answer. “Consider yourself lucky. I don’t usually make exceptions.”

You ignore him and lean forward. You run your finger along the edge of the box’s lid.

“Can you feel this?” you ask.

“Yes.”

You press your palm on top of the box, sinking it into the mattress under your weight. “How about that?”

“Yes,” Sukuna snaps as his head throbs. “Now quit it. And do as I say, witch.”

Once again ignoring his threat, your turn your head away. “I think it’s time for dinner.”

You stand from the bed, calling your cat’s name. It bounds forward, pressing its paws on top of the box and pushing off to follow you into the kitchen. 

Sukuna grumbles, cursing you under his breath.

Your short stint at abstinence is broken a week later. Another lackluster man attempting to sexually satisfy you while you lay beneath him and wait for it to be over.

Sukuna doesn’t know how much more of this he can stand. You show no signs of wanting to free him, and now you’re back on the prowl. Sukuna knows he has to give you a taste of his power, entice you to him. And so he gets a wicked idea.

He’d been able to send wisps of himself through the crack in the box before. Now, he’ll try to take it one step further.

Red wisps float from the box and toward your companion’s mouth, wide and gaping as he huffs with exertion. Your eyes can’t hide their shock when the man’s body starts changing. Sukuna feels the way the mortal’s body shifts and expands to accommodate the effect of his power. The cock inside you grows bigger both in length and girth. The skin on his face tickles as tattoos appear on his cheeks and forehead, the sensation travels down as inky black markings materialize on the rest of his body.

Sukuna leans down to whisper in your ear. 

“Perhaps this will motivate you.”

Your lips part, a question forming on your tongue, but Sukuna starts pounding into you. Your moans of pleasure fill the room as he watches the realization that he is what you’ve wanted all along light up your expression. Something stirs in him at the sight of you this way. It spurs him on, seeking more of your pretty sounds. He works you over with deep strokes and a skillful thumb over your clit until you cry out in ecstasy.

You bring your hand up to his face, marveled at what you’ve just experienced. 

“Fascinating.”

Sukuna exits the man’s body with a proud and arrogant huff and settles back into the box.

Your kitchen counter is lined with bowls empty of the ingredients they once held. After carefully measuring fresh blood, two feathers of a dove, tart cherry juice, and a few other more special ingredients, you finally have the exact mixture to break the spell on Sukuna’s box.

Sukuna had watched you as you prepared the mixture and now he’s in your hands, literally, as you hold the box above the cauldron. You give no warning before you plunge him into the ruby red liquid. You recite an incantation, but the words are muffled to his ears. Sukuna sits on his throne as the blood pooled beneath him begins to rise. It rises and rise until he’s craning his neck to gather one more deep breath before he’s completely submerged. He stays completely still, even as the blood around him grows hot. Hotter and hotter by the second until it feels like he’s being cooked alive, boiled and softened. But then there’s a hiss and a creak. A ray of light shines from above and his eyes search for the source.

You.

The lid to the heart-shaped box slowly opens and your face fills the space above him. You smile, accomplished and eager, and extend your hand down to him. Sukuna’s heart races. It beats wildly with the anticipation of stepping out into the world for the first time in one thousand years. He’s ready to finally continue his conquest of the humans.

Sukuna reaches up and takes your hand. 

He’ll start with you.

i do not have a taglist. please follow @bungalowbear-archive and turn on notifications.

[bleach-your-panties]

🌶️/🍰/🍫 (your choice on which one) for Tamaki, please? (Sorry; am braindead rn--)

🍫🌶️Tamaki has always really liked you - ever since you joined his class in your second year.

You're academically bright and your presence lightens up a room, much like how his best friend Mirio does. The two of you are the sun while he is the darkened side of the moon.

Which is why it doesn't come as a surprise when you and Mirio start dating.

Tamaki is devastated because he wants you all to himself.

You are completely unaware of Tamaki's crush on you, though.

So when he asks you over to his dorm room to study for an upcoming test, you don't see the harm in it.

That is until he's got you pressed up against your bed's headboard, your skirt rose high on your waist and your panties around your ankles while he finger-fucks you roughly.

His long, dexterous fingers are covered in your slick while his other hand covers your mouth, concealing your loud whimpers from Mirio who's on the other side of your door asking if you want to go grab dinner.

His indigo bangs brush your cheek and his long tongue flicks out to lick up your tears.

"Only me, bunny. You'll cum only for me from now on. Right?"

[bayeprose]

　 after stealing him away from a noisy house party,

　 you rile percy up so much that he loses his mind...

　 percy and the sulfur girl by @bayeprose

content — percy jackson x fem!reader ⋆ heavy makeouts ⋆ s*xual touching in public and in private ⋆ calling reader “baby” ⋆ very smutty, but no explicit s*x ⋆ hickeys (giving) ⋆ dirty language ⋆ subby!percy? kind of. not much reader — aggressive ⋆ massive tease ⋆ nonchalant ⋆ racially ambiguous ⋆ wears a skirt and g-string context — college!AU ⋆ reader and percy are (meant to be read as) 21+ ⋆ percy is a popular frat guy and reader is a sassy, misanthropic loner ⋆ situationship, and he’s confused about it all

Percy loves it when you take control.

As you slam the door behind him shut and push him back against the wall, he readies himself for a barrage of lust. Your desirous hand then finds his chin and jerks him down to the force of your lips. A groan in your ear—he’s excited already. Eager to feel your simmering tongue, he parts his lips and reaches for your lower back, pulling you tighter against his body. He never knows what exactly to expect from you—aside from ardent hickies, you always give at least one—but he’s so glad that you’re coming onto him again. You were on his mind all throughout the day as he’d hoped against hope that you’d attend his frat’s party…

“No pressure,” he says, sounding coolly nonchalant. In a narrow hallway, he stands tall right beside you as fellow students weave to and from their various classes. “Come if you want.”

“I think I’ll pass,” you reply. You don't make eye contact, scrolling through your phone distractedly. “I hate your friends, no offense.”

“You don’t hate me, though.”

“Do you think I like you, Jackson?”

Percy’s heart does a little dance. Is there a right answer to this? He thinks himself quite skilled against your razor-sharp taunts—which seemed so often deliberately crafted to rattle his nerves—but you still manage to catch him off guard sometimes, and he doesn’t always know how to take what you can dish.

“Honestly? No.” he admits, and he takes a step closer. “Why else would you tease me the way you do?”

Your eyes flicker up at him then. He feels a twinge of pride to have lured them away from your phone, but the sudden grip of your hand on his ass then begs a low moan from his throat—

“—Because I know that you love it,” you drone, squeezing him even tighter, “and you’re cute when you’re desperate.”

When you let him go, his face is washed in subtle pinks, lips parted slightly in scandalized awe. Flustered, he looks around to check if anyone else saw—and it doesn’t seem so, but his heart pounds nonetheless.

‘Are you out of your mind? What if a professor caught that?’ The question stows deep in his throat but his lips are paralyzed, too shocked to muster a lucid response. All semester, you’ve gone out of your way to rile him up with the occasional deep kiss or hot stroke of his thigh while behaving as though you weren’t interested in him much at all, as though every blistering touch and sensual whisper was a casual whim that meant absolutely nothing.

But you did it surreptitiously. You never blessed him with those rousing affections in spaces where others might see, content to stir up his desire in the privacy of empty classrooms and desolate hallways. And now, to go so far as to grab his ass in public, after months of lusty, grueling secrecy… you’re getting bolder, for some reason. What are you going to do next?

Somehow, already, you’ve moved on. A brief massage of his shoulder and you’re walking away, disappearing into the hall among the other rushing students. Percy tries to swallow the lump in his throat, staring after you as you go further and further out of his sight...

What does it say about him that he really, really liked that? And what else does it say, that he wants you to do more?

For the rest of the day, all throughout his classes, Percy thinks of your troublesome hand and the many other places that it could dare to reach. He thinks of the ways he could touch you back, how he could steal your breath with a rough, wet kiss and feel your body close against his own. A zealous prayer repeats and repeats in his distracted mind: ‘For the love of God, just come to the party.’

… Thank goodness that he’d thought to pray. He wouldn’t trade anything for the religious pleasure of your lips, so grateful that he gets to touch you back, this time.

Your tongue intrudes upon his viciously, smoothing across his bottom lip just before breaching inside his mouth. Percy welcomes your irreverence; sacred acts of tender kissing are a rarity from you, because you always seemed to prefer quick, rousing makeouts, more intense than the brightest of fulgent fireworks.

As he forfeits himself to your fervid tongue, he’s increasingly lost in his steepening arousal. Mindlessly, hungrily, his hands drip towards your ass—but he doesn’t dare to squeeze just yet; he wants to feel this perfect shape, to hold it as your lips trade fervent flames of lust. Percy thinks he might be getting drunk. All of you unsobers him—your tongue a sip of sweet whiskey, your touch a shot of scorching liquor. Your fingers slip beneath his shirt and slowly stroke his rigid stomach. Percy sighs into your mouth again, curious if you enjoy his body, too.

