#i would sit still and just try to muffle laughter

[cutehoons02]

PREVIEW —> Hogwarts enhypen series

The Magical Astrophysics classroom exuded pure terror mixed with disgust.

Just hearing about astral formulas, magical gravitational calculations, and planetary rotations made you want to throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.

You hated math, you hated physics, and you would have hated that class… if it weren’t for him.

Jake Sim.

No longer just a Hogwarts student, no longer just your brother’s best friend. Jake was now the assistant to the professor of Astrophysics, standing at the desk in his gray and red sweater that clung to his broad chest, jeans that followed the lines of his muscular thighs, and those messy hair that seemed like they’d been styled by a storm.

He was twenty-two, and still managed to have that princely face with a hint of… dangerously perverted boy vibes.

The Flynn Rider of Hogwarts, as you and your best friend had nicknamed him—only with less gallantry and more nimble hands.

You found yourself in the second row, your legs elegantly crossed, the skirt—okay, maybe a bit too short—following the latest fashion, your chin resting on your hands as you watched him.

Every movement he made, like erasing the blackboard, or leaning forward, stretching the fabric of his jeans over his quads.

Damn.

T/L, sitting next to you—your best friend and your big brother’s girlfriend—elbowed you firmly in the side.

‘Stop looking at him like you’re reading the list of things you want him to do to you,’ she whispered, amused.

You pouted at her, squeezing her arm.

“If weren’t Hee’s sister… he’d already be mine,” you muttered under your breath.

She chuckled and made a shushing gesture over her lips.

‘You’re forgetting to close your mouth, darling. Keep this up, and you’ll drool on the desk.’

With a grimace, you gave her a light slap on the shoulder, and you both burst into laughter, trying to muffle the sound with your palms.

Until you heard the sharp clapping of the professor’s hands, and the room fell into silence.

—Alright, alright!—the professor boomed, turning his gaze on Jake with evident approval. —This subject is crucial—it makes up thirty-five percent of your final diploma grade! And I want you all to know how possible it is to excel: Jake Sim, how did you do on the final test?—

Jake, with his usual slightly cocky grin, answered without hesitation: “A hundred out of a hundred, professor.”

The room murmured. Some applauded.

You?

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from clapping too loudly or… jumping on him.

—For this, guys, he’ll be my official assistant and your role model throughout the academic year,— the professor concluded proudly.

T/L leaned toward you, whispering in your ear:

‘Don’t tell me you chose Magical Astrophysics just because he was in it…’

You shrugged innocently.

She looked at you, exasperated.

‘You’re the worst. Heeseung would skin you alive if he found out even about a flirt, you know that? This isn’t going to end well…’

You looked at her with a smile that said everything and nothing, and meanwhile, while the professor explained, your eyes darted back to Jake.

Jake, who for a moment had stopped listening to the professor.

Jake, who was looking at you with that mix of amusement and… damn hunger.

This is a small draft of what you will find I’m seeing that you like the series "HARRY POTTER-ENHYPEN" if you want to be tagged write me your @, comments and rebblogs are appreciated!

[balkanradfem]

Do you like hedgehogs?

I do! I love hedgehogs.

[cuntyji]

the first video nanami ever posted was filmed on a shaky phone propped up against a bag of flour.

he was making bread—simple, easy, the kind of thing he found comfort in after long days at work. his hands moved methodically, kneading the dough with a quiet precision, and though he spoke very little, the video was oddly calming.

he hadn't expected much from it. maybe a few views, maybe a couple of people who’d appreciate the lack of unnecessary chatter. but the comments were overwhelmingly positive, people asking about his technique, his recipe, his voice—deep, smooth, effortlessly steady. so he made another video. then another.

it was the late-night upload of him singing "baby one more time" by the marías that changed everything.

filmed on an old macbook with a grainy webcam, the lighting barely enough to make out his face, the video had been an impulse decision—one he almost deleted. it was just him, sitting on his couch, his voice low and hushed, the way he usually sang to lull yuuji to sleep. but the internet clung to it like ivy, twisting and reaching until the video had over a million views by the end of the week.

"who is he." "why is this the most intimate thing i've ever heard in my life." "he looks exhausted and sounds like a dream, i'm in love."

he thought it would pass. but it didn't.

his subscribers doubled overnight. the demand for more was loud, insistent. nanami, being nanami, didn’t rush to meet it. instead, he structured it into his routine: one video a week, a mix of baking and singing—because baking was reliable, and singing had never been something he shared outside of yuuji’s bedtime.

his channel evolved. the baking videos became polished, edited with subtle precision. he switched to voiceovers, explaining each step in that same low, deliberate tone that made people feel like he was speaking just to them. and when he sang, it was always songs that carried a quiet sort of nostalgia.

"he only sings songs he sings to his kid to sleep i’m crying." "his lullabies are better than half the music industry." "i don’t know his name, his age, or his face properly, but i know his banana bread recipe by heart."

nanami never explicitly talked about being a single dad, but it was impossible to miss. yuuji’s voice sometimes made cameos in the background, muffled questions about homework, laughter when nanami burnt the edges of a cake. he didn’t hide it, didn’t play it up. it was just a part of his life, and his audience adored him for it.

his faq video—one of the few times he ever directly addressed personal questions—answered almost nothing.

