#i like to imagine hes been in there for hours

[salmonmakiii]

hi!!! i read god!phainon fic a solid three times. i'm chronically, terminally, unequivocally obsessed with the way you write. it's been so refreshing amid this patch which is... raw pain. however, possibly bc i'm conditioned to pain, i've thought that wifey is a mortal... so... basically phaichan has but a blink of an eye together with her... what's 50 years to him? but i was thinking of a fluffy and potentially comedic resolution to all this, and wondered if they just were their lovey dovey selves and with time (say, around 20 or 30 years into their marriage), mrs. khaslana noticed she doesn't age in comparison to her old classmates, her cousins, even her atlas looks older than her. and then she realizes that her hubby's "divinity" rubbed off on her... phaichan probably fumbling bc he neglected to mention that a god's presence tends to 'rub off' on mortals that spend a lot of time with them - maybe the temple priests have unusually long lives too, but obviously, not to such an extent as his beloved, as they are just that close and intimate, as a married couple should be.

- peachy anon 🍑🧡

Okay, since Peachy anon 🍑 and other anon's questions are similar, I hope you all don't mind if I answer them together in a post ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ Also, I'm really impressed that y'all are so smart with these asks?? like I didn't even thought of that???? So as a thanks for fueling my brain juice, here's a drabble for it!

I tried so hard for it not to be too angsty and more fluffy. But really, how does one make the immortality theme 'fluffy'????? I hope it was to y'all's expectations huhu ಥ‿ಥ

Again, I am referring to this fic!

Wc: 2.1k+

Cw: Mentions of sex, mentions of death, kind of angst?? MDNI!!!!!

Now, you and Phainon had... well... done a lot of intercourse- Oh, what the hell, we're all adults here - SEX, you've had SEX lots of times.

At first, it was nothing.

The temple priests would mention, in quiet pleasantries, that you had begun to glow in the mornings. A soft, golden sheen clung to your skin like morning dew clings to grass— barely visible to the naked eye, but to priests trained to read omens and divine signs, it was unmistakable. 

They said nothing outright, of course. Just subtle murmurs,

“Such radiance, even before morning prayers.”

“Lord Khaslana must be treating you very well.”

You brushed it off. Maybe it was just the afterglow of last night’s intimate session. Gods, he was affectionate, wasn’t he? Intimate moments with him often left you breathless and glowing in more ways than one. You didn’t think much of it. 

Well… until you started to notice the other things.

The love marks Phainon left, the ones you tried so hard to hide with shawls and powder, began to fade. Too quickly.

You’d wake with fresh ones, only to find them already disappearing by noon. A few hours at most. Even when you knew they were raw that morning. 

At first, you assumed Phainon was healing you in your sleep. Maybe it was just his way of doting on you, sparing you the discomfort. But soon, the phenomenon grew stranger.

Scars from childhood, a sign of your triumphant tree and wall climbing, were gone. Entirely! As if they had never existed at all. 

You didn’t get blemishes anymore, even if you were out in the sun for too long. You didn’t have eyebags after sleepless nights. Your skin remained unblemished, your body never sore, your energy strangely boundless (even after rounds of intimacy with Phainon, and you know you don’t usually last after round two).

Then years passed.

You were still young, but others weren’t. Friends begin to subtly shift as their faces grew rounder, some even sharper. Wrinkles crept in at the corners of their eyes and the edges of their mouths. Their laughter sounded the same, but their smiles were aging. 

And you… weren’t.

You still looked like the girl who arrived at the temple years ago. Your reflection hadn’t changed, and it wasn’t just your imagination.

Even Atlas, who was once clearly younger than you, now looked your age when you stood beside him. Time was grazing the world around you, but it was skipping you entirely. 

You wanted to deny it. Chalk it up to a trick of the light. Good fortune. Healthy living. Anything but the obvious.

Is being with Phainon… changing me?

The question haunted you, ghosted behind your lips every time you looked in the mirror.

You were going to ask him tonight.

But first, dinner. A long, filling meal in the temple dining hall left you comfortably full and just a little sleepy. You leaned back in your chair, stretching your limbs with a soft sigh. The thought of walking all the way back to your chambers felt… effortful.

Still, you stood, pushing back the chair, only for the world beneath your feet to suddenly vanish.

A rush of wind.

Weightlessness.

Then solid ground again.

You blinked, heart racing, when you noticed that you were in your chambers.

No footsteps. No corridor. No time passed between standing up and standing here. Your fingers curled in on instinct. The air shimmered faintly around you, sparkling with gold, like the aftershock of a spell just cast.

And sitting across the room was Phainon. He looked up from a book, startled, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Did… did you just—?” he began, slowly placing the book down.

“I–I was going to ask you that!” you stammered, breath catching. “I thought you teleported me here!”

Phainon stood quickly and crossed the room in just a few strides, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. His hands reached for you with reverence, like you might break under his touch. He cupped your face, brushed his fingers along your arms, checking you for any signs of harm or tampering.

You saw it then—the golden flickers still dancing along your skin. The shimmering residue of magic. His magic.

His frown deepened.

“I didn’t teleport you,” he murmured. “But this—” his fingers hovered just above your shoulder, where the light hadn’t yet faded, “this is my power. My exact signature.”

He stepped back, gaze locked on you as if seeing something for the first time.

He decided to ask Anaxagoras about this. 

The next day, you and Phainon journeyed to the Grove of Epiphany to visit the God of Reason, Anaxagoras. And today, Phainon carried a question that had quietly begun to terrify him.

Anaxagoras was already waiting, sitting atop his living throne—an immense, gnarled structure of divine wood and woven time, rooted deep into the heart of the grove. His form was human enough to comprehend, but his presence still felt divine.

“I heard you wanted to speak on something urgent,” Anaxagoras said dryly.

Phainon didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and uttered the question that had haunted him since last night.

And the vein on Anaxagoras’s temple visibly popped.

“Khaslana, you absolute fool!” Anaxagoras barked, leaping from his throne so abruptly that the branches shuddered in response. “If you were my subject, I’d have struck you down with my gun!”

You blinked.

Phainon blinked harder.

“Could you explain it first and threaten me later?” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

Anaxagoras growled under his breath before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But you’re not going to like the answer.”

He looked at you briefly, then gestured for Phainon to come closer.

“It’s your own doing,” he said. “Your powers, to be specific. Or in this case—your bodily fluids.” He shot Phainon a glare. “You’ve consummated the marriage, haven’t you?”

Phainon flushed, eyes darting away. “I mean… yes. A lot of times–”

Before he could say more, Anaxagoras reached out and flicked him hard on the forehead. The sound was crisp. “I do not need to hear details of that!”

You tried not to laugh. Truly, you did. You’d heard tales of how the gods interacted—centuries of shared chaos, rivalries, ridiculous escapades—but witnessing it firsthand was still surreal. The god of reason, flicking the god of worldbearing like a misbehaving child.

Then Anaxagoras turned to you.

Even in his mortal guise, he was intimidating.

But his voice, when he addressed you, was unexpectedly kind.

“I genuinely feel sorry for you,” he said. “Married to this fool.”

You blinked, unsure whether to thank him or agree.

Phainon groaned behind you. “You’re really not helping.”

“Let me be clear,” Anaxagoras said, turning back. “Our bodies—our fluids—aren’t like humans’. Ichor, divine essence, even our breath carries remnants of power. When exposed through repeated, intimate contact,” he emphasized, “it begins to leave a mark.”

Phainon’s brow furrowed. “So this is my fault?”

“Yes,” Anaxagoras said flatly. “Absolutely.”

“Will there be… side effects?” he asked, now more anxious than indignant.

Anaxagoras shrugged. “If you count slowed aging, accelerated healing, and a growing resistance to mortal harm as side effects, then yes. But she’s not immortal, Khaslana. Not truly. She’s just… out of sync with human time now.”

You had mixed feelings about this revelation, of course. But Phainon, knowing the pain all too well, would always comfort you whenever you had doubts. He felt sorry too, seeing as this was all because of him. But you reassured him, saying that you could be with him longer. He sighed, shaking his head. He knew you were just trying to put up a front, but he’ll play along with you. Talking about the things the two of you could now do with your extended time.

Now, talking about being mortal to divinity. Maybe at some point in your relationship, seeing as you are now aging differently, you might as well ask how to become an immortal like him. 

When you asked the question, Phainon’s smile faltered.

He didn’t answer at first. His lips parting before closing again. He looked away, as if trying to search for a gentler version of the truth.

“It’s not easy,” He said at last. “Becoming a god… means dying first.”

His voice trembled in ways you’d never heard before—not with fear, but love, tangled with the fear of losing it.

Immortality wasn’t something that could simply be gifted. It had to be earned, endured. Ascension wasn’t just glory; it was transformation. And death would be your final offering.

The ritual was ancient. It required the counsel of Castorice, goddess of death, and the consent of the other gods. 

And when approval was finally granted, he returned to you with a heavy heart and a golden chalice cradled in his hands.

The ritual took place in the Vortex of Genesis as you stood at the center of a magical circle, painted with Phainon’s golden blood.

The air shimmered, thick with power, and the light bent around your body like it already recognized your soul’s changing shape.

You stood there barefoot, wrapped in white, the chalice of ambrosia trembling in your hands.

Phainon stood behind you, arms encircling your waist, his face pressed gently into your neck. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered, “not for me.”

But you turned to him with a steady gaze. “I’m doing this with you.”

And so you drank. The special ambrosia burned.

It wasn’t a drink—it was fire, a star condensed into liquid. It lit every vein in your body until you collapsed, convulsing, gasping as the pain overtook you. Your hands clawed at the air, and Phainon was there, pulling you into his lap, cradling you like something fragile and sacred.

“It hurts — Phainon, it hurts—!”

“I know,” He sobbed. “I know, I’m here— I’ve got you.”

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, and your hands. His tears evaporating everytime it touched your skin.

You screamed. Your body arched. And then—silence.

Phainon stared at your lifeless body, waiting nervously. Then, the circle glowed along with your body. 

Golden veins of light threaded through your skin, pulsing with divine rhythm. The hollows of your cheeks flushed with new life. Your breathing returned—slow, serene. You opened your eyes.

And though you were no longer mortal, your eyes were still human. Still you.

Warm. Alive.

Phainon exhaled with relief, tears still falling. He cupped your face, awestruck. “Welcome back,” He whispered, “Welcome home, my love.”

Then he kissed you, not with desperation, but reverence. 

After your ascension, Phainon chose to remain with you in Okhema.

He didn’t want you to make the same mistakes he had made.

For centuries, Khaslana had drifted through the divine currents of existence—distant, worshipped, untouchable. The god of worldbearing had carried the weight of creation across his back, but never the soft weight of a shared breath, or a mortal hand clasped in his own. He was praised by cities, prayed to by kings, but he had long since forgotten how to feel like one of them.

And over time, without even realizing it, he had let that distance hollow him out.

The more he watched from afar, the more he became something unfeeling. Something vast, and cold, and unreachable. He had thought it was the price of divinity—this quiet decay of empathy, this numbness that settled like frost across his soul.

But then you came.

And through you, your laughter, your mortal worries, your stubbornness, your warmth— he remembered. 

What it was to ache. 

To hope. 

To want. 

You brought color back to a god dulled by centuries of stillness. You touched him, and the world moved again.

Where once your relationship with Khaslana had been veiled in secrecy, now there was no more need to hide. You and Phainon walked openly through Okhema, your divine presence no longer a rumor, but a truth the people embraced. Hand in hand, you moved through the markets and narrow streets.

Your friends wept when they saw you. Some knelt. Others reached out to touch your hands, to make sure you were real. Your family embraced you with a kind of joy so deep it broke into grief.

And Atlas? He wept the most.

“Are you… Still you?”

You hugged him tightly. “I am,” you promised. “I will always be your sister.”

You and Phainon often returned to Okhema, walking through the markets, tending to the sick, healing when you could. Your powers were still new, still growing—but you used them with care, and with humility.

Just as Khaslana was the God of Worldbearing, to the people, you were now the Goddess of Humanity.

A goddess who still walked among her people, not above them, but beside them.

©salmonmakiii, do not steal my work or feed it to AI.

[satoblue]

f!reader, fluff, pregnancy mention, first year satoru who lacks fundamental knowledge on sex ed (he thinks babies come from holding hands), he is a pure liddol bean > <, reader is sick and satoru thinks you’re pregnant. | tysm to @specialgradefckr for letting me expand on this ask they sent in | dividers made by me | wc: 0.6k+

you clutch your head just once, a wave of nausea hitting you. the moment you groan and rest your elbows against the desk, rubbing your temple — satoru’s already at your side like it’s a medical emergency.

“hey…” he says quietly, guilty almost, squatting by your desk (you hadn’t noticed he stayed behind), a hand stabilizing him when he grips the edge of the wood. he’s got a seriously worried look on his face.

you grumble, not even looking at him, “i’m fine.”

but satoru swallows thickly, he himself clearly not fine — like he’s holding in a big secret. his hands are shaky and he shimmy’s in closer.

“if… if you are — y’know… with child,” he whispers the last part, voice weirdly gentle as his eyes dart around the empty classroom before returning back to you. your head shoots up immediately, eyes snapping open at his words. “i just want you to know that i’ll take responsibility. i think… i think i’m ready to be a father — a good one. i-if it’s with you.”

you blink after a moment. “what?”

“i mean — i love you,” he says all in a rush, like that clears up anything, cheeks burning red. “so if you are pregnant, it’s okay. i’ll stay. we’ll figure it out together.”

you stare at him, utterly lost. but satoru — he looks so sincere… as well as a little pale and sweaty. like he’s been worrying about it for a while and it’s all coming out right now.

“satoru,” you question carefully, brows furrowed in confusion, your headache the last thing on your mind now. “what are you talking about?”

he clears his throat, looking around once more, fidgeting nervously with his white shirt collar. “we… we held hands, didn’t we?”

“yeah… we’ve only held hands.”

he stiffens at your detached tone, dead serious. “exactly.”

you blink, straightening up in your seat. “hold on — you think holding hands can get someone pregnant?”

“...not always,” he says defensively, his voice still low like he genuinely believes it. “but the gojo elders were very clear about the dangers of physical contact.”

“and i mean,” satoru continues, eyes softening, “we did hold hands for a long time. i knew the risks, but…” he trails off, licking his lips, cheeks turning pink again as he imagines a future with you — and all because you held his hand during a movie last week.

your mouth goes agape. “wait. so you thought i could get pregnant from holding hands... and you still held my hand?!”

satoru’s lips part, staring at you like a deer in headlights — like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out like that. his ears go red.

you bite your lip so hard to stifle your laughter. “satoru… that’s not how it works.” you explain, trying to hide your amusement as to not embarrass him. he is too cute for words.

but his eyes widen, cheeks aflame. you’ve honestly never seen him so flustered. “i–i know that! i was just… joking!” he lies to save face.

your lips purse and you squint at him.

satoru looks everywhere and anywhere but at you under your scrutiny. “was just being funny. y’know… haha...” but he doesn’t sound so sure of himself.

you’re full on grinning now and you poke his chest. “you’re an idiot — an adorable one.”

he flushes deeper. “your adorable idiot,” he mumbles under his breath.” but you don’t hear him — too busy giggling at his innocence. and satoru’s eyes soften. he had managed to make you laugh with his stupidity — that was a win.

and though satoru’s face is still a beautiful flush of red, somewhere in the middle of it all he quietly tangles his fingers with yours again, like he knows nothing will happen now — but he’s still willing to risk it.

p.s. — satoru is now lost and asks you how babies are actually made. you tell him to look online. a few hours later, he returns to you slightly traumatized and a little curious. this event may have started a chain reaction that made him the weird and insatiable man he is today.

[yasministration]

nighttime vlogs - aaron hotchner

summary: finally on the jet ride back home, aaron watches the little nighttime vlog you and jack have filmed for him, allowing him to witness a special moment between the two of you despite being thousands of miles away wc: 1.6k+ cw: reader and jack being adorbs, aaron gets baby fever

The phone falls face down on the covers the second the video begins, darkness engulfing the screen of his phone, and Aaron’s ears are instantly filled with the beautiful sound of Jack’s loud giggles. Through the screen, he hears you mumble something under your breath, and Jack replies with “You made it fall”, as though you hadn’t realised the obvious.

You lift the phone up, steadying it back on some pillows, and even through the dim lighting of your bedroom, Aaron can clearly see that you and Jack are laying stomach down on a very unmade bed. He grins widely, pressing on his phone screen to pause the video you had sent him — hours ago now — to plug in his earphones. He doesn’t want to disturb any of his sleepy teammates on the jet ride home.

“Okay,” You begin with a smile, glancing over to Jack, who’s staring at you through the front camera on your phone. “Hi Aaron-”

“Hi daddy!”

Aaron feels his heart swell as you and Jack giggle between you. “We know it’s a little past Jack’s bedtime. But we just remembered that we promised you a little video message every night that you’re away. And tonight can’t be the night that promise is broken after we’ve done so well.”

It’s true. Ever since you were introduced into Aaron’s life, as his girlfriend, fiancée, one of Jack’s legal guardians, you had changed what it meant fore Aaron to be away on cases. No longer did Aaron have to try and catch you every second of the day for you to know he cares — a mutual understanding that schedules might crash, and that’s okay. But for the past year, every night he’s been away on a case, he has received a nighttime vlog from you and Jack, telling him about your day, about your feelings.

Aaron always watched these videos in the lonely bed of his motel room, a smile on his face. Sometimes these videos were a minute long, quick goodbyes from a tired child and his best friend, and sometimes — like tonight — they lasted closer to twenty minutes.

“Daddy, today me and y/n went to the park and we played football! And I won!”

“He scored so many goals against me.” You add, a hand reaching up to brush through Jack’s blond hair as he thinks of what to tell his dad next. “And then we sat on the grass for a little bit,” Jack is interrupted by his own elated giggles.

“And we saw a cloud that looked like a tyrannosaurus rex!”

“We did, yeah. And one that looked like a bunny too, right?”

“Yeah. All of the other ones were just blobs.”

Aaron can’t help but laugh quietly as Jack gestures widely with his hands. From the seat across him, Dave glances up from his book, eyebrows raised in amusement.

Jack suddenly sits up on the bed, and you shift to lay down on your side to watch as Jack points to the new set of pyjamas he’s wearing, talking animatedly about them. “But I only wore them after dinner.” He tells his dad through your phone.

“Tell him what you did today. In the kitchen.” You encourage, and Jack immediately grins wider, as though just remembering the events that occurred a couple of hours ago. “I helped y/n make dinner! Come, let’s show him, y/n!” Jack tells you, leaning over to grab your hand, and tugging you with him.

You bring the phone with you as Jack slides off the bed, leading you to the kitchen. You take the time to glance down at the phone, imagining Aaron looking back at you, and say “He chopped some coriander all by himself — with a plastic, kid-friendly knife, obviously. And he also squeezed a lemon.” Aaron didn’t know you owned plastic, kid-friendly knives.

Once in the kitchen, you place the phone on the counter, and Jack carries the bowl of salsa you had prepared together. He huffs when he can’t see the phone atop the counter, and places the bowl down, making grabby hands up at you. He ignores the stool he had previously used to help reach better, instead calling “Up please, Mom.”

Aaron’s eyes instantly go wide at Jack’s words, fingers stiffening around his phone, but it seems as though past you still hasn’t processed what Jack called you, picking him up and resting him on your hip. Only then, once Jack’s fully in the camera frame, does Aaron see your eyes go slightly wide as you hand Jack the bowl of salsa so he can display it proudly for his dad.

“Daddy, this is called pico de gallo, and it’s so yummy.” You instantly snap back into your role, nodding along to Jack’s words and he puts the bowl on the counter again. “And I wanted chicken nuggets all day, and mommy said she could make me some for dinner. And she made them from-she made them from the beginning of them.” Jack swings his legs happily, reaching over to the folded up bag of chips to open the bag and steal a chip.

Jack offers you one, and you take it. Aaron smiles fondly as you both go silent for a few seconds, munching on tortilla chips.

You glance down at Jack, asking “Anything else, buddy?” Jack goes silent, resting his head on your shoulder. He watches you fold up the bag again, blinking slowly. Grabbing the phone, you mumble to Aaron “If you come home tonight, there’s leftover salsa and chicken nuggets for you in the fridge.”

Aaron sighs as you place the phone down again, carrying the bowl of pico de gallo into the fridge. It shuts softly behind you, and you move your eyes down to Jack, who’s nearly asleep. “Bedtime, Jack?”

Jack nods sleepily, and you turn your focus to the phone again, saying “Goodnight, Aaron. I love you.” Jack turns his head to face the phone, cheek smushed against your shoulder as he repeats the words, encouraged by you. “’Night daddy. I love you.”

You snatch the phone from the counter, turning the light off in the kitchen as you make your way to Jack’s bedroom. Aaron doesn’t think you’re aware the camera is still recording as you press a kiss to Jack’s forehead, adding quietly “And I love you, Jack. I needed a strong, handsome man to help squeeze those lemons, and who better to help me than you?”

Jack giggles tiredly at your words. You toss your phone onto his bedsheets so you can use both hands to gently place him in his bed. You crouch beside him, fingers brushing his cheeks. “I’m so grateful for your help today, Jack. And for your help every day.”

“I like to help you.” He admits, cozying up underneath his blanket. “Kiss, mommy.” You lean down, pressing your lips to Jack’s forehead. He smiles, reaching up to press a kiss to your cheek. You bring your hands down to tuck him in properly, and tears are almost brought to your eyes when Jack speaks again, asking “Who’s gonna kiss daddy goodnight?”

Aaron swallows thickly through the screen, staring at the ceiling of his own home from the way the phone is facing upwards, only catching a bit of colourful bedsheets from the corner of the screen, but he listens to every word you and Jack are saying to each other. He only hears himself breathing now, and the scuffle of sheets moving around, awaiting your response. “When daddy comes home, we’ll give him all the kisses to make up for the ones he missed, okay?”

“Okay. I love you mommy.”

“I love you too, Jack.”

You stay there for a moment longer before picking up your phone and leaving the room. You leave Jack’s bedroom door wide open — yours too. You lift the phone up to your face, and Aaron sees you have tears gathered along your waterline. “Oh. I didn’t realise this was still on.” Aaron hears you laugh quietly, and you bring your voice down to a whisper, bringing your face closer to the phone screen as you say, “Aaron, he called me mom! Oh my god, I’m feeling so many things right now. Okay, wait, let me send-”

The video cuts off just then, and Aaron instantly drags his finger across the screen, setting the video back to the very beginning. He notices the time of the video sent on the screen that says '8:03 pm.' It it now 2:54am. He’s just about to press play again when he hears Derek’s teasing voice call out in the quiet jet. “Hey, what’s got you crying over there, boss man?”

Aaron takes out his earphones, shaking his head silently. Derek had passed behind Aaron just a few minutes ago to go to the bathroom, and the nosy man had taken a peek over Aaron’s shoulder to see what he was watching. Derek has good intentions, but of course, he’ll never pass the opportunity to tease. So he’s more surprised that anything when Aaron, unknowingly teary eyed, replies with “Jack called y/n ‘mom’.” Then, under his breath “God, I love my family.”

Aaron skips out on the pico de gallo and chicken nuggets when he gets home, beelining to Jack’s bedroom to press a kiss to his son’s forehead before finding you in his bed. He makes sure to be quiet when he strips out of his work clothes. Aaron doesn’t bother to throw on any pyjamas, sliding in next to you wearing only his boxers. He wraps his arms around you and tugs you close to his chest.

He decides just then that one day, Jack won’t be the only one calling you mom.

taglist: @dearlizzies, @tiaajosephin, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101, @selenewowww, @sharkers00, @joonbread

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 41: November 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Max woke up face-down, with a headache that felt like someone had parked a go-kart on his frontal lobe and then revved the engine for fun.

He squinted at the unfamiliar ceiling—hotel suite, probably. Still Vegas. His championship cap was on the floor. His phone was buzzing on the nightstand like it had something urgent to say.

He reached for it with a groan, barely managing to swipe before it hit voicemail.

Belle ❤️calling…

He answered on instinct.

“Hey,” he croaked. His voice sounded like it had been dragged down the Strip by a tow truck.

“Well, well,” Belle’s voice came through, warm and amused. “If it isn’t the four-time World Champion and surprise gender-reveal enthusiast.”

Max winced. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything too embarrassing.”

Belle laughed. “Define embarrassing.”

“...Do I want to know?”

“Well, you did dedicate your championship to me and Emilian,” she said brightly. “Also said you like my lemon shampoo. Also that you want to ‘curl around me like a cat.’ And that you were feeling very sparkly.”

Max let out a groan and dropped back onto the pillows. “Why didn’t anyone stop me?”

“Sophie said you were glowing and emotionally untouchable.”

“I was drunk,” Max grumbled. “They should’ve staged an intervention.”

“Oh no, they were all watching in real time,” Belle said. “We were in the spa suite screaming. Victoria spilled mocktail on her robe.”

Despite the headache, Max smiled faintly. “You saw it?”

“Every second,” she said. “You were perfect.”

He let the words settle over him, soft and heavy, then sighed. “I want to come home.”

“You still have two races left,” Belle said gently. “Quatar and Abu Dhabi are waiting.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was quiet. “I want to come home to you. To him.”

There was a pause, a rustle like she was shifting in bed.

“We want that too,” she said, just as softly. “But you’ve got two more races. One more goodbye. One more podium to stand on before you make good on that ‘curling around me like a cat’ thing.”

Max exhaled slowly. “I hate that you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Belle said, smug. “Now drink water. Take painkillers. Put on sunglasses and pretend you're still cool.”

“Still?”

Belle laughed again. “Champions don’t whine, Max. They hydrate.”

He grinned despite himself. “Okay. But I’m still counting the hours.”

“Good. Because Emilian already misses you.”