All along, he’s wanted to touch you back. To tease you as you torture him. That he now is privileged to hold your ass feels like the beginning of a long-kept dream. Subconsciously, his hands slide to your bare thighs, just below your tempting skirt… When you’d first walked through the front door, he’d thought to himself—“Damn, that looks so good on her.” Now, Percy thinks it would look even better in a puddle on the floor. He could slip it off your hips right now—but instead, his hands work back upwards, underneath the surface of your skirt… and so he’s amazed to now feel your flesh in his palms that the longing in his boxers now throbs with excitement.

“… fuck,” he shudders in between hot kisses. “Is that… a g-string you’re wearing?”

“Mhm,” you hum, “why, do you like it?”

Like usual, you’ve rendered him stupid for a response. “I, uh… yeah. Yeah, I like it.”

And then you lean lower to plant a kiss on his neck. “I wore it for you, Jackson.”

‘I think she’s trying to kill me,’ he considers, closing his eyes, assuaged by bliss as you kiss his throat more. Percy tilts his head backwards to give you more room and he groans so gratefully when you suck on his neck. His length throbs in pants with urgent longing and he’s losing his mind—he can’t resist his desire anymore—his fingers press hard into the flesh of your ass in a desperate squeeze—

“—fuck, baby…” he whines quietly. The twin arousals of your shape in his hands and your lips on his neck are nothing short of agonizing. It’s hot. It’s paralyzing. It’s too damn slow. He wants to turn the tables on you right now. He could give in to his salacious impulses and easily fuck you against the wall, pay you back for months of nymphish teases by plunging deep inside of you until your mouth goes wide from pleasured screams—

“You wanna fuck me, don’t you, Percy?” you suddenly ask. “I know you’re thinking about it.”

His heart stops for a second. Are you a mind-reader? Have you been this entire time? 'Probably not,' he rationalizes. From the full-grown bulge at the front of his sweatpants and the breathlessness of his every word, he can imagine how obvious his motives are.

“… Yeah.” Percy responds. His voice is a quiet, careless rumble and his gaze is the essence of ardent thirst. Why should he deny what’s already known? Beneath his words is a tacit growl, “Really fucking badly.”

Coy as ever, you go back to kissing his neck, a sultry chuckle rising from your throat. “You’re adorable, sometimes.”

The beats of the party come muffled through the door: chatty, drunken conversations and dizzy Hot 100 tunes. No one knows what you both are up to, because this—whatever it was—still seemed to be a secret. You’ve made it very clear that you don’t like the circle of athletes and party boys that he runs around with—and by his own estimation, you don’t really seem to like anyone at all. Why you’ve chosen him to taunt and tease since the start of the school year is nothing but a mystery.

In fact, there are a lot of things about you that are mysterious to him. Your behavior is one thing, but at times, your intentions feel more unknowable than the origins of all sapient life. You were just that puzzling, perhaps deliberately so.

Is it really your wish to rattle him ‘just because’? He wants to ask sometimes, but he doesn’t. Of the very few things that he grasps about you, Percy knows that you’d draw back from him without hesitation should he make an attempt to understand you more. The loss of your company, ephemeral as it is, would be an end more devastating than he cares to admit.

So he lets himself melt beneath your ardent touch, wincing in pleasure as you stain his leaned-back neck with more and more electrifying hickies. Each one begs him to squeeze your ass harder, to bite his lip and mutter curses as you stroke his abs more. He loves the feel of your ravenous fingers, so greedy in their massage of his oversexed skin. A bead of sweat rolls down his brow. It’s too hot in here and it’s not hot enough—he wants to strip your clothes and your panties off and feel the warmth inside of you. The tease that you are, will you ever let him get that close?

A particularly brutal suck steals a moan from his throat, and as he reels within his heady delirium, your lips deign to wander right beside his ear…

“I think they want more drinks,” you whisper hotly, each word soaked with lewd provocation. “You’re such a bad host.”

On the other side of the door, Percy’s friends are looking for him. They’re calling his name as the music pulses through the walls. He hadn’t even noticed. He doesn’t want to see them. Not right now, anyway—but you know that already, he can tell.

“… They can wait,” he responds, panting softly. “I’m kinda busy—oh, fuck—”

Your fingers dip below his pants and suddenly you’re touching him, for real this time. As your fingers curl around his cock, his hips can’t help but jerk against your palm. He’s an animal, now. Your hand undoes all inhibitions. If feels so good, but you’re just… touching him. You don’t stroke him at all, you don’t even tease his aching tip. Percy can’t think straight. Groaning, panting, his voice is strained, “Fuck, just—ugh—”

“Use your words, Percy. Just what?”

Can you feel how hard he’s breathing? Do you know how bad he needs this? Percy wonders this to himself, growing more and more self-conscious of his own desperation. It’s not fair, at this point. Your tender grip of his fulsome cock has him rutting more against your palm, lost in the dreamy inebriation of needed-pleasure and insufferable lust. ‘Grab it harder, touch me more, fuck, do -something-.’ He wants to say each heated phrase all at once—but his lips arrive at a softer conclusion, and his low, green eyes reveal begging, powerless need...

“… Don’t tease me anymore. I want you, baby.”

　　　　thank you for reading !!

𓇼˚｡⋆ this work is just a steamy one-shot that I wrote up, but I could possibly see myself doing more of this premise, I dunno. dealing with tumblr's word filters is annoying - I wanted reader to wear a th*ng instead but it seemed like tumblr was out to get me lol

please do like if you read, or better yet, share your thoughts in the comments/reblogs if you liked this and you’re interested in a continuation!

if you like my writing and you’re in the mood for more steamy PJO content, check out my AO3 story, “please stay, hippocrene.” It’s ship content - equal parts percabeth and frazel. I put way more effort into this story than this little one-shot. just make sure to read the tags and author's note!

for requests, see my bio, and make sure to read pinned before following! 💜

[rubinaitoart]

finished the last episode

gonna go cry now and by cry I mean read fics

[kurominis]

HI HIIII KURO

Can I request Academic Rival x Male Reader?

The academic rival, let’s call him Alistair, gets jealous upon watching the reader be all cutesy on a date with a member of the football team

Cue an angry, foul-mouthed confession from Alistair. THEN cue an equally foul-mouthed session of cock sucking (courtesy of throat goat reader), to the point where the reader have fully turned the table on Alistair and reduced him to a shaking, whining mess.

Rivals..?

ofc you can lovelyy

Rivals to lovers(?) Rivals to fuck buddies(?),Not proofread, I don't remember the rest I'm so fried rn, kinda ass don't jump me

How did you even end up in this situation? You were down on your knees deep in your rivals, Alistair, legs sucking his dick?!?! "ff-fuckk your m-mouth is so ttight.. " As he kept babbling on about how good your throat felt you were recalling how you even got to this point. You we're on a date with Devlin, the linebacker of the team, and you two were having a pretty good time he bought you lunch and you two were just walking around when... Alistair came out of nowhere looking pretty pissed.. And he started yelling on and on about something you don't remember and when you yelled back at him he just grabbed you ignoring your protest and threw you in the nearest restroom stall and kissed you...? The both of you started slowing making out completely forgetting about the screaming match you both we're having. And as the make out session got more and more heated you lost your train of thought when you heard him whining. "m-mmh.. why did you stop.. more please.. I want more of your warm sweet mouth on me...please I'll do anythi-" before he could let him get another word out of his sentence you deep throated his thick cock all the way down to put yourself nose deep in his dark oh so sweet pubes. "OH FUCK OH n-NGHH FFFUCK♡ " his sultry moans just make you suck on him faster and harder. As you kept sucking you felt his dick twitching in your mouth. You then popped his cock out of your mouth and started giving him a sweet handjob with your warm hands. "mm-mh c-c-cumming..! C-CUMMING♡ " he says as he cums all over your face. His sweet substance has a little bit of a salty taste but, nothing you wouldn't get used to. As you licked the cum off your hands you swear you saw his dick twitch again as he looked down on you. "You know if you wanna go again, we should go some place more quiet.. And, you know. Clean. " After saying that without letting him even answer you drag him out the bathroom stalls and too your car. You two have a very long night ahead of you. <3

someone ban me from writing smut I can't do this I'm so bad at it

anyway tiny taglist !

@darlingminjin @mailmango

yeah that's it and be ready for two specials coming up hurrayy ! <3

[wolfiesmoon]

Hiiii! (I hope this is the place to make requests aaaaa haven’t done this in a W H I L E) but can I request pocky challenge headcanons for Floyd, Vil, and Idia? :)

Hope you’re having a great week and I love your writing :D

the way i freaked out over receiving this omg i'm so happy u like my writing😭😭😭

i love pocky challenge fics and you really fed me with the characters you chose since I have like 3467346826428 vil and idia drafts i can't get into rn. also we already know how my brain is rotting over floyd the eel boy at the moment

ALSO ALSO ALSO you aren't dating yet in these!! you're still just friends (but not for long😈)

(@kairiscorner i borrowed ur idea of picking out what flavour would fit them to add a little spice, I hope u don't mind!)

☾⋆⁺₊ Floyd Leech + Pocky Colorful

he gets really excited when you pull out the box of pockies 😆i mean, sharing food with you????? that's, like, the third best thing he can do with you!

and these pockies look rlly funny too, what does "colorful" even taste like? He's kinda in a mood to find out 😌

and gets even MORE excited when you mention the challenge!!!!