"are you married?" "no." "how old are you?" "old enough." "what's your name?" "nanami."

the mystery only made people more obsessed.

"i know nothing about him but i’d die for him." "his hands. his voice. his existence." "the fact that he bakes and sings for his kid and still won’t tell us his age is crazy."

he now posted twice a week. one video was always baking, the other was whatever he wanted—sometimes music, sometimes a quiet q&a, sometimes just a video of him making tea while rain hit the windows.

people knew everything and nothing about him at the same time. they knew the exact ratio of brown sugar he preferred in cookies but not what city he lived in. they knew he tucked yuuji in every night with a song but had never seen his full face in a single frame. they knew the precise cadence of his voice when he said “and that’s how you make the perfect loaf” but had never heard him say “i love you”—and yet, somehow, they felt like they had.

the internet had fallen in love with him. and nanami, quietly, without even trying, had changed his life with nothing but flour-dusted hands and the sound of his own voice.

[earthtooz]

x : LUST FOR LIFE *+ﾟ

in which: sunday discovers a new emotion when he's under you.

warnings: 1.5k words, sunday is B(h)ORNY and doesn't know how to deal with it, he wants reader so bad, lowkey implied switch!sunday, gn!reader being sunday's freak awakening, NO SMUT BUT UNDER 16 DNI, not edited

a/n: five likes and i'll write nsfw for sunday

What good is a leader who can’t empathise with the lives of the people he was supposed to be leading?

This thought has plagued Sunday ever since he exiled himself from Penacony, since he joined the Astral Express in a journey of self-discovery and reflection, embracing the Nameless lifestyle so he can broaden the horizons that Penacony had restricted. There, he was so detached from the reality of the people he was trying to help, so trapped in a whirlwind of his own ideals to experience humanity, too buried in official duties to rejoice in the many wonders of the universe, the simple pleasures and the grandiose ones.

Since boarding, the former head of the Oak Family has experienced humiliation, desperation, and many close calls with death. It seems he underestimated how easily trouble found the Trailblazers, and the diary he carries with him has been updated with multiple entries, filled with exasperated recounts that ended with him being grateful that he is still well and unscathed.

Sunday has also experienced laughter, connection, and the bond of humankind- something he did not have before. When he controlled the Oak Family, had everyone under or at his fingertips, the only person he could depend on was himself. When Robin left to travel the cosmos, what was he to do than learn the bitter truth of independence and self-sufficiency? 

Yet, he sits on the couches of the Astral Express and there is bound to be another by him, trying to converse with him like an old friend. He is mentioned in the conversations like an individual who they keep around because they want to, not because he is crafty, not because of what he can offer. No, he can’t offer anything right now, and the crew still wants him to stay.

He learns more about humanity with each passing day.

However, perhaps one of the more puzzling feelings Sunday has had to confront was… infatuation. 

It’s a tricky feeling. It sends his heart into overdrive and his limbs to become jelly, and at the epicentre of this hurricane of uncharted territory, is you. 

“Sunday?” Your voice comes through muffled from the other side of the door. He almost jumps off his mattress at the sound. 

“Door is open,” he responds as calmly as possible, heart thrumming alive at the sound of your voice, beating in time with the rapid succession of your knocks. 

The door slides open slowly to reveal you on the other side. “Pom Pom just wanted to let everyone know that we will be jumping soon.” 

“I see, thank you for letting me know.”

“No problem,” your gaze then flickers to the angels that flock around him and he watches as your eyes gleam with fascination.

Then, without any hesitation or reluctance, you enter his room and approach him, the door sliding closed without your weight to hold it open. You stop before him without a bow, without a formal greeting of ‘Mr. Sunday’- no, you stop before him like an equal, which you most certainly are. In fact, he would even think of himself below you, but Sunday needs to unlearn this assumption of hierarchy, needs to not let it define the relationships he forms, even if he looks up to you and finds you reverent. 

“Hey, I’ve never seen these little guys before!” You exclaim, sticking out a hand to act like a perch for the angel-like summons. One of them flits up to you and stays on your outstretched finger. “Well, not this close, at least.”

It keens at your praise. Like owner like summon, Sunday supposes.

“I don’t tend to bring them out. They are for combat purposes,” he explains. 

Your eyes widen slightly. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me right now?” 

“What? No! That’s not it-”

“-I’m kidding, Sunday,” you snicker. “We’re friends, I wouldn’t want to fight you.”

“Right,” he exhales, “I wouldn’t want to fight you either.”

“Besides, we already did once.”

He freezes at the memory, remembers when he got hit with the exact train he is currently boarding. 

You, however, are unphased by the recollection, and even continue to rub salt in the wound. “I remember fighting against these little summons too, your owner was a real meanie, do you guys know that?” 

They flock around you, spinning and fluttering like little fireflies.  Instinctively, Sunday covers his flustered expression with his wings, and he doesn’t budge, even when he hears your laugh, the sound almost enough for him to melt into a puddle by your feet.

“Hey, hey, I was kidding, sorry if I took the joke too far.” 

He uncovers himself with an embarrassed sigh, not meeting your eyes. “It’s okay, I think the memory is just… humiliating, more than anything.”