Max closed his eyes, hand over his heart. “Yeah. I miss him too.”

And her. Always her.

***

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Belle Verstappen

Belle:

Just a heads-up: Max sounds like a dying tractor this morning.

Do not expect useful telemetry.

Do not expect coherent thoughts.

He asked me if a smoothie counts as a salad.

GP: Understood. I’ve told the team he’s operating in Post-Championship Champagne Fog Mode™. We’ll keep his water bottle full.

Belle: Thank you for your service. He looked at his toast like it betrayed him. You’re not getting sector times, you’re getting vibes.

GP: Speaking of vibes— He asked me to be the godfather.

Belle: Of course he did. You’re not just his engineer. You’re his second brain. His moral compass. His grumpy older brother in a headset.

GP: That’s dangerously accurate. I was honestly speechless.

Belle: He doesn’t ask things like that lightly. He loves you. And he trusts you. You’ve been in his corner since the beginning. He trusts you with his career. We trust you with our son. 💙

GP: Thank you. I mean it.

Belle: No, thank you. I can’t imagine anyone else standing beside him through all of this.

Also— I asked Emilie to be godmother.

GP: Perfect balance. One godparent for control. One for chaos.

Belle: Exactly. Between the four of us, I think we’ve got him covered.

GP: He’s going to be very loved. And, unfortunately, very fast.

Belle: Naturally.

***

The house was clean. Too clean.

The nursery was folded into perfection—shelves dusted, tiny clothes sorted by size, swaddles washed in lavender detergent that made the whole apartment smell like calm.

It was everything Belle used to find comfort in.

Now it just made her ache.

Belle was very pregnant.

Max was very far away.

And she missed him more than she knew how to explain.

The ache wasn’t sharp—it was slow and dull, like the pressure in her lower back or the weight of her belly that made it hard to get off the couch without an embarrassing amount of effort.

It was the kind of missing that sat in her chest and spread.

She was in Max’s hoodie, stretched comically over her bump, surrounded by pillows like a fortress. The onesie she meant to fold lay abandoned in her lap. The baby—Emilian—was kicking against her ribs again, rhythmic and insistent, as if asking where his father was.

“I know,” she whispered, hand curved over her belly. “I miss him too.”

She checked the time. Again.

Max was in press. Then meetings. Then a debrief. Maybe a sim run. And then, if she was lucky, a video call with him squinting into the front camera from some overly lit hotel room while telling her he already missed her ankles.

That was the thing—he always saw her. Not just the pregnancy. Not just the glowing clichés or the bump. Her.

She missed the way he spoke to Emilian like he was already here. The way he would talk to her stomach like it was a teammate, serious and focused, whispering, “Don’t you dare come early. Wait for me. That’s an order.”

She missed his hand resting lightly on her side at night, steady as a heartbeat. She missed being curled against him, her face pressed into his chest, safe.

And right now, she didn’t feel unsafe. Just…incomplete.

She sighed, shifted to get comfortable again, and promptly failed. Her legs ached. Her back ached. Her soul ached. And worst of all—her hormones were absolutely betraying her. Her eyes welled up, completely uninvited.

“I’m fine,” she muttered aloud to no one. “I’m fine. I’m not crying, I’m just emotionally… full.”

The baby rolled again, a slow, sweeping motion that pushed out against her palm. She laughed wetly.

“Okay, that was a bit dramatic,” she admitted, sniffling. “You’re definitely your father’s child.”

The phone buzzed once.

Max: Still in briefing, but I miss you. Tell Emilian to stop kicking unless it’s tactical. Love you.

Belle let out a breath. Smiled.

Belle: We miss you too. He says he'll behave if you come home soon. I say… you're already his hero. And mine.

Then she turned her phone over and let the light settle over her again, one hand on her belly, the other resting on her heart.

Two more races.

Then Max would come home.

And she’d finally feel whole again.

***

Max was leaning against the polished edge of the hotel lobby’s marble front desk, absently spinning his room keycard between his fingers, when he heard the unmistakable click of designer heels and the low, familiar cadence of Dutch with a judgmental tilt.

He didn’t even need to turn.

“There he is,” came Sophie’s voice—dry, fond, slightly exasperated. “Four-time world champion. Still incapable of answering a text properly.”

Max looked up just in time for his mother to wrap her arms around him, tight and unyielding, like she still half-expected him to disappear into thin air if she let go too soon. He breathed her in—orange blossom and Chanel—and let himself be hugged without hesitation.

“Hi, Mama,” he murmured into her shoulder.

“Four,” she said into his ear, her voice suddenly rough with pride. “You did it.”

“I know.”

When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy. Not quite teary—Sophie Kumpen didn’t cry in public—but full enough that Max could read everything she wasn’t saying.

And then—

“Okay, my turn,” came a second voice, louder, warmer, with an unmistakable undertone of delight.

Victoria launched herself into him like she didn’t care he was technically a professional athlete with a race in forty-eight hours. Max laughed as he stumbled back a step, nearly elbowing a potted plant.

“Hi to you too,” he mumbled into her hair.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You actually went and did it again.”

Max pulled back, raising an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not surprised you won. I’m surprised you kept it together long enough to finish that fifth-place Vegas crawl without swearing at Lando live on comms.”

Max smirked. “You didn’t hear the uncensored version.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “We’re all lucky the baby didn’t arrive mid-race. I still think Belle was too calm about that.”

“She always is,” Max said quietly. And then, without thinking, “She’s watching the practices from home. Keeps sending me notes about brake balance.”

“God help us all,” Victoria muttered.

Sophie smiled. “That’s love.”

Max nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

There was a pause—warm and full—and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a hotel lobby in Doha. It felt like family. Like a moment they’d all earned.

Victoria linked her arm through his. “Come on, Champ. Show us your room. I brought you cookies. And Mum brought you vitamins.”

“I brought magnesium,” Sophie corrected, offended. “Which he never takes.”

“I might take it,” Max said. “If you let me tell you about the onboard moment when GP found out he’s going to be a godfather.”

Sophie stopped walking.

Victoria turned to stare. “Wait—you actually asked him? On radio?!”

Max grinned. “Cooldown lap.”

Sophie shook her head, smiling like he was still ten and ridiculous. “Four-time world champion,” she murmured. “And still an idiot.”

Max just laughed—and let them lead him upstairs.

***

Emilie arrived like a whirlwind—as usual—carrying a bakery bag, a decaf oat latte, and the kind of expression that suggested she was two seconds from staging an intervention.

Belle was in the armchair by the window, a maternity pillow wedged behind her lower back, a very smug cat curled at her feet, and an open book on her belly that she hadn’t actually read a word of in the past twenty minutes.

“You brought pastries,” Belle said, smiling. “That’s how I know you’re about to say something I’ll hate.”

“I’m not saying anything until you eat the raspberry tart,” Emilie said, handing it over like a peace offering and sinking onto the couch. “You look like a goddess and also like you might cry if someone uses the wrong tone of voice.”

“That’s a very accurate summary of my existence right now,” Belle said, already taking a bite. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the late afternoon sun turning the apartment soft and golden. Somewhere in the background, Belle’s playlist hummed quietly—mostly instrumental, mostly there to drown out the quiet.

Then Belle looked over, calm and deliberate. “You should go to Abu Dhabi.”

Emilie blinked. “What?”

“You should go to the race,” Belle said again. “You know it’s going to be tight between McLaren and Ferrari. The whole team’s going to be tense. Lando’s going to be tense. He’ll want you there, even if he’s too proud to ask.”

Emilie opened her mouth, but Belle raised a hand.

“I’m fine. I’m huge and a little bored and Max is gone and yes, I make dramatic noises when I get up from the couch, but I am fine. The baby is fine. And I promise, he’s not planning an early exit just to spite your flight schedule.”

“But Belle,” Emilie said softly, “you’re so pregnant. Like, gravitational-force-field pregnant.”

Belle laughed. “I know. I’m one waddle away from launching my own moon mission. But I also know you want to be there. You’ve been pretending you don’t. You’ve been hanging around Monaco like I’m about to go into labor at any moment, but you’ve been checking the flight tracker to Yas Marina on your phone when you think I’m not looking.”

Emilie looked horrified. “I have not—”

“You have. And that’s okay,” Belle said gently. “You love him. He wants you there. And I want you to go.”

Emilie stared at her, blinking rapidly. “You’d really be okay with that?”

Belle nodded. “I’ve got Sophie and Victoria on high alert, the midwife is a ten-minute drive away, and Max will be on the first jet back the second the race ends. You don’t need to hover. You need to live. Go scream about constructors’ points in a garage full of papaya. Go kiss him when it’s over. I’ll be here, eating croissants and yelling at the baby to stop practicing jiu-jitsu in my ribcage.”

Emilie rubbed a hand over her face. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m emotionally stable and logistically prepared,” Belle countered. “Also hormonal, so if you don’t go, I will cry and say you’re abandoning Lando in his hour of need.”

Emilie snorted and threw a cushion at her. “You’re a menace.”

Belle grinned. “A pregnant one. Which makes me all-powerful.”

After a long pause, Emilie sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go.”

“Good,” Belle said. “Take pictures. Be loud. And tell him if he doesn’t beat Ferrari, he’s not allowed to come near my baby with that mustache again.”

Emilie laughed. “Deal.”

***

It started in Q3.

The track was cooling, the wind was rising, and the margins were tight—every tenth counted. 

As Max exited the final corner to prep for his last flying lap, he lifted slightly, adjusting for traffic and prepping his out-lap. That’s when George Russell, behind him, came up fast—too fast—and got right on his gearbox.

George came over the radio, furious.

“This was super dangerous by Verstappen!”

Filed a complaint.

And the drama was born, resulting in a Stewards meeting and a one place grid penalty. 

Max’s Reaction?

Stone-faced. No comment.

Except one.

A Sky Sports journalist caught him on the way to the hospitality suite and asked:

“Max, your thoughts on the penalty?”

Max didn’t even blink. “If George wants to make a show about it, that’s fine. I’ll see him in Turn 1.”

And then he walked off.

***

The hotel room was too cold and too bright. Max sat on the edge of the bed, still in half his race gear, thumb hovering over Belle’s name in his contacts like calling her might be the one thing that wouldn’t piss him off.

He’d taken the penalty without comment.

Smirked in the media zone.

Told them he’d see George in Turn 1.

But now that the adrenaline was gone, the irritation settled low and bitter in his chest.

He just wanted to hear her voice.

He hit dial.

Belle picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, mon amour,” she said, already knowing. Her voice was warm, calm—and slightly amused.

Max didn’t even say hello. “He pushed for a penalty.”

“I know,” she said immediately. “I watched the broadcast. I saw the onboard. And then I watched the stewards statement come through and laughed so hard I almost went into labor.”

Max sighed. “It was a prep lap. I wasn’t even crawling. He just wanted drama.”

“He picked the wrong man,” Belle said crisply. “You’re already a four-time world champion with a full tank of petty and no reason to hold back.”

Max let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this irritated over a single sentence. He said I was ‘driving unnecessarily slowly.’ I was making space.”

“Max,” Belle said, her voice full of fondness and fire, “you were managing out-lap spacing like a pro, and he turned it into a Shakespearean tragedy.”

He leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed. “You think I overreacted with the Turn 1 comment?”

“No,” Belle said immediately. “I think you delivered it with exactly the right amount of menace. George made it political. You made it personal. That’s balance.”

Max smiled. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said. “Now go get some sleep, and tomorrow? Make him regret every single slow-motion onboard he submitted as evidence.”

Max hummed. “You want me to take him at Turn 1?”

“I want you to erase him at Turn 1.”

Max laughed again, this time for real. “God, I miss you.”

“We miss you too,” Belle said, softer now. “But Emilian and I are very proud. And we’ll be watching. With snacks. And commentary.”

Max breathed in, let the sound of her voice ease the tension in his shoulders. “Tell him to stay in there a few more days.”

“I told him you need one more win before he’s allowed to show up.”

“Smart kid,” Max murmured. “He takes after you.”

***

It was hot. It was brutal. It was Qatar.

And Max Verstappen won anyway.

Tyre deg was high, the desert air thick with tension. Drivers dropped like flies under the heat, strategy calls flew like punches, and still—Max stayed calm. Strategic. Relentless. A four-time world champion racing like he wasn’t done proving it yet.

He crossed the line with blistered tyres, dry lips, and his race engineer’s voice in his ear.

GP: “P1, Max. That’s the win. You absolutely didn’t drive unnecessarily slowly today.”

Max didn’t even shout.

He just smiled.

It wasn’t Vegas-level emotional, or Brazil levels of furious joy. It was quieter this time. A victory earned with grit, sweat, and control. He’d clawed back from a grid penalty.

And now, standing on top of his car as the Red Bull crew screamed behind the fence, Max felt the weight of it all land—not heavy, not overwhelming. Just... solid.

Four-time World Champion. And still winning.

He climbed down, tugged off his gloves, and waved toward the stands where Dutch flags danced like wildfire. Somewhere out there, Victoria and his mom were probably screaming. Somewhere else, Belle was watching with a hand on her bump, probably eating her third pain au chocolat of the day and calling it “prenatal strategy.”

Max grinned, helmet still in hand, heart still thundering.

His fourth title was already his. But this? This was a message.

He was still here. Still the one to beat. And his family—his entire future—was waiting just a few weeks away.

Victory tasted like champagne and sweat and joy.

But all he wanted was to get back to the hotel, call Belle, and hear her say it: “I saw it. You were brilliant.”

***

FIA Press Conference — Post-Race | Quatar Grand Prix 2024

Drivers: P1 - Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing), P2 - Charles Leclerc (Ferrari), P3 - Oscar Piastri (McLaren)

Moderator: Let’s start with you, Max. First of all—congratulations on the win and the title. How does this one feel?

Max (smiling slightly): Tiring. Very tiring. But good. Especially today. I just wanted a clean race after all the… stewarding yesterday. So yeah, happy. We move.

Oscar (grinning): You moved straight through Turn 1, that’s for sure.

Max: I told him I would.

Moderator: Before we jump into Abu Dhabi chatter, here’s a lighter one to wrap up: What are your Christmas plans this year? Anything exciting?”

Charles: …That’s a good question, actually.

(Max gives him a sideways glance. Charles blinks.)

Wait, we haven’t even talked about Christmas yet.

Max: (smirking)We’ll either have a newborn or be days away from having one, so… Monaco. Home. Feet up. Snacks. Naps. Hopefully no surprise contractions during Christmas lunch.

Charles: (still catching up) Wait—you already planned it?

Max: “We have.” (smiles slightly, just a little smug—enough for Charles to notice) “My family’s coming to us. Monaco, warm blankets, loud Dutch board games. Victoria’s already trying to plan a menu around Belle’s pregnancy cravings.”

Oscar: (grinning) That’s a very responsible World Champion answer.

Max: Yeah, well, I’m about to be someone’s dad. It changes your priorities.

Moderator: Charles, are you going home to Monaco as well?

Charles (hesitates): I… I don’t know yet. I should probably ask around.

Max (tilting his head): You can come to ours.

Charles: (tentatively) “…Am I… invited?”

Max: (grins) “You can come. But only if you bring dessert.”

Oscar: (choking back a laugh) “That’s fair. Dessert tax.”

Charles: (blinks) "That’s the entry requirement?"

Max: "Yes. I’m married to a woman who will be 9 months pregnant. If you don’t show up with something sugar-based and comforting, I will personally lock the door."

Oscar: (grinning into his mic) "What kind of dessert are we talking here?"

Max: (very serious) "Not store-bought. Belle can taste the difference."

Moderator: (laughing) "That might be the most high-stakes holiday planning I’ve heard all season."

Oscar: "It’s F1. Everything’s competitive."

Max: (murmuring) "Especially the baking."

***

The night air in Doha was cooler than expected, a welcome break from the dry heat that clung to everything during the day. Up on the hotel’s rooftop lounge, the city lights shimmered below, and the sound of water trickled from a minimalist fountain nearby.

Victoria was curled sideways on the couch, legs tucked under her. She'd been watching him for the past five minutes in comfortable silence, like only a sister could.

“You look exhausted,” she said eventually.

“I am exhausted,” Max replied, voice dry. “Also very hydrated. Thank you for the fifteen electrolyte reminders.”

She grinned, but it faded quickly. “Belle called me this morning.”

He looked up instantly. “Is everything okay?”

“She’s fine. The baby’s fine,” Victoria assured him. “She just misses you. She didn’t say it like that, but it was in her voice.”

Max leaned back against the chair, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah. I miss her too. It’s different now. Leaving.”

There was a long pause. Then, quietly, Victoria said, “Do you ever think about how weird it is? That we’re both here now? You’re about to be a dad. I have three kids. It still knocks the wind out of me sometimes.”

Max gave her a small, tired smile. “I know. Same.”

She scraped her fork through the last of her dessert, then set the plate down on the table. “I used to think... we’d never get away from it. That we’d always carry the mess, the pressure. That we’d bring it with us into everything.”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant. The long drives in the van. The karting weekends that weren’t always fun. The pressure. The noise. The silence afterward. Jos doing his best—but not always getting it right. Their mother, trying to shield them. The way everything had always been about the next race.

They’d come out the other side—but not without cracks.

Max didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. She knew he understood.

“But then I see you with Belle,” she continued softly. “And I think... maybe we did it. Maybe we broke the cycle.”

Max swallowed hard. “I want to. I really want to.”

“You are,” she said. “She’s calm with you. Happy. And you—” she paused, then smiled, eyes a little glassy. “You look like someone who’s ready to love a kid better than we were loved.”

He looked away, throat tightening.

“I’m not saying it was all bad,” Victoria added gently. “But it wasn’t always good either. And I think... I think we both know that. And we’re both trying to do better.”

Max nodded. “That’s the goal.”

Victoria leaned over, bumped her shoulder against his. “You’re going to be good at this. Fatherhood.”

“I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted.

She laughed. “Good. That means you’re taking it seriously.”

Max looked down at his hands, then out the window toward the desert sky.

“I just want him to feel safe,” he said. “From the first second he’s born. I want him to know... he’s loved. No matter what. Always.”

Victoria reached over and took his hand. “Then he will. Because he’s yours.”

And Max, who had spent most of his life building walls, let himself believe it—just for a moment. That maybe they really had made it out. Maybe love could rewrite what pressure had written into them.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be now: Better. Softer. The start of something new.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1archivebot: 🎄 Max Verstappen’s Christmas Plans: ✅ Wife ✅ Newborn or very pregnant wife ✅ Blanket fort in Monaco ✅ Victoria in charge of cravings menu ❌ Charles, unless he brings dessert ✅ High-stakes, home-baked pastry diplomacy

@/chaoticneutralf1: i love how max casually said “you’re not entering my house unless you bring dessert” with the calm threat level of a mafia don

@/teamwifeyverstappen: the fact that belle is due ANY day now and max is like “she’s not moving and i will body-check anyone who suggests otherwise” this man is a husband first, world champion second

@/lonelyheartsconstructors: someone find the twitch clip of that february stream bc i know belle is not planning christmas this year and max’s rage about weaponized incompetence still lives in my head rent-free

@/bellesweaters: [video clip] Max Verstappen, Team Redline stream, February 2024: “Why do men just assume the women in their lives will handle everything? How is that cute? It’s embarrassing.” And then he proceeded to drag the concept of ‘my sister will handle it’ for 6.5 minutes Now in Qatar: “Charles can come. If he brings dessert.” THE GROWTH. THE CONSISTENCY.

@/teamredlinewives: someone said max Verstappen is the only man who could flip a dessert requirement into a feminist manifesto and i haven’t stopped laughing since

@/monacobumpwatch: someone PLEASE do an edit of that stream rant to “This Is Me Trying” by Taylor Swift because that man was fighting for his life on behalf of Belle

@/f1files: the funniest part is charles genuinely asking “am i invited?”

@/open_wheel_emotions; thinking about max’s team redline stream in feb where he went on a 10-minute feminist rant about men doing nothing for the women in their lives and now he’s the christmas gatekeeper like: “bring a dessert or face consequences”

@/gridgossip: all i’m saying is: belle should not have to lift a FINGER this christmas and it looks like max already enforced that as law

@/girlfriendsofthepaddock: reminder that in february max said:

“They put in so much effort and get nothing back. Their family forgets things that matter to them.” “To love people who don’t even notice when you’re hurting?” and then spent the entire season making sure belle was celebrated, protected, and seen.

@/verstappenfiles: him saying “you better bring dessert” sounds funny until you realize belle’s spent years doing emotional labor for people who forgot her birthday. max is making sure that never happens again. and he’s doing it with pie.

@/nobutmax: thinking about belle this christmas being 9 months pregnant, in monaco, surrounded by people who love her, feet up, snacks in reach, and her husband enforcing a dessert tax like a protective dragon. she’s won.

@/f1oracle: the real championship this year is max verstappen vs emotionally negligent men and max is undefeated

@/gridsnacks: season highlight for me is not a race it’s max in february being like

“do something about it.” and then doing something about it for belle all year

@/fernbabyfern: this is your sign to make dessert and thank the women in your life who plan every holiday and get zero credit max verstappen would want you to

@/fernsandflags: people finally putting together that stream from february where max went on a full TED talk about men doing nothing for the holidays while his gf handled everything and now we’re here like: oh. OH.

@/verstappensbabybump: max in february: “i’ve seen someone plan everything and not get even a thank you” everyone now: BELLE. HE WAS TALKING ABOUT BELLE.

@/bellewatch: belle is about to give birth and max is gatekeeping the front door like an overprotective butler “what did you bring?” “tiramisu.” “homemade?” “…no.” door slams

*** Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Charles: Soooo… has anyone thought about Christmas plans? Asking for a friend. Who may or may not have just been publicly shamed by Max Verstappen.

Lorenzo: Wait—what did I miss?

Lorenzo: Is this a real question or are you stalling because Max made you promise dessert in front of half the media center?

Arthur: 😭😭😭 “if you don’t bring something sugar-based I will lock the door” King behaviour tbh

Charles: Can we please focus I’m trying to make plans!

Pascale: I was going to check in with everyone this week. Would love to have a family dinner, but I know things are different this year.

Belle:

Yes.

Very different.

Because I will either be 41 weeks pregnant or having a newborn and I am not moving from our house 😊

Arthur: Reasonable.

Lorenzo: Extremely reasonable.

Charles: So…you’re not coming to Christmas dinner?

Belle: No. But you can come to mine. Well. Ours. Max and I are staying home and his family is coming over.I can’t guarantee anything fancy, but there will be cookies and mocktails. You’re all welcome if you bring dessert. That’s the rule now.

Pascale: I’ll make a bûche de Noël. If you’ll have me too.

Belle: If you bring the bûche, you’re in.

Charles: So we’re all going to Max’s for Christmas?

Lorenzo: We’re going to Belle’s. Max just happens to live there.

Arthur: touché

Belle: Bring slippers. I’m not hosting a shoed Christmas.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other.

Imagine being Rafayel's everything.

Imagine watching that everything begin to crack. The way it started small. A misheard word. A lingering glance at someone else. A comment that wasn't meant to cut as deep as it did.

Imagine you were his world but that world had grown loud. Heavy. Pressured.

Imagine the way the fights began quietly at first. Whispered frustrations. Passive sighs. Then came the sarcasm. The jealousy. The way his voice tightened whenever your coworker's name slipped from your lips. The way your expression pinched whenever he got too close to his bodyguard whenever they were out together.

Imagine he was yours. God, he was yours. But sometimes, it felt like you didn't believe it anymore.

Imagine his home, his studio was the only place he could breathe. Canvases half finished. Brushes scattered everywhere.

Imagine he hadn't slept properly in days, not with deadlines, not with his upcoming exhibit, not with your voice echoing in his mind after every fight. But today was supposed to be normal.

Imagine you came in through the door like you always did. Key left in the table. Shoes off. That quiet smile. Tired, maybe. But real. He noticed the way your fingers curled around the takeaway cup with his name scrawled in marker. Still thoughtful. Still trying. And he was too. But then it happened.

Imagine a single misstep. A misplaced elbow. A cup too close to the edge. The painting. That painting. The one he had poured weeks into. Hours. Breath. Everything.

Imagine it ruined. Coffee bleeding across the lower half, dripping down like tears. Like mockery. He froze. You froze. And then came the storm.

"You always do this!" "I was trying to help Rafayel!" "Helping? You call ruining my work helping?" "Maybe if you let me in-" "Maybe if you didn't hover-" Screaming. Again.

Imagine fingers pointing. Accusations thrown like knives dulled only by how often they had already been used. The way you looked at him like you did not even know him anymore. Like you didn't know whether to cry or walk out.

and Imagine that's when it hit him. He was tired. Not of you. Never of you. But of the breaking. The fighting. The bitterness that curled beneath his ribs every time you turned walk away in frustration.

Imagine he stood there in the aftermath. The canvas ruined. Your jacket half pulled on, keys shaking in your hand, breath unsteady.

and Imagine for a moment, he couldn't speak. Because what if you were done? What if this fight, this one was the last straw? What if you were already slipping away, piece by piece, every time he raised his voice and failed to reach for your hand after?

Imagine he loved you. God, he really do love you. But what if you were tired of being unloved in the way you needed?

Imagine his mind spiraled fast, relentless. What if you found comfort in someone else? What if someone listened better? Fought less. What if you thought being his muse meant being second to his art? What if the love he poured into you was the wrong shape, the wrong shade?

Imagine you weren't just someone in his life. You were the color in it. But now, all he saw was grey.

Imagine Rafayel didn't chase you right away. Not because he didn't want to. But because he didn't know if you'd want him to.

Imagine he stood there in the mess, paint drying beside spilled coffee, the scent of your perfume still lingering in the air like an afterthought.

and Imagine the way he whispered, so quietly the walls didn't even echo it. "Please... Please don't let this be the last time you walk away." He didn’t sleep that night. Didn't paint. Didn't even move.