I mean, kissing AND sharing food with you?! he calls that a win for sure 😤😤😤😤

you're rlly surprised at how casual he is about it considering you just challenged him to try and kiss you essentially

but okay, i guess it is kinda Floydcore to just casually agree to a pocky game with no blushing or getting flustered (i suppose this means he likes you back??? what a mystery he is...)

you laugh to yourself at the silly grin on his face as u pull out a pocky and place one end into your mouth, leaning towards him to let him take the other end

he does so and you close your eyes, feeling kinda giddy all of a sudden

but you can still feel his downturned peepers staring a hole into you, curious to see every facial movement and reaction you may have👁️👁️

he must be really excited then!! (even if you feel extremely unsettled rn)

you slowly bite down on the stick, getting nervous. you can definitely hear him crunching on it too...

you can feel his breath, your noses bump for a moment and you think "THIS IS IT THIS IS IT THIS IS IT"

but then you hear a *snap* and the pocky falls out of your mouth... what just happened?

"I bit into it a bit too hard..." You open your eyes to see Floyd pouting like a toddler who was told he can't have candy

"It's okay, we can do it again!" you take out another pocky stick, placing the end in your mouth and looking at him expectantly

must be hard having such sharp teeth sometimes💔

"Now I don't feel like it anymore." Floyd huffed, getting up and walking away💀

That little... you still love him anyway tho🤷🏻

☾⋆⁺₊ Vil Schoenheit + Apple Yogurt Pocky

initially, he'd refuse since pockies are sweets and he needs to watch his sugar if he wants to keep his model figure and his clear skin

but he supposes sugar is nice to enjoy every once in a while (especially if he gets to share it with you)

but THEN you ask him if he's ever heard of the pocky challenge before😈

"I have heard of it in passing but I don't know what is actually is, why?" he raises an eyebrow, recalling some comments from his fans talking about it after the Pocky commercial he was in

"Becauuuuse, I think you should do it with me." you blink at him innocently before going on to explain the rules and seeing his eyes widen 😌

"So, what you're saying is... If neither of us back out, we kiss?"

WAIT WHAT

You actually expected him to turn you down immediately and chew you out for even making the suggestion since you're just friends but this certainly took a turn for the better

"Precisely." you smirked

"Just so you know, I'm not one to back out once I set my mind onto something." he smirked back at you, taking out a pocky stick from the box and placing it in front of your mouth for you to bite onto

the stick slowly begins to get smaller as your lips inch closer to his and you grip the couch you're currently sat on nervously

You take another bite and suddenly feel his lips on yours🤭

SUCCESS! SUCCESS! SUCCE-

"Oh? This is an interesting flavour~"

wait... you recognise that voice😨

"ROOK?!" the two of you separated and yelled at the same time, then turned your heads to see Rook casually enjoying your Pocky beside you

"Did you both enjoy the flavour as well?" Rook smiled innocently at you, taking out another one from the box

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling something under his breath while you just sat there in shock🧍🏻

☾⋆⁺₊ Idia Shroud + Sakura Pocky

being the candy enjoyer that he is, he would never turn down free pocky (especially not his favourite... which speaking of, how did you know that one is his favourite?)

(ortho supplied you with that information)

however, his smile dropped when you started talking about the challenge all of a sudden

and he became all red instead🤭

"You got all that?" you asked, waving the pocky stick in front of his face with an innocent smile

"D-Do I- Do I...."

babe, he cannot form a sentence right now, much less process anything you just told him. you cannot POSSIBLY expect him to give you a clear answer right now🙄

"Oh, do you not wanna do it? That's fine." you get up, ready to leave (you're doing this on purpose, manipulation is key😈)

but no, seriously, you weren't going to make him do anything he was uncomfortable with, and you kinda expected a reaction like this anyways😭

"N-No, No, I want to..." he grabs onto your sleeve awkwardly, literally shaking from embarrasment

you're actually kinda worried, will he even survive till the whole kiss part?

No time like the present to find out, you suppose

you place the pocky in your mouth, waiting for him to bite into the other end. he does and immediately screws his eyes shut, WAAAY too embarrased to look at you

the distance between the two of you slowly closes but when there's just a bit of the pocky stick left he lets go and immediately runs away, hair slightly red at the ends😫

"Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god...." he whispers to himself over and over, thinking about how he almost kissed you just now

atleast he got to eat his favourite flavour...????

"Did it fail?" Ortho came out of his hiding spot and you nodded, pouting slighly☹️

"That's plan G crossed off the list. You wrote down '7 minutes in heaven' for plan H. Though I do not know what that is, I will assist you in any way I can."

[milky-aeons]

— PRETTY, PRETTY BOY

౨ৎ . . . there was a saying in the port mafia; that amongst their ranks hid an angel in disguise, who, through simple words alone, could make any man bend to her mercy. nobody could really resist her blinding charm. her mafioso boyfriend, of course, was no exemption.

alternatively, you convince CHUUYA NAKAHARA to try on a maid's uniform. You like it a lot more than you thought.

warnings: criminal themes, swearing, female reader, slight manipulation, pet-names, suggestive content, w.c 1.9k

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐉𝐎𝐊𝐄, at first. For your stout, temperamental mafioso lover was always such a pleasure to tease. He took everything so seriously, in that adorable, flustered way of his. Not many would think that the Chuuya Nakahara was so easy to work up. He commanded soldiers, legions; men were terrified of the underground General who was also a mortal master of gravity. Maybe it was a side to him he kept reserved just for you. That soft, cheeky side. The blush that always heated his ears to the colour of his hair whenever you decided to play with him.

"No fuckin' way."

You stood there in the bedroom you both shared — lavish and expensive, sitting on one of the highest floors of the Port Mafia's headquarters. He had already discarded his coat and hat, was busy scratching the crown of his head when you had put the question to him. Interrupting his yawn mid-way. Chuuya's eyebrows had scrunched, he'd shot you a disbelieving retort — the hell did you just say? Then, he caught sight of what was draped across your bent forearm.

His eyes had flickered from yours, to the dress, to yours, once more. When he asked you to say that again, that he didn't think he had heard you right, he had shut you down with that very blunt denial.

"Please?" You pouted, batting your eyelashes. "It's just a bit of fun. You'd look so adorable, Chuuya!"

"Hah?! No!" Chuuya snapped. He was like an angry kitten, his canines sharp and baring. "The fuck did you even get that thing, anyway?"

"I think Mori ordered the wrong size for Elise-chan," You held up the dress so it draped down, almost the length of your body, but not quite. It just barely sat a size too small. With its narrow set waist and countless little frills, you were, at first, a little disappointed — that such a pretty thing was going to go to waste. And then, the gears in your mind began their mischievous little tune. You looked at Chuuya with wide, imploring eyes. "Are you scared to put on a dress, my love?"

Chuuya scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not scared of anything, baby doll."

"Then put it on."

"Go fuck yourself."

"You're so mean!"

At your wounded tone, the General's shoulders tightened a little. When he stole a glance in your direction, he saw the way your eyebrows drooped over your sad doe eyes, how your full lips formed that pretty little pout. Damn him, he was not considering this shit, there was absolutely no way Chuuya Nakahara was going to fit himself into that ugly piece of cloth just to make you happy. Murder, espionage — sure. For you, he wouldn't even give it a second thought. It would come as natural to him as breathing air.

But this?

He poked his cheek with his tongue. He began angrily tapping his foot against the carpeted floor. Stealing a second glance at the woman he loved, he caught the shadow of disappointment hanging over your head like an ominous raincloud, and felt the last shred of his resistance dissipate into sorry little afterthoughts.

Chuuya let out an extremely exaggerated sigh. Blinking, you glanced at him. He had his head bowed a little and was holding out one open, gloved palm.

"Hand it over."

A little startled all of a sudden, you gawped, making a strange sound. "Huh?"

An impatient growl echoed in the air. Chuuya looked up to glare at you from underneath his fair lashes, his eyes the colour of diamonds, of hard impenetrable sapphires. They narrowed dangerously when you were staring too long at the rose that blushed against his alabaster skin.

"So? Are ya gonna give me the shitty little thing, or not?"

Quickly understanding that he was actually taking you seriously, that he was considering your little charade, you had become too stupefied to do anything else. With hesitant fingers did you hold the maid's dress out to him, which he snatched from your grip in one forceful, swiping movement. You thought you caught the ends of the fuckin' shit I do for this woman, at the tail of it, but you couldn't be totally sure.

Seething, Chuuya balled the garment in his fist and marched off to your on-suite bathroom. He took a little longer than you expected him to — of course, he had never tried on a dress before. Maybe he was having trouble getting past all the ribbons and buttons, ties and zippers.

"Fuck me!" You heard him swear through the door after a few more moments of silence. Tender chuckles rose like bubbles in your chest — he was trying so hard to please you, exposing that soft side you kept under lock and key, only for yourself to indulge.

You lifted your hand to knock softly on the door. "Do you need some help in there?"

A growling blue-streak of profanities. Somehow, becoming more colourful and creative than the last. "How the hell do you women wake up in the morning and do this shit, every day? There's like, a million buttons on this ugly piece of crap!"