“There are no more hard feelings. Everyone has accepted you on board and none of us think of you to be the same person you were when we first met, I promise.”

Your words are completely earnest, Sunday knows it, can feel it in the way you tell him so unabashedly. So who is he to deny it?

“Thank you,” he says, finally looking up at you, “it means a lot to hear that.” 

“I’ll say it as much as you need. Well, I’ll get out of your hair now, just prepare for the jump-”

Your sentence is interrupted by a shriek when you lose your footing, and Sunday feels it too, the force so strong that even he, while sitting, feels as if is being stretched and pulled into a miniscule hole. What he also feels is your body colliding on top of his, and his hands come to your waist to catch you in an attempt to prevent you from slipping, but it’s not enough and he’s falling with you onto the expanse of his made bed.

The Express is warping to some expanse of the universe, and his stomach drops at the sensation, spreading to the ends of his nerves before disappearing, just replaced by the extremely odd feeling of being pulled through the stars. He just hopes you’re comfortable, standing up whilst warping is tough, he heard the stories of when Stelle first tried to do it and how she fell flat on her face. 

When the feeling of normality returns and Sunday doesn’t feel like he has been stretched out, he opens his eyes and tries to take in the sight before him.

You. Your face. Centimetres away from his.

He’s always thought you were pretty, but seeing you this close… perhaps just pretty is an understatement. His gaze unwillingly flicks to your lips and he wished he hadn’t because suddenly the urge to sit up and lick into your mouth is raging; a fire that can’t be contained. 

Sunday wants you to push him down by the shoulders, with no gentleness or mercy, and just… devour him whole. His hands want to find you by the hips and pull you into him more than humanly possible, he wants you to indent yourself onto him so he can remember your taste forever, so that, in a way, you couldn’t ever leave him. 

Alternatively, he would happily flip around and pin you against the mattress. He would pry you open, explore the cavern of your mouth with his tongue and suck your sacred essence out of you so that it can stay and settle in his bones instead, replacing where marrow should be. He wants to lay you vulnerable so his hands can explore places only you want him to touch, wants to take you so that you stay forever, wants to feel your tongue against his, wants to hold your face and feel how you react when he takes his time cherishing you, revering you. 

This feeling is too much, these thoughts are overpowering, yet nothing has ever been more clear. Sunday wants you, lusts for you, even, and he’s never felt so intensely for someone before. 

How would the symphonies sound when they learn of the atrocities he wants to perform? 

Temptation holds him close and infects him with a desire so strong, he’s practically frozen in place as you recover from the shock, holding yourself up with your arms that were on either side of his head. 

“Ow, I’m sorry!” You immediately exclaim, before realising exactly what position you are in, your chests are pressed together, and you’re mortified to think about how close you were before you picked yourself off him, and- his… his hips… are pressed against yours- okay, you needed to leave as soon as possible.

You scramble off him like he had burnt you, frantically shouting apologies whilst doing so, the words clumsy and rushed, but neither of you can deny how you miss the warmth that was suddenly ripped away. 

(If he wanted to, you could have stayed in that position with him.)

Then, before you could get anymore thoughts, you turn and practically bolt out of his room without another word, leaving a hot and bothered Sunday behind.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[mggslover]

Between the lines

In which Spencer crosses paths with the woman he's been dreaming about. Their undeniable attraction turns fantasy into reality.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: smut (18+) x fluff Content warnings: lots of build up, perv!spence, lovesick!spence, lots of flirting, teasing, sex toys, p in v sweet sensual sex Word count: 4,6k A/n: part two of through thin walls! you can read this as a standalone, but it's a short one so give it a try ;)

It had been three weeks since Spencer last had a nightmare. Ever since his neighbor—a woman he had yet to meet—moved in next door, his nights had been calm, peaceful. Sleep had become something he looked forward to, but it wasn’t just sleep itself. It was the moments before, the quiet waiting in anticipation that became part of his routine.

Every time he came home from an exhausting case, he would crawl into bed and lean back against the headboard, his body settling as he awaited a movement from the apartment next to him. Feeling a sense of relief when her sweet moans would slip through the thin wall.

It didn’t take Spencer long to find a pattern in her routine. On weekdays, it was quick, urgent. The soft moans would rise, then fall—until Thursday. Thursdays were different. He could tell by the muffled groans and the frustrated sighs, that she was unable to find the release she so desperately sought. She would let out a final huff, signalling Spencer to stop his movements.

He was aware that he had no obligation towards the woman, but he found no pleasure in the act of touching himself when he knew she wasn’t enjoying herself. These days left a toll on him. Irritated by the fact that he couldn’t just knock on her door with the suggestion of helping her out. But luckily, there were still the weekends. The weekends were good. Her sessions stretched longer, her pleasure unraveling slowly but intensely. Spencer never managed to keep up alongside her, but he couldn’t help continuing to listen as he laid down with his eyes closed. Savoring each breath, each moment as he found peace in the fact that she felt satisfied by the end of the night.

It wasn’t every day that they would share intimate moments like these. On times she didn’t indulge, Spencer found comfort in the other sounds of her life. Hearing her television hum in the background, not loud enough to make out the words, but her occasional laughter—or her soft humming along with a song—was enough to remind him she was there, just beyond the walls.