Imagine the silence that filled the room without you in it. It louder than any fight the two of you ever had. And for the first time, Rafayel didn't know if love alone was enough to save what was breaking.

Imagine the way he swore. If there was even a sliver of hope left in your heart. He'd paint his way back into it. Stroke by stroke. Even if his hands were shaking. Even if he had to start from nothing. Even if all that remained was the ghost of a love worth fighting for.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[sweetpeaaquarius]

I'm new to your site and have only read a few of your stories so far, but I liked them all. You write really beautifully and portray the characters very well. So I just have to make a request. About Azriel (love your latest Az fic 😍) My idea is that Azriel has given up on finding someone and doesn't want to get involved with anyone anymore because he's afraid she'll eventually get a mate. But then he finally found her, his mate. and also the Inner Circle is so happy for him (they noticed how alone Azriel was sometimes) and are also totally enthusiastic about her. the request would be a good mix of angsty and fluffy. And maybe some spice in the end where she shows him her dark side and what shows the IC that they will not have peace any time soon. because they are kinky🤭

His to Lose

Pairing: Azriel x Mate f!reader

Summary: Azriel has long accepted solitude as his constant, letting shadows guide him instead of hope. A routine mission, meant to be simple, becomes anything but when an unexpected encounter challenges everything he thought he knew about control, connection, and himself. As lines blur and the bond deepens, he finds himself slipping into the role of being a mate before either of them are ready to claim it.

Warnings: nsfw, smut,  teasing, unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism, emotional vulnerability,  slow burn romance, gentle angst (focus on self-worth), jealousy, flirty flighting, touch-starved Azreil

Word count: 11,440

Author’s Note: One word: Obsessed. I spent two full days writing, rewriting, and rereading this nonstop until my brain turned to mush. I truly hope I captured your request the way you imagined, because I completely fell in love with this piece. There’s still a part of me that thinks I could’ve done it better, but here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved creating it!

Azriel had long given up on finding his mate, the one soul destined by fate to match his own. 

He had spent centuries praying to the Mother, to gods and forgotten goddesses, pleading for his other half. For a sign. For something.

He searched. He waited. He hoped.

After Morrigan, after Elain, after Gwyn, all of whom had found their paths, their peace, their purpose without him, he ceased hoping.

He couldn’t keep doing it.

Now, all he had were shame-tinted memories. A blur of encounters, mouths, hands, eyes that never looked past the surface. Fleeting touches that felt wrong. Distractions he couldn’t even pretend brought comfort.

False hope, dressed in sweat and shadow.

Still, in the quiet hours, when the world was still and the silence crept in, he wondered.

Had he done something to deserve this?

Did a sin in a lifetime ago curse him to this ache?

To stand just outside of joy, always watching and always aching.

To be the one who craves, and never the one who is loved.

He’d imagined it sometimes, what it would feel like if the moment arrived. If the bond snapped into place, sudden and sure.

If someone entered his life not like a storm, but as a quiet gift. 

Someone who didn’t flinch at the silence. 

Who didn’t try to fix the shadows, but sat within them.

Who didn’t recoil from the pain, but saw it, and stayed.

He told himself he deserved this.

The silence.

The cold bed.

The hollow gazes from lovers who only wanted his title, his power, or a story to tell.

Not him. Never him.

He accepted it, the idea that he would always be alone.

Until he met her.

A mission that should have been forgettable, just decoding ancient wards, nothing more. 

The meeting point Rhys had chosen was quiet, tucked between shadowed cliffs. Azriel felt the familiar high of anticipation as his boots hit the ground.

Then he saw her.

The moment their eyes met across the clearing, something inside him stilled, and then shattered.

The bond didn’t click neatly into place. It struck like lightning. Made his body hum. Made his chest tighten, his heart stutter, his mind blur.

Her gaze softened. Her head tilted, just slightly.

She felt it too.

He wondered if it was as overwhelming for her, if her hands trembled like his did.

She stood there in her pale blue-grey robes, fabric softly billowing with the breeze. A priestess. Tasked with helping decode ancient wards carved into old Illyrian stone. Her eyes were deep, dark brown, like still water concealing centuries beneath its surface.

“My mate,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re my mate.”

She said nothing at first. Just stared at him. Her dark hair twisted into intricate braids that shimmered in the shadows of the forest.

She swallowed, straightened, and said, “We have an assignment.”

Azriel didn’t respond right away.

He just stood there, heart pounding in the silence she left between them. We have an assignment.

That was it. No recognition. No panic. No joy. No acknowledgment of the world-altering truth he’d just spoken aloud.

The shadows around him shifted, restless with the weight of it. He pushed them back. Pushed himself back, because she was right, there was an assignment, and she had given him no invitation to go further.

So he followed.

They moved in silence through the jagged cliffs, scanning the worn stone for sigils and wards carved into the rock, ancient magic pulsing just beneath the surface. She moved with a quiet grace, every motion efficient, her fingers trailing over glyphs like she was reading them through touch alone.

Azriel pretended to study the cliffs, but he watched her instead.

The way she tilted her head as she translated ancient Fae words.

The way she frowned when she found something out of place.

The way her power hummed beneath her skin was controlled, focused, and sharp.

He had known her for minutes, yet he knew her. Felt her like a second heartbeat. Like a truth he had waited centuries to hear.

She felt it too; he could see it in the way her eyes drifted to him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. In the way her sentences faltered, just slightly, when their gazes caught.

Still, she kept her distance. Professional. Measured. Cool, but not unkind. Cautious.

He understood, because if she felt even a fraction of what he did, then her world had just shifted beneath her feet. Whatever walls she’d built to survive, whatever life she’d carefully crafted with steady hands had changed.

So he gave her space. Offered silence, soft glances, and nothing more.

They worked until the last light of day stretched long across the warded stones. Golden sun poured like honey over the hills, and she moved with quiet efficiency, rolling up her notes, brushing her braid over one shoulder, already turning toward the path.

Azriel watched her for a long moment, then said softly, before he could think better of it. “Will you come back with me?”

She stopped and turned.

Her eyes met his, dark, unreadable in the fading light. Like deep water, still and ancient, and hiding something beneath the surface.

“To the House of Wind,” he said, clarifying. “Just for now. For safety. For rest. I won’t ask anything of you. I just…”

He faltered. His voice roughened.

“I don’t want you walking back to the temple alone. I don’t want you to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched long enough for shame to creep in, for fear to grip his chest, for doubt to whisper that he’d overstepped.

“They talk about you,” she murmured. “The priestesses.”

Azriel said nothing. The silence stretched between them, taut and fraying.

“They call you the Shadowsinger.” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through him like steel wrapped in silk. “Say you don’t talk much, but you always get your message across.”

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked softly. “A message?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned, suddenly, like she couldn’t bear to stay in the space they’d created.

The last of the faelight blinked along the path, but the shadows clung to her, hungry and heavy, as she stepped into the trees.

“Wait,” he said, stepping forward. “Let me fly you there. That walk will take over an hour.”

She didn’t stop, but she slowed.

Her shoulders tensed, her steps faltered, but she didn’t turn back.

“I don’t need saving,” she said, the wind almost swallowed the words.

Azriel stood there, shadows curling at his feet, restless as caged wings.

He could have let her go, but the bond inside him was drawn taut as wire, strung across something sharp, ready to snap.

“I don’t want to save you,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

She stopped.

The forest held still.

“I just wanted to make sure you get there safe. That’s all.”

She turned then, slowly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were still hard, but something else flickered behind them, small and flickering.

“Fine,” she said, voice barely above the wind. “But no talking.”

Azriel’s heart splintered a little more.

“No talking,” he promised.

He held out his hand. She stared at it, hesitating, then brushed her fingers against his palm, uncertain, like they weren’t quite sure if they belonged there.

He gathered her gently, lifting her without a word.

The change in her was immediate. Her body went stiff, breath shallow and fast, hands gripping his shoulders, not out of closeness, but control. Fear.

Not of him.

Of this. Of flying. Of trusting. Of being this high above the ground with a stranger who claimed fate had tied them together.

Azriel didn’t speak. He shifted just enough to give her space, ensuring she didn’t feel trapped. His shadows curled behind her, soft and silent, like a net she didn’t realise she could fall into.

He flew slower than usual. Smooth. Controlled. Gliding through the currents rather than slicing through them.

Still, he felt her heartbeat hammering against his chest, fast and erratic.

“I won’t drop you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “I promise.”

She didn’t respond.

Her face remained tucked against his chest, not for closeness, but necessity. Her breath still came uneven, and when a downdraft hit and they dipped slightly, she yelped, her nails digging into his leathers.

He held her a little closer.

They landed softly a few meters from the temple gates. Still, her arms stayed wrapped around him, like she couldn’t quite let go.

“You’re safe now,” he said, lowering her until her boots touched grass.

 She didn’t relax. If anything, she pulled back like his touch burned. Her spine went stiff again as she stepped away.

“Thank you,” she said, voice thin. 

She pushed hair from her face, adjusted the braid at her shoulder, then pulled the scroll of notes from her satchel and held it out to him.

“The High Lord will be pleased with the translation,” she said briskly. “Though there’s more. The context isn’t quite right. I think whoever inscribed these misrepresented their origin, ”

She began to ramble. Not nervously, not exactly.

Just fast.

As if the words were a shield, she knew how to wield.

Azriel let her. Let her talk, point at symbols, unfold parchment, but he wasn’t listening because somewhere along the way, he stopped looking at the parchment and started watching her mouth.

She noticed.

Her voice slowed. Her brow creased.

“You’re not listening,” she said, tone flat.

Azriel blinked once. “I think it’ll be easier if you told him yourself.”

She exhaled sharply. “You just want me to let you hold me again.”

He didn’t deny it.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, but only because I doubt you’d survive repeating the translation without butchering it.”

She stepped in close again.

Azriel lowered instinctively, his arms rising to meet her as she looped hers around his neck.

He held her more gently this time. Her breath caught at the thought of leaving the ground again, and her pulse was racing so quickly he could hear it.

One hand settled at the small of her back. The other cradled her head.

This time, he flew slower than before. Steadier. Every motion smooth, every beat of his wings deliberate.

She didn’t tremble, but he felt the tension in her bones.

The sky stretched deep and dark above them, moonlight pouring over the clouds like silver ink. Neither of them spoke.

The bond thrummed. Not demanding. Just present. Soft and pulsing between them like a new heartbeat.

At last, the House of Wind came into view. Ancient. Vast. Carved into the mountain like something sleeping and sacred.

“We’re almost there,” Azriel whispered.

She stirred, lifting her head just enough to glance over his shoulder. Azriel loosened his hold slightly, allowing her the space to shift and take in the sight of his home.

He felt it, the moment her breath caught.

The House shimmered like faelight sealed in crystal, casting soft gold across moonstone terraces and sweeping archways. Vines trailed from balcony railings, blooming even under the starlight. It was vast. Majestic. Terrifying.

She said nothing.

Azriel angled them toward the quietest landing, a small balcony off the library wing, far from the noise of the main halls. As they descended, her grip around his neck tightened. When her boots touched warm marble, she didn’t move.

Not at first.

He didn’t rush her. He simply waited, only stepping back when her arms finally dropped away.

She stood there in silence, eyes sweeping across the towering arches and spiral staircases, catching on every flicker of light and stretch of shadow like she expected something to leap out.

“This isn’t what I thought a fortress would be,” she murmured. “Cold. Brutal.”

“It is,” Azriel replied. “But it’s also my home.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned slowly, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

Then came footsteps.

She tensed beside him.

“It’s alright,” Azriel said, his voice low, steady. “It’s just the Inner Circle.”

“The Inner Circle,” she repeated, the words unfamiliar on her tongue.

It was Azriel’s moment to prepare her, to warn her about how overwhelming his family could be, but the footsteps were already growing louder.

Rhysand appeared first, tall and composed, power wrapped in elegance. Feyre walked beside him, calm and observant. Cassian followed, his smirk already forming.

Azriel shifted subtly in front of her, not to hide her, but to buffer her from their attention.

Rhys’s violet eyes swept over him, then settled on her. Recognition sparked.

“Azriel,” Rhys said slowly. “Who’s your friend?”

She peeked out from behind Azriel’s shoulder, and for a heartbeat, Rhysand’s expression sharpened.

“Oh. You’re Y/N, the priestess from the temple. The one helping with the transcriptions. Did something happen?”

“I am,” she replied, her voice clear but tight. She stepped forward and dipped into a low, practised bow. “We completed the transcription, but Azriel thought it would be better if I delivered the findings myself. Some of it is more complex than we expected.”

Azriel didn’t miss the tremor in her fingers or how she clutched the scroll, not just for the words it held, but because it was the only thing in this room that was familiar. Nor did he miss how his shadows hovered nearby, curling softly around her shoulders as if they knew she needed it.

Rhys nodded, casting Azriel a look that clearly said: We’ll talk later.

Aloud, the High Lord just smiled, smooth and welcoming. “Then let’s speak in my office. You’ll stay the night, of course. I’ll have a room prepared.”

She bowed again, this time to both Rhys and Feyre. “Thank you, my High Lord, and High Lady.”

“Please,” Rhys said gently. “Call me Rhys. This is my mate, Feyre.” He gestured to her, then to Cassian. “And that is Cassian.”

Azriel saw it coming the moment Cassian’s gaze flicked from her to him, then back again. That grin curling on his face, charming, reckless, meant only one thing.

Cassian smirked. “Hello, beautiful.”

She looked to Azriel instantly, seeking something. Reassurance. Permission. A shield.

Azriel’s voice cut in before she could answer, low and sharp. “Cassian.”

Cassian paused, then raised his hands in mock surrender, but the grin stayed.

Only then did she move, stepping closer to Azriel as she followed them down the hall. Her grip on the scroll remained tight. Her posture was stiff, and every time Rhys glanced back, she flinched.

They reached the double doors of Rhys’s office. He opened them with a flick of power. As the shadows peeled away, she paused at the threshold and looked to Azriel.

A silent request.

Come with me.

He followed without hesitation.

Rhys, watching them closely, said nothing, but Azriel saw it, the glint of understanding in his eyes.

The doors shut with a soft thud behind them. Rhysand crossed the room and summoned chairs from the shadows with a wave.

“Please,” he said, gesturing.

Azriel didn’t sit, but she did, perched on the edge of the seat like it might vanish beneath her. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flinch, but Azriel saw it, the way she tucked her feet under her chair to anchor herself, the way her hand clutched the scroll like it was a shield.

Rhys waited patiently.

“I translated the western sigils along the cliff,” she began, voice low and even. “They’re more than wards. They tell a story. Fragmented, but intentional.”

Azriel stood beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wasn’t watching the scroll.

He was watching her.

The way her lips moved. The concentration in her eyes. How her fingers, stained with ink, traced each glyph with care and confidence.

Something about it made the bond hum low in his chest, insistent and steady, like it already knew what he wasn’t ready to admit.

With each line she spoke, her voice grew stronger. She forgot the room. Forgot who was listening. She just existed.

Brilliant. Unafraid.

She looked windswept, her braid loosening at the edges, skin kissed golden by sun and sky. Azriel’s hands twitched at the thought of touching her.

Rhysand asked a quiet question about the sigils, something about age, structure, or Court alignment.

She answered before he could finish. Eager.

“It predates the Courts,” she said, angling the scroll.“The structure is later, but the script is—Look here—”

Azriel stepped forward. Not for the scroll. For her voice.

“The symbol here,” she explained, “is mirrored in the fourth line of the southern wall’s carvings. It’s repeated, but the tense shifts. When that happens, the meaning changes, from protection… to memory.”

Azriel blinked. “Memory?”

Her head turned toward him. Caught off guard, a little breathless.

“Yes. It’s a mnemonic sigil. It only activates when remembered aloud or with intent. The magic is tied to remembrance. That’s the anchor.”

He nodded, though he barely heard the words. Her voice, measured, intelligent, full of quiet excitement, wrapped around him like a spell.

The bond tugged, a subtle pull beneath his ribs. His shadows drifted toward her. Not pressing. Just drawn.

“That’s rare magic,” Rhys said, intrigued.

“It’s forgotten magic,” she replied. “It wasn’t meant to last, but it did.”

Azriel nearly smiled, nearly reached for her.

Instead, he watched, shadows coiling low at his feet like they were fascinated, too. 

She turned back to the scroll, pointing at the glyphs, warnings of dormant power, spells that still dreamed beneath the stone. Magic that lingered like breath in the silence. Even Rhysand leaned forward, drawn in.

She was brilliant. 

So quietly brilliant that she didn’t seem to know it, and Azriel watched her like she had caught starlight in her hands and offered it to the world without hesitation. 

She was brighter than him, brighter than anyone he had ever known, and something like pride bloomed sharp in his chest, a feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Her eyes flicked to him now and then, searching for something he couldn’t name. Something he feared he couldn’t give. 

Then it struck him how lovely she was. Not just in the way her hair caught the light or the way she smiled when she found something new in the scroll, but in the way she existed. Gentle. Steady. A comfort.

A comfort he didn’t deserve.

When she finally rolled the parchment closed, ink smudging her fingertips, her shoulders stiffened, as if she remembered where she was. Who was she speaking to.

She bowed again, softer. “I hope it was useful.”

Rhysand inclined his head, thoughtful. “More than. Thank you.”

She looked at Azriel then, her eyes searching his, uncertain and almost seeking approval. He stepped forward, feeling the bond stir faintly in his chest, a warmth he hadn’t deserved.

“You did perfectly,” he said, voice low.

She exhaled, just slightly.

Rhys looked between them, quiet and calculating. Azriel recognised that expression. He’d seen it on his brother’s face for centuries. It meant I know. This time, it was laced with something that made Azriel want to fade into shadow.

“There are more wards deeper in the Illyrian caves. You’ll keep working on them. Together," Rhys said calmly.

“Of course, my—” she caught herself, “Rhys.”

Azriel said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice, but he stayed close, his shadows brushing along her back, an instinct he couldn’t stop, a tether he didn’t understand.

“You’re welcome to stay here during the assignment,” Rhys said to her. “Everything you need will be made available. Azriel knows the libraries. I’ll inform your High Priestess that you’ve been reassigned, for as long as necessary.”

He turned to Azriel. “You’ll continue training the Valkyries with Cassian. Y/N, you're welcome to join if you choose.”

“My lord,” she said quietly, worry flickering behind her eyes, “there’s no need for all this…”

“I’m not demanding anything,” Rhys replied, kind but firm. “I’m offering. You’ve earned it. Think on it overnight.”

She hesitated. Her gaze shifted sideways, towards Azriel. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said quietly.

She exhaled slowly, tension slipping just slightly from her frame. 

“Thank you, Rhys,” she said quietly, stepping closer to Azriel without even realising it.

He opened the door and let her slip through. But before he followed, he caught Rhysand’s gaze. One glance. A look that said, “Be careful,” more than anything else.

The hallway was quiet, washed in soft golden light. Faelight drifted lazily overhead, glowing gently along the polished stone.

They walked in silence. She stayed beside him, shoulder to shoulder, her steps steady but uncertain, like someone testing the depth of still water before diving in.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. His presence was all he could offer her, and even that seemed excessive. The bond softly pulsed, quiet but steady. He tried not to notice it. Not to want.

When he looked at her, he saw the exhaustion deep in her eyes, not just tiredness but years of shrinking herself, contained, as if safety was always conditional.

The House opened a door near the end of the hall.

“Your room,” he said softly. “Mine’s down the hall. If you need anything...” He cleared his throat. “Just knock. Dinner will be ready soon. I can walk you down.”

She paused in the doorway, eyes fixed on the candlelit room, then turned to him.

“Stay?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Azriel’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Of course,” he said.

The room was quiet and peaceful. A breeze lifted the gauzy curtains at the balcony doors. She walked slowly, her fingers brushing the wood and velvet, then sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap.

Azriel hovered near the doorway, wings folded close. His shadows were steady now, circling his ankles like guards protecting him from the fear of rejection.

“I don’t mean to keep you,” she said, her voice careful. Hesitant.

“You’re not,” Azriel replied, gentler than before. “I wouldn’t have stayed otherwise.”

She nodded, but he saw the flicker in her hands, the nervous curl of her fingers.

A pause.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He nodded.

“You’re the spymaster. The shadowsinger.” Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard stories, but what does that actually mean?”

He exhaled slowly, stepped into the room, and settled into the chair across from her.

“It means I hear things others don’t. I see what people try to hide. I go where I’m needed, even when no one wants to admit the need is there.”

She watched him closely.

“It sounds lonely,” she said.

Azriel looked away, jaw tightening, his heart pounding harder in his chest.

“It is,” he admitted. “But it’s the only place I’ve ever fit. Sometimes it’s easier to be the ghost in the room than the one trying to be seen. They understand that I need the shadows to feel like I belong.”

“Like Rhysand.”

Azriel nodded. “And Cassian. Feyre. Mor. They’re my family.” 

His eyes drifted back to her. The question caught in his throat, clumsy and uncertain, but he asked anyway, “You avoided looking at Rhys tonight. Was it him or his power?”

She paused.

“Both,” she whispered. “He reminded me of what I’ve tried to forget. That sort of power isn’t always kind.”

Azriel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rhysand is many things, but cruel isn’t one of them. Still, I understand. Power has teeth. Even when it means well.”

She nodded slowly, then was quiet for a moment, her gaze falling to the floor. 

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible, and she seemed to be considering her words carefully before she spoke. 

“Are you angry with the Mother?”

Azriel blinked, his normally carefully neutral expression shifting, confusion, then concern softening his features.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his chest tightening with each breath.

“That I’m your mate,” she said, still watching her feet swing gently from the edge of the bed. “A stranger.”

Silence followed the end of her sentence. 

A sharp, sudden fury flared in Azriel’s chest. Not at her, but at the thought that she believed she was unworthy of him.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, a cold sound that made her lift her head, startled, meeting his eyes at last.

“I have prayed to the Mother for my mate for centuries,” he said, voice rough, almost trembling. “And now that I’ve met you, I want to fall to my knees and thank her. The Cauldron. The Mother. You.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came, just a stillness.

“You’re not a stranger,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’re mine.”

The bond shimmered between them, an invisible tether, but undeniable like a heartbeat echoing through them both.

“I don’t need time to believe that,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll give you as much of it as you need.”

Her eyes were wide and glassy, something fragile and unspoken flickering within them. “Thank you,” she whispered.

A soft bell chimed through the quiet room.

“Dinner’s ready,” Azriel said, reluctantly breaking the moment.

“Should I change?” she asked, glancing down at the fitted robes that clung to her like a second skin.

Azriel’s eyes followed her movement. His shadows curled tighter around him, as if they too noticed how easily she’d settled into his space. How quickly she’d become the only thing in it.

“No,” he said, eyes snapping back to hers. “You look beautiful.”

Her lips parted again, surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Then she turned, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity’s mirror and froze.

A horrified sound escaped her throat. “You were going to let me meet the inner circle looking like this?”

Azriel blinked. “Like what?”

She spun toward the bathing chamber, hands flying to the wind-tossed braids tangled atop her head. “Like a half-blown thistle in the middle of a storm,” she muttered. “Cauldron boil me—”

He followed, lingering in the doorway as she fumbled at the intricate, now-messy braids. Her hair, a rich, silky brown, had loosened into chaotic waves that still somehow managed to look radiant, and still, she scowled at it.

“Azriel,” she said, and his name on her lips felt like a blessing. He straightened. Every nerve ending alive.

“Help me.”

It wasn’t a request; it was a command. Clear. Firm. Completely unfazed by the fact that they were barely more than strangers.

He stepped behind her as she leaned forward over the marble vanity. His hands, glowing faintly with blue siphon light, reached toward her hair.

The strands slid between his gloved fingers like silk. He tried to focus on the knots, the soft, silky feel of the strands, anything but the way her scent now surrounded him, soft, wild, and maddeningly sweet, like wildflowers after a storm.

She stilled beneath his touch. Slowly, unknowingly, she began to lean into it.

He worked with delicate precision, fingers grazing the nape of her neck as he unravelled each braid. Her breath hitched once so softly it could’ve been imagined, but then she bit her lip, as if catching a sound before it could escape.

His jaw tightened.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Instead, she sighed softly, reluctant, as his fingers brushed through the last few strands.

He lingered.

Just a moment too long.

Then she stepped back, lifting her hood, hair now cascading in soft waves down to her waist. She studied her reflection in the mirror, satisfied.

Azriel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She shifted slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror, and there it was again, that quiet, unspoken look, as if she’d already lived inside his bones long before they’d met.

His voice was low, reverent. “You’re�� breathtaking.”

She said nothing, but her eyes softened, like maybe she would’ve said the same.

Somehow, it seemed like they’d done this a hundred times before, stood like this. Touched like this. As if the bond had always been there, waiting.

As if this moment had been written into the lines of their skin.

The walk to the dining room was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Azriel stayed close, not touching, but near enough that his presence felt like armour.

The House lit the halls in warm gold, shadows trailing them like whispers. He could feel her tension, the faint stiffness in her shoulders.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She glanced up, wide eyes flicking to his face. There was a question on her lips, but before she could ask, they crossed the threshold into the dining room.

Voices. Laughter. The clink of silverware and glass.

Then silence.

Eight pairs of eyes turned to her.

She paled.

Azriel instinctively shifted, placing himself slightly in front of her, not shielding, but ready. A silent message: she’s not a curiosity.

Before he could speak, Mor stood and crossed the room, all warmth and velvet.

“I’m Morrigan,” she said, her voice all velvet and strength. “Call me Mor.”

“Y/N,” his mate replied. Soft. Controlled.

Azriel noted the tension in her posture, but she didn’t shy away.

Mor led her into the room gently, introducing her to the others, and Azriel watched his shadows trail after her, drawn not by command but by instinct.