Crashing and banging mixed into the collection of sounds that was coming from the small bathroom. Amused, but also a little worried that he'd pull a little too hard on one of the ribbons and fall backwards against the toilet seat, you placed your hand on the golden doorhandle.

"Because us women are just that amazing," You mused, not resisting the urge to goad him. Your voice then dropped into a serious lilt. "Really, it's okay, Chuuya — you don't have to—"

That was when you felt it — the cool, insistent press of gravity, the humming in the air that told you your lover had activated his fearful technique. Your eyes shot down to where it was coming from, and to your immediate surprise, you saw the soft glow of crimson enveloped around the handle you were trying to unlatch — holding it securely in place.

"No. I said I'd fuckin' do it, didn't I?" Chuuya remarked through the wood. "So I will. Go wait over at the bed."

Prideful, stubborn man, you thought, rolling your eyes at his defensive tone, oh, how you loved him. "Okay." You sang sweetly, then stepped away from the bathroom door so as to sashay over to your expansive king size. You barely had a chance to set yourself down on the satin sheets when — bang!

The on-suite door had been thrown off of its hinges and cracked against the neighbouring wall with the force he put behind it. And standing there in the doorway in all his blood-boiling, skin-heating, frill-covered glory, was that very General who instilled terror to even the most seasoned of underground criminals. The long black dress that stopped just at his ankles and puffed at the shoulders threw his wild fiery hair into focus. The frilly white apron hanging loosely at his narrow waist contested with the bright red flush creeping up his neck.

You must have been staring at him for a little too long, because Chuuya snarled. "You happy now? I look damn ridiculous."

You didn't laugh. Nor did you tease him, as always, but you rose slowly up off of the bed and began to walk over to him. Stalk him, quietly, your expression a smooth, unreadable slate. The extreme lack of a reaction from you was making Chuuya's eyebrows knit, his lips softening from snarl to frown.

"O-Oi?"

When you reached him, you shot out to grab the little lapels of the dress that collared his long neck and tugged him down. So that he came just eye level with your own darker, smouldering ones. Oh, you were going to pounce on him. Packaged up in that pretty little parcel for you, you were going to devour him where he stood.

You smiled, leaning in, and whispered, "Told you you'd look absolutely adorable, my pretty, pretty boy."

requested by the lovely [ @ringsofsaturnnnn! ]

[tadpolesonalgae]

Shared Camomile[*]

Elain x fem!reader

synopsis: after months of practically living together, Elain finally broaches the topic she’s been longing to share with you. You’re reluctant, doubtful, nervous. Two females? That can’t be right. So Elain takes it on herself to go out into her little garden to find something to help convince you of what you should already know. That you’re hers. 

a/n: cannot believe it’s taken this long for me to write something like this for Elain

warnings: use of an aphrodisiac/love potion from Elain, technically dubcon, smut, facesitting, fingering, pussy eating, squirting, fluff for my favourite girl 🩷🧡💛

word count: 3,662

“What?” You ask, perplexed, tilting your head slightly before your lips are stretching in a wide smile, cheeks aching as they flush with laughter. “Move in together? You are funny Elain.” 

Dark, rich cocoa eyes blink at you quietly from across the table, her burnished gold hair hanging in full ringlets, spilling over her shoulders while small coils of silky hair quirk and twist over her brow. Between you is a cooling tray, holding the berry tarts you’d spent the morning lovingly making, flour-dusted aprons doing little to prevent the powdery mess from puffing into the air and dusting the fabric of your dresses. The smell is delicious, able to pick out the distinct citrus of the lemon and orange, the pleasant apricot and sweet blackberry, each held within a circle of thick, crispy pastry, golden-brown on its crust and slightly flaky. 

“Do you really find it so absurd?” She asks, a touch fainter than before, and you think you catch a look of hurt across her pretty features. You blink, caught off guard by her expression—you’d thought it a joke. “I…” you fumble briefly, unsure of yourself. “Is it…normal for two women to live together in the human lands?” You ask tentatively. “I had understood it was much the same as it is here, from how you’d spoken about…” She nods her head faintly, neither of you particularly wanting to mention the name of her past human lover. 

“No, you’re right,” she says softly, glancing down over the tray of delicious pastries, still steaming slightly with heat, their centres looking soft and slightly more liquid than they should. Once they’re cool, they’ll possess a more jam-like consistency—a little thicker, and less prone to spilling down one’s front after a bite. “But folk seem more content here. Happy to let people love,” Elain says, warm brown eyes raising to yours, her long lashes fluttering slightly with nerves that only fae eyes could pick out.  

“Besides,” she continues, standing straighter, fingers splaying across the kitchen counter, “you spend so much time in this house, with me, that nothing much would really change…” 

“Yes, but don’t you think people might get the wrong idea?” You counter. It’s a nice idea—lovely, even—but nice things aren’t always possible to have. Elain inclines her chin a little, “and what would be the wrong idea, in this case?” 

Your brow furrows. “That we’re lovers,” you reply, before wincing. “Not that two females loving each other in that way is wrong,” you swiftly amend, “just that, that’s not what it would be for us. People would get the wrong impression.” 

“You don’t…” Elain begins faintly, watching you as if in a daze, before shaking her head, the pretty, dark gold ringlets jostling with the motion. “Maybe we should have this conversation another time. In the evening, when we’ll have longer for a deeper discussion.” 

Elain smiles a little, a familiar softness to her features, and you can’t help the one that spreads across your mouth in reply. 

“Tea?” She offers. 

You nod, happy to accept whatever strange new herbal concoction she’ll serve you.

————

You swallow thickly, reaching for the glass of chilled, crystal-clear water on the small table, speckles of condensation fogging up its sides, small droplets gathering before trickling down over your hot fingers. 

You drink deeply, but it doesn’t seem to help with the warmth that’s been steadily accumulating within your body. The house shouldn’t be this hot, and yet you find yourself reaching to undo another button on your blouse, enough that if anyone else were accompanying you in the parlour, they would have an ample view of the lace peaking out from beneath the soft fabric of your shirt. 

Anxiously, you rearrange yourself in the large armchair, the circular, hand-embroidered pillows being removed from behind you, and tossed onto the long sofa in the hopes you’ll feel a bit cooler. Quilts hang over the back of each chair, so as to keep warm in the evenings during winter, but as it currently stands you can hardly bear to look at them without a wave of heat washing through your body. 

Taking another deep drink, you attempt to refocus your mind on the little botanical book you’d picked up from Elain’s night-stand a few days ago, steadily leafing through it while your friend works outside in her garden, watering plants, repotting small flowers, and so on. Usually you find yourself sitting in one of the hanging chairs—circular seats woven like bird nests, inlaid with pillows and cushions to prop up one’s back, allowing the user to rock faintly on the comfy swing—watching as the burned-orange of the sun spills over Elain as she works. It’s a pleasant routine the two of you enjoy during the warmer months, while most things are blooming, branches hanging heavy with fruits that’re full and bursting with juice, vibrant petals that unfurl in bright clusters of colour and aroma. 

Instead you’d retreated for the time being, having thought the evening haze was somehow getting to you more than usual, wanting to slink into the relative coolness of the indoors until the heat had passed and you could return. But it hadn’t passed, and you’re really considering undoing another pearly button. Considering hiking your skirts a little higher too, despite the almost sheer fabric. 

————

Elain glances up from the gardening bed, noting how far the sun has descended in the sky, the lengthening of the shadows. 

You’d disappeared a little over an hour ago, mumbling about wanting to cool off, and Elain would guess you’ll likely be wanting to strip the clothes from your body about now. She glances away briefly, a hot flush overcoming her cheeks, the smallest tinge of guilt in her heart. But ultimately it’s harmless, she assures and reassures herself, it’s not like she’s doing something you truly would hate her for. She’s just…bringing to the surface what already exists. Hurrying along the blossoming of a flower by nurturing and nourishing it correctly. 

You’ll be blooming for her in no time. 

You likely already are. 

Elain tugs the fullness of her lower lip between her teeth at the thought. 

She’s no stranger to these mental images, and has grown rather comfortable with them over the years. But she’s tired of having to fight them off, of feeling the slightest ounce of shame in her heart when she’s failed, and has had to look you in the eyes the next morning, knowing yours are the eyes she came to. Your nose, your mouth, your features she’d pictured…your scent she’d tried to imagine…your sex she’d…

Elain shakes her head, raising from the gardening bed. Inside you’re probably melting like a toffee left in the summer’s sun, dripping sticky sweetness for her plunge her tongue into. All she needs to do now is to stop by the washroom to clean her hands, then she can go see how your body is reacting to the sweet ambrosia plant she’d been carefully nurturing these past few months. Reacting to the sun dried leaves she’d crushed up to make a tea out of. 

She can practically taste you already. 

————

You hadn’t realised how far you’d spiral when you’d started. 

Hadn’t realised how deeply the heat would numb your mind when you’d fumbled your way to the sofa on shaky legs, and laid yourself across its plush length.

Hadn’t realised how exposed you would be when you’d rolled onto your side, plucking a cushion up, and shyly placing it between your thighs, starting off with small rolls of your hips before your movements became more languid. 