It was strange, to feel such familiarity with someone he had never spoken to, someone who’s name he didn’t even know, but somehow Spencer had grown very attached to her presence. He often wondered what the rest of her life looked like. Making it a game to fill in the blanks with the inkling of behaviour he had.

One thing he could confidently profile was her loneliness. Whether that was by choice or by circumstance, or a mixture of both, he didn’t know. Only that he has never heard another voice besides hers, not even the typical hellos and goodbyes one would make on a phone call. He hoped she was settling in well, wishing he could bring her the comfort she has given him since her arrival.

It was noon, on a rare day where Spencer didn’t have to go to the office. But Spencer wasn’t the type to sit still on his free days. He grabbed his saddlebag from the leather chair next to the door, whistling a tune under his breath as he looked for his keys. He unlocked the door with a quick turn of the handle, but before he could step out, a yelp echoed from the hallway.

“I’m sor-,” he froze mid-apology, the automatic reply getting stuck in his throat as he processed the familiar sound. That gasp—it was embedded in his memory, a sound he could recognize anywhere, even though the circumstances were completely different. His cheeks flushed, heat spreading across his face, and he found himself afraid to tilt his head, knowing who he would face.

“It’s okay, don’t worry! I should’ve looked out.” The voice apologized.

Spencer’s mind scrambled. He wanted to tell her that he should be the one apologizing, that it was his fault for slamming the door open without considering who might be walking through the shared hallway. But all he could manage was a strangled silence, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He swallowed, forcing himself to look up. His stomach fluttered and his pupils blew wide as he made eye contact with her. She was more beautiful than anything beyond his wildest dreams. He was almost ashamed for picturing her any less than she is. He felt flustered as his mind began piecing her face and body together with the sounds that he’s been eavesdropping on for the past couple of weeks.

He realized how awkward he was making the situation when she looked up at him with big eyes, clearly waiting for some kind of response.

“Did you like my cookies?” She asked, breaking the quiet, her voice a little hesitant but genuine.

Spencer blinked, surprised at the question, his mind struggling to catch up. "Cookies?" he repeated, brows knitting together in confusion.

The girl noticed his expression and rushed to explain. “I brought you cookies,” she said, her hands moving slightly, as if trying to emphasize the story. “When I first moved in here.”

Spencer stayed quiet, getting her to elaborate further. “You weren’t home. I left them on your doorstep,” she continued, a little sheepishly.

He nodded, letting out a small sigh as he made the connection. “It’s my neighbor,” he pointed to the door to the left of him with a vague sweep of his hand, the gesture almost apologetic. “The other one. Miss Cavanaugh. She has a habit of stealing.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth hung slightly open at the casualty in which he mentioned this fact.

“Oh no, don’t worry! she won’t steal from you.” He quickly corrected, raising his hand to wave off any concern. “Well, she might but it’s not likely she’d, like, break into your apartment. That would be a criminal act—breaking and entering—which is a felony in all 50 states. Actually, it's a federal offense in certain circumstances.” He glances off to the side for a moment, thinking, then gestures with a loose hand.

“My point is, she’s more of a, uh, casual thief, if that makes sense? Like, you know, she might nab food or a basket or something left outside, but the odds of her actually coming into your apartment are really low. Statistically speaking, this building has an impressively low crime rate for DC, especially for this price range. It’s safer than 75.3% of comparable buildings in the area.”

His brows furrowed together at the end of his sentence, as if his brain just caught up with his words. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

The corners of her lips lifted, a soft but genuine smile lighting her face.

“That’s good to know. I didn’t do that much research when I moved in here.” She held out her hand, introducing herself.

Her hand was smaller than his, and without thinking, he clasped it gently between both of his, needing to know if he indeed had the connection with her he assumed he had. The touch sent a jolt through him, feeling the spark of electricity he was hoping for. He surprised himself with how much he didn’t want to let go and, more so, how she didn’t pull away.

"I’m Doctor Spencer Reid," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with a genuine awe as he looked at her.

Her eyebrows rose in curiosity. “Doctor, huh? Good to know there’s one next door in case I drop dead.”

“Oh, uh—” His words came in a tumble as he rushed to explain. “Not a medical doctor. I’m with the FBI. I specialize in criminal behavior. So if you were to, say, die by murder, I’d be the one—uh, the one investigating it.”

The words hung in the air for a beat longer than he intended, and before he could stop himself, he added, “Not that I want you to die, or—uh, be murdered. That’s… that’s not what I meant at all. I mean, if there was even a chance someone wanted to hurt you, I’d make sure to stop it before it happened, but—”

Her laugh, bright and airy, caught him off guard. She then tilted her head slightly, studying him in a way that made her seem like the profiler.

“I’ll see you around, Spencer,” she finally said, her voice teasing but kind. His cheeks flushed at the way his name rolled off of her tongue.

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off. Spencer couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, her presence lingering even after her figure disappeared down the hall. He stood frozen in the doorway, his heart racing from the exchange.

When he finally stepped back inside, he closed the door and leaned heavily against it, letting out a groan.

He’d forgotten all about the plans he previously had. Instead, his thoughts swirled around her—even more curious about his neighbor than he was before. As he replayed their brief exchange, one thing became startlingly clear: he needed to see her again.