Across the table, Rhys and Cassian shared grins, knowing and teasing. He ignored them and headed for the wine decanter. He poured two glasses, one for himself, one for her.

She was already seated between Mor and Amren when he came back, her hood down, face revealed. Her fingers fiddled with the stem of her robes.

She glanced up at him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Azriel’s fingers briefly brushed her shoulder, grounding her or maybe him. Then he took his seat opposite her, next to Feyre and Rhys, who were watching him like they didn’t recognise him.

Conversation resumed, cautiously at first. Mor and Amren flanked her like shields, sunlight and steel. To his surprise, Elain leaned forward, asking a soft question about her robes. 

She responded calmly about her role in the temple, explaining how she’d be staying to study the mountain’s wards and ancient script. Her voice remained steady, but Azriel could sense the frayed edge through the bond. She was coping, but just.

“I mentioned to Nesta,” Rhys said casually, “that you might be interested in Valkyrie training.”

Across the table, Nesta, who had barely spared a glance at her until now, perked up, eyes narrowing not with scepticism, but something closer to interest.

“Oh?” Nesta leaned forward slightly, wine glass in hand. “You’ve trained before?”

“Some,” his mate replied, lips curving just a bit. “I don’t want to intrude… but I wouldn’t mind learning more.”

Nesta’s eyes brightened, not mocking or challenging, but engaged. Azriel blinked, surprised by how warm Nesta’s tone was, how different this was from the usual ice she wore like armour.

“Well,” Nesta said, voice edged with something almost like approval, “we train every morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Azriel lifted a brow. Cassian did too. Neither of them missed it, Nesta Archeron being friendly on a first meeting.

His mate hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I’d like that,” she said softly.

Nesta gave a single approving nod and turned back to her water.

Azriel leaned back, trying not to stare, but Cassian was already smirking behind his glass.

What in the Mother’s name was happening tonight?

Then she glanced toward Azriel. Just a flick of her eyes, but he saw the tension behind them, the subtle wear, the quiet strain.

He gave her what he could. Not a touch, not a word, just his shadows, curling beneath the table and brushing lightly against her fingers.

She welcomed them.

Let them twine through her fingers like silk. Her eyes dropped to them briefly, as if she could see them, feel them in some deeper way. She twirled her fingers, letting the threads of darkness dance between them.

Then, she smiled. Maybe at something Mor had said, but her gaze always found his again, as it always did.

As if it needed to.

As if he needed her to look at him that way.

Azriel leaned forward and silently refilled her glass before his own, ignoring the stares and smirks it earned him. When new dishes were passed around, he reached for them first, sliding them closer to her, gesturing with just his eyes to the ones she might want.

She responded in kind: subtle glances, small nods or shakes of her head. A private language they hadn’t learned, but already knew.

As the evening wore on and conversation turned mellow with wine-sweetened fatigue, chairs scraped softly against the stone floor. Laughter grew quieter, warmer. Slowly, the others drifted deeper into the House of Wind.

Azriel stood, glancing once at Cassian, who was smirking.

He crossed to her, where she sat beside Mor with the last sip of wine cradled in her hand. He brushed a finger over her shoulder.

Her head turned, cheeks flushed. “More wine, or...?”

“I think I need rest,” she said softly, rising.

Mor leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Azriel didn’t catch the words, but he saw the flush in her cheeks and how she didn’t look at him after.

Together, they gave their thank-yous and slipped from the room, the whispers and curious glances following behind them.

Azriel stayed close beside her. Not touching, but near enough that their hands brushed now and then.

“I think they like you,” he said.

She huffed a soft laugh. “I think I survived.”

“You did more than that. Nesta invited you to train. That’s her version of a love letter.”

Her laugh came again, softer this time, unguarded. God, that sound he’d memorise if he could.

They reached her room. The door opened quietly, candlelight flickering inside already. His shadows moved with her now, as if she called to them.

She paused in the doorway, turning slowly. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, and he could almost see the thoughts shifting behind them, quiet and uncertain.

Azriel tilted his head, voice low. “Tell me. I can feel it, you want to say something.”

Her eyes flicked to his, uncertain. “I just…” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to be this. For you. A mate.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how not to mess it up.”

His heart fluttered, not out of fear, but recognition. He’d felt that way before, too, like he might mess it up before it even started.

“You’re not messing anything up,” he said, stepping closer. “There’s no version of you I was waiting for. You’re it. Already.”

She looked up, eyes wide and wary. “But you’re Azriel, The Spymaster. The Shadowsinger.” 

She paused before continuing. “I don’t know who I am without the Temple, without the priestesses. I don’t know if that’s enough for someone like you.”

He didn’t answer right away. How could he explain that most days, he still felt like he was trying to earn his place? Even now, standing here with her, he doubted himself.

“I don’t expect you to have answers,” he said gently. “I’m still learning too.”

The bond between them thrummed, soft and steady, like it was listening.

“If you need time,” he added, quieter now, “I’ll wait. If you need space, I’ll give it. But if you ever need to leave…” His voice caught. “Just tell me first.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.

“I’m not going to leave,” she whispered.

His eyes didn’t waver. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

She nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting to a near smile. 

“Goodnight, Azriel.”

He hesitated. His shadows curled tighter at his feet. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her, gently, final. Still, the bond tugged at him through the wood. Faint. Present.

He lingered a moment longer, hand clenched at his side, as if letting go of her entirely might unravel something inside him. 

He turned, and there Rhysand stood at the end of the hall, cloaked in darkness. 

Azriel expected him, walked towards him, and stopped a few paces away.

“You waited,” Azriel said flatly.

Rhys crossed his arms. “Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d let that dinner end without a conversation?”

Azriel said nothing.

They walked away from her door, into the hush of the House.

Rhys glanced sideways at him, all High Lord calm and brotherly patience. “So?”

Azriel didn’t look away. “She’s my mate.”

The words rang out like a vow. As if speaking them made them real, permanent.

Rhys nodded slowly. No surprise. Only understanding in his eyes.

“I figured,” he said.

Azriel exhaled. “It snapped into place like lightning, and now it hums in my bones. Like I’ve known her forever.”

“And her?”

“She’s scared,” Azriel said. “But I think she trusts me.”

Rhys studied him for a long moment. Then a small smile curved his mouth.

“She’ll be good for you. That dinner—” he shook his head. “It’s the most alive I’ve seen you in years. I hope she stays.”

Azriel nodded, voice quiet. “I hope so, too.”

A moment went by before Rhys slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Get some rest, brother. You’ve waited a long time for this.”

Azriel gave a tight nod and turned to leave, but he already knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not with every thread of the bond still humming with her name.

The sunrise over Vallaris painted the sky in soft gold and muted lavender. He stood at his window, arms crossed, shadows curling at his feet. Sleep had evaded him for days, but with her now under this roof, he doubted it would return anytime soon.

He’d risen early, earlier than usual. Arranged for the twins to deliver breakfast to her room: fresh pastries, fruits, strong coffee, and a selection of books he thought she might like. He didn’t expect her to join them for training, not yet. He wanted her to rest. To settle in. To feel safe.

So when Nesta asked where she was, voice sharp with expectation, Azriel’s only answer had been, “She needs time.”

Cassian gave Nesta a pointed look, and the subject was dropped.

The training ring filled slowly. Gwyn arrived first, followed by Roslin, Ilana, Deirdre, and Ananke. Then Emerie, quiet and focused, took her place beside Nesta.

They greeted him politely. Soft smiles. Gwyn gave him the same warm look she always did. Once, that smile might have meant something. Now, he could barely hold it.

He hardly noticed any of them, because in his mind, she was still curled in bed, maybe reading or sleeping. He hoped she was resting. Hoped she liked the books. Hoped she knew he was thinking of her, always.

He didn’t expect the sound of footsteps behind him. Didn’t expect the soft scent of her, flowers and something warmer, carried on the wind. Then she was beside him.

Dressed in flowing midnight-blue Night Court robes, the hem brushing the training mat. Her hair was half-pinned, half-tousled from sleep. A steaming mug of coffee in her hands.

She didn’t speak right away, just sipped her coffee and looked out over the ring like she’d been there all her life.

“You didn’t wake me,” she said, eyes finally meeting his.

“I didn’t want to rush you,” he replied, voice quiet.

There was a pause. Something gentle flickered between them.

“I liked the books,” she said, a little softer.

“I hoped you would.”

She sat on the bench just beside him, her shoulder brushing his thigh for the briefest moment. Across the ring, Nesta offered a short wave. She returned it with a warm smile that looked far too familiar for someone who’d only met them the day before.

Cassian glanced at Azriel from across the mats. Said nothing, just offered him a knowing look.

Azriel didn’t return it. He couldn’t. Not when she was sitting beside him like this, as though her presence hadn’t tilted the ground he stood on.

He turned slightly, just enough that his shadows shifted between them, reaching, gently. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her hand, still wrapped around the mug, brushed against them like she welcomed them. She welcomed him.

For a moment, Azriel thought, if this was what mornings would look like with her, even just sometimes, it might undo him in a way nothing else ever had.

She didn’t move for a while. Just sat beside him, warm coffee in hand, her gaze calm as she watched the priestesses begin their stretches. There was no tension in her posture, but Azriel noticed how her eyes lingered, quietly studying Nesta’s form, the way Emerie adjusted her stance, how Gwyn corrected Deirdre’s alignment with a subtle gesture.

She was watching closely. Not idly.

After a few minutes, she leaned down and opened the small cloth bag she’d brought with her. Inside, a worn book rested between a notebook and a pen, one of the texts he’d asked the twins to bring from the library. Something on ancient wardings. She balanced it easily in her lap, thumbing the corner of a page before looking up again.

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” she said softly, sensing his attention. “But I thought I’d at least observe.”

“You’re never in the way,” Azriel replied without hesitation, barely above a whisper.

She gave him a quiet look at that. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise. Just something softer, and she nodded once, accepting the words like they were a promise.

Azriel turned back to the ring, but he didn’t stop noticing her, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how she absently underlined phrases in her notebook with graceful, practised strokes, how her attention flickered now and then to the footwork being demonstrated in the ring. Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words she read. Every so often, her brow furrowed in thought, and she’d scribble something in the margin.

He couldn’t help himself.

Between giving instructions, correcting Nesta’s balance, and helping Gwyn adjust her grip, his gaze always drifted back to her. Sitting quietly, not demanding space or attention, and yet commanding it all the same.

At one point, Gwyn stumbled, distracted by something Roslin said, and Azriel stepped forward to catch her arm before she could fall. She laughed, flushed, thanking him.

From the edge of the ring, he felt it: a flicker of emotion. Subtle. So small.

His mate’s shoulders had tensed ever so slightly, and the page she’d been turning froze beneath her fingers. A blink later, she resumed reading, her expression the picture of serenity.

He knew her already. Felt her through the bond, and what he sensed now was something sharp and subtle, pressed down beneath that gentle exterior.

Jealousy.

It was faint and fleeting. Not born of possessiveness, but of uncertainty. Of not knowing yet where she stood, of watching others smile at him and wondering if they had smiled like that before.

He didn’t comment or draw attention.

Instead, as the rotation changed and the priestesses paired off, Azriel stepped out of the ring and moved toward her. She didn’t look up immediately, but he knelt in front of the bench, hands resting lightly on his thighs, careful not to crowd her.

“I can train you if you want,” he asked softly.

Her eyes lifted slowly. She studied him, not guarded, but thoughtful. “Tomorrow,” she said after a pause. “I want to watch a little more today.”

He nodded and stood to go, but just before he turned, her fingers grazed his. A light touch, brief. Intentional.

That was enough. Enough to steady him, enough to make his heart pound and for the bond to sing. 

Later, during the drills, he caught glimpses of her watching intently, brows furrowed, her gaze flicking between him and the priestesses. She absently chewed on the end of her pen, scribbling something in the margins of her book. 

Then, suddenly, she stood up. The book still in one hand, her mug left on the bench. She walked up the stairs silently.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. A sharp, unwelcome rush of panic surged through him. 

Had she misunderstood something? 

Was he already too much for her to handle, or not enough?

Was it jealousy after all? Discomfort? Regret?

The questions arrived in waves, quick and relentless. Doubts crept up from the dark corners of his mind, dragging with them that old, gnawing fear that he wasn’t what she needed. That he had never been. That he would never be enough.

Still, he moved through the motions: correcting stances, guiding rhythm, catching missteps, but a part of him remained anchored to that bench. To the place where her mug sat cooling in the morning sun. To the space she’d just left behind.

When the training finally finished, the priestesses and others stretched and chuckled, lingering in their small groups, but Azriel didn’t hang around. He quickly muttered a goodbye and headed inside without looking back.

He found one of the twins in the corridor, who smiled knowingly and pointed towards the library.

Azriel slowed as he reached the open door, his shadows curling out before him, brushing the corners of the room.

She sat curled in one of the velvet armchairs, the book open across her knees, lips moving silently as she read. Her pen hovered above the page, pausing now and then to scribble something in the margins.

Relief spilled through him like water over parched stone.

He stepped inside.

“You found something,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

She looked up, startled, before nodding. The book rested open on her lap, her finger still holding her place.

“Yes. It’s old, but fascinating.” She hesitated, then held it up slightly, more to herself than him. “Some of the texts Rhysand keeps in here reference protective rituals, symbols I’ve never seen before.”

She shook her head. “I think some were meant to shield more than just the body. The soul, maybe.”

A soft smile tugged at the edge of her mouth, dry and a little sharp. “That’s why I left. Not because of the priestesses sending you flirty smiles… though that was educational.”

His lips parted slightly, caught off guard.

“You noticed,” he said after a beat, eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with fear.

“I notice everything,” she murmured, turning another page with a gentle flick. “Especially when people look at you like they’ve done it before.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. The shadows behind him shifted slightly, unsettled, but he didn’t speak.

She didn’t meet his gaze again. Just said, “I didn’t leave because I was jealous. I left because I’m not ready to figure out what it means to sit there while people touch you like they have permission.”

Azriel stood still for a long moment, reading between her words, what she was saying and what she wasn’t. Then he moved closer, slowly, and sank into the chair across from her, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You don’t have to figure it out right away,” he said quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing playful or soft in them, just wary quiet, a storm that hadn’t made landfall yet.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s still hard to watch.”

That truth sat between them, raw and unpolished. He didn’t try to smooth it over.

After a long silence, she added, “I found some of the symbols again, similar to ones etched on a stone at my temple. I don’t know how they connect yet, but there’s something here. Something old and forgotten.”

His throat worked. “You want help?”

She hesitated, then she slowly closed the book and set it beside her. “Maybe. When I know more.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary, not pushing. Not yet.

“If you want to train tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “I’ll be on the mats at dawn.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in mock consideration. “You’ll have to wake me,” she said, voice light but edged with challenge. “And I expect the pastries and coffee again.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Noted.”

A moment passed between them. Quiet. Comfortable. Then he nodded toward the book beside her.

“I’ll let you read,” he said, voice softer now. “Come find me if you need anything. I’ll be somewhere in the House, and if I leave, I’ll come say goodbye.”

Her gaze lifted again, catching his in that steady, unreadable way she had. She didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just watched as he turned and walked away, and he felt the weight of her eyes on his back until the library doors closed behind him.

A few hours passed.

He’d spent them in the sitting room, trying, and failing, not to listen to Morrigan and Cassian go on about her.

“She’s perfect for you, Azriel,” Mor was saying, practically glowing with delight. “Truly. After everything, you deserve this. She’s strong, clever and just soft enough to make you loosen up a little.”

Cassian let out a low laugh, feet kicked up on the table as he nursed his drink. “You’ve been brooding for centuries, brother. She smiles at you once, and you hand her the moon.”

Azriel said nothing, merely sat, stone-faced, twirling his glass. It didn’t stop them; in fact, his silence seemed to encourage them.

“I mean, do you remember the way you passed her that platter last night at dinner?” Mor said, mimicking his deep, solemn voice with exaggerated dramatics. “Take this, my mate, the love of my soul—”

Cassian cut in with a laugh, clutching his chest. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve waited through centuries of pain and shadows just for this moment—”

Azriel gave them both a deadpan look. “Are you finished?”

They weren’t. Of course, they weren’t. They had been waiting for this just as long as he had.

Cassian launched into some unsolicited advice about wooing, which quickly derailed into an entirely too vivid recounting of his and Nesta’s two-week-long frenzy, complete with gesturing and far too much detail about positions Azriel never wanted associated with his brother-in-arms.

A quiet laugh, unmistakably divine, echoed from the doorway.

Azriel’s heart seized.

He turned sharply, shadows coiling at his back, and there she was. Leaning against the doorframe, books cradled in her arms, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said dryly, voice full of poorly-concealed laughter, “for those beautiful images of you and Nesta, Cassian. Truly. I can’t wait to ask her how she feels about you sharing that particular position.”

Cassian paled on the spot. Mor nearly choked on her drink.

She strode toward them slowly, unhurried, graceful despite the smirk still curling her lips. Azriel remained frozen on the couch, spine straight, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when every word felt like it might come out too raw.

Then, with a quiet certainty that undid him more than any sharp remark ever could, she perched on the armrest beside him. Close enough for her scent to wrap around him like something intimate, familiar.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Light, tentative, almost nothing, but it was enough to make his chest ache.

Something inside him eased, slowly and warily, but it eased. Every tightly-wound nerve tensed with the contact. That strange, fragile hope, the one that had been quietly growing in the corners of his chest every hour since they met, stirred again.

She didn’t look at him directly. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead, as if she hadn’t just broken down the walls around him with nothing more than a few steps and a featherlight touch.

If anything, he leaned into it, just slightly, instinctively, drawn to her warmth without meaning to or knowing how to pull back.

He must not have been as discreet as he thought. Across the room, Mor and Cassian were both watching with matching expressions: Cassian, smug; Mor, practically glowing.

Their eyes darted to her hand, still resting lightly on his shoulder, and to the way his shoulder now pressed slightly against her hip. 

Azriel ignored them and didn’t care. 

He’d take any touch from her that he could.

The Next Morning

Azriel stood in the doorway of her room, balancing a tray in one hand. The smell of fresh coffee wafted up, mixing with the warmth of honey-glazed pastries and the faintest hint of cinnamon. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

She was still curled in bed, tangled in sheets, with her hair a soft riot around her face, as the early morning light sliced through the curtains in gold bands. He allowed himself a quick look, just a moment longer than he should have.

He cleared his throat, quiet but firm. 

“You said I’d have to wake you.” She stirred, a sleepy noise slipping from her lips. Her eyes blinked open slowly, still foggy with sleep, then focused on him and the tray in his hands.

A lazy, satisfied smile curled at her lips. “You actually brought the coffee.”

“And the pastries,” he said, crossing the room to set the tray beside her. 

She propped herself up on one elbow, accepting the mug he offered. Their fingers brushed. He tried not to dwell on it, but the bond bloomed in his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“I remembered.”

She arched a brow at that but said nothing more. Instead, she sipped her coffee and reached for a piece of pastry, her expression unreadable and still soft with sleep.

After a few bites, she glanced at him over the rim of her mug. “You really expect me to train before sunrise?”

“You said you wanted to,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “But if you’ve changed your mind—”

“I didn’t say that,” she interrupted, already tossing the sheets aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Azriel’s breath caught as she sat there, slowly finishing the pastry, dressed in a navy silk camisole edged with lace, with the matching shorts riding high on her thighs from sleep. He looked away before his gaze could linger, instead fixing it on the early light stretching across the window, though the image of her remained in his mind. 

When she appeared again a few minutes later, dressed in tight Illyrian leathers, boots half-laced, and hair pulled back, it nearly took his breath away. The leathers hugged her like a second skin, every line and curve clearly visible in the dim morning light. She held her mug with both hands, cradling it for warmth, her cheeks still flushed from sleep, but her eyes sharper now.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. His cheeks flushed with heat, and from the small, amused twist of her lips, he knew she saw it.

The bond stirred, low and steady like a distant drumbeat, always there, just under the surface.

He didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of her, his gloved hands moving without thought as he tied her bootlaces with quiet care.

As he finished, fingers brushing the leather, something shifted.

Her hand slid into his hair, light, uncertain, instinctive.

He froze.

The touch was so gentle he might’ve imagined it, but then it lingered, her fingers threading slowly through the strands like it was second nature.

She stilled, maybe realising what she’d done.

“I—sorry,” she mumbled, hand starting to pull away.

His voice came quickly, quiet but sure. “Don’t be.”

He looked up at her, still kneeling, with the morning sun behind her like a soft halo, as if she were the goddess who answered his prayers. 

His voice dropped, steady now. “I like it. When you touch me.”

Her lips parted, a flush rising to her cheeks, and still, she didn’t step back.

“I like having my hair played with,” she admitted, almost shyly, like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.

Then, more slowly this time, she reached again, fingers slipping into his hair with greater intent. She tugged gently, testing. Azriel exhaled, barely a sound, but it made her smile.

When she finally let him go, the warmth of her touch stayed like an echo on his skin. He rose slowly, not rushing the moment or looking away. She held her mug close to her chest now, but her eyes searched his, uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, as if afraid she’d gone too far.

Azriel shook his head once. “You don’t have to be. You’re here. You’re trying.”

A moment passed between them.

He met her eyes. “Ready?”

She nodded.

Together, they stepped into the quiet hallway, toward the sparring ring, the early light painting soft gold across the floor. Their shoulders brushed, just barely.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward; it was theirs.

The morning air was crisp as they stepped onto the training ring, the stone beneath their feet cool from the night. Dawn had only just broken, casting soft gold light over the courtyard. It was quiet, no Cassian, no priestesses, just the two of them and the hush that came with early hours.

Azriel watched her roll her shoulders, stretching out her limbs with ease. The leathers hugged her frame, each movement revealing toned strength beneath soft curves. His eyes traced her without permission, heat coiling low in his gut before he forced himself to look away, guilt creeping in quickly behind the desire.

She bent low into a stretch, hips rolling, body fluid, and he realised, a little too late, that looking away wasn’t helping much either.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, watching her fold into a stretch.

She glanced up, eyes wide like he’d caught her red-handed. “A little. I’m just copying what the priestesses did yesterday.”

Azriel’s brow lifted. “Right,” he said dryly, because the priestesses certainly didn’t do that hip roll.

When she stood, her eyes sparkled with something sharp. He narrowed his gaze. “Get into stance,” he said.

She did.

Immediately, his suspicion sharpened, perfect foot placement, relaxed shoulders, and a steady, precise centre of balance.

“You’ve trained in the Day Court,” he murmured, stepping toward her.

She smirked but said nothing, just watched him, steady and calm.

“I know that stance,” he continued. “I have a contact in Day who moves exactly like that. If I’m right, your next move is—”

He lunged.

She ducked low, wrapping an arm around his forearm and spinning inward. Her fist stopped just millimetres from his face, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin.

He smirked, looking from her first at his nose to those dark eyes staring at him with a false innocence. 

“I should have known,” he said as she released him, stepping back.

“What, that I’m from Day? That I haven’t just been a priestess.” she teased, a lazy grin on her face as they started to circle each other. “Or that I could give you a good knock on the arse?"

His eyes narrowed, that smirk turning into a grin as he whispered, “both.” 

They moved instantly. Their sparring became quick, smooth, with strikes, dodges, and counters flowing like a dance, one neither had choreographed, but both instinctively knew. Each punch was faster than the last, testing, probing.

Azriel ducked a roundhouse and moved in close, gripping her wrist and twisting her arm softly behind her. But before he could pin her, she drove her elbow back into his ribs and broke free. Her laugh was low, breathless, buzzing with excitement.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he growled, circling again.

“I was being polite,” she shot back, panting slightly now. Sweat glistened at her temples.

He moved in again, silent, steady, a predator’s grace. Close enough to feel the rush of her breath against his cheek, to smell the heat rising off her skin: sweat, salt, something sweet and wild that drove him mad.

She blocked him, forearms crossing fast, colliding with his chest in a clash of controlled force. The contact rang through them both like a strike of lightning. Their bodies met with a thud, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing hard from the momentum.

Neither of them moved.

Her eyes locked on his. Her breath hitched. His hands were still on her arms, tight enough to feel the tension beneath her skin. The space between them thinned until it wasn’t space at all, just heat and thunder and tension strung tight enough to snap.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Azriel felt the shift deep in his chest, like gravity, like inevitability.

“I thought this was sparring,” she breathed, voice gone soft and smoky, like it had been scraped raw by restraint.

“It was,” he murmured, his voice nearly hoarse.

A heartbeat passed.

Then she fisted his leather and dragged him down to her.

The kiss wasn’t a question; it was devotion.

It was molten. Desperate. Their mouths collided in a tangled mess of teeth and tongue, breath and desire. Her back pressed softly against the training ring wall, but she didn’t stop; she welcomed the force. Welcomed him.

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer and anchoring her there. Her hands were everywhere, slipping beneath his leathers and spreading across the heat of his bare back. Her nails dug in just enough to make him growl into her mouth.

“Azriel—” she gasped, breaking for air as his mouth found the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. His breath scorched her skin, lips dragging with reverence, with hunger.

His restraint shattered. In a flash of movement, he spun her to the mat, his body following hers like gravity, like fate. One hand grabbed her wrists above her head, the other slid beneath her leathers to spread wide over her waist, possessive, claiming.

She laughed beneath him, breathless and wild, eyes full of heat. Her legs wrapped around his hips like instinct.

“You like this?” she murmured, brushing her mouth over his. “Me on my back while you pretend you’re still in control?”

He huffed a dark, amused sound against her jaw. “You’ve been in control since the moment I met you.”

Her teeth grazed his earlobe. “I knew it.”

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, kissing her again, deeper this time, demanding. His body rocked into hers, their hips grinding in time, and she gasped into his mouth.

“You like it when I fight you,” she breathed.