Now your hair is messy, silky locks having separated from your up-do, baby strands curling at your temples and the nape of your neck. A few more pearly buttons have been popped out, leaving you in the thin white vest you’d donned this morning beneath your dress, and your skirts have pooled around your waist. 

Still you’re too hot, feeling the dampness that’s gathered along your spine, the slight perspiration between and beneath the swell of your breasts and you could cry from the discomfort. If you could only remove your clothes entirely, then maybe you’d feel an ounce of relief…but what if Elain finds you? A fresh wave of heat splashes over you, and you think a moan slips out, burying your face in the pillow you’re resting on. You need to take your clothes off…you’re going to overheat if you keep like this… 

With trembling fingers and weakened muscles you manage to sit up enough to tug the material from your body, the skirts further mussing your hair as they caress over your shoulders. As soon as you can you’re flopping back into the cushioning, panting as you reposition the pillow between your thighs, shifting so the seam is pressing flush with your heat…but your underwear is still in the way…

You whine faintly.

You just want relief…

“Are you—…” 

Your half-lidded gaze meets a fully dilated set of cocoa, a deep, apricot flush on her sugar-powdered cheeks. 

Fresh heat licks across your skin, a soft moan dragging from your lips as your body melts over the sofa. Heavy pants spill from your mouth as you gaze at her, lids fluttering faintly in your attempts to keep watching her. Elain would be perfect…the perfect shape, the perfect feel, the perfect heat to soothe your own… Elain can fix this. 

“E…Elain…” you call out, trying to push yourself up into a sitting position, keeping the pillow flush between your thighs. “Elain…please…” 

Her mouth opens as if to speak, but she can’t find her words, her feet tipping into motion as she’s carried silently across the floor until she’s reached you. “What…—” But you cut her off when you reach for her, fingers linking with her own pristine set, squeezing her lightly. “Elain,” you cry softly, “please… Please, I need…” 

You watch a little fearfully as her lips tug up at the corners, her eyes still wide with infatuation, transfixed on the lithe motions of your form, the way your hips glide over the cushion in attempts to feel some kind of friction. 

“What do you want?” She asks lowly, hunger in her usually sweet eyes, and you could cry. You are crying. “You…!” You beg softly, gripping her tighter, “you, Elain. Please!” She hums with faint amusement, settling lower to the floor so you’re at eye level. “How?” She asks gently, watching you with a leisure that’s not at all appropriate for the undercurrent of energy that’s simmering beneath your skin.

“Hotly. Messily,” you plead, trying to pull her closer, “immediately.”

“Hmm? But we aren’t lovers?” She points out, still smiling faintly, hungry warmth curving her full mouth. Full, berry-coloured lips that you bet would taste far better than any of the tarts on the counter. You don’t know how to respond to that other than with a desperate, pleading look, squeezing her hand beseechingly, inclining your head to shyly offer your mouth. 

Her eyes twinkle, and your heart flutters as she leans forward, dark golden ringlets of hair teasingly brushing against your unfairly sensitive collar bones, lips grazing your own. “What do you want?” She repeats softly, quieter than a breath, able to feel each syllable over your mouth. “Elain,” you answer in return, fingers trembling, so close to getting what you need. 

You feel the flutter of her lashes against your cheek, the ticklish fan of breath across your lips as she laughs softly, before gently setting her mouth atop your own. 

A hot tear escapes down your cheek, hips winding over the soft cushion as she rests over you, and you shyly press back, curving up into her as you incline your chin, heart fluttering in your chest wildly at the intimacy. 

“You want some more, don’t you?” She asks when she’s pulled away, and you nod desperately, more than a little out of it, with the flush that’s heating your body, the arousal that’s softening your limbs. “Alright,” she murmurs, still with that strangely wicked smile on her lovely lips, “but keep still.” 

You whine when she pulls away, then shut up when she begins disrobing herself, leaving her bare save for the underwear clinging to her hips, perfectly matching your own state of undress. “What do you think?” She asks lightly, both her arms pulled back from her chest, hands likely wrapped together at her back, allowing you to take her in. Your eyes nearly roll, needing her to put her body on you now, needing to kiss her again, to touch her and taste her. “Let me taste you…” you beg without thinking, causing her flush to deepen, parting the stance of her delicate feet ever so slightly. 

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for,” she replies softly, undeniable arousal rolling from her body, perfuming the room with a scent like vanilla, but slightly muskier, slightly heavier. It smells delicious. Like something you’d delight in having in your mouth. 

Elain smiles at your dazed expression, before dipping her fingers slowly beneath the band of her underwear, liking how your hips take on a more urgent wind over the pillow, still so desperate as the tea works its properties into your bloodstream, short-circuiting your mind to bring out your basest desires. 

“You want a taste?” Elain recalls, and you whine when you pick up the wet noises coming from between her thighs, how her arousal becomes more concentrated, and you nod your head. “Please, Elain,” you moan breathlessly, “come closer…” 

“I’ll come where I like,” she replies, making your spine arch.

“Please,” you beg, “come over here.” 

It seems she finally takes pity on you, slowly making her way over to you. Your eyes flutter lightly when her fingertips brush hair from your face, the ones with her arousal on brushing teasingly across your lips, and you part them needfully for her. Tipping upward into her touch, so, so, desperate for more. Elain reads that in your expression, and smiles. “If I let you have a taste,” she murmurs, fingers pressing a little closer to your mouth, so close to slipping inside, “you think it might be nice if you stayed?” 

You nod dimly, staring up at her pretty, cocoa-coloured eyes. 

“Answer me, sweet pea,” she instructs.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper back. 

Elain smiles fully, and the moment feels so right it’s almost enough to take you out of the haze. But then she’s carefully swinging a leg over you, her lovely back turned so she can peer down your body, and for the first time that evening you’re aware of your mouth watering. “I knew you’d come round to it,” she says breathlessly, her thighs trembling slightly with adrenaline and anticipation. After all this time she’s so close to having you—it’ll no longer be restricted to her dreams, or her fantasies. “You’re being such a good girl for me.” 

“Elain,” you beg, lips feeling numb and tingly, just so desperate to be entirely swept away by her fragrance, her feel, her flavour. “Elain, please…” you breathe, staring longingly between her parted thighs, able to arrange just how well she’ll fit over your face. 

“Alright, sweet thing,” she murmurs, fingers tracing across your stomach, feeling across the soft expanse as if she’s studying new land under her jurisdiction, brushing the band of your underwear. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

Thoughts and words are obliterated away as she settles over you, the heat of her soft skin feeling so right and familiar, and your eyes slide shut in pleasure. In a far away part of your conscious, your body raises its hands to slide over her thighs, slinking over her hips to pull her flush to your mouth, able to feel the dampness of the fabric against your nose and lips, and—Gods she’s perfect. 

Elain’s fingertips teasingly trace over your abdomen, watching how tiny muscles flutter and contract beneath her ticklish touch, gently prying the pillow away from between your thighs to make room for her own hands. She swallows heavily, spine curving as she experimentally shifts her hips over you, revelling in the press of your mouth and nose against her heat. 

“Open your mouth,” she breathes, fingers trembling as they push your underwear away, licking her lips as she spots the gleaming threads of slick that are webbing between the wet fabric and your wetter cunt. You don’t respond, and she blinks, shifting her hips to glance over her shoulder—your eyes are closed, and she can feel the heat radiating from your body, the absolutely blissed out expression on your features. Her heart fumbles, and she decides to let you enjoy yourself for the moment—her pleasure is secondary to your own. 

“That’s it, sweet girl,” she says instead, palm cupping your bare heat, feeling your hips buck into her hand at the promise of stimulation. “Lay back and enjoy it,” she goads, running her fingers over your cunt, pressing lightly at your clit, feeling how a pulse of pleasure passes through you at the light touch alone. “So lovely and wet—is this all for me?” 

A shiver of pure pleasure drips down her spine at the deluded moan you breathe onto her cunt, thighs parting as she languidly rolls her hips over you, shuddering with blissful exuberance at the feel of your mouth and nose pressing so delightfully against her. Enough so that she raises them just enough to vanish the fabric away, before gently reseating herself atop of you, taking a moment to bask in the intimate feel. The strangely territorial feel as she winds her hips, knowing your nose, lips, and chin will be gleaming with her arousal. Hers. 

Biting her lip, she spreads your legs wider, rolling the pads of her fingers over your clit carefully, guessing how sensitive the ambrosia plant tea will have made you. And she’s completely right. Rewarded with a lovely whimper that causes her skin to prickle, storing away the small noise and already thinking what she can do to make you repeat it. 

“Do that again,” she asks, fingers running down over your wet cunt, light and teasing in her touch, tauntingly circling your entrance, feeling as you try to suction her deeper, tightening around nothing. You release a whine, and Elain smiles faintly, cupping one of her breasts as she thumbs across the peak, soothing their sensitivity as her head tips back from the relief. “That’s it,” she encourages, “all you need to do is keep making those sounds for me okay? Keep telling me what you like, how you’re feeling. Don’t try to hide them from me.” 

You moan loudly when her fingers sink inside of you, two gently plying you apart, pumping and curling while the heel of her palm glides across your gleaming clit, hips bucking needfully up into her hand as your arousal begins to be satiated. “Elain…” you moan without reason, simply unable to think of any other noise to make as her heavenly scent filters into your lungs, spreads through your body, following your instincts to open your mouth, and lick. 