It was like faith heard him. Later, on that evening, Spencer stepped into the laundromat of the apartment complex, the soft hum of dryers and the faint smell of detergent filling the air. He just finished taking his laundry out of the dryer when he saw her—standing at one of the machines, pulling her clothes out with an ease that made the mundane task look almost elegant.

Spencer moved toward her, a little too quickly, and nearly bumped into a man coming the other way. “Sorry,” he mumbled, placing his basket down beside hers.

Her eyes flicked up, catching his gaze immediately. The air between them shifted, filled with an undeniable spark.

“Hi, Doc,” she greeted with a warm smile. “We meet again.”

“Hi,” Spencer managed, his voice a little breathless.

He glanced down at the pile of laundry. “Sock day?” he asked with a smirk, genuinely curious.

She chuckled softly. “More like underwear day in general. I like to stick to a schedule.”

“Me too!” Spencer eagerly responded, excited to have something in common with her.

She sighed as she held up a sock, contemplating its mate. “Underwear day is the worst though. It’s going to take me hours to match these.”

Spencer gave a quiet laugh. “I gave up on that a while ago.” He casually rolled up his pants, revealing mismatched socks—one green with avocados, the other purple with yellow stripes. “It’s more fun this way.”

She crouched down to get a better look, her eyes scanning the colorful mismatched pair. Spencer bit down on his lip. The act was so innocent, but his thoughts wandered, imagining what it might be like if she were kneeling for a different reason.

Jesus, it feels like I swapped brains with Derek.

He cleared his throat, wiping his clammy hands on his pants. She noticed, getting back on her feet, though she didn’t seem embarrassed. If anything, her eyes twinkled with excitement.

“It is more fun that way,” she agreed. “You see a serious guy like you, dressed up all neat and then, poof, funky socks. Like magic.”

His face brightened at the mention of magic. “I could show you another magic trick—a sock trick.”

She snorted, clearly intrigued. “A sock trick?”

Spencer’s confidence grew, knowing he could impress her and wanting to make her smile again. He grabbed a polka-dot sock from his laundry basket, holding it up between his fingers.

“Alright. I’m going to take this sock…” He moved with exaggerated care, his hands precise as he folded the sock in half, then folded it again. “And just like that, I’m going to make it disappear.”

He made a quick move, waving his hands dramatically to hide how he tucked it into the waistband of his pants. “See? Gone.”

She looked at him with wide, amused eyes. “You can’t be serious. Where did it go?”

He smirked and leaned in. “Ah, but that’s the trick—you have to keep an eye on me.” The back of his fingers softly trailed up her cheek, his confidence growing as he felt the heat radiating off her. In one smooth motion, he pulled the exact same sock from behind her ear.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. “No way.”

“Now look in your basket.”

She shook her head in disbelief. She looked at her laundry pile, and sitting right on top was the matching polka-dot sock.

She threw her head back, laughing, overwhelmed with amazement.

Spencer chuckled softly, enjoying her reaction. “I grew up in Vegas, so I’ve had some practice—but the real magic is in the timing. You were too focused on me to notice the disappearance.”

His words were meant as a mere observation, but the realization seemed to dawn on both of them. She had indeed been too focused on him—only him.

The tension between them grew. She toyed with her lip, and he adjusted the collar of his shirt as they maintained eye contact.

“Laundromat is closing, folks! Everybody out in five minutes.” The announcement through the speakers made them both jump, shaken out of the trance they were in.

“Can I walk you to your apartment?” Spencer asked.

Her eyes glistened, and her smile reached the corners of her mouth. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

They walked out of the laundromat, continuing their small talk about magic and life while sharing the occasional giggle. The stairway was too narrow to walk side by side—especially when carrying a big laundry basket—but that didn’t seem to bother them. The sides of their bodies brushed, their pace matching as they ascended the stairs. Spencer kept an arm behind her back, ready to steady her if she stumbled.

They arrived at their neighboring apartment doors. The air was filled with a mix of the sorrow of their encounter ending and the anticipation of a new one.

The scene almost felt like the end of a first date. Tension hung in the air as they shifted back and forth on their feet, wondering if a goodbye kiss would follow.

“This is mine,” Spencer commented.

She let out a breathy chuckle. “I know.”

After a moment of lingering eye contact, she decided to take the lead.

“Good night, Spencer.” She smiled softly.

“Good night,” he repeated.

Spencer felt a rush of joy as he closed the door behind him. Flirting wasn’t his strong suit. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if their exchanges today could be considered flirting. But there was something comfortable about it. Something effortless. And, most importantly, he’d made her laugh. Several times.

Lost in his thoughts, Spencer set his laundry basket down on the table, preparing to fold the clothes. He wasn’t paying attention as he reached inside—until his fingers brushed against an unfamiliar material.

He looked down with a frown. In his hand was a pair of red laced panties. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he could only stare at them in disbelief.

A vivid image flashed in his mind—those same red panties, nestled in his neighbor’s laundry basket. He frowned deeper, replaying their interaction in his mind. Could I have taken them by accident? He was sure he hadn’t. With an eidetic memory, he’d be able to remember something like that.