“I like it when you lose,” he shot back, biting her lip until she moaned.

Her fingers had already found the buckles of his leathers, fevered and sure, undoing them with trembling hands. His own hand slipped beneath her waistband, his fingers grazing soft skin, heat gathering where they made contact. She arched into him, her mouth open and wanting.

Every sound she made was etched into him.

His name was whispered like a secret.

The gasp when he kissed just below her navel.

The whisper of “Don’t stop,” as she rolled her hips, her body pliant beneath his, every inch begging for more.

His shadows wrapped around them protectively, dark silk brushing her wrists, her thighs, making her shiver in his grasp. There was no one else in the world, only this. Her. Them.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, voice frayed and reverent, kissing down her throat, across her collarbone.

She dragged him closer with a whimper, one leg hooking around him tighter. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, anchoring.

He was lost in her, utterly, blissfully lost.

His shadows slid around her wrists again, not binding, but holding. Cradling. As if they, too, didn’t want to let go.

Azriel whispered against her lips, “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her legs tightening around his waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, then down, down her neck, across the delicate skin beneath her jaw, the edge of her collarbone. Each touch was a vow. His hand, warm and calloused, slipped beneath her shirt again, sliding higher this time, until she arched into his palm with a gasp.

She was fire beneath him, burning, beautiful, real.

Her hands moved too, pushing his leathers down his shoulders, dragging fingertips along the planes of his chest, learning him like a map. Her touch made him shiver, his restraint unravelling thread by thread.

There was no distance now. No armour. No roles.

Only Azriel and his mate, the woman who had undone him completely.

Their breaths mingled, their limbs tangled. Clothing became an afterthought, pulled aside, pushed down, discarded in silence and gasps and hurried touches. He worshipped every inch of her skin he revealed, every sound she made etched into his soul.

When he finally pushed inside her, it was slow, careful.

They both gasped, then stilled.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails biting in, and his forehead dropped to hers, eyes squeezed shut, as though even this was too much, too perfect.

“You’re okay?” he breathed.

She nodded, whispering, “Yes. Azriel…”

Her voice broke on his name.

He moved then, rhythm building in a slow, devastating tempo that left her trembling beneath him. Their bodies moved together, not frantic, but with a deep anchoring. Their eyes never strayed. Every thrust, every moan, every whispered name was soaked in meaning.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a surrender.

It was two souls who had spent too long alone, finally finding their match in the dark.

His shadows curled around their joined hands, a silent echo of everything they weren’t saying aloud.

When she came undone, it was quiet, her back arched, her mouth parting in a gasp that was only his. Azriel followed with a broken sound against her skin, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might vanish, but she didn’t.

When the world finally stilled, he lay there above her, inside her, his forehead resting against hers.

Their breathing slowed. Her fingers traced lazy shapes across his spine.

Then, the creak of a door.

A dramatic, drawn-out whistle.

“Well, well, well,” came Cassian’s unmistakable voice, thick with amusement. “Here I was, thinking you two would eventually get around to it, but on the training mat, Az? Really?”

Azriel froze, chest heaving, his wing immediately wrapping them in a cocoon of darkness, shielding her naked body from Cassian’s eyes.

Her head thunked back against the mat with a groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Azriel didn’t move, still half-draped over her, both of them very much naked.

Cassian stepped further into the ring, arms crossed, grin wicked. “You know, I always suspected you were a little filthy under all that brooding, brother. But this? This is a new level.”

Azriel exhaled a slow, murderous breath. “Cassian…”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Cassian said cheerfully, already turning back toward the exit. “Rhys is going to die when he hears about this.”

The door shut behind him with a final click.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then her soft, stunned laughter broke the stillness.

Azriel dropped his forehead to her collarbone and groaned.

“We are never living this down,” she whispered, breath still short, cheeks flushed.

“No,” he muttered. “We are not.”

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered on her lips.

Azriel hadn’t moved; his forehead still rested on her collarbone, his breath ghosting across her skin, steadying. She could feel the war waging in him. Embarrassment. Restraint. A flicker of uncertainty.

She lifted her hand, brushing fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, slow and gentle. “It’s just Cassian,” she whispered. “He’ll forget it by breakfast.”

Azriel huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “No, he won’t. He’ll tell everyone by breakfast.”

Her smile curved against his cheek. “Let him.”

He pulled back enough to see her face, and the moment he did, the heat returned, low and aching. Her eyes were still heavy with need. Her lips, still parted, kiss-bruised and soft. Her body, still curled around his, craving him.

Still wanting.

God, so did he.

Still, neither of them moved, because she was still beneath him, still burning, still wanting, and so was he.

“Where were we?” she said, lifting her hips in a not-so-subtle reminder.

Azriel growled, mouth returning to hers. “Right here.”

The rest of the world disappeared again.

[narcjsistx]

please I have such a good request that I think is funny. After chapter 307, imagine Reader asks Sae if they can buy a pet bunny and he instantly tells her no, and she’s asking why not and he’s like “ No 😐🥀” but like, crack. It can be smau or fic I FEEL IT WOULD BE SO FUNNY THO

i usually don't make written fic requests, only smau ones, but this one really made me laugh. so here we are guys

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

it felt strange to have SAE ITOSHI at home for more than three days in a row — strange, but definitely pleasant. the spanish tour had just ended with great results, and that gave him the chance to finally relax a little, in the quiet of his home

it was nice to actually be able to hug him, and not just send a message he’d only read hours later in his hotel room. it was even nice just to spend time together in the same room, too

sae genuinely thought these days would be the best of the month — finally free to train only when he truly felt like it, and most of all, finally able to spend time with you after months of random flights for equally random, short-lived visits

he thought the days would pass by peacefully, with you

big mistake, sae itoshi.

"babe, can you watch the video i sent you?"

"okay. which one of the last... fortytwo?"

it wasn’t anything new to see that many videos waiting when he opened your chat. it was a habit you had since the very beginning of the relationship, and honestly, he didn’t mind it

"you’re not funny! it’s not fortytwo, c'mon..."

"fortysix."

"... just watch the last seven"

opening the chat, the number of bunnies that appears before his eyes is disgustingly disgusting. he sees all kinds: short fur, long fur, white, black, brown, long ears, short ears. his throat tightens almost automatically as he looks up — only to find you already standing in front of him with your phone in hand, with that face that, ever since you two got together, has never once been told no. he sighs bored, as you throw yourself down next to him on the couch, holding your phone right up to his face. instinctively he wraps an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer — but he’d throw that bunny on your screen as far away from him as humanly possible

"look how cute it is! it’s looking for a home, it’s up for adoption at the center near our hom—"

"absolutely not."

you turn surprised, lowering the screen slightly. you press your lips together like you’ve just received the worst news of your life, and sae already regrets having answered so coldly. it’s just that he can’t understand how such a cute animal could have the name of a jerk — the ultimate jerk, the very ultimate jerk

"... you don’t like bunnies?"

oh, he’d definitely like them more if they didn’t remind him so much of that barcha jerk — so jumpy and damn tall. sae clears his throat, moving the screen away from his face

"i don’t like bunnies"

"why? they’re so innocent, they don’t need much attention, and im home most of the time anyway"

"i don’t like them because they’re messy, they smell, they pee everywhere, and they ruin dreams that have nothing to do with them—"

"... i don’t think they do that?"

sae raises an eyebrow, then runs a hand through his hair — just to calm himself down a little. you look at him with that look, the one that’s been his downfall for years now. suddenly, your face is replaced by iglesias’s, and for a moment, sae is completely speechless. only when your actual face comes back into view he let out a sigh of relief, a very long one

"i just don’t think it’s the right pet for us, considering my job and the fact that you want to start university. don’t you think maybe... i don’t know, a dog would be a better choice?"

"but i want a bunny"

"yeah, and i’d like to be a striker, but things don’t always go the way we want"

"i don’t see how that has anything to do with what i said..."

"im just telling you to listen to me, trust me. bunnies are evil"

you give him a bit of a look, then slump against his shoulder with a pout. sae starts running his fingers through your hair, fully aware that maybe — just maybe — he’s won this battle, a battle harder than the one against barcha a few months ago

"i already had a list of names ready"

sae sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. the gesture doesn’t quite erase your pout, but your eyebrows are furrowed just a little less. hearing the list can’t possibly cause another mental breakdown… right?

"alright, let’s hear it. what were you thinking?"

"OKAY SO… since we’re in spain, i thought of a spanish name. everyone gives their pets human names, but i want to stand out… with building names. i was thinking of… catedral, colegio, cine, estadio... maybe even tienda, iglesia—"

oh, no bunny will ever cross the threshold of this house as long as sae is alive. neither human nor animal

[straylightdream]

beg for you

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: kim mingyu x afb.reader x jeon wonwoo

“Hello my dear roommate. How are you?” He literally doesn’t even give you a second to answer. “Now, what do you think about being tied to the bed?” He’s calmed down, maybe a little, but not much.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): romance, smut with a little plot, mutual pining, roommates to lovers

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4k

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cussing

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex and protected sex (mc is on birth control), soft dom wonwoo and mingyu, wonwoo is in charge even while the mc is with mingyu, voyerism, readers hands are bound, begging, cock drunk reader, use of lube, big dick wonwoo and even bigger dick mingyu, pussy streching, multiple positions, oral (female rec), hand job, fingering, pussy whipped mingyu, p in v intercourse, threesome, breast worship, nipple play, nicknames: Princess, good girl, baby (hers) baby (wonwoo)

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw

an: thank you @supi-wupi for beta reading and @flowerwonu and @aeristudios for listening and fully helping me figure this story out.

🎧: bed chem - sabrina carpenter | tonight - pinkpantheress | beg for you - charli xcx (feat: rina sawayama)

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the little nook by the window, you scroll through your phone aimlessly. Wonwoo is sitting across from you working on his laptop and enjoying his favorite morning beverage, an americano.

Mingyu is nowhere to be seen. You assume your other roommate took an early morning trip to the gym. He and Seungcheol often like meeting to work out.

The front door opens and sure enough, in walks Mingyu. He’s dressed in those godforsaken sweatpants he’s been wearing too often. The whole time you have lived with the two boys you have tried your hardest not to catch feelings for either of the boys. You thought you were doing a good job. Wonwoo and you were best friends and you knew you worked well as friends. Mingyu on the other hand was more of a problem. In recent months he and his wonderful grey sweatpants have been hunting your horny dream. This man is a giant and you can’t help but imagine, every part of him is huge. The issue is, his sweatpants do nothing to hide how big he is down below. Closing your eyes you tried to push away your indecent thoughts.

Mingyu walks over to the table almost frantically. He says your name, and you glance up at him.

“Opinions on being tied to the bed?” You almost choke on your coffee. Mingyu decided to ask you this very blunt question out of nowhere. Wonwoo lets out a laugh looking up from his laptop. In the whole two years you have lived together you and Mingyu haven’t really spoken about your sex lives. Sure you and Wonwoo have talked about things of this nature. But Mingyu has always liked to keep this part of his life private. The whole time you have lived together he only brought one girl home, and oh god was she loud. Luckily your bedroom is near the kitchen. Wonwoo has the unfortunate luck of sharing a bedroom wall with Mingyu. This girl was so loud Wonwoo’s noise canceling headphones didn’t even help. About an hour into Mingyu's little sexual encounter, Wonwoo came to your room to sleep in an attempt to escape the noise.

“Maybe, hello how are you? Or even I have a wild question I would like to ask?” Setting your coffee down on the table.

“Hello my dear roommate. How are you?” He literally doesn’t even give you a second to answer. “Now, what do you think about being tied to the bed?” He’s calmed down, maybe a little, but not much.

“Like during sex?” Wonwoo lets out a snicker at your question.

“Obviously during sex.” Mingyu responses.

“Gyu why are you being weird?” Wonwoo closes his laptop.

“Cheol said I’m vanilla.” Bingo we have a winner. Of course this conversation is all because of Seungcheol. Seungcheol and his goddamn big mouth once again is causing chaos in your life. This is the same man that once had you jump into a pool naked to prove a point.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re asking our sweet roommate about being tied to a bed.”

“Cheol said girls normally like it when a man takes control.” Well it seems like Seungcheol has frazzled Mingyu, and now he’s a rambling mess. Next time you see Seungcheol you’re definitely going to yell at him. “He was telling me all about his girl he had sex with and tied to his bed. According to him she was crying and begging him to go harder.”

“Why are you listening to Cheol?” Wonwoo knows all too well that Seungcheol knows how to run his mouth.

“I don’t know.” He sighs, pulling out the chair and sitting down between you and Wonwoo.

“Have you ever had a girl complain?” Wonwoo has fully stepped into the conversation. You’re left silent, still in shock this conversation is even happening.

“No.” He sounds defeated.

“Dude, not all girls like to be dominated.” Wonwoo responds.

“Are you dominant in bed?”

Wonwoo sighs and leans back. “I wouldn’t say I’m a hard dom or anything like that. But I’m in charge in bed.” You definitely didn’t expect your breakfast conversation to consist of learning more about Wonwoo’s sex life.

“What about you? Do you want to be dominated?” Mingyu turns his attention back to you.

“I don’t want to be fully dominated or anything like that, but—“ You pause, you aren’t exactly sure how much of your sex life you want to share. “I like when whoever I’m with is in control.”

“Is our sweet girl a pillow princess?” Wonwoo is wearing a wicked grin. His words do something to you.

“I’m not a full blown pillow princess, but I like when a man is in control.”

The room feels suffocatingly small suddenly. You can feel Mingyu’s eyes burning into you. Your eyes haven’t left Wonwoo’s. Even behind his glasses you can feel him almost undressing you with his eyes.

“Maybe _____ can let you test out being in charge?” Wonwoo speaks, finally breaking the screaming loud silence.

“Wonwoo?” You say his name not even sure what you want to say. This whole situation feels crazy.

“What?” He tilts his head giving you a smirk.

Glancing over at Mingyu you see him blushing. It’s clear he definitely didn’t see the conversation going this way.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

How on earth did you end up in this situation?

Sitting on Mingyu bed you’re a mix of emotions. On one hand you’re excited and turned on at just the thought of being with Mingyu, on the other you’re nervous. You’ve never been in a situation like this before.

“Are you going to tie me to the bed?” You look over at Wonwoo.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes and leans back against the wall. “I don't know if Gyu is ready for that. Maybe we stick with tying your hands in front of you.” Wonwoo fidgets with the pink tie that he took from Mingyu’s dresser.

“How do you know I’m not ready for it?” Mingyu pouts.

“Do you really want to tie her to the bed until she’s begging to touch you?”

Honestly the idea of Mingyu doing that definitely turns you on. Looking over at Wonwoo he gives you a smile. Something about the way he’s looking at you lets you know he knows what you’re thinking.

“I don’t know.”

“Gyu, let's start with laying her on her back and you can eat her out until she cries. Or I can hold her hands above her head.” You’re suddenly very aware that Wonwoo plans on staying in the room while you and Mingyu have sex.

“Are you staying?” It’s going to eat you alive if you don’t ask him.

“I can if you want me to.” Wonwoo steps closer to you. God do you want him to stay. If you’re going to get the chance to be with Mingyu for at least one night you want to have your cake and eat it too. This might be the close you get to being with Wonwoo.

“Please.”

“So polite.” He gives you a wicked grin. His hand pinches your chin tilting your head up.

“What is the game plan, Gyu?” Wonwoo teases.

“I think we should kiss before I dive straight into eating you out.”

Mingyu steps closer to you. He grabs your hand helping you stand up. Looking up at your very tall roommate butterflies flutter around your stomach. God Mingyu is beautiful. Reaching out, his hand rests on your cheek. Without even thinking you blurt out, “god you’re pretty.” Mingyu gives you a crooked smile while you hear Wonwoo let out a laugh behind you.

Leaning forward he rests his nose against yours. Your lips are so close you can almost taste his mango lip balm he loves to wear. “Are you sure you want to do this?” His hand is resting on your hip.

“Please just kiss me.” That’s all you have to say. His lips touch yours and those butterflies in your stomach go crazy. Reaching out you tangle your fingers in his shirt pulling him closer to you. He slides his tongue across your bottom lips. Parting your lips he slides his tongue against yours. It turns out Mingyu isn’t just hot, he’s also an incredible kisser. His hand that is on your hip slides down to your butt. He grabs a handful of your fleshy butt cheek pulling you closer to him. His straining erecting is causing a tent in his jeans.

Moaning into his mouth causes him to grip your butt again. “Fuck—“ he moans against your lips.

Pulling always you’re practically out of breath. Looking past Mingyu you see Wonwoo sitting on the edge of the bed intently watching you two. Your eyes lock and he gives you a smile. “Princess, did you like that?” Wonwoo asked.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you strip off your clothes and lay on the bed for Gyu?” You’re being reminded that Wonwoo said he likes to be in charge.

Looking up at Mingyu he looks at you with lust blown eyes. He puts his hand under your chin. “Can you listen to Wonwoo?” This is a weird dynamic you weren’t necessarily prepared for.

Stripping off your clothes you stand there feeling extremely exposed. Wonwoo stands up and walks towards you. You must look like a deer caught in headlights standing naked in front of them while they’re both fully dressed. He stops in front of you.

“Why do you look scared?” He asked.

“It feels weird being the only one naked.”

“Did you want me to take some clothes off?” He pushes hair away from your face.

“Can you two at least strip down to your boxers?”

“Gyu, get naked for her.” Wonwoo steps back and strips off his own clothes until he’s left in just his boxer-briefs. You’ve seen Wonwoo walk around in his underwear before, and you always try your hardest not to stare, but now you feel like you can fully enjoy the sight of his beautiful body.

The sound of Mingyu’s belt hitting the floor captures your attention. Your eyes lock on Mingyu as he strips off all his clothes. He’s left standing in front of you fully naked. His golden skin is fully on display. His whole body is. Work of art between his abs and his very large cock.

“Pretty girl, lay on the bed for Mingyu.”

Laying down in the middle of the bed, Mingyu’s eyes stay locked on your. Wonwoo moves so he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. “Hands above your head princess.” You don’t think twice, you just listen to Wonwoo. “Can I hold your hands together while Mingyu takes care of you?”

“Yes.”

With Wonwoo’s large hands he’s able to grip both of your wrists with ease.

“Gyu, dive on in—“

The sight of Mingyu's head between your legs isn’t something you ever thought you would see. Not only is your roommate absolutely beautiful, but holy hell is he good with his mouth. Desperately you want to tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him against your wet core.

Looking up you tug on your hands that are being restrained by Wonwoo. He’s looking down at you with a look you can’t quite decipher.

“Be a good girl.” He practically scolds you.

“Mingyu—“ without thinking you push your pelvis up towards his face.

“Someone is a needy girl. Maybe you aren’t a pillow princess.” It’s clear Wonwoo is a menace in bed.

Mingyu sucks on your clit, pumping two fingers in and out of you. “Wonu—“ Your brain feels fuzzy having Wonwoo speak to you while Mingyu is pleasuring you.

“Are you close, baby?” Wonwoo pinches your chin again.

“Please—“

Lifting his face from your pussy Mingyu gives you a smile still rubbing your g spot with his thick fingers. “Cum for me.”

The white hot wave of your orgasm crashes over you. Every nerve in your body tingles as your walls convulse around Mingyu’s fingers.

“So good.” Wonwoo’s deep voice pulls you away from your high. He releases your hands. Slowly bring them down to your stomach.

Mingyu pulls away from you. Sitting on his knees he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes stay locked on yours. Your chest slowly rises and falls. How the hell is this whole situation even real?

“Did you want to stop?” Mingyu asked.

“God no.” You’re practically out of breath. Your chest is rising and falling quickly. The idea of stopping and you not being able to feel him stretching you open with his huge cock makes you want to cry.

“Give Wonwoo your hands again.”

Silently you stare at him with wide eyes. It’s so strange seeing Mingyu take full control. He’s always been so gentle with you as a friend. Wonwoo is still sitting next to you. He’s rubbing your arm helping to keep you calm.

“Can you keep being a good girl?” Wonwoo asked, capturing your full attention.

“Yes-“ your voice is meek.

“Mingyu grab a condom and some lube. She’s wet, but you’re too big for her.“ Your eyes immediately go down to Mingyu’s very large appendage. Wonwoo isn’t wrong, you’re wet but Mingyu is so big he might split you open without some extra help.

Mingyu hops off the bed and goes over to his night stand.

Wonwoo rests his hand on your cheek. He drags his thumb slowly across your bottom lip “Can I tie your wrist up with this tie?” He grabs the pink tie off the bed.

Silently you nod.

“Use your words, Princess.”

“Yes.”

Mingyu walks up to the foot of the bed and watches and Wonwoo gently wraps the pink tie around your wrist. He can’t help but smile watching how Wonwoo is so gentle with you even as he’s tying you up.

Wonwoo leans down with his face close to yours. Almost as if he’s trying to have an intimate moment without Mingyu involved. “Princess?”

“Yes.” You whisper. Your lips are so close to his.

“Are you good?

“Yes—“

“Do you know any other words other than just yes?” He teases you by rubbing his nose against yours.

“Wonwoo—“

“Yes?”

“Are you allowed to kiss me?”

He stills for a moment, looking over at Mingyu he finds his best friend standing there fully naked with a smile on his face. “Wonwoo, just give her what she wants.”

Without saying a word Wonwoo leans in, pressing his lips to yours. Kissing Wonwoo feels familiar. Maybe it’s because you’ve longed to know what it would be like to kiss him. Every part of your body reacts to the way his lips feel against yours. He’s still holding your hands above your head. His tongue runs along your bottom lip. Parting your lips, you slide your tongue against his, deepening the kiss.

Wonwoo pulls away and lets out a little chuckle. “You’re so good to us.” He moves back to sitting next to you holding your wrist.

Mingyu crawls back onto the bed. “Put your feet on the bed and spread your legs princess.”

Mingyu sits on his knees between your spread legs. Grabbing the lube he pops the cap open, pouring some on your already wet core and helps massage you open, before he coats his own length. Taking his length in his hand he runs it through your folds a few times before he prods the blush colored tip against your entrance.

“Princess, it might hurt a little. If you need me to stop, just say so.” Mingyu says.

“Okay.”

Glancing up at Wonwoo he gives you that same gentle smile. “You got this princess.”

Looking down at Mingyu he rubs your thigh helping you relax. Ever so slowly he pushes into you. The stretching feeling isn’t like anything you have ever experienced before. Squeezing your eyes closed, you try to focus on Wonwoo’s hand that is on your arm, and Mingyu’s hand rubbing your thigh. Once Mingyu bottoms out there is a moment where you wonder if this will actually feel good. The stretching feeling isn’t something you have experienced before.

Your eyes slowly flutter open and Wonwoo is there intently watching you. Mingyu doesn’t move any. He’s rubbing your thigh letting you adjust.

“Pretty girl, can you look at me?” You look down at Mingyu to find him giving you a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“So full.” You hate how whiny you sound.

“You’re doing so good. Tell me when I can move, Princess.”

“Can you go slow?” The only chance you have to fully enjoy this, is if Mingyu goes slow and lets you adjust properly to his size.

“Of course.”

He starts at a slow pace of almost pulling out all the way, just leaving in his tip, before pushing back in. His hand moves to your mound resting there so his thumb can toy with your clit.

The sinful moans leaving Mingyu lips are intoxicating. He picks up his pace a little. His thumb never stops playing with your sensitive bundle of nerves. Without evening thinking you tug on your wrist. Not being able to touch either boy is driving you insane.

“Ugh—“ you whine.

“Baby do your wrists hurt?” There Wonwoo goes calling you baby again. If your brain could fully process what is happening you might start overthinking his newest pet name for you.

“Fuck—“ you’ve never been this vocal in bed. Mingyu is pulling noises out of you’ve never heard before.

“Mingyu, she can’t even think straight.” Wonwoo teases.

“She’s so fucking tight.” He groans.

“Keep making her feel good.” Wonwoo gently rubs your arms helping to ground you.

Your eyes stayed locked on Mingyu watching the way he only focused on you. The coil in your stomach is threatening to snap. The stretching feeling has dissipated to pure pleasure. The tension in your body is almost too much to bare. Suddenly a white hot fire takes you over.

Squeezing your eyes, you bite your bottom lips trying to hold back all the whiny noises trying to pass your lips. Without even thinking you moan the wrong boy's name. “Wonwoo—“ it’s a broken cry for the man holding your wrist.

Instantly Mingyu laughs at the situation. Wonwoo’s eyes are locked on you. He can’t believe what’s unfolding. Mingyu stills for a moment.

“I feel like I should be offended if you're moaning Wonwoo’s name, when I’m the one who made you cum.” Your eyes snap open and it feels like an ice cold bucket of water has been dumped on you. Your face burns with embarrassment.

“Oh my god.” You tug on your wrist. “Mingyu—“

“Hey, princess stop freaking out. It’s fine. My feelings aren’t hurt.” Mingyu stops playing with your clit. His large hand rubs your thigh helping you calm down.

Wonwoo’s eyes haven’t left you. He releases your wrist and just stares at you for a long moment.

“Wonwoo, why don’t you untie her and let her touch you.” Mingyu’s voice has a calming effect on both of you.

“What do you mean?” You speak up.

“I’m saying I’m going to keep fucking you. And you’re going to come again. But now you can play with Wonwoo. You can try and make him come.”

Wonwoo releases your hands and unties your wrist. Pulling your wrist down you look up at Wonwoo and see him smiling. He grabs your wrist and gently massages them. “Baby are you okay?”

“Yeah—“

“Can you come again?” Mingyu asked, grabbing your attention.

“Yes.” Mingyu moves so he’s hovering over you. He pressed his lips to yours for a heated kiss. Without even thinking you tangled your fingers in his hair holding him close to you.

“Such a good girl.” Mingyu whispers against your lips. Mingyu pulls back sitting on his knees.