Elain’s spine curves, a moan spilling from her lips as you softly apply yourself, tongue flattening over her clit, swiping up through her centre to kiss at her entrance, feeling dizzy from the eroticism of laying your mouth over such an intimate part of her. Feeling her coat your mouth like a lip gloss. You’d wear her every chance you could get. 

“That’s it…” she moans, fingers rubbing against a spot inside of you, and your arms coil over her pretty hips, pulling her flush against your face, making out with her pussy to hear more of those sounds, taste more of her flavour, have more of her coating you like she owns you. 

Elain sighs contentedly, hips rocking over your mouth before she’s dipping down, and you cry out onto her when her tongue swipes across your clit, thighs shaking with the sensitivity—how she licks through your centre, circling and suckling the apex of your thighs while her fingers are working you so well. The pressure she’s creating around your clit, her scent in your lungs and her taste in your mouth, the hot, feminine weight of her over your lips partnered with the delightfully full press of her fingers, how they curl against spots even you hadn’t know you had, her tongue licking at your clit, saliva mixing with your slick…so messy… 

You cry out as you come, and Elain gasps as you squirt, surprised as the liquid arcs from your pretty cunt. Her lips part on the surprised inhale, before she’s being driven by hunger, sealing her mouth over you entirely, tasting as much of you as she can, working her wonderfully wicked tongue to draw out your orgasm, the orgasm that belongs to her.

She feels it as she’s tipped over the edge, at last pulling away from your overstimulated cunt to spread her thighs wider and grind over your mouth, dragging her clit over the hot swell of your tongue, her eyelids fluttering with pleasure and all she can think about is getting to turn around and put her mouth over your own. Which is exactly what she does, before the aftershocks have even completely faded, tasting herself on your lips and tongue, flicking against the roof of your mouth as she presses her body closer to you, thigh now pressing between your own, feeling a strange sense of pride as you grind against her, wanting more so desperately. 

Elain can tell from your scent alone you’ll be needing much more than just one orgasm to get you past the herbal-induced heatwave she’s subjected you to. 

And she’s more than delighted to help you see each and every wave through to the end. 

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

[4lovehearts]

PRIZED POSSESSION ‹𝟹

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ; bridget hearts x gn reader.

summary ‎⸝⸝⸝ bridget freaks out after hook breaks the bracelet you made her.

warnings ‎⸝⸝⸝ hurt/comfort, capt. hook being a bully (as per usual), brief mentions of a scratch.

note ‎⸝⸝⸝ this is heavily inspired by this fic,, i highly recommend reading it, it's incredible !!!

bridget smiled to herself, skipping happily through the merlin academy hallway. with a small pink tupperware in hand, she was currently on her way to visit you! she'd come up with a new cupcake recipe and wanted you to be the first to taste it. the new batch was made with you in mind, so she was over-ecstatic for you to try them.

she exited the hallway, now happily skipping through the courtyard. she'd only made it about halfway before the feeling of cold metal grazing her wrist startled her. she let out a yelp as she stumbled back, dropping her tupperware on the ground when she flinched.

“whoops!” the voice made bridget take her eyes off the scratch running across her wrist — she looked up, noticing james waving his hook around teasingly. her bracelet —the bracelet you'd gave her on your first date— was dangling off the edge of said hook.

she immediately froze and held her hand out, her palm facing upwards, “please– please give it back.”

it wasn't until james denied her request and began taunting her, that she finally noticed how worried she actually was. she felt so, absolutely sick to her stomach, and it only made her want her bracelet back even more. putting on the bracelet had become a staple of her morning routine, to the point that how her day went all depended on if she was wearing it or not. she had a really deep emotional attachment to it, and it was only occurring to her now how much she truly cared for the bracelet. it was already torture for her when she'd misplaced the bracelet once before, so the thought of losing it for good was agonizing.

tears pooled in bridget's eyes from all the negative thoughts circulating in her head — and she started getting angry. she didn't know why james decided to mess with her bracelet so suddenly, you two had always been pretty public, but someone noticing the importance of her bracelet was extremely obscure. whatever the reason, she was sure that uliana was behind this.

“give it back!–” she lunged forward, trying to get the bracelet back from james. he stepped back, trying to dodge her, but at the same time she'd managed to just barely grasp it, causing the distance to make it to stretch far more than it could handle.

bridget flinched when the beads flew everywhere — she stood eerily still, as if moving would make the moment more real. james' laugh pulled her out of her thoughts, and she immediately dropped to her knees, trying to pick up all the beads through tears. james uttered a couple more sentences before walking off, probably more taunting, bridget was too focused on finding all the beads to listen to him.

she spent a couple of minutes on the ground, combing through the grass looking for every single little bead through silent sobs. she hadn't found another one for a little while now, but the feeling she was still missing a couple plagued her deeply. though, she couldn't handle being away from you any longer, and the feeling of people staring at her as they passed by was making her feel so humiliated — she hesitantly stood up, cupping the beads she'd collected tightly in her right hand, then quickly grabbing the tupperware she'd dropped earlier with her other hand before hastily running off to your room, letting out a few sniffles as she did so.

── 𖹭 ──

you jumped at the sound of your door suddenly swinging open, but your panic immediately washed away at the sight of bridget with tears streaming down her cheeks.

you rushed over to her, “bri? what's wrong?”

“hook, he– i– m'sorry.” she opened her right hand, showing you all the scattered beads. you frowned at the sight, quickly putting the pieces together of what had probably happened.

“it's okay, we can fix it. it's alright.” you took the tupperware out of her other hand, swiftly moving to place it on your desk, “put the beads here.” you grabbed a small empty container, and she hesitantly dropped the beads into it.

she wiped her tears away, watching you place the container on your desk. you turned back around to her, your arms open wide to offer her a hug — she immediately accepted the offer, rushing into your arms and quietly sobbing into your chest. you hugged her tightly, murmuring sweet nothings about how you could easily remake the bracelet for her.

── 𖹭 ──

after a little while of comforting, bridget had recollected herself, and the two of you were now sitting at your desk, beginning to remake her bracelet.

bridget had her head rested on your shoulder, along with her arms wrapped firmly around your torso — she remained mostly silent while you rebuilt the bracelet, only occasionally perking up to tell you if a certain bead was in the wrong spot. she'd spent so many minutes of her life just staring at the bracelet, absolutely enamored that you'd taken the time to make such a lovely gift for her. so of course the pattern was engraved into her memory, it was nearly impossible for her to forget it.

you placed the last needed bead on the string, before holding it up to show bridget, “it's finished!”

her eyes lit up and she squealed, letting go of you and holding out her hand, so that you could tie the bracelet around her wrist. she smiled eagerly as she watched you adjust the bracelet accordingly, her heart swelling with joy as you tied the string ends.

when you finished tying it she stood up and happily twirled around, before hugging you tightly whilst uttering a bunch of "thank you"s over and over.

she let go of you after a moment and then spun around once again, beginning to ramble about how she thought the bracelet was ‘broken forever’ while cheerfully pacing around your room — she suddenly paused mid-sentence, her eyes drifting to the pink tupperware on your desk that was discarded earlier.

you tilted your head at the sudden silence, before tracing her line of sight back to the tupperware. you pointed at it, turning your head to face her before tilting your head again. “uhm, i... made those for you!”

she sheepishly walked over, picking up the tupperware and opening it. she frowned, noticing that the two cupcakes had fallen upside-down when she dropped the tupperware earlier. she picked up one, bashfully handing it over to you.

“they.. were prettier before... but it's a new recipe! you were.... kind of the inspiration for them.” she rocked back and forth on her heels, watching anxiously as you took a bite out of the cupcake.

she let out a sigh of relief when your eyes widened with —what she correctly assumed was— delight. “bridget, this is amazing!” she immediately blushed, joyfully beginning to ramble on about the recipe.

before she got too into the recipe, you interjected, “why don't you tell me about the recipe while we make matching bracelets?”

bridget's face lit up straight away, and she skipped back over to the desk, happily agreeing over and over. she sat back down next to you, excitedly rambling on about what colors you two should pick for the bracelets.

after deciding on colors, she turned her rambles to focus on the recipe, like you'd suggested — in all honesty, all of her baking lingo made zero sense to you, but you were just glad that she was back to her usual cheery self.

[kykyonthemoon]

Where The Ocean Whispers

Happy Rafayel's Day!

𓇼— The Lemurians use special seashells to transmit messages from their heart to one another. Would you like to try?

𓇼— Soft fluff, birthday fluff, confession

𓇼— Masterlist

𓇼— Request a fic

The waves brought layers of white foam to the shore, erasing the intertwined footprints, sand arches and tiny seashells covering two pairs of bare feet almost touching each other. Then, as if to wash away every worry, the cold water faded, leaving behind nothing except a sense of calm and coolness, with a sense of longing for the next wave. The crimson sun glistened well below the horizon, akin to a priceless ruby gradually sinking to the ocean floor.

"Look over there. The sea is swallowing your sun!”

A long finger of his gestured forward. Your gaze followed as you smiled. He was still reminded of the narrative you told about your childhood when you thought that every night, the sun would sink into the sea and rest.