His confusement and worry were quickly overcome by a feeling of curiosity and lust. Spencer’s fingers lingered over the fabric, the soft lace slipping between them.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine her in it. The delicate lace tracing the curve of her waist, the soft dips and rises of her hips. Her body seemed to shimmer in the dim glow of his imagination.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shifted in his mind. His fingers curled slightly around the fabric, imagining the way it would feel against her skin as she moved. She lowered her hands, fingers trailing over her body as she slid the lace downward, over the curve of her hips, the fabric teasing the soft swell of her backside. He could almost hear it—the quiet rustle of the lace moving, sliding over her skin as she undressed, the tension in his chest building with each slow, deliberate motion.

His heartbeat quickened as he imagined her pulling the panties lower. The lace graced the insides of her legs, following the shape of her thighs as she removed it with such ease, such grace. And then, just like that, it was gone. The fabric fell, pooling at her feet, leaving her standing before him, utterly exposed.

As his fingers twisted the delicate lace, the image of her in his mind began to fade, slipping away like a dream that was never meant to stay. His subconscious seemed to know that any attempt to imagine her would only fall short. With a quiet exhale, Spencer loosened his grip, folded the lace carefully, and tucked it into his pocket—out of sight, out of mind.

He decided to lie down on his bed, not to sleep, but simply to relax. But his body had other ideas. Before he knew it, his eyes had closed, and his mind had drifted off. The soft purr of his name pulled him from his light doze.

For a moment, Spencer thought he was in heaven—that his pulse had quickened from the thought of her and now he found himself in a place where he could hear her voice calling out his name, like an angel. But as his eyes fluttered open, he realized the voice was more muffled and coming from behind the wall.

“Spencer? Spencer, can you hear me?”

Startled, he swiftly propped himself up on his elbows, his mouth parting before he swallowed his words. Admitting that he could hear her—especially after the sounds from the previous nights—felt like a confession. The idea of those nights ending made his chest tighten, but if it meant he could speak to her again, it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

“Yes. I can hear you,” he called back, his voice a little louder.

A long silence followed. Spencer cursed himself, anxious that he’d ruined it. But then, he heard the soft, familiar buzz.

“What about this? Do you hear this?” she asked, a playful edge to her voice.

“I- I do. What is it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity peaked.

Her giggle echoed softly through the wall, and his chest tightened with warmth. He smiled without thinking, his heart aching at the sound.

“You don’t know what this is?” she amusingly teased.

“No,” he admitted, sheepish.

“It’s a vibrator, Spencer.”

Her words hit him like a sudden jolt of electricity. He could feel the heat rise in his face, but then came her sweet laughter again. Spencer shook his head, smiling despite himself.

“Have you ever tried it?” she asked, her voice sounding almost daring.

Spencer quietly responded. “No.”

“Would you like to?”

“I- I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe.”

A beat of silence passed, before she spoke again.

“You could come over and find out.”

Spencer’s face went red, his heart pounding in his chest. “N-now?”

“Yes, now,” she answered with a soft chuckle.

Spencer scrambled off the bed, his pulse racing as he hurried toward the door, afraid she might change her mind. He forced himself to stop when he stood in front of her apartment, drawing in a deep breath to steady the surge of nervous excitement. The moment he’d been fantasizing about for so long was a knock away from becoming reality.

Knock, knock.

The door creaked open, and Spencer was met with the breathtaking sight of her.

She stepped aside and gave him that look—the one that made every nerve in his body stir with need. “Come in.”

“Are you sure?” Spencer’s voice barely made it out, thick with anticipation.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she moved toward him, lifting onto her toes as she placed her hand on the back of his neck, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. And then, she kissed him.

There was no rush behind her soft lips. It wasn’t frantic like his thoughts had been. It was gentle—like she was savoring the moment just as much as he was.

She slowly lowered herself back to her feet, and she gazed up on him, a soft smile on her lips, eyes twinkling.

It took Spencer a moment to process what had just happened, but once he did, he pulled her back in, his lips crashing into hers with desperate urgency. She responded in kind, her hands sliding into his hair, tugging him closer. His breath came in shallow gasps as he lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and he carried her to the wall. Their bodies pressed against the same wall that had once held their whispered breaths.

His mind felt like it was spinning—this was real, she was real, and he was touching her. His lips trailed down her neck, the soft skin beneath his mouth sending sparks of desire through him.

“Spencer,” she murmured, and the sound of her voice made his heart stutter. He responded by lifting his lips from her skin, needing to look at her—to drink her in, to memorize every detail.

She met his gaze, her lips parted. “Take it off,” she breathed, pulling at his shirt, her hands shaking with the same feverish need.

Spencer stepped back slightly, eyes never leaving her, and pulled his shirt over his head. His eyes traced every inch of her as she began to undress too, throwing her clothes aside.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as she revealed her nude body, wearing no underwear underneath the clothes she just took off.

She smirked, her gaze burning into his. “I told you it was underwear day.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “God, I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with awe and desire.

Her lips curled into a satisfied smile as she pulled him back into her embrace, their bodies stumbling towards the bed. She fell softly onto the sheets, and he moved on top of her, capturing her lips in a lingering kiss.

Spencer began to pepper her with kisses, unsure where to start. He hummed as his tongue swiped along the curve of her neck. His wet kisses trailed down to her collarbones, leaving purple marks on his way down, each one encouraged by her sweet moans.