“Princess, have fun with Wonwoo.” Without giving you a moment to process his words Mingyu thrust into you slowly.

Turning your head you look at Wonwoo who is still sitting right next to you. Reaching out you touch his thigh. He’s like the forbidden fruit you’re finally able to taste. Your hand grips his thigh desperately wanting to hold him close.

Mingyu’s pace is faster than before. A string of moans and whimpers passing your lips.

“ugh—“ he’s hitting a spot deep inside you that makes you feel as if you're unable to speak.

Wonwoo rests his hand on your cheek, turning your face to him. “You’re so pretty. Especially like this. Mingyu has you so fucked out you can barely think.”

“She’s so good for us.” Mingyu responds.

“Mingyu, can we change positions?” Wonwoo wants you to be able to fully touch him, and this position isn’t helping.

Mingyu immediately stops moving. “How do you want her?”

“Let’s have her ride you while she’s facing me.”

“You heard him princess.” Mingyu taps your thigh.

“Wonwoo?”

“Yes baby?” He drags your thumb along your bottom lip.

“Can you strip naked?”

Without saying a word Wonwoo gets off the bed and takes off his boxers. The sight of his erection hitting his stomach is mouth watering. How on earth do you go back to living normally with both these men after this. You’ve been crushing hard before this but now you’re pretty sure you’re going to fall in love.

Mingyu is quick to practically manhandle you into the position Wonwoo requested. Mingyu is sitting with his back against a few pillows. You’re sitting on your knees with Mingyu snug inside you. Wonwoo is sitting on his knees in front of you. Leaning forward he presses his lips to yours for a simple kiss. “Touch me however you want .” He whispers against your lips. “Be a good girl and ride Mingyu.”

Lifting your hips you sink back down on his length. At this angle he’s hitting deeper inside than before. Reaching forward you run your hands along the dips and ridges of Wonwoo’s abs. His eyes stay locked on you intently watching you.

Mingyu can’t keep his lips to himself. He’s leaving a wet trail of kisses up the side of your neck. His hands grope your breast toying with your nipples. Rolling your head back against Mingyu's shoulder.

“Gyu—“ his name is nothing but a broken moan.

“So good—“ he moans against your ear.

Reaching out your hand you desperately want to feel Wonwoo. He must understand what you want. He laces his finger with yours. Without saying anything he princes his lips to the top of your hand for a gentle kiss.

“Gyu, play with her clit.”

Mingyu dips one of his hands between your legs. The moment his fingers find your clit you can’t help but whimper. Another orgasm is on the brink of breaking. With little effort Mingyu already knows how to play your body like a violin. He knows how to make you fall apart with little effort.

“Can you come for me sweetheart?” His voice is raspy against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Squeezing Wonwoo’s hand you’re hit with another crashing high. This one hits harder than the others. You’ve never had this many orgasms in one night. Falling forward into Wonwoo you can’t think about anything. Your mind feels like mush. Every nerve in your body feels like a live wire. Wonwoo holds on to you, not letting you fall.

“Fuck—“ Mingyu groans lifting his hips. He falls apart with you.

Holding you flush against his thighs you both ride out your highs. He leaves a trail of gentle kisses across the top of your shoulder.

“You were so good.” Mingyu whispers barely loud enough for Wonwoo to hear.

You’ve never felt this fucked out and dazed in your life. Your eyes feel too heavy to open.

Slowly pulling you back against him, Mingyu lays his large hand across your stomach. Wonwoo hasn’t let go of your hand. Your head is leaning back on Mingyu's shoulder.

“Gyu I don’t think you’re very vanilla like Cheol said.” Wonwoo says squeezing your hand. “You might have broken our girl.”

“Princess, can you sit up?” Mingyu asked, slowly rubbing your side.

“Yeah.” Your legs feel like jello as you move off of Mingyu. Lifting your hips he slides out of you. Instantly you feel empty. Wonwoo helps you crawl onto the bed.

Taking your hand Wonwoo helps you stand up. Mingyu crawls off the bed. He pats Wonwoo’s back before he starts getting dressed. “Wonwoo take care of our girl.”

“I need to get cleaned up and I think you two need some alone time.” Mingyu can tell that after that whole experience you and Wonwoo have something you should probably discuss.

Wonwoo takes your hand leading you out of Mingyu’s room. Neither of you say anything as he takes you to the bathroom by his room. Walking in he immediately turns on the shower. He stands closer to you. He pushes your hair away from your face. You probably look like a complete mess. He sets glasses down on the bathroom counter. He leaned in close and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You did good, baby.”

“Wonwoo—“ Your body is sore, but you crave being close to Wonwoo.

“Yeah?” He lingers close to you.

“Can I take care of you after the shower?”

“If you have the strength you can.” He gives you a smile.

Standing under the hot water Wonwoo massages your vanilla scented shampoo into your hair. The hot water helps relax your sore body.

“It’s safe to say Mingyu isn’t vanilla like Cheol said.”

“He’s bossy,” you pout leaning back against him.

“Did you like it?”

“I like everything that happened.” That whole scenario that took place in Mingyu’s room was incredible, and doesn’t feel real.

“Would you do it again?” He can’t lie, the idea of sharing you again with Mingyu is exciting. Him and Mingyu are close but he’s never had a threesome with him before. After what he just witnessed he would do it again in a heartbeat. He discovered that he and Mingyu make a great team.

“Yes—“

“I enjoyed that.” He runs his hand up and down your side slowly.

“If it happened again, could you be more involved?” He would do anything to be more involved next time.

“Absolutely. It might seem like Mingyu and I were in charge in there, but you have the full say in what you want.”

“Wonwoo?” You step away from him, stepping further under the warm water.

“Yes baby?” Running your fingers through your hair you rinse the shampoo from your hair.

“I like you.” You’ve liked him for so long, there isn’t any reason why you shouldn’t confess that to him now.

“I like you too, like a lot.” Looking over your shoulder you find him giving you a smile.

“Is it bad that I like Mingyu too?” Unfortunately you don’t just have feelings for Wonwoo, Mingyu has a piece of your heart as well.

“That’s not a bad thing. I can share.” He knew before he suggested you and Mingyu hooked up, that both him and his best friend had feelings for you. He had a feeling you returned their feelings but he wasn’t fully sure.

“Let me put some conditioner in your hair.”

The moment you’re out of the shower, Wonwoo helps you dry off before he drags you off to his room.

“Can you lay on the bed for me?” You ask, poking his chest.

“What do you want to do?” He steps towards his bed.

“I want to ride you.”

Wonwoo isn’t one to tell you no. Crawling onto his bed he lays down in the middle of his white bedspread. Crawling onto his bed you sit on his thighs. You take your time dragging your finger across the dips and peak of his abs. You could spend hours exploring every inch of his body.

His large cock twitches as you run your fingers along the veins that lead towards his cock.

“I’ve always wanted to touch you like this.” You whisper. Slowly you start pumping his hardening length.

“Just give me a minute and I’ll be ready.” He doesn’t want a hand job. He wants to know what it’s like to feel you, just like Mingyu did.

He groans softly as you focus on his blush colored tip. He’s larger than average and thick, but not as massive as Mingyu. He's much more manageable for you. Maybe next time you can take your time blowing him.

“Baby I want to feel you.”

“As you wish.” You lift your hips hovering over his straining length.

“Do we need a condom?” Wonwoo asked.

“I’m clean and I trust you. I trust Mingyu too. Maybe next time he can go bare too.”

“I want to feel you bare.”

Slowly you sink down on his length. He might not be as big as Mingyu, but he’s still stretching you out. Resting your hands on his chest, you keep a slow pace lifting your hips until only his tip is left inside before slowly sinking back down. Wonwoo cock curves up slightly so he’s brushing the spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

His large hands grip your soft hips helping you move.

Wonwoo pushes himself up with his hands. He wants to be able to kiss you as you ride him.

The kiss is sloppy, filled with tongue, and echoing moans into each other's mouths.

“Wonwoo—“ you can’t focus on anything other than your rapidly approaching orgasm. Your core is sensitive and if he touches your overstimulated clit you might cry.

“Baby—“ he moans against your lips.

The moment you’re hit with your fourth orgasm of the night you try your hardest to keep moving your hips. Wonwoo grips your hips helping you move. He’s not far behind you, holding you flush against his thighs as he finally finds his own release. He fills you to the brim painting your walls white with his milky release.

The world is at a stand still and the only thing that matters is the way Wonwoo is looking at you. Lifting your shaky hands you push your fingers through his dark hair.

“I like that you call me baby.” You give him a small smile.

“I’ve wanted to call you that for a while.”

Leaning forward you press your lips to his for another kiss.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Opening Wonwoo’s bedroom door, Mingyu is quite pleased at the sight in front of him. He finds you and Wonwoo both clearly naked curled up together asleep. Mingyu knew long before he kissed you for the first time, that you and Wonwoo were meant to be. Mingyu has had his own crush on you for a while, but he always had a feeling you and Wonwoo would end up together. He’s realizing now that maybe both him and Wonwoo could both have you.

Mingyu pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of you and Wonwoo curled up. The sight of his two best friends like this makes him so happy.

Your eyes pop open and you see Mingyu standing there smiling. “Mingyu, what are you doing?” You say before yawning.

“Just taking a picture of you two love birds.”

“What is happening?” Wonwoo says, sounding as if he’s still asleep.

“Mingyu took a photo of us.” You pull away from Wonwoo slightly.

“Can you blame me, you guys are cute.” He leans further against the doorframe.

“Mingyu isn’t this weird?” You can’t help but ask.

“No, not at all. Wonwoo and I are good at sharing, princess. Even if you’re his girlfriend, we can still share.” Being called Wonwoo’s girlfriend is new.

Wonwoo lets out a laugh pulling your naked body closer to him. “He's right we can be good at sharing.”

“What?”

“Don’t overthink it baby.” Wonwoo presses an open mouth kiss to your bare shoulder.

“Am I your girlfriend?”

“___ you’re definitely Wonwoo's girlfriend.” Mingyu immediately responded.

“This is the weirdest night of my life.” There is no way you could ever explain this night to anyone.

“I guess I should thank Cheol.” Mingyu said. Who knew Seungcheol teasing would lead to all this.

“I don’t know if I want to hit him or thank him.”

Seungcheol and his big mouth might be the reason Wonwoo is now your boyfriend, and the reason Mingyu is somehow a part of your relationship.

If you have asked to be tagged I request that you please reblog. If you could leave comments and or tags that would be greatly appreciated.

[stevesgother]

hi lovely! i have some requests from one taurus to another 😽😽

if we could combine the stop flirting with me/ i can’t i like seeing you get flustered and 16 from the smut prompts (the sunscreen one) that would be so amazing of you

maybe reader is robins friend who’s got it bad for steve (and the feeling is mutual) but they’re both being idiots about it and steve finally invites her over to the pool to listen to music or something, or maybe they’re on a group trip idk you decide

MWAH thank you and happy birthday 🩷🧁

ok i've finally gotten around to this and i'm so excited MDNI! fem!reader, smut, piv, bathroom sex, language, cocky!steve a little bit bc he knows he's your crush and he loves it

sex on fire

"Is he going to be there?" You ask hopefully. Pathetically.

Robin points out as much, "Oh my god, you're actually pathetic,"

See, Robin Buckley has two best friends-- whom she loves very much-- but God, they will not stop talking about each other to her. She has to physically swallow down the bile that rises in her throat at the mental image of the two of you bumping uglies nearly every day.

"He's going to be there, but--" she sees the glint in your eye and immediately begins talking faster, "I do not want to spend my one afternoon not trapped inside a stale family video watching the two of you make heart eyes at each other. Got it?"

You salute her, straightening your posture in mock seriousness. You were going to give her request an effort, really. But now that you know he's going to be there, it's all you can do not to think about the straight slope of his nose, or the moles that dot in abundance all over his tanned, olive skin. You can already picture the broad expanse of his shoulders and the thatch of hair that starts at the top of his pecks and disappears beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. God, you want to find out just where that trail leads--

"Hey!" Robin snaps her slender fingers in front of your face, "You're literally already drooling."

"Rob," you raise your right hand, "I solemnly swear that I will be on my best behavior."

"It's not even you I'm really worried about," she groans. Already conjuring the mental image of the man she's seen Steve morph into around a woman he finds attractive, like a male bird during mating season. And what's worse is that he doesn't even just find you attractive-- that would be one thing. Steve wants to take you out to get greasy diner food after a night of barhopping and dancing; he wants to hold your hand during horror movies and wake up to you in his bed. Steve wants to do all kinds of things that aren't fucking you stupid anywhere and everywhere that was technically legal.

The entire friend group was gathered together around Steve's ridiculously well-maintained inground pool on the hottest day in July. Maybe the hottest day of the year. You'd nearly been late because of how much time you'd spent picking out a swimsuit. Something that wasn't too slutty but still didn't leave a lot to the imagination.

Steve, evidently, had the same idea. You've never seen men's swim trunks with such a short inseam that wasn't a Speedo; though you've seen Steve in that, too. Thank you, Hawkins High Swim Team!

Robin had never technically told you that Steve had a huge, honking crush on you; but you had your suspicions. It was in the way his eyes darkened a little when he watched you take off your sundress to step into the refreshing water of the pool. He tried to hide behind his Ray Bans, but he wasn't slick. Everywhere you went, Steve was never far behind. Opting to get you a drink, to sit at the empty seat beside you at his picnic table on the patio, or using whatever pool float that you weren't.

You started to feel the unmistakable ache of a sunburn on your shoulders around an hour into the party as you realize with a stark clarity that you never put on sunscreen. Idiot.

Robin must've packed some in her tote bag; that's what Robins do, right?

After scouring through the contents though, you come up empty.

"I'll be back in a minute!" You yell to the rest of the party as you head inside the sliding glass door. You make your way to the only Harrington bathroom you could locate and start tearing through the linen closet. How is there not a single bottle of sunscreen in this whole damn house--

"Looking for something?" A charming, tenor voice asks you from the doorway.

You jolt and feel your face go red for an entirely different reason that has nothing to do with the hot ball of fire in the sky, "Uhm, yeah, sorry I--"

"Oh," Steve tsks when he takes a glance at your shoulders, "lookin' a little burnt, huh?"

"Yeah-- that's--actually why I'm in here. Looking for sunscreen." He makes you so stupid and syrupy it's infuriating.

Steve reaches over you into the top shelf of the medicine cabinet that had been right in front of you, disguised as a mirror.

"Here," he smiles and holds it out for you to take like you hadn't just gotten the most delicious whiff of his deodorant and natural musk; like you hadn't just gotten a front row, unobstructed view of his perfect biceps flexing.

"Th-thanks." You stutter, hating yourself for it.

"Hey, no problem," he winks. Asshole. "Can you reach your back though? That's where you're gonna need it," his tone would suggest he's actually concerned, but you know better.

"Stop flirting with me," you warn, impossible to take seriously with the way your voice shakes.

"Can't," Steve says, lifting the bottle of sunscreen and flipping open the cap with his thumb, "I like seeing you flustered,"

A cold dollop of sunscreen hits the warmed skin of your back, then Steve's gentle but calloused hands spreading it evenly over the expanse of your shoulders. His thumbs dig and knead at the tense muscle there, it causes your breath to hitch in your throat.

"Haven't been able to stop looking at you all day," Steve whispers against the shell of your ear, his breath fanning your neck. He smells like mint and summer and chlorine.

"I know," you choke on your breath.

"Bullshit," his hands have suddenly moved lower, your shoulders forgotten. Steve's mouth connects with the supple skin of your jaw; the imprint of his grin on your neck. His fingers hook beneath the waistline of your bikini, snapping it back into place with the harsh sound of wet fabric meeting skin. You can feel the hard outline of him against your ass, hardly any layers separating you with how both of your swimsuits are still a little damp. You don't dare to imagine what it would feel like if the two of you really were stripped bare.

You tilt you head back to grant him easier access to continue his assault on your neck, "Eck-" Steve says suddenly, breaking your focus.

"What-- is everything okay?" You ask worriedly, afraid you'd done something to disgust him and not even known it.

"Got sunscreen in my mouth," he smiles sheepishly, the first time since the two of you have been trapped in this tiny half-bath that Steve has dropped his cocky vibrato. You liked the shy look on him.

"Oh," you giggle and turn to face him, bracing your hands on the cool ceramic of the sink, "Maybe kissing me would help get the taste out of your mouth?" His cheeks flush. Checkmate.

Steve Harrington might appear to be all smooth smiles and charming sentiments, but its a rouse. Behind all of that arrogant bullshit is a boy who wants to be liked-- wants to be wanted. It takes almost nothing for him to crack.

His breath stutters as he leans in, trying to take some of the power back that he'd momentarily lost. The kiss is hesitant at first, his lips soft and plush. He pushes when you pull and he slips his tongue between your lips when you part them for him. Predictable. Easy.

"I like you, Steve," you admit quietly against his lips. He pulls back to look at you, properly doe-eyed.

"But if we do this, I want to go out with you. Really go out. On a real date. No more of this 'will-they-won't-they' shit." You continue.

"Of-of course." He stutters, "Anywhere. I'd take you anywhere." and he means it. Not just because he wants to get his dick wet now, and not because more sex might follow a successful date.

"Okay," you breathe, leaning in again.

"Okay." Steve breathes back.

His lips collide with yours more hungrily now, with the knowledge that this could really happen again. His hands pull your pelvis flush to his by your waist, a moan escapes you at the press of his dick against where you've been throbbing for him since the moment you stepped foot on the Harrington's back deck.

His hips grind rhythmically against you as one of his hands finds the back of your neck at the same time that your fingers begin carding through his chlorine soaked hair.

"Can I take these off?" Steve pants, referring to your bathing suit bottoms.

"Yes," you even lift and shimmy your hips to help the tacky fabric move down your legs and onto the tiled floor with a heavy plop!

Steve's fingers find your clit in record time-- Seriously, who would've thought?-- and he rubs consistently tight circles over you. You're positively falling apart in his hands, and you might've been more embarrassed if you weren't so horny.

You pull the tie of his swim trunks loose and watch them fall to his ankles; his cock bobbing deliciously against your stomach with the close proximity. It was surreal getting to see it somewhere other than in your wet dreams.

Steve falls to his knees like a man worshipping an ancient being, spreads your thighs with two huge hands and licks a long stripe up your centerfold. It all happens so fast, you don't have even a second to catch up. Your hips buck once into his mouth, but he takes it like a champ-- licking and sucking in all the right places with just the right pressure.

"Steve," you gasp, taking a fist full of his hair to guide him exactly where you need him. He loves it, revels in it, even. He hums in encouragement as you continue to ride his face in earnest, the beautifully straight slope of his nose proves its more than just for show as it bumps deliciously against your clit every time Steve moves his head.

His mouth is too busy to do anything but make choked noises of gratification before slipping his index and middle finger into your soaked core. There's not even an ounce of resistance.

Steve continues pumping in and out of you, rests his cheek on your thigh, "Gotta get her ready f'me, baby," he tells you, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the junction where your leg meets your hip.

Steve stops suddenly. It takes literally every ounce of composure you have left not to whine and cry like a child over the loss of stimulation.

"Wait." Steve says, looking up at you from his knees; his mouth shiny with spit and your arousal, pupils nearly all the way blown.

"What?" You ask exasperatedly.

"I don't have any condoms--"

"Steve!"

"I'm sorry! I've been having a dry spell, forgive me!" He defends but it's useless. No amount of unbridled, pent-up horniness is going to convince you to let this a man fuck you raw, especially when you're not on the pill.

"Just--" You rush for an idea. Any idea. "Fuck my thighs then?"

"Fuck your-?" His eyebrows quirk and it'd be cute if you weren't so desperate to get the friction back.

"Yes, just," you huff, help pull him to his feet, turning yourself around to face the bathroom mirror, "Like this." You guide his heavy cock in between the wet mess of your thighs, and the unexpected touch causes Steve's hips to jolt and an embarrassingly pathetic whine to tumble from his lips.

Steve gets the hang of it quickly, moving in slow languid strokes while his eyes boar into yours in the mirror's reflection. It's way hotter than it should be.

You push your hips back to meet his thrusts in time, signaling him to speed the rhythm up a bit. You needn't not remind Steve Harrington twice. For all his cocky vibrato, he's been shockingly quick to fall to your will.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your head back to keep eye contact with him when your neck feels too weak to hold it up yourself, "Want you to keep lookin' at me, baby. That's it." There's that cocky vibrato again.

The feeling of his fist at the base of your skull is perfect, but not enough. You grab his hand and gingerly bring it around your front; he gets the memo. His index and middle fingers quickly resume the brutal pace Steve had previously set with his tongue. Between that and the mouth-watering friction of his cock sliding along the inside of your plush thighs, you're not far from the edge already. The pretty little noises he's making in your ear don't help either.

You're not even sure Steve knows what he's saying, just breathy whispers of praise as he ruts filthily against you:

Yeah, baby. That's it, so beautiful like this. Gonna make you come all over my cock, huh? Fuck, you feel so good. God.

The specifics don't matter; you're just praying he doesn't stop.

Before you know it, you're right there. "Yes, Stevie, don't stop! That's so good, baby."

Steve's mouth parts in a cocky grin, "Yeah? Right there?"

"Yes!" You gasp; mouth parted in a silent scream.

You're not sure what compels you-- you're not usually quite as vocal in bed. Or, in bathroom. "Good boy." You pant as your orgasm washes over you, knuckles white against the marble countertop of the Harrington's pristine half bath.

Steve comes immediately with a sharp gasp and teeth sunk into your shoulder to stifle whatever guttural noise would've escaped him if he hadn't. Oh. Steve Harrington has a praise kink. Dually noted.

The sink in front of you, his hand and your thighs are all covered in his release. Genuinely. There's so much.

A rough hand grasps your jaw, pulls you into a searingly hot kiss; deep and languid. Your breath mixes as you pant into each other's mouths.

A pounding on the door snaps you both from your reverie. It's Robin. She doesn't have to say anything, you just know.

"Hey, dickheads! Care to come help with dinner or are you guys content to keep sucking face all evening?"

Steve exhales a frustrated breath through his nose, "Jesus, Robin. We'll be out in a second. You hear her receding steps as she stomps off towards the kitchen once more.

Steve smiles at you, tender. Kisses your temple with soft, sweaty lips.

"This isn't over," he mumbles into your hairline.

"You're right. You still have to take me out on a date."

[lxstkxddo]

My angsty ass can't stop thinking about this so I'm making it everyone's problem.

So

During the confession we can see Dean crying and it is implied that he stays in the bunker crying and cries during the drive to reach Sam and jack (which is 8 hours long btw) and like

Everybody and their mom have written or read a fix it of some sort because like wtf

But also imagine if

If we never get another season and accept 15x20 as the canonical ending

Imagine how tragic Dean's story is? From the moment his mom died his life was fundamentally changed and he becomes others by society

And one day, when he is only seventeen, he is a child, a kid who should be having fun at school crushing on people and playing sports and having D&D nights with his friends

But no

Seventeen year old Dean is standing on the burning graves of two nuns who loved each other. His father did this on purpose. He knew and this is what happens to people "like him".

He buries this feeling, forgets every thought he's ever had about a boy and plays the part of the perfect straight son.

When his father dies he still hides this. Because what if Sam knows? He can't disappoint his baby brother like that.

But then he meets an angel. And this angel, contrary to everything everybody has ever told him, never judges him for this. He rebuilt his body and saw his soul and never once mentioned this to Dean.

And he falls in love with this angel, and their relationship is so strong and so honest that for a while he starts to believe that maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that maybe they can do it. And even if they can never be together like that, because obviously Cas can't possibly reciprocate these feelings, their relationship would make it.

But then he hears it. "I made a deal". And right then and there the world ends. This is final. Nobody is saved at the end of the story. They won this war. But everybody died.

Castiel, angel of the lord, the angel who chose free will, the angel whose love was so powerful to defeat God himself, is dead.

And Dean has never got the chance to tell him he loved him. Never got the chance to live the white picket fence with 2.5 kids.

But he could have. If only he had been more brave. If only he didn't care so much. If only he wasn't so repressed.

And he will live with this regret for the rest of his life.

Six months later, he doesn't see a say out of this desolation and this despair anymore. He let's that rebar stab him. Because what if he's dying? He's been dead many times and none of those have hurt half as much as living without Castiel does.

[wr2shw]

Flowers

description: you surprise him with flowers on a random day

pairing: harry lewis (w2s) x fem!reader; george clarke x fem!reader; arthur frederick (arthut tv) x fem!reader; chris dixon (chrismd) x fem!reader

genre: fluff

Harry Lewis

you were shopping for some groceries when you came across a cute little flower, you stop by just to browse around but the flowers were truly the most beautiful things. they were fresh and vibrant. looking at the flowers made you realise that you have never really got your boyfriend flowers. you have been with harry for nearly five years and not once have you thought about getting him flowers especially when he got you flowers every week. today you decide to change it. you picked some pink carnations with some baby’s breath and asked the shop lady to help you organise them.

“must be someone special. you picked flowers that add up to love and memories.” the lady say, handing you the flowers.

“he is very special.” you say smiling at the flowers and thanking the lady before leaving for home. when you arrive home, harry is sitting on the couch watching some show.

“you are back.” he say, looking at you. “come here, i missed you.” he opens his arms for you.

“i was gone for like an hour.” you say smiling a little at his clinginess. you put the groceries on the kitchen counter and grab the bouquet of flowers before walking up to him. “here.” you say handing him the flowers.

his posture changes completely, the legs that were resting on the table were now on the ground and his back which was leaning against the couch was now straight. he was shocked. “for me?” he says taking the flowers out of your hands, you hummed and sat beside him, leaning into him a little. “why? is there a special day today? don’t tell me i forgot, i have written down everything in my calendar.”

you chuckle at his frantic responses. “no, haz, i just thought you deserve some flowers too, it’s only fair. you get me flowers every week, this is the least i could do.”

he looks at them and then at you, then pulls you into his embrace. “you don’t have to do anything for me. you love me and that’s more than enough for me. you being happy is enough for me.”

you smile in his embrace, thanking the holy spirit above for blessing you with this man. “i just wanted you to feel special, just like how you make me feel.”