“Now the whole ocean will be warmed, in red and orange, right?” You replied. That was what he said after hearing your story. He seemed so happy and content that you could still remember it and recite every word.

“Maybe we can't paint the sea the color of the sun,” your voice continued, “But we can do this…”

All of a sudden, you hurled water high with your foot. The cool water reached him, splashing a bit on his white shirt. He rolled his eyes at you.

“So you do enjoy being playful like this?”

He bent down, gathered the entire ocean in his hands then flung it in your direction. Like a very gentle wave, seawater fell on your hair and light garment.

After the celebration was over, he and you raced outside to catch the sunset over the sea, leaving your coats and shoes behind. Both of you were drenched.

"That's not fair!" You gave a loud shout. “Did you do that on purpose?”

With a big chuckle, he answered, "That's what we refer to as the blessing of the sea." You have to accept it all.”

“You are the birthday boy. Here, take it all!”

You kept splashing him with saltwater. He persisted nonetheless. Before long, your entire bodies was soaked.

“That's enough, Rafayel. I give up!”

You surrendered by raising both hands. You felt a bit chilled by the breeze. Rafayel hauled you right up to the shore. You had no idea when he had a big towel ready there. He wrapped it around you.

“Hurry. Dry yourself.”

You obediently did as told. Then you gave him another glance. Water dripped from his dark purple curls, framing his small, flawless face. You couldn't take your eyes off the damp shirt that adhered to his body, exposing lines that made you flush. Rafayel took one look at you and immediately covered himself with both hands.

“I'm aware that my beauty can stun others. But if you keep staring at me like that, it would not be proper anymore."

You hid your embarrassed face behind the cotton towel. With a smile, Rafayel enquired:

"So? Do you want to go back inside?”

You gave him a firm shake of your head. “I want to stay here a little longer.”

Not that Rafayel objected. He accompanied you on your beach stroll. You remained quiet. You did not want to go back partly because you could not bear to see the day ended.

It was Rafayel's birthday. You had carefully prepared for an intimate party, with only a few people from his studio and family members attending. You personally made the cake for him and prepared everything yourself. But your heart was still restless as you kept carrying the feeling that this was not enough. You had yet to give him what he truly needed.

You continued to ponder. Rafayel needed what? He was wealthy and famous. He was exceptionally gifted, and he may have lived an extended lifespan. Giving something to someone who has had everything is impossible. If you could give him your heart, you would do so. In a symbolic sense.

Between you and Rafayel was a feeling without a name.

You started off as merely his reluctant bodyguard, someone to take care of his errands. You were not sure when exactly, but the image of him planted roots in your mind like the way he frequently appeared in front of you, provoking you. He was adorable and obnoxious all at once. Although he posed a threat, being around him gave you a sense of security. But you never, ever dared to speak it aloud. Perhaps you were afraid. You feared that the relationship would fizzle out like sea foam the moment you began seeking to give it a name. You made an effort to suppress that emotion, but it kept returning, much like waves finding their way back to the shore.

"What's off?" Rafayel enquired. He came to a stop. His expression was undoubtedly showing concern.

"I'm alright." You dismissed him with a shake of your head. Your heart raced whenever you were close to him. The feeling of being on cloud nine, at the same time realizing that a bottomless black hole was waiting at your feet made you about to lose your mind. You hated this feeling, yet also addicted to it. Like the way you were addicted to his very existence. Perfect like a dream.

His cool hand was placed on your forehead. He frowned and said:

“It seems your temperature is a bit high.”

You retreated a step, rejecting his touch. It was as if there was poison from his body that would seep into your heart, and you would drive yourself to a slow death if you could not touch him again.

“I'm fine.” With a resolute reply, you took a seat on the sand, a little wet from the waves. “I'm just a little tired… Let me sit here for a bit…”

Rafayel looked at you with a puzzled expression. He was curious to know what else you were planning to do. But you hid your face in the white towel. He sighed.

"I'll go fetch you some exquisite seashells then. Maybe it will make you feel better.”

You gave a little nod, glancing at Rafayel's back as it absorbed the last bit of sunlight on a peaceful day. This scene was a bit familiar, like the first time you had by chance met him on the street.

Rafayel knelt to get something that the waves had just carried. He held it tenderly in his palm, studied it for a moment, and then came over to you.

“Look what I've just found.” A fairly large shell weaved together in shades of orange-red and ivory-white was what he held out in front of you. You had never seen a shell with such a special hue like this before.

"So beautiful!" You exclaimed as Rafayel plopped down next to you on the sand. Your heart raced again as he sat so near.

“You know, the Lemurians often use shells like this to transmit messages to each other.”

He twisted it in his hand to examine it more closely before placing it in your palm.

“Do you want to give it a shot?”

You raised the shell quite a bit. Its hue was nearly identical to that of the horizon's sunset. You said:

“Show me how to do it.”

“Just tell the seashell what you want to say the most right now.”

“Is that all?”

“Yup. That's all. But what you say to it must come from the heart. It will find the person whom you want to send this to, no matter where they are.”

You looked at Rafayel. He appeared so honest, but this story was too much of a fairy tale and not very realistic. You did not know if he was just making this up to tease you. Then again, you once thought the Lemurians never existed. But here he was, sitting next to you.

You put the seashell to your lips, gave him another glance, and then murmured something to it.

Once you were done, you gave it to Rafayel.

“It's yours.”

His lips curled into a dazzling smile, as though he knew you would give it back to him.

“Hmmm.” Rafayel took the shell and leaned it close to his ear. He gestured as if he was concentrating hard to listen. Then he said with disappointment evident on his face: “I don't hear any message.”

"What? How is that possible?" You were impatient.

“Do you want to try again?”

He returned the shell to your hand. This time, you took a deep breath and looked at him while whispering your thoughts.

“Still nothing.” After listening to it for a second time, Rafayel said. “Are you sure you sent the message with all your heart?”

You replied sullenly: "Of course... Maybe since I'm not a Lemurian, I can't make it work."

Rafayel held your hand and put the shell in it. “Try it once more?”

"I doubt that anything will be different this time around." You gazed at the shell in your hand with boredom. “I was just going to… give you one more gift to make your birthday special…”

“My day is already quite special.” Rafayel's bright smile made the distant sunset dim, and suddenly you caught his warmth. “Thank you so much, for organizing a party for me. To be honest, though, I don't like partying as much as going to the sea with you like this."

Listening to his words, you found yourself smiling. You took off the towel that was wrapped around you, letting it fall freely onto the sand. You held the brilliant seashell in your hands, this time determined to let him hear your heart out.

Rafayel nodded and smiled at you as encouragement. You closed your eyes tightly, and lips slightly parted. You had a feeling that it could read my thoughts whether you said them out loud or not.

I really like, really like, really like Rafayel.

I like the way you concentrate when holding a paintbrush, as if the whole world is spread out before your eyes.

I like your terrified look when surrounded by cats.

I like it when you overdo things or act like a drama queen just to get my attention.

I like the bright colors you paint in my sky when it's gray.

I like the way you tease and then comfort me.

I like how your gentle touches are enough to keep me up at night.

I like everything about you.

Maybe, I love you, Rafayel. So much.

The shell was brought towards Rafayel, but halted midway. You wavered. Once he knew your feelings, would he still be by your side? Or would he throw this shell into the ocean along with your heart, letting it dissolve into bubbly white foam?

Rafayel looked at you and smiled. Even though he had laughed many times, you'd never seen him as happy as he was at that moment. There was an increased shine in his eyes, as if pearls were rising to the surface and ready to burst out the corners of his eyes. Happiness. You had never captured such a genuine moment of pure happiness like this.

He took the shell from your hand, but there was no need to listen to it anymore. He leaned closer to you and whispered:

“The words from your heart have been received by the person you wanted to send them to… You have no idea how long he waited just to hear those words… I love you too. So much."

When you felt soft lips touching yours, little did you know; that Lemurian man had heard what you said the first time he put his ear to the shell. He merely wanted to hear it one more time, and another. He wanted to hear you confess being able to confess to you; this day, the day after, and the day after that...

Until the ocean runs dry.

[auroratumbles]

waltzing in the breeze.

musician venti x dancer reader smau

synopsis. you, a renowned dancer contacts a certain bard - venti - for a collaboration, but you find that you have fallen into a large rabbit hole that had been dug long before your first interaction.

warnings. swearing. kys/kms jokes. deception. topics of death will be mentioned here, but ill try to keep it small. grief. (kind of??) impersonation.

note. for the longest time ive been wanting to start a smau but never really found the time or ideas to actually commit to one, but ive planned the whole plot and gotten all apps necessary,,,, time to do this 😼 (also. essentially, venti has taken his best friend's name after his death and he keeps this a secret from most people he knows) updates slow/erratic

characters. rats (your friends) 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴s (ventis friends) others

CHAPTERS

one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven. twelve. thirteen. fourteen. fifteen.

taglist (send ask or reply to this post). @pokidot @eutopiastar @camvrin @thewindandthestars @thegalaxyisunfolding

@tsukimara @strryskys @good-fanfic-collector @stratusworld @agaygothicmushroom

@lyneyslover @animeobsessed56 @kazumiku @vi0let-writes

[avaxindy]

come over?

fratboy!indy x reader | minors dni | happy b-day indy

summary: late at night, indy texts you. it’s ambiguous. he doesn’t say why. since you’re just friends, you don’t assume anything by it. but when you arrive at his frat house, things get really heavy really fast.

features: @hanasnx fanfiction, sexual content, dry humping, light choking, explicit language, friends to lovers?, emotional manipulation, slight dubious consent

Your phone vibrates once and then twice a minute later while you are washing your face. The first assumption is that your best friend is trying to convince you to go clubbing with her at the last minute because the baseball team was seen out. You’ll never understand her obsession with them. Just like she’ll never understand your obsession with Indy.