As he moved further up the bed, his knee brushed against something. His focus shifted as he noticed the small, purple object. “Is this it?” he asked, curiously, and she nodded.

He picked it up, noticing it was smaller than his index finger. As he rolled the toy in his hand, it suddenly buzzed to life, making him jump back. She laughed at his reaction, clearly amused.

He quickly figured out how to stop the buzzing and he hovered above her, tracing her lips with the toy. She instinctively opened her mouth, her tongue rolling around it.

“Good girl,” he hummed. “That’s it.”

She moaned softly as she closed her lips around it, sucking gently while maintaining eye contact. He slowly slid the vibrator from her lips, its surface glistening with the trace of her tongue. Turning it on again, he moved it to her nipple, the bud instantly hardening. She let out quiet whimpers, her body trembling with the sensation.

Once satisfied, he placed his mouth on her nipple while the vibrator moved to the other one. She arched her back with a moan as he sucked on the sensitive bud.

Her hips rolled in response to his touch, and with every movement her skin brushed against his length, making it harder to hold back his moans.

“Don’t go quiet on me now. You always make such beautiful sounds,” she purred.

His face flushed as he looked at her, her fingers brushing through his locks. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know. I think the whole complex has heard you,” she giggled.

He opened her thighs, and without warning, placed the vibrator directly on her clit. She let out a high-pitched cry.

“I’m pretty sure all they hear is you,” he teased back. Her voice was a mixture of laughter and moans and he kissed her passionately, desperate to hold onto that sound, to keep it locked within him forever.

She loosely wrapped her legs around his waist, her hand brushing against his to keep the toy in place. He leaned onto his elbows, hovering above her, moaning when his length slipped between her folds. He moved steadily, each thrust coating him in her wetness. Every time he thrust up, his tip brushed against the vibrator, sending shudders through his body. She upped the intensity, and their moans became synchronized, echoing in the air.

Their breathing grew heavier, only interrupted by soft kisses. Spencer felt her tense beneath him, her legs trembling against his back.

“You can let go for me. Show me how good you make yourself feel,” he encouraged, his voice low and warm against her lips.

“It’s you who’s making me feel this good, Spencer,” she whispered, and he could feel the butterflies flutter in his chest.

He held her close as she reached her peak, her soft cries muffled by her face buried in the crook of his neck. Spencer was pressed against the vibrator, the sensation overwhelming him.

She placed the toy beside her, her hand finding his hardness and guiding him inside of her. Spencer let out a needy whine as he was enveloped by her warmth. She pulsed around him, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. She pulled him into a sloppy kiss, and he desperately moved his hips, driven by the overwhelming pleasure, until he spilled inside of her.

They stayed like that for a moment, their foreheads pressed together as they caught their breath. Spencer eventually rolled off her, their legs remaining intertwined.

He turned his head to look at her, and she was already watching him with a sweet smile.

“That was nice,” he mused softly.

“Yeah, it was,” she replied, her voice just as soft.

They spent the rest of the night, and the entirety of the next morning tangled up in each other, until it was time for Spencer to leave for work.

She watched him with adoration as he pulled his pants on, her eyes tracing his movements. As he reached into his pocket, his hand brushed against the familiar lace, and he froze. His cheeks flushed as he pulled out the bundle of fabric—her red laced panties.

“I- uh…” he stammered, holding them out to her. “Here.”

She chuckled. “You can keep them. Consider it a welcome gift. You know, since the cookies didn’t exactly work out.”

“That’s okay. It’s yours,” he replied, holding them out to her once more.

Her smirk deepened. “I didn’t do that little magic trick just for you to give them back,” she teased.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Wait—you put them in my laundry?”

She shrugged, a playful glint in her eye. “You’re not the only magician here, Spencer.”

Spencer laughed, coming to a halt at the door. He glanced over his shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked with a grin.

She chuckled softly, nodding. “I think I could get used to that.”

[seumyo]

bakugou’s never been happier to do this alongside you.

The sound of Bakugou’s ringtone—specifically one for those calls—the kind that only came when villains decided to cause trouble at ungodly hours—jolted him awake on the second ring. The kind that meant neither of you were getting any more sleep.

He groaned loudly, his voice raspy from sleep. “Son of a—” He didn’t even finish the curse as he snatched his phone and squinted at the glowing screen. “What the hell is it this time?”

Beside him, you stirred, mumbling groggily as you pulled the blanket over your head. “Is it another one?” you asked sleepily, your voice muffled.

Bakugou ignored you for the moment, his phone pressed to his ear as the barking voice of the dispatcher filled the room. His brows furrowed deeper, his scowl turning deadly as he listened to the report. “Villains in the old district? At this hour? Those bastards don’t sleep or somethin’? Yeah, yeah—I got it. We’ll be there.”

He slammed the phone down on the bed, letting out a deep sigh as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Goddamn it. I hate this stupid job.”

You let out a small laugh beneath the blanket. “Liar.”

Bakugou glared at the lump of fabric that was you—his partner. “What’d you just say?”

“You heard me,” you teased, peeking out just enough for him to see the drowsy smile on your face—which can barely be seen with the dim light of the moonlight outside the bedroom window. “You love this job, Kats. You’d combust without it.”