“well, i do feel special and thank you so much for the beautiful flowers. i will treasure them forever.” he says.

“you can’t treasure them forever, harry, they will die in a few days.” you say, shaking your head in adoration.

“well then i will preserve them. i have heard resin helps.” he says. and you chuckle at his imagination.

George Clarke

you are returning back home from a dinner with your friends when you saw a flower shop open. you were slightly tipsy after your night out so when a crazy idea popped in your head, you didn’t bother to rethink it. you brought some red tulips from the flower shop and made your way to george’s apartment. you and george were very close friends, but you liked george. more than a friend, so much more than just a friend. but you have always been scared, the fear of ruining your friendship with him always stoped you. but tonight, with the help of some liquid courage, you decided to face your fears.

when you arrived at his, chris and arthur’s shared apartment, you knocked on the door. after about a few moments, the door opens. “y/n? what are you doing here? it’s 10 pm.” chris asks as he lets you in.

“oh i am here to meet george.” you say smiling at him.

“right, well you know where his room is.” chris says as he vanishes in his own room.

you make your way to george’s room and softly knock on it, only opening it when you hear a little ‘come in’. when he sees you his face lights up immediately. “hey, poppet. what are you doing here at this hour? everything good?”

you try not to blush at the nickname. “everything’s fine.” you say, walking towards where he is sitting. “i just wanted to give you these.” you handed him the flowers.

“for me?” he says, smiling a little.

“yes.” you say, your voice soft. “george, do you know what red tulips mean?”

“no, enlighten me.” he says, smiling at you.

“they mean declaration of love.” you say and then take a deep breath. “george, i have liked you for a while now but always chickened out when i wanted to tell you but tonight i thought fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? you could kick me out and never speak to me, that’ll be a nightmare but at least the weight will be off my chest.”

he chuckles at your little speech. “i would never kick you out, poppet. you are the most beautiful and lively person i know. i have liked you from the day i saw you playing fifa with chris and losing miserably. you whined a little but then started laughing because me and chris were, i found it so beautiful.”

“but that was ages ago and how can a small incident make you feel so much?” you say, completely perplexed by his answer.

“well, i was scared to admit it too, and it may seem small but it did something to me.” he says smiling at you. “i love the flowers, i have never really got flowers from a girl before. i hope i get more in the future from you, you seem to have great taste in them.”

“oh yeah? you will definitely get a bunch more in the future. how about tomorrow we go out for dinner and i buy you more flowers?” you say.

“you brought me flowers and now i am being asked out, what a life. i could get used to the princess treatment you know.” you both chuckle at that.

the next day you do on a date and you bring him some more flowers which he loved.

Arthur Frederick

you and your family own a farm where you usually grow vegetables but this summer you decided to grow some flowers, more specifically sunflowers. they were in full bloom when you visited your parents this morning. they were bright, yellow and beautiful, reminding you of someone. you decided to pick some out and surprise him with them.

you reach home at around noon, you find arthur in the room recording a video so you decide not to disturb him. you start preparing some pasta for lunch. mid way through cooking arthur enters the kitchen.

“hey, i am making lunch, you want some?” you ask him.

“yeah.” he said, not paying much attention because he is focused on the flowers you have kept in the vase. “who got you flowers?” he asks.

“oh no, those are for you.” you say not looking up from your cooking.

“for me? you bought them for me?” he sounds surprised.

you turn to look at him and smile. “yes, arthur, for you. we are growing some sunflower in my parents farm and thought i’d get you some. you don’t like them?”

he shakes his head vigorously, “no no, i love them, it’s just weird to receive flowers out of blue.”

“well, be ready for more because i am planning to grow many more varieties.” you say smiling at him.

he comes over and kisses your cheeks. “thank you for these, made me feel special.”

“you are special.” you say ruffling his hair, teasingly.

“thank you.” he grins but then his eyebrows furrow and he asks. “wait that’s a compliment, right?” you chuckle and return back to cooking.

Chris Dixon

you and chris are on a long drive at night, when you decide to stop by a supermarket for some snacks. you quickly run to the store while chris waits in the car.

you grab some candies and crisps then decide to go checkout when you see some red roses. spontaneously, you decide to get some for chris, it’s not like this is the first time you are getting him flowers, you used to get him some at the beginning of your relationship but then eventually you forgot so today you thought to surprise him.

after paying you make your way to the car. as soon as chris sees you bring the roses he says, “you bought yourself flowers?”

“what? no. chris, these are for you.” you say, handing him the flowers.

“oh thank you, love.” he says smiling, admiring the flowers. “we haven’t done this is a while.” he says, being nostalgic.

“i know, and i felt like tonight was perfect.” you say.

“it is perfect.” he says smiling softly. “i am so lucky to have you.” he says and the car fills with a comfortable silence that makes you feel at peace.

[cherrygarcia-07]

Hii i read your fic where reader was like very kitchy and sunshiny (apple dumplin') and was wondering if you could write another fic with a kinda whimsy reader? Storyline can be anything, thank you!!

thank you so much for the req! i’m sorry it took so long! honestly i adore apple dumplin’ but i didn’t know what i was doing with her so thank you for letting me experiment with this kind of character again ! maybe i’ll go back to her one day :3

Ducks and Daisy Chains // Spencer Reid🌼

synopsis: you and spencer spend a picnic date together, talking about ducks, books and eachother

pairing: spencer x whimsy! reader

genre: fluff!!

word count: 2.8k

notes/tags: nothing! just all cuteness, lot of ducks, reader talks about ducks, spencer infodumps about ducks, ducks, also the very hungry caterpillar, spencer sasses a duck, little talk about readers insecurities but they’re okay, spencer is scared of a duck, apologies if the whimsy isn’t quite strong enough honestly i struggled a little i’m sorry :(, also ducks

masterlist / if you enjoy pls reblog it helps so much !! likes unfortunately do very little to promote :3

————————————🦆———————————

“This is why I don’t do picnics.” Spencer sighed petulantly as he swatted yet another nosy fly away from the spread of colourful food between you.

“You say this every time.” You rolled your eyes playfully, giggling as he grumbled under his breath.

“That’s because this happens every time.” He retorted, shielding his paper plate with his hands. “You know, we’re harassed by approximately 13 flies every picnic. 6.5 flies per hour that we’re sitting out here in the open like this.”

You snorted at your drama queen boyfriend as you half heartedly swatted at a fly yourself. “You say that like they’re hunting us.”

“I think they might be.” He muttered, scanning his surroundings like he was trying to spot a sniper.

Chuckling to yourself, you shook your head lightly as you stretched your legs out on the homemade blanket draped over the grass beneath you. In your fingers you toyed with the fraying edges of a haphazardly stitched on striped patch and made a mental note to fix it up once the two of you were home. Whenever there was an opportunity to use something you had made yourself Spencer took it without a second thought, even if it was quite literally falling apart at the seams. To him, nothing store bought could hold a candle, not even a tiny little matchstick flame, to the physical representation of your wonderful mind- your creativity and imagination woven into every stitch made it priceless.

“What’s our theme this time?” His voice rang, snapping your head up from the blanket. Every picnic there was a theme, something silly and fun chosen by you that he always rolled his eyes at with a tease but indulged you in with a smile nonetheless. The last time the theme had been all things red, much to Spencer’s delight as he excitedly launched into a vindicated speech about how flies like any insects can’t see the colour red and so they might actually leave him alone for once (they didn’t).

“Today’s theme, my pretty little patron,” you started with a grin, wiggling your fingers theatrically over the plates of food, “is the one and only Very Hungry Caterpillar.” You pulled your socks up from your ruby red mary janes to accentuate their stripy green pattern, little yellow buttons crudely stitched onto the ankles to mimic the caterpillar’s eyes.

Spencer’s brows furrowed in confusion as he looked around the setup and in an instant your expression dropped, half in disappointment and half in pity.

“Spencer Reid,” you gasped, scandalised, “don’t tell me you don’t know The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”He looked up at you apologetically, big puppy dog eyes burning through you. “All that Tolstoy and Dickens but you don’t know The Very Hungry Caterpillar? For shame.”

“Forgive me, it’s never exactly been at the top of my reading list.” He teased as he reached over to fiddle with the chunky green bracelet on your wrist, “but you look very cute regardless.”

You hummed skeptically, narrowing your eyes at him while trying to hold back the smirk on the corner of your lips. “Flattery will get you nowhere, doctor. Now eat something before the flies get it.” You scolded and he chuckled as you both turned your attention to the feast before you presented in such a way it would have the fairies envious.

Laid out on colourful paper plates every shade of the rainbow were various fruits, each one matching a day of the week scribbled at the top of the plate. Apple slices were arranged into the shape of a flower, tiny strawberries cut into the shape of stars, a spiral of orange sections that had made Spencer express his concerns for the famous caterpillar’s excessive vitamin C intake when you’d informed him it had consumed five in one day, to which you had pointed out that at least it won’t get scurvy. As well as this there were swiss cheese sandwiches (as the caterpillar had munched on swiss cheese on Saturday) and two small home baked cupcakes wrapped in green paper, shiny red glacé cherries nestled atop swirly white frosting.

As much as you played it off, it was painstakingly clear how much effort you had gone to in order to make this special for Spencer, and it made his heart soar. Truthfully, it had taken him a long time to get used to this kind of treatment from anyone after growing up packing his own lunches as well as his mother’s with whatever he could find in the house. Even as an adult he rarely spared a thought to it, often forgetting to eat lunch at all. Now as he watched you ramble about everything you had prepared just for him, your voice sweeter than any sugary treat you’d packed, he felt a warmth bloom within his chest that radiated out all the way to the tips of his ears as he listened to you talk. It was as if some entity somewhere, some magical force of nature far beyond his imagination or reasoning, had bestowed you upon him for whatever reason he seemed worthy and had changed his life for the better one colourfully clad shoe step at a time.

As the two of you sat side by side nibbling on fruit like a couple of mice, your eyes wandered over to the pond just ahead of you. Immediately your attention was stolen by the delightful sight of ducks paddling through the water, the sounds of splashing bouncing off of its surface.

“Oh, Spence look!” You exclaimed, pointing over giddily. “That one with the crazy hair kind of looks like you, don’t you think?”

Spencer followed your gaze to where a duck, with a slightly taller neck than the others, waddled around the outskirts of the pond, its head a mess of ruffled feathers sticking out in every direction.

“Oh, wow.” He laughed, watching as one large webbed foot missed the edge of the pond and sent it stumbling into the water. “It walks like me too.”

You laughed loudly as the clumsy duck stuck it’s face back up out of the water, shaking it’s damp head around in a way that reminded you of Spencer whenever you two would get caught in the rain.

“Oh and look at her,” you started, nodding towards an elegant looking duck striding through the pond as if it were her domain. “She looks like a Dorothy to me, what do you think?”

He hummed contemplatively, tilting his head in thought. When the two of you had first gotten together he’d found your affinity for assigning names and backstories to every animal you came across a little odd, albeit endearing, but overtime he’d learned to lean into it without a shred of hesitation. Think of it like profiling, you’d told him, only you’re profiling adorable little animals and not serial killers.

“The name Dorothy derives from Greek originally meaning ‘God’s gift’ or ‘gift of God’ so I’d say that’s fitting.” He spoke before turning to you with a smirk, “she certainly acts like it.”

“Oh, the sass!” You smirked back, leaning over to give him a playful slap on the arm as he laughed at himself quietly. “She definitely runs the place.”

A peaceful moment of quiet passed over the two of you as you sat and observed like a couple of documentary narrators waiting for something to happen. You shifted closer towards him, close enough to lean your shoulder against his, close enough to feel his comforting scent drift your way. You tilted your face towards him, your breath catching as you caught the way his soft hair tousled in the gentle summer breeze. The sun clearly favourited him, and why shouldn’t it? It seemed to shine down directly on him, spotlighting him in a golden halo that made him glow radiant and ethereal. The usual deep colour of his eyes was suddenly a kaleidoscope of honeyed browns and golds and greens, so beautiful that it was almost unfair. With a happy sigh you turned away from him, resting your head on his shoulder and letting a small smile grow on your face when you felt the familiar weight of his cheek against your hair.

“Can you see the duckling over there?” His warm voice crackled like fire, so cosy so close to your ear.

“What? No, I can’t.” You pouted, pulling your head off of his shoulder slightly to get a better look. “Point it out for me.”

Spencer raised his hand and pointed over to the pond and when your eyes followed they landed on the tiniest, fluffiest brown and yellow ball of fuzz you’d ever seen hobbling around the edge of the pond on tiny little webbed feet.

“Ohmygod!!” You squealed, gripping Spencer’s forearm instinctively. “Oh, we have to take it home!”

“Right and where are we going to keep it?” He asked, grinning down at you with adoration.

“In the tub.” You responded with authority. “We’ll keep the water cold and get all that mossy stuff they love and buy it a ton of veggies or whatever they eat!”

Spencer giggled as he pressed a light kiss to your temple, a little pre-emptive peace offering before he crushed your spirits. “Unfortunately I don’t think an apartment bathtub is the most healthy nor the most emotionally fulfilling environment for a duckling, sweetheart.” He leaned down further to offer another kiss to the pout forming on your lips.

“But I already named it in my head, Spence.” You grumbled, tossing your head back onto his shoulder in defeat.

“You say this every time.” He mimicked your words from earlier, wrapping one arm around your shoulder and pulling you in closer.

“That’s because this happens every time.” Your hands began picking at the daisies in the grass around the blanket, fingers working nimbly as you chained them together in an attempt to make yourself feel better. “Oh well. Maybe in 20 years they’ll run the place instead of Dorothy.”

“Actually mallard ducks generally have a lifespan of only 1-3 years.” Spencer hummed matter of factly as if he hadn’t just broken your heart into a million pieces.

“So you’re saying Alfred is only going to live 3 years?” You gaped up at him in horror, your polka dot nails stilling against the now half-made daisy chain.

“N-no! I, uh- I meant-“ He spluttered as if he’d just accidentally told a child that Santa wasn’t real. “The world’s oldest Mallards lived to be almost 30 years old!” He blurted desperately, breathing a sigh of relief when your hands resumed their movements with the small flowers.

“Good, good,” you nodded to yourself, “I’m going to make sure Alfred’s one of them.”

“Alfred?”

“Like the duck from Sesame Street.”

“Ah.” Spencer hummed, tucking your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “Of course.”

Another tranquil silence passed as Spencer admired you while you worked. Before, you’d been scared you weren’t good enough for him- too childish, too immature as you’d been told time and time again in the past. Of course you were smart. Like him you had an amazing fountain of knowledge on bizarre and incredibly niche topics, and you were well read and emotionally intelligent, but you were far too used to being undermined for the way you presented yourself. Spencer had never looked at you like that. In his eyes he held only wonder, in his mind he held only respect and in his heart he held only love, plain and simple. The truth is, you were exactly what he needed. Your brain was a masterpiece to him and ever the art lover he saw it as a privilege to sit and watch it paint with every vibrant outfit you put together or with every story that left your lips. His job was heavy, draining and demoralising and yet it all melted away when he was with you- his firefly in the dark, his rainbow in the storm. Never in his life had he felt so free to let his walls down, having always had to be the responsible adult long before he even turned 18. Honestly, he treasured having someone to just be childish with.

The quiet was abruptly broken by a loud QUACK, much nearer than that of those sounding in the pond’s distance. In unison both of your heads snapped up to meet one of the ducks from earlier that had found its way over to your picnic. Spencer flinched slightly and you caught the way he fought the urge to scramble away as you turned to him with a raised brow.

“Really? You chase murderers for a living and you’re afraid of a little duck?” You teased, biting your lip as it threatened to break out into a beam.

“I’m not scared.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke and he cleared his throat embarrassingly. “It just surprised me is all.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” You giggled as he settled down again beside you. “I think it wants some of our fruit.”

“That’d definitely be healthier than all that bread people throw into the water.”

“Really?” You asked, continuing to chain the daisies in your hands.

“While it’s not particularly unhealthy in itself, the excessive amount of bread ducks in public parks are fed is incredibly detrimental to their health.” Spencer’s voice took on his ‘teacher tone’ as you so lovingly called it as he spoke. “It lacks nutrients meaning the ducks actually become malnourished and vitamin deficient. Additionally the uneaten bread left in the water encourages dangerous mould to grow that can cause them to get sick.”

“Oh, Spence.” You whined. “You keep telling me all the sad duck facts.”

“I’m just answering your questions.” He replied as the duck waddled away realising it wasn’t going to get any of your picnic goods. “If you want happy answers ask me happy questions.”

You scrunched up your nose as he tapped it playfully in punctuation. “Fine. Give me some happy duck facts.”

“Hmm.” Spencer thought for a moment, brows furrowing and lips pursing. You could practically see the lightbulb above his head and hear the little ping as his face lit up once more and he turned to face you. “Did you know there’s research to suggest that ducks have regional accents?”

“What?” You gawked wide-eyed and Spencer grinned proudly to himself at your enthusiasm.

“There was a study conducted in England,” he began, speaking faster than he was thinking and waving his hands around as he did, “that found that ducks living in busy cities like London quacked louder and rougher than ducks of the same species living in quieter cities suggesting that they adapt their quack to the area they’re in.”

“God, that is adorable.” You sighed, tying off your daisy chain in a circle and leaning over to nestle it in Spencer’s hair like a crown. “I wonder if that duck that looks like you has an adorable nerdy voice too.”

“I don’t think it quite works that way.” He lowered his head instinctively as your crown found his hair. “What’s this for?”

You smiled up at him completely smitten, God he looked pretty. “You’re the prince of the flowers, duh.” You mused as his cheeks immediately turned pink. “Although I think you’d be prince of the purple irises specifically, I read somewhere that they represent wisdom.”

Spencer was flushed all over, tucking his chin inwards bashfully in a shy attempt to hide his blushing face. His nose scrunched up in that adorable way that just made you want to throw your arms around him and latch onto him like a koala to a tree. “I think by that logic you’d be ruler of the sunflowers,” he spoke softly, “they symbolise positivity and optimism.”

“That’s very cute and sappy of you but I think you fit royalty more than I do, my handsome prince.” You cooed dramatically, adjusting his crown and pressing a kiss to his still rosy cheeks. “I’d talk to animals or enchant objects or- honestly I’d probably be the village crazy.”

Spencer laughed loud and bright, putting the sun that still worshipped him to shame. After some time the two of you finished your picnic and began packing away with Spencer chuckling to himself every time you said something silly such as ‘let’s get your hats back on shall we’ to the tupperware boxes. You walked away hand in hand, you carrying the blanket beneath your arm and Spencer carrying the picnic basket in his other hand, flower crown still propped neatly and proudly atop his head.

You didn’t care what anybody else thought of you. You didn’t care if anybody else thought you were too much or too childish. To Spencer you were everything, you were perfect, you were his- and that was all that mattered.

-

[azriona]

Trustfall, Prologue

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. Explicit for sexual contact, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Summary:

Hydra attacks the Tower, fully intending to regain control of their Asset. But Bucky Barnes has a plan. Bucky Barnes has you.

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post by @calzone-d, but then it took a life of its own. The working title for this was “Hostage to the Winter Soldier!” (complete with exclamation point, because it’s funnier that way, and if you don’t imagine that title in one of those 1950s B-movie fonts, you’re doing it wrong), but by the time I finished writing, I had Pink’s song stuck in my head, and it’s probably a better fit.

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

“Oh come on, they’ll never hire me,” you protest, laughing. You have to shout it to be heard over the noise of the bar. “And anyway, I’m happy in the ER.”

“But it’s Avengers Tower,” groans your best friend Steph, her slightly tipsy head dropping onto the bar. “You have to—ow. Who made bars so hard? That hurt.”

You pat her shoulder. “I like the ER. It’s fast-paced, it’s exciting, I’m doing exactly what I always wanted.”

“Two words. Super. Heroes.”

“That’s one word, Steph. And come on, superheroes aren’t that interesting. They probably do their own stitches and skip their regular check-ups.”

“Is she still bothering you about the Avengers job?” asks the bartender, Chet, as he hands Steph a towel full of ice from behind the bar.

“Yes,” you groan as Steph mumbles a thank you and plops the iced towel on her head, still lying on the bar. “And it’s not an Avengers job. It’s just a job at the Tower. I probably wouldn’t even see them. I bet I’d be giving SI employees their immunizations and checking for fevers in the on-site daycare.”

“Or working with Bruce Banner?”

“There’s no guarantee of that!”

“Oh yeah? Is there a security clearance involved?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Working with Bruce Banner,” says Chet sagely. “And you know, wiping snotty noses in the daycare and chasing down superheroes for their yearly check-ups.”

“I like the ER,” you insist.

“We know you do,” says Chet. “But we like seeing you, and this is the first time you’ve been out since you got the job two years ago.”

“I miss you,” moans Steph to the bar. Well, in the direction of the bar, but presumably to you. “You’re my best friend and the only way I see you is by breaking my ankle.”

“Oh my God, Steph, tell me you didn’t do that on purpose.”

“Just apply,” says Chet. “If nothing else, it’ll give you bargaining power when your contract comes up again.”

“It does have better hours. And dental.”

“Dental,” sighs Steph longingly.

*

“I got the job!”

“What?” Steph yells back. Clearly, hunting down Steph while she’s on the dance floor was a bad idea.

“I. GOT. THE. JOB!!!”

“Oh my God!” shrieks Steph, encasing you in a huge hug. “My best friend’s gonna be an Avenger!”

You burst into laughter, glad no one else can hear you over the music. “Not an Avenger, Steph. Just a nurse working in the medical bay in the Tower. I probably won’t even see them.”

Steph holds your shoulders firmly. “You are not allowed to replace me with Black Widow.”

“As if!”

Chet gives you a free drink, as do a few others nearby who overheard the part about “new job.” Only one of them actually asks where the job is.

“Stark Industries,” you say, because it’s basically true. “Probably not as exciting as the ER was, but the hours are way better and so’s the pay and benefits.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” says the man, lifting his glass in a toast. He’s got a really pleasant accent, wire-rimmed glasses, the scar on the side of his face barely noticeable in the dim light. You’d like to keep talking to him, but Steph distracts you for a moment, and when you turn back around, he’s gone.

*

Okay, so you hadn’t really lied to Steph. You don’t see the Avengers very often, but that’s only because you don’t work nights and they only ever show up in the med bay when it’s dark outside. Or seem to, anyway.

But you’ve met just about all of them for one reason or another, and so far, every encounter has shown them to be pleasant and friendly as can be.

Until one afternoon, about six months after you started working, when you overhear two very loud, very shouty voices, in the hall outside the nurse’s station.

“I DO NOT NEED STITCHES.”

“You’re worse than Clint! Get in there!”

“Come on, Stevie, they’re gonna heal up on their own in ten minutes.”

“Not if you don’t get the broken glass out first.”

Broken glass? You immediately reach for the kit with the tweezers and a pair of nitrile gloves.

“So you do it.”

“I can’t do it, I have to go brief Hill.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Yeah. For the nurse.”

“Stevie,” groans the guy. “Is this what it all comes to? Saving me from the clutches of Hydra only to make me relive my worst nightmares? You’ve seen the nurses here, Stevie, they all look like my Uncle Maurice.”

“Not true, Buck.”

“They’re cold, heartless bitches, Stevie, the lot of them.”

“Hello,” you say cheerfully, entering the room where Captain America straddles a second man, face-down on the floor and long past fighting. “I’m the attending cold heartless bitch who looks like your Uncle Maurice, I hear you’ve got some glass embedded somewhere?”

“A plate glass window attacked him,” Captain America tells you. “It was brutal.”

“You should’ve seen the window,” grumbles the man to the floor.

“I’ll be sure to send a sympathy card,” you say, setting up your tools on the tray table. “I can do this on the floor, but it’d probably be more sanitary up here.”

“Right,” says Captain America, and he gets off the floor.

The man immediately makes a break for it.

“Nope,” you say, and grab one of the conveniently-placed straps on his leather coat. He spins and stares at you in shock.

He’s cute, you think, or would be if it weren’t for the gaping wound in his forehead. It sparkles, though that’s probably the glass catching in the light.

“So that’s what the straps are for,” says Captain America, impressed, right before he grabs the guy by the ear and hauls him up on the examining table.

“OW.” The man glares at Captain America, who doesn’t seem the least bit concerned. Even though that glare’s probably the scariest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Hold still,” you tell the glare, and start removing the glass from his forehead.

It’s a nasty wound, too. You work as fast as you can, fully aware of how the man you’re treating is—despite all outward appearances—scared to death.

Not that he’d admit it, or even realize you know it. But you worked in an ER for a while. You’ve seen everything, from spaced-out junkies to suicidal octogenarians to homeless vets.

You know which this guy is most like. The way he’s not shaking or trembling, the way he’s so tense and unable to breathe. Not just not breathing, but actually, physically, unable to take a breath because he’s working so hard to keep from screaming.

“The only way out is through,” you murmur as you pull another shard of glass from his forehead.

“Hmm?” asks Captain America, but the guy watches you: wary, assessing every move, even as you telegraph them as plainly as you can.

Calm, almost, despite the now-shallow breaths.

“Nothing,” you say. “One more piece.”

You pull it out, cleaning the area again. “Now, unless I miss my guess, you’re both thinking he’s going to self-heal fairly quickly?”

“By suppertime, probably.”

You nod. “I’d still recommend a steri-stitch or two. Just to keep it clean until the healing’s done. You don’t have to return to remove them, either.”