You’re just lucky that your types are polar opposite. Because everyone else seems to have eyes for him. Everyone. And of course, you understand. How could you not crush hard over him? He just has this... way about him that drives you crazy. You’re not even sure he does it intentionally.

After you dry your face and moisturize, you lean over and tap your phone screen. You nearly shriek when you see his name. And the message that reads: come over?

You curse yourself for taking off your pretty clothes and your makeup. Not that Indy ever minded you without makeup. But if you showed up like you look now, you worry he might not get the hint that you like him.

He’s never invited you to hang out this late before. Sometimes you’ll hang out late because your hangouts run overtime. But when you’re with him, you never want to leave. All you can do is hope that he might feel the same way too. The hours you’ve spent analyzing your friendship with Indy is humiliating. You pay attention to his Insta posts and Snap stories, noting where he is and who he’s with. At every frat party hosted by his fraternity, girls practically throw themselves at his feet, and you get jealous every time he flirts back. But to your knowledge it rarely progresses further than that. He has a few exes from his years at the school, but they’ve always spoken highly of him.

You suspect that they’re the ones who have spread rumors about what he can do under the sheets. It’s something that he keeps very private. You suppose a guy like him doesn’t need to brag about his conquests. Girls just know. And you’re drawn to the confidence he gives off.

But what started as you trying to hook up with him ended in you inevitably wanting something more. You’d love to be his girlfriend. And everyone says that he likes you a lot, everyone but him. He’s not so direct about his feelings with you.

There was one time at the movies he leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you swore he was going to kiss you. To this day you have no clue what he told you. You were too anxious to pay attention to his words. The sensation of his breath against your skin was too much for you to handle.

The truth is... you might not be able to take it if he actually wants you. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. Having what you have wanted all along seems like something that only happens in the movies.

As you frantically reapply your makeup, he texts you again: why aren’t u in my bed rn

While that might seem like he’s texting you for sex, Indy has a special kind of humor that you understand. He’s really just saying that he misses you.

You type out a quick response: Promise im about to leave.

He just hearts the message.

You pick out your outfit, electing for a lulu tennis skirt and a cropped hoodie. The worst thing to do in this situation would be to overdress.

When you pull up to his frat house, you realize that you should have walked from your dorm. There’s a party going on, and parking is shit. You have to park from across the street in a big lot, empty this time of the day. His frat house is at the end of the row. It’s a long and annoying walk, but it’s worth it to spend time with him although you really weren’t in the mood for a party. You have an 8am class tomorrow (Friday).

Passing by, you spot his black Camaro in his parking space up front. You know it’s his from the dark-green stripe on the side. He teases you that he owns that color. He calls it Indy green.

The guys running security for the event immediately let you in when you come up to the door. You figure they must know who you are because you’re always here during the day. Actually, you were here this morning studying with Indy. He has a test tomorrow. Maybe he invited you over for a quick cram session. You should have brought your backpack.

People are crammed elbows to elbows in the little two-story. Outside too. Half of the campus must be here. You finally find a familiar face, one of the younger pledges, and you ask him where Indy is. He points upstairs. Maybe Indy wasn’t in the mood for a party. You’ll ask him later.

He lives in the first room after the staircase. He likes it because he only has one neighbor.

You knock first. A couple seconds later, he answers. Evanescence plays in the background softly. You think... it’s a song from Fallen, but you can’t be sure. Knowing him it probably is.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the door frame. He makes it look small. 

He waves you in. You notice his shiny black nails. He must have just painted them. You grab his hand as you enter and bring his fingers close to your eyes. He has model hands. His hands are decorated with thick and thin steel rings, silver and black. He curls his long fingers around yours.

“What’re you lookin’ at,” he laughs, an impish smirk spanning his lips. 

“They’re pretty, Indy.” You want to shove them in your mouth.

He pulls you along to his bed, and you sit beside him. Running a hand through his dark hair, he looks down at you and stares. His eyes sparkle. Something is different in the way he’s looking at you. You hope he feels it too.

“Did you want to study?” you ask, testing the waters. It’s the path of least resistance to find out why he asked you over.

He snorts and flicks the side of your arm. “Tonight? On a Thursday?”

You nod. “Yeah? You have a test tomorrow.”

“We studied. I’ve got it. I’m not worried.” He narrows his eyes. “Is that why you thought I wanted you to come over?”

“Maybe.”

He looks away and clasps his hands on his lap or picks at the tears in his faded jeans. “You’re wrong.”

“Why did you—”

Indy cuts you off. “Cause I wanted to spend time with you. Got tired of that fucking party ‘cause it’s shit without you. The guys told me not to bring a date this time.” Indy lies down on his bed, situating himself with his head on the pillow. He turns his body to face you.

In the midnight sheets, his skin is ghostlike. Sometimes you wonder if he’s just a figment of your imagination. He’s too pretty to be real.

You lie down beside him. This isn’t uncommon. He likes to cuddle sometimes when he’s in the mood. The metal beads on his leather bracelet are cold on your stomach. He holds you close to his chest for a minute or two before turning on his back to reach for the tv remote.

“Wanna watch something?” he asks, switching the tv on.

You shrug. “I don’t care. Only if you do.”

“If... you don’t care,” he whispers.

You don’t need to look up to know what he’s watching. Almost every time you guys hang out like this, he watches Batman Beyond. Hasn’t he seen it at least four times at this point? Nevertheless, you enjoy watching it with him. It’s really the only time you’ve witnessed him completely geek out over something. He’ll pause the show to answer any question you have. The way he comes alive when he talks to you about the things he adores is so precious to you. Even though you’re very, very familiar with the characters now, you still act like you aren’t, just so you can ask him about them. You like the way he explains things. He’s so confident, and it’s seductive, and you don’t want to wait anymore. You can’t. You need to kiss him. Maybe you should ask for permission, but you know he’d tease you for it. So, you decide to go for it while he’s lying there beside you.

Pushing up on the bed, you hover over him for a moment. Instantly, he notices and gazes into your eyes. Indy’s face is blank, void of all emotion and judgment. You can’t know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t let you. But you can’t back down. You’ve already committed to showing him what you want.

Indy’s lips are softer than you expected. Your mouth fits to his like puzzle pieces. You tangle your fingers in his hair. And he lets you kiss him for what feels like hours. You know that it’s only a moment truly. But you wish it could go on all night long.

Satisfied, you sit up, and he follows. He speaks first before you could even get a word in to explain yourself.

“If you wanted to kiss me, you could have just said it.”

Flustered, you look away. “I’m sorry. I’m so dumb, Indy. I know you don’t want me like that.”

“Who says?”

You only shrug. No one’s ever said that, but he’s never made it clear that he wants more than friendship

Indy leans close. He holds up his hand. “Can I grab you here?” Gently, he wraps his fingers around your neck like he wants to choke you.

You swallow and feel the motion of your throat collide with his skin. “Yes,” you whisper.

His grip tightens, not by much. As he falls on you, Indy pushes you down onto the bed, holding you by the neck. His sinful mouth devours yours as his weight crushes you into the pillows and bed sheets. The kiss turns wet when his tongue slips inside, and he explores you. Before Indy, you had always thought girls were just were exaggerating when they said he had his tongue down my throat

His bangs tickle your forehead and the side of your face. His hair almost reaches his shoulders now, but you like it long. It’s easier to tug on and play with, especially in moments like these. Between your fingers, his hair is taut silk darker than demons’ eyes. He moans into you when you tug, and he seems to like it hard.

When he’s finished, Indy leaves your mouth sensitive and wet with an exchange of fluids. You lick them, savoring the leftovers, and all you can think about is more. More from him. More of him.

His silver chains dangle around his neck and catch the dimmed bedroom light. Through the loose neckline of his shirt, you see milky skin, and you start to lift his shirt to touch him.

“Baby, you wanna go all the way, huh?” He lets go of your throat to take off his shirt. The dark fabric slides up his lithe body. His hair is tousled from the action. “Didn’t know you were that hot for me. Dammit, why did you wait so long to do something about it?”

“Why did you?” you look up at him with your eyes big and wide, lips pouting. It’s true. You had wanted him to move in on you first. But time had made you impatient.

“Didn’t wanna ruin us...” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist, nestling his face in the sweet curve of your neck. “What we have is so good.”

“I think it’s worth the risk,” you whisper.

He sighs lowly, very contently. “That’s just what I thought too.” He kisses your shoulder. And he starts grinding his hips into you, needing the friction, his budding erection digging into you already. “Want it now, baby?”