“Like hell I would,” he muttered, standing up and running a hand through his already messy hair. “I’m only outta bed ‘cause I don’t trust those extras not to screw up.”

“You’re up because you want to. Big difference.”

“Whatever.” Bakugou shot you a glance over his shoulder. “Hurry your ass up. Don’t got time for you to sit there all cozy like we ain’t got villains to blow up.”

You didn’t budge.

“Give me two minutes. I just need to—hey!”

Bakugou had moved without warning, stomping back to the bed and scooping you up in one fluid motion. You let out a surprised squeak as he effortlessly picked you up, blanket and all, and cradled you against his chest.

“Katsuki!” you protested, trying to wriggle free. “What are you doing?!”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, barely sparing you a glance as he carried you toward the door. “You’re slow as hell when you’re tired. This’ll save time.”

“You can’t just carry me every time we get called in!”

“Watch me.”

He stomped down the hallway, his bare feet thudding against the wooden floor, while his voice dipped into a string of curses. “Stupid villains. Stupid middle-of-the-night calls. Stupid hero work. I’m gonna blast whoever’s causing this into the next century.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter now, your head falling back against his shoulder. “You sound like a cranky old man.”

“Keep talkin’ and I’m droppin’ you,” Bakugou threatened. “Why the hell are you laughin’? Think this is funny?”

“Very. You’re like my happy pill.”

“Yeah? And you’re heavy,” he grumbled, though the way he carried you effortlessly said otherwise.

“Excuse me?!”

A corner of Bakugou’s mouth quirked up as he looked down at you, amusement flickering in his eyes despite his perpetual scowl. “I didn’t say nothin’. Quit wastin’ time.”

You smiled against his shoulder, listening to him grumble about this whole ordeal. He sounded pissed—like the world had wronged him personally by waking you two up—but you could see the truth in his actions. His grip was steady, his movements careful as he carried you to where your hero gear was waiting. It was such a Bakugou thing to do: grumble and complain, but still take care of you without hesitation.

By the time you make it to the gear room, Bakugou carefully sets you down on your feet. You wobbled slightly from the sudden shift, and Bakugou’s hand instinctively shot out to steady you.

“Oi, don’t fall on me now.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you murmured, rubbing your eyes before turning to grab your hero suit. “You’re way too grumpy for someone who just carried me all the way here. Admit it—you love being a hero.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You do, though,” you teased, already halfway into your gear. “I know you do.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his voice softened just enough to make you pause. “I wouldn’t do this job if it meant leavin’ you to deal with shit alone.”

You stilled, looking at him from the corner of your eye. He was standing by the doorway now, fully suited up and waiting for you, his face set in his usual determined scowl. But something about the way he looked at you, about the small, unspoken truths in his words, made your chest feel warm.

“Y’know, you’re so sweet to me at the most inconvenient times. Why can’t you say things like that when I don’t look like I’ve been ran over by a truck because I’m sleep deprived?”

“Die.”

“Is that your way of saying you love me too, Ka-tsu-ki?”

He scoffed. “Hurry up, dumbass. We’ve got work to do.”

“Ha! You didn’t deny it, so I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Shut up, you’re annonyin’.”

You smiled faintly, finishing the last of your preparations before walking over to him. “But you love me.”

“Of fucking course,” Bakugou said, opening the door and stepping out into the brisk night air. “Let’s go. Those idiots could only hold out for so long ‘cause they really had to call us in.”

You followed close behind, still smiling to yourself as you fell into step next to him. Despite his grumbles, despite the curses under his breath, Bakugou had never been happier. Because at the end of the day, no matter how ungodly the hour, you were always there—and as far as he was concerned, nothing else mattered.

Because he loves this job—especially when he’s doing it alongside you.

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[mywritersmind]

OBVIOUSLY OBLIVIOUS - LN4

summary : she thought the hoodie was her brothers, she should have known since the comfort was too good.

listen up : hating on landos style. fewtrell!sister. messages!!

word count : 729

⋆｡‧˚⋆

I’m practically imprinted into the couch, flipping another page of my book and yawning. I’m at my brother's house for the weekend but after a night of streaming, he’s probably passed out in his room.

It’s early but I still have my makeup on from the night before. I went clubbing with my friends and was desperately craving a good book in my pajamas with a side of ice cream.

I sit comfortably with Billie Eilish playing on low and my brother's hoodie on me. It’s an extremely good find, soft and cute which is rare for Max. It’s got a red heart on the back with black letters that say ‘MAISON DE MONACO’ No clue what that is but it’s fancy.

I jump when I hear my brother's door creek open, “Jesus, you scared me.” I shake my head and look back down at my book.

The voice who answers isn’t my brother, “Sorry, forgot Max’s house is a billion years old.” Yet the familiarity washes over me.

“I forgot you were here.” I look over to Lando who’s filling up his water in the kitchen. It had completely slipped my mind that Lando was staying here for the night.

“Wow, thanks.” He turns around, drinking his water while looking at me funny.

“You alright?” I ask the boy as nods slowly.

“I like your hoodie.” He says, nodding down to the gray fabric.

“Thanks, It’s Max’s.” I shrug and look back to my book, “Quite nice. Didn't know my brother had