“Perfect,” says Captain America gratefully, and after a few more minutes, they’re both gone.

But the next morning, when you come in, there’s a bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter with your name on it, and a note written in perfect copperplate handwriting.

I’m sorry I said you looked like Uncle Maurice. You’re much prettier. –JBB

The smile on your face is so big, it stays the rest of the day.

to be continued...

[megalony]

Not Long Now

This is a new Robert Chase imagine from House, based on a lovely request by a mutual.

I hope you will all like it, please let me know what you think.

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Main Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) and Chase are expecting their first baby together and when (Y/n) goes into labour, Chase is by her side, from the beginning.

Enjoy.

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Despite her best efforts, tears began to cascade down (Y/n)'s features and each one made her breaths hitch and become shallow as they caught in her throat. Her lower lip was throbbing and burning from how badly she had been biting it to the point blood was welling on her tongue.

With as deep a breath as she could manage, (Y/n) pushed her hands down into the bed to sit herself up. It did nothing to relieve the ache in her back or the tension that was floating around in her stomach. Pain was still lingering and pulsing throughout her system. Right between her hips, it felt like a fire was slowly licking at her hip bones and working its way up along her spine.

She tried to take a deep, steady breath but her back was twinging and seizing up and (Y/n) didn't know what to do with herself anymore.

This wasn't just a simple aching pain that came and went or a dull kind of pain that she could ignore. It was something that was becoming peristant and increasingly worse. Sleep wasn't something that she was going to achieve tonight, that much seemed crystal clear.

Reaching her hand out, she gently reached out for Chase's forearm that was slumped across the middle of the bed. She shook his arm a few times before gliding her fingers up his arm towards his shoulder which she jostled to try and gain his attention.

She felt bad for waking him up. He had pulled a twenty four hour shift and had only just gotten home sometime after nine tonight. Chase needed sleep, something which he never got when he was working on a case with House and had to remain at the hospital to run tests and observations and try to work out a diagnosis.

She continued to shake his shoulder and trail her hand across his neck until the touch finally stirred Chase. His head lifted from the pillow and he blinked his bleary eyes, taking a look around to try and work out where he was and what was happening.

"What… you okay?" His voice was sluggish and he couldn't keep his eyes open for very long, especially since (Y/n) had the beside lamp on and the light burned his tired, sore eyes.

He propped himself up on his right elbow while he stretched his other arm above his head before he tried to rub his eyes and brush his hair from his face. Chase knew his hair probably looked a mess by now, it didn't matter what time it currently was, after even an hour of sleep his hair became a birds nest that he had to untangle.

He didn't know what time it was, but he knew it was late. By the time he had tried to eat something, get washed and climbed into bed it was well past ten o'clock at night. And Chase crashed as soon as he was in bed. He couldn't even remember if (Y/n) had gone to sleep with him or if she had tried to watch tv or stayed awake. All he knew was that as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out.

Chase tried his best to keep his eyes open and look up at (Y/n), trying to guess why she had woken him. It wasn't like her, she barely bothered to wake him- let alone tell him- if she was sick, he usually had to find that out himself.

"It hurts." Her voice and the little whimper she let out made Chase's blood rush to his head and had adrenaline waking him up instantly. He pushed up off his elbow and straightened up so he was sitting up beside her and he shuffled a bit closer until their hips were touching.

"What hurts, baby?"

His hand moved to rest against her lower back while his other hand curled around her knee and he leaned forward, pressing his lips against her shoulder.

"My back, a-and here." Reaching down, (Y/n) curled her hand around Chase's wrist and moved his hand against the lower side of her stomach.

He could tell immediately that this had to be bad because he knew (Y/n) wouldn't wake him if she was only in slight discomfort. It had to be bad for her to actually wake him and ask for help. Although he knew that more recently, (Y/n) was more likely to tell him if she didn't feel well or if she thought something was wrong, because of the baby. She didn't want to take chances or keep things to herself if there was a chance that something was wrong with the baby.

"What kind of pain, sharp, dull, constant?" He murmured against her shoulder while he tried to press the base of his hand against various parts of her stomach to try and gage what pains she was having and why.

"Dull, like waves, b-but it's getting worse."

"That's okay, I think it's the start of labour pains baby." Suddenly Chase was wide awake and he couldn't stop himself from smiling into her skin.

It was a little earlier than he expected, given that (Y/n) was thirty-seven weeks along, but it wasn't dangerous or worrying. She was technically full term now and labour could happen at any point. Chase would guess that the aches and pains were the beginning of labour given where she said the pains were and that her back was hurting too.

And he was relieved that this was happening now, while he was home. Chase kept worrying about being at work or being in the OR when (Y/n) went into labour. He worked for House, he was constantly on the go and roaming around the hospital so getting a message to him was hard. And he wanted to be here when things started so he could go through the whole process with (Y/n).

Chase knew for the last few days or so that (Y/n) had been uncomfortable and feeling run down, clearly it was all leading up to this.

"Will the contractions start soon?"

(Y/n) slumped her head onto Chase's shoulder and slouched back against him. She couldn't refrain from closing her eyes as she tucked her forehead into the crook of his neck.

If these pains were making her uncomfortable and they weren't even contractions yet, then in a few hours this was going to become unbearable. She hoped that it wouldn't take long for the contractions to start because they couldn't go to the hospital until the pains were ten minutes apart.

She felt Chase's hand move from her back so his arm was fully draped around her waist and his lips attached to the top of her head.

"I can't say, baby. It might take a while, or it might be quick. We just have to wait and see." There was no definitive answer that he could give, the process was different for each woman and trying to guess might make things worse if he said it would happen soon and they ended up waiting hours.

They couldn't do very much right now. All (Y/n) could do was take painkillers and try to either sleep or move through the pain until her waters broke and the contractions became frequent.

"Do you think you can try to sleep?" Chase knew that it might be easier for (Y/n) to get as much rest and sleep as she could now while the pains were dull and at their lowest. In a few hours it might not be so easy for her to rest.

(Y/n) shook her head, uttering a quiet "No." because she didn't feel like sleeping. She was restless, uncomfortable and in increasing unease. Sleeping wasn't something she felt she could do despite knowing it would help in the long run. She didn't want to.

"Okay, what do you want to do? Maybe a movie, or a bath?" If she didn't want to sleep, they could try and put the tv on and watch something to keep amused. Or Chase knew that a bath might relax (Y/n) and help her feel a little more comfortable right now.

(Y/n) tended to feel most comfortable in the bath and she seemed certain that their baby only slept when (Y/n) was laid in the bath. It might work in easing her back pain and make her feel a bit better. Time might also go a bit faster if (Y/n) was more at ease.

"I might get a bath… you should sleep." (Y/n)'s voice was soft and quiet and made Chase's heart flutter as he smiled down at her.

She had only woken him because she was worried, but if this was the start of labour then (Y/n) didn't have to be worried about the baby or if something was wrong. She could potter around the house or get a bath or go and watch tv downstairs or prepare their hospital bag, something she had been planning on doing at some point this week.

Chase didn't need to stay awake with her or keep her company when he was exhausted. He had been at work, he was drained and he could use the sleep, he didn't have to stay awake during this whole process. He said himself that it would take time, and (Y/n) didn't want to make him feel worse by keeping him awake with her when he didn't have to be.

"If you take a nap later, then I will too, but not now. Besides, I'm wide awake." If (Y/n) tried to sleep later on then he would happily lie down with her and try to get some rest. But he was staying awake with her now.

He was excited. They were about to have their first baby, he wasn't missing a thing and there wasn't a lot he could do for (Y/n) right now, the least Chase felt that he could do would be to stay up with her and prepare.

Chase promised her he would do this with her and if (Y/n) was in labour, he was going to be right by her side.

When (Y/n) headed out of the bedroom, Chase stretched his arms above his head and straightened his back out. He clicked his neck into place and ran his fingers through his tousled hair before he slowly clambered off the bed and followed after her.

While (Y/n) ran the bath, Chase rummaged around in the bathroom cabinet and found some strong painkillers that would help take the edge off for her.

"Try these." He murmured quietly and held them out along with a glass of water which (Y/n) gratefully took. She knew in a while that no pain medication was going to help take even the smallest edge of the pain she was going through. At least right now she could settle her system and feel more comfortable for the time being.

(Y/n) watched fondly as Chase stripped off his shirt and shorts, tossing them in the basket in the corner of the room before he checked the bath water and climbed in.

A lazy grin lit up his face as he held his hands out for her once she stripped off. Once she climbed in and turned around, Chase's hands moved to hold onto her hips to help ease her down with him. He sat down with his legs parted to the sides so (Y/n) could sit between his thighs; it was a bit of a squeeze but the closeness only made (Y/n) smile.

She eased her back against Chase's chest and tucked her face into the crook of his neck, pressing a tender kiss beneath his chin when his arms wound around her waist. It tickled when he started drawing patterns over her stomach, but when he switched to moving his hands around her stomach, it felt soothing.

She felt his lips pressing to the back of her head and he hummed into her hair while his feet tapped and caused ripples in the water. "Hopefully by morning, we'll be heading down to the hospital."

***

"Not long now, baby."

(Y/n) opened her eyes and looked to her right, locking her gaze onto her husband who was perched on the side of the bed near to her hip. His hands were tapping against his thighs and a coy grin lit up his face as he looked across at her. But she couldn't tell if he was trying to make a joke or if he was actually being serious.

"Better not be, after forty hours already." Aggravation wove into (Y/n)'s tone and tangled around her sarcastic words, none of which was aimed at Chase.

It had been just less than two days since the labour pains started and (Y/n) was quickly growing tired now. And these four walls of the hospital room were starting to make her feel uneasy like she was about to go mad.

Music could only distract her mind for so long and it couldn’t take away the pain she was feeling. Idle conversation and chatter about anything and everything under the sun wasn’t working anymore and the anticipation was slowly dwindling down into annoyance and frustration. They had waited eight months for this baby and it was deciding to make them wait a few more days when they were so close.

Walking around the room or crouching down to try and relieve the tension didn’t feel like an option anymore, (Y/n) felt glued to the bed, not that it was a bad thing but it did restrict her. Staying put on the bed meant time seemed to go slower since she wasn’t slowly walking the length of the room or moving around to try and keep the circulation going through her body.

Considering she had gone into labour three weeks early of her due date, labour was starting to take its time. (Y/n) worried she would reach her due date by the time their baby decided they were ready to make an appearance.

"You're nearly dilated, then it'll be over quick." Chase leaned back a little and moved his hand to rest on her thigh. He knew that once she was fully dilated, it wouldn't take long for their baby to be here. It was this part, the waiting, that took the longest toll.

Chase moved his free hand to cup his jaw and drag along the side of his mouth when he watched (Y/n) breathe through another wave of pain. He watched how her eyes snapped closed and how she tensed up beside him and her body went rigid and taut. The pains were too difficult for her to ignore.

(Y/n) tipped her head back into the pillow until it felt like the pillow was going to engulf her and make her disappear into the mound of feathers. Her lips barely opened enough to let a steady stream of air push out, and her arms tensed as her muscles pushed out against her skin.

One hand reached up behind her to grip the pillow so she had something to ground herself to, considering she had almost crushed Chase's hand earlier when one particular contraction had been awful.

The contractions had been longer than ten minutes apart when Chase brought her to the hospital yesterday, but he didn't have a choice. He had started counting the contractions and keeping an eye on (Y/n) throughout the day, but her waters didn't break.

The longer labour went on without her waters breaking, the more likely it was that (Y/n) could get an infection or something could happen to the baby. Being at the hospital was safer in case they had to break her waters for her and they could keep an eye on the baby's heartbeat.

Two hours after being admitted to the hospital, Chase and a midwife had broken her waters. They were monitoring the baby's heartbeat which was stable and steady, and now (Y/n) was nine centimetres dilated. One more, and she would be ready to push.

Despite the agony her muscles were causing her, (Y/n) couldn’t help the way her lips curved up ever so slightly at the corners when she felt Chase's lips peppering against the back of her other hand. There was something so calming about his touch, like he held antidotes and pain relief in his touch.

"You're doing great, babe."

As much as (Y/n) relished in his words and his melodic voice alone, she would feel much better and as if she really was doing good when the baby started to make an appearance. Right now she didn’t feel at all nearer to getting their baby into the world and it was frustrating to the point (Y/n) could feel tears prickling in the corners of her eyes.

"Hey, it's okay, you're so close now. It's nearly over." Chase leant forward to brush away the tears beginning to cascade down her face and he attached his lips to her burning temple. But his touch only made her want to cry worse.

"I want it to be over now." She huffed through determined breaths while she tried her best to stop from crying.

"I know." He murmured against her temple before his hand let go of hers and moved to gently grip her chin. He tilted her head back so they were level and he was able to kiss her.

The touch was gentle, sweet and so endearing that (Y/n) thought her heart was going to burst.

When their lips parted, Chase looked down at the watch attached to his wrist and smiled softly. "Let's check again."

He climbed off the bed and moved towards the other side of the room to get ready, scrubbing his hands before he squeezed his hands into a pair of latex gloves so he could check if she was fully dilated yet.

(Y/n) seemed to hold her breath while Chase checked, because she knew if he said she wasn't ready yet then she might just burst into another fit of tears. She didn't want to wait any longer, she wanted to push. Her body felt like it was ready, and her mind had had long enough to prepare her for this.

"Here we go baby, you're ready now."

The noise of relief that left (Y/n)’s lips made Chase laugh and the eagerness in her eyes was very clear.

She was ready, and Chase was going to deliver their baby.

***

The feeling of sweat sticking to every inch of her skin was something that made (Y/n) shiver and her burning skin started to itch and crawl. The room was fairly cool but she was overheating like she was sitting on the beach in one hundred degree heat. The gown she was wearing was sticking horribly to her skin and her hair was ragged from being pushed out of her eyes or pulled or generally yanked to get it out her way when she became frustrated.

(Y/n) let her eyes fall closed as she tipped her head back against the pillows. She could feel Chase's hand gliding against her inner thigh and it made her want to smile, but she couldn't with the agony tearing her apart from the inside out.

"Head's almost out now."

Upon hearing Chase's words, (Y/n) tucked her chin into her chest and her hands moved so her fingers were gripping the sheets beneath her, trying to ground herself to something and hold steady. She leant forward as much as she was able, but it didn't feel all that comfortable.

Her hips were aching from having her legs bent outwards for so long, and her knees had become locked in place. Pins and needles were floating through her feet and up her ankles from having her feet pushing down into the mattress for so long. And it wasn't helping her back to be arching and doubling forward like this.

A deep groan rumbled up from her chest and she closed her eyes when spots began to dance in front of her vision. She tried to hold her breath until she felt Chase's hand tapping her thigh to gain her attention.

"Baby, breathe. Big deep breaths, you need the oxygen." Sitting and holding her breath wasn't going to help with the strain she was going through. She needed to keep up the oxygen supply, not store it.

And the stern tone to Chase's voice seemed to flick a switch within (Y/n) for she nodded and tried to pant through deep breaths to comply.

The shaking in her body felt like electricity swarming through her veins and battling out with the pain that had numbed her legs and set fire to her pelvis. Clearly she was overrun with adrenaline.

With a quiet mewl, she tossed her head back and let the tension slip out of her frame. Her back clicked but she didn't care as she tried to fling her arm out and push the pillows up a little so she could flop back and lie down. Sitting up wasn't comfortable, she wanted to lay out, that was what her body was telling her to do.

She heard Chase muttering "Hang on sweetheart," before she realised the bed was moving.

A grateful hum left her lips when Chase reclined the bed. Not fully so it felt like she was lying in bed at home, but at enough of an angle so (Y/n) was reclined down and she could lay back and try to relax and calm down.

That felt better.

"Another push for me on the next contraction, head's nearly out."

Everything began to buzz in (Y/n)’s ears, words blurring together as she couldn’t concentrate properly on what was being said to her. But everything seemed to come back into tune again when the next contraction started to build up.

It felt like such a weight had been resting on her pelvis that was trying to snap her bones, but the moment their baby’s head was born the pain seemed to ignite worse before it dulled significantly. The contractions and pains continued to pulse through (Y/n) but they felt different now that the head wasn't pushing down anymore. She was almost there, almost done.

"Baby, you with me?" Chase angled his head back so he could glance up at (Y/n) since she hadn't responded or even hummed.

"Yeah… another contraction." She nodded and weakly opened her eyes to look down at Chase, but she felt much more grounded with her eyes closed.

"Okay, then let's keep going."

(Y/n) nodded and took a deep breath to try and steady her system while her left hand reached out to hold onto the bedframe. And she peaked one eye open to look down at Chase.

He was crouched at the end of the bed, practically lying on his chest but he didn't look the least bit uncomfortable or put out. He was smiling so brightly he could rival the sun and every now and then he hummed as if he was trying to keep himself grounded and in check.

It seemed strange that Chase was at his place of work, helping his wife give birth, and yet he wasn't dressed for the occasion. He wasn't in his usual dress shirt, tie and starched white overcoat.

He was in a plain black shirt and trousers, his casual clothes that he wore on his days off. Although (Y/n) couldn't see them anymore now that he had put some scrubs on now along with gloves and paper cap to hide his hair and stay hygienical.

But it was that dazed smile on his face that made (Y/n)'s heart skip a beat and kept her smiling even as she closed her eyes again.

Children had always been something that the couple wanted, they wanted a big family together, and this was the start of that. (Y/n) finally got pregnant but all through this pregnancy it felt like a dream. Only now it seemed to be coming true and started to feel real.

"Big pushes but smaller panting breaths now."

(Y/n) nodded as best she could with how she was slumped back into the pillows that felt like they were engulfing her; consuming her like they were trying to take the pain away.

Her hand stayed curled around the bedframe and she tried digging her heels down into the bed to brace herself and try to keep steady and tense. Going floppy like jelly wouldn't do her much good when she needed to focus and put all of her efforts into pushing.

"Okay just relax for a second." Chase's tone was calm and his expression was almost blank while he dug his elbows down and leant forward a bit more. "The shoulder is a bit stuck, on the next contraction you push and I'll ease the shoulder out. Okay?"

When he glanced up and realised (Y/n) was looking at him with apprehension, he smiled softly and dipped his head to pepper a kiss against her knee. "They just need a bit of help, don't worry."

Panicking right now wouldn’t do her any good, it would speed up her heartbeat and it would do the baby no favours. They weren’t horribly stuck or in danger, they just needed a bit of help and Chase was more than capable of taking care of them both. This wasn't something to worry about, it was a minor hiccup.

She burrowed her head back into the pillows and clenched her jaw as she pushed again, groaning through the agony.

The blood rushing through (Y/n)’s ears and the blinding pain splitting her in two stopped her mind from working out what Chase was whispering against her flush skin but whatever he was saying, his voice was soothing enough. He could have been speaking nonsense and (Y/n) would still have wanted him to carry on with how calming his voice was. And she knew with how quiet he was murmuring that he wasn't saying anything important, at least not yet.

Her knees twitched and she found it hard to stay still with how uncomfortable it felt each time she pushed. If she closed her eyes hard enough, (Y/n) was sure that she could work out and actually feel how the baby's shoulder was stuck.

"There we go, shoulders and arms are out now sweetheart."

A huff of relief left (Y/n)'s chapped lips as Chase's words were like music to her ears.

"Just a few more pushes, keep taking small breaths for me." Chase wasn't sure if (Y/n) was really hearing him or not, but she was nodding along so at least she was partly coherent and in the moment with him.

The last push felt much easier than the rest, it felt like running the last few steps when the finish line was already in sight and looked so close. (Y/n) could feel every vein and artery in her body, all of them pulsing and pushing blood at a much faster rate, especially through her ears that felt like she was going deaf with the horrible ringing sensations flooding through them.

"Here we go… it's a girl."

They had decided from the beginning not to find out the gender, it was going to be a surprise. Neither of them cared whether they had a boy or a girl, and they had picked out a name for each already. But now Chase was quickly becoming consumed by the knowledge that he had a baby girl to dote on.

Their first baby was a little girl to spoil.

Chase could barely find the energy to move, he felt locked in place leaning on the end of the bed and when he finally pulled back, his legs felt like they had turned to jelly. They felt like matchsticks that were about to snap in half.

His lips parted into an open-mouthed smile as he stared down at the creation in his hands that he couldn't quite believe was here already.

His eyes glanced down to the clock above the door to note the time of birth before ran his fingers in circles along the newborn's chest to ensure she was breathing properly. The little mewling cry she let out was like music to his ears and a laugh tumbled past his lips in response.

Tears were welling up in Chase's eyes as he tried to steel his shaking nerves so he could cut the cord. He cleaned her up as much as he could before he swaddled the newborn in a blanket and lifted her up in his arms towards his chest. She wasn’t washed yet or weighed or examined and the cord was freshly cut, but she looked perfect.

"Hey girlie, it's daddy."

Time seemed irrelevant as Chase stood there leaning against the side of the bed, enamoured by the view of his baby girl settled in his arms, no longer wriggling but still crying. When Chase offered his index finger for her to hold, he could barely breathe at the feeling of her miniscule fingers curling tightly around his own.

Chase didn’t want to let her out of his embrace where she seemed to slot so perfectly into the crook of his elbow, but he knew he needed to.

He perched himself on the side of the bed and carefully eased her down into (Y/n)'s waiting arms, watching the sparkle in (Y/n)’s eyes when they set upon her baby girl for the first time.

"She's perfect."

(Y/n) didn’t really know what she’d imagined their baby to look like because she knew all babies didn’t quite look the same. Their girl looked so different yet so much prettier than she’d ever imagined.

Her cheek slumped against Chase's arm as she carefully adjusted the newborn in her arms so she was resting against her chest for skin contact.

She was finally here. All those months of waiting, all the trecherous hours in labour, everything had been leading up to this point and now it was over. The pain had ended, and their girl was finally here with them in their arms.

And this experience had been just the two of them. No one stepping over boundaries or bustling in or getting involved. No one to make (Y/n) feel uncomfortable or panic her or get over excited. Just her and Chase, having their baby girl together. And here she was.

Their girl; their little Charlotte.

[scarlettjskipper]

Constantly thinking about how Eddie felt after growing closer to and falling for the player due to them meeting after hours only to see them flirt with Volt when the club is actually running.

[cerisereids]

𝗜𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆- 𝗦.𝗥. (𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗣𝘁. 𝟳)

Pairing- Dad!Spencer x Mom!Reader

WC- 0.7k

Summary- Diana Jane arrives.

Contains- descriptions of birth, pain that comes with giving birth, contractions, etc.

A/N- as always, divider from my homie @thecutestgrotto

Night Changes Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Birthday Event

Your stomach is being torn apart. At least, that’s what it feels like when your contractions are only 3 minutes apart. You practice your breathing, in-out-out, just like your birthing coach told you to. It doesn’t help. You scream in agony, nails biting into Spencer’s forearm as he punches the speed a little harder.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, it’s a weak attempt, but it’s all he can manage as he maneuvers through rush hour traffic.

“Spencer, I think I’m dying!” You wail, hands clutching the demon in your stomach, forcing its way out. Tears stream down your face, mixing in with sweat. You can only imagine how you must smell. You’ve been pregnant for 40 weeks, you knew this was coming, it still doesn’t make it any less painful.

Everything moves so quickly once you make it to the hospital– you’re being wheeled off to a room, your OBGYN enters, you push. The baby still won’t come out.

“She’s stubborn, I’ll tell you that,” your doctor says. You manage a breathy laugh, your eyes finding the exact culprit to blame for that. Spencer smiles sheepishly. “Keep breathing, I’ll be back in 15 and we’ll try pushing again, okay?”

You nod, even though nothing is okay, you’re terrified, you’re in pain, and you want a cheeseburger so fucking badly.

Spencer’s not much better, his palms slippery from the sweat that’s accumulated over the past three hours. He was there when your water broke, you had just stood up after dinner, the splashing sound accompanied by a look of sheer panic in your eyes. He was quick on his feet, muscle memory kicking in as he grabbed the hospital bag, making quick work to the car.

He stands here now, clad in scrubs, under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, utterly terrified. He’s thought a lot about his ability to be a father, whether it should be a privilege granted to him at all. You’re too good to him, though, insistent that he’d be more than perfect. He believed her for a while, but now that it’s actually happening, he’s never been more terrified. He’s been kidnapped three times, stared down serial killers in the face, yet fatherhood is the scariest threat of all.

Another wail from his wife rips him out of his self pity as he rushes to your side. He signals the nurse to grab the doctor once more. There’s a fire in your eye that he hasn’t seen before, a fierce need to get this baby out. You sit up, legs propped up and ready to go.

It takes about 10 pushes, a lot of tears, and some loud shrieks before Diana Jane Reid wails herself into the world. Spencer is in complete and total awe. She’s tiny, sitting at about 6 pounds 6 ounces. He’s still as he watches you cradle the newborn in your arms, tears streaming down your face at her beauty. His own eyes start to gloss over when a nurse touches his arm slightly.

“Do you want a turn, Dad?” The name nearly knocks the wind out of him, and he nods his head. She hands him the baby, scooping her into his big arms.

She snuggles into him instinctively, and Spencer vows then and there that he’ll do anything within his power to protect her, keep her safe, love her. He thought he’d reached his capacity to love, that it couldn't get stronger. He was wrong, he was so, so wrong. Now, with this tiny human in his arms, he thinks he can conquer the world.

He looks at you, your eyes shining with that same, fierce love. You chuckle together, unbelieving that you’d really done this. You brought this child into the world together. You’re going to raise her together. You’re going to give her siblings together.

He places the infant in her small glass crib, his finger swooping down the slope of her nose before moving to his wife. He kisses you on the cheek, the nose, the lips. He takes your hand in his, squeezing it tight.

“Do you want that cheeseburger now?” He asks, and you guffaw a laugh.

“Yes, yes I do,” you respond, “but first, give me the baby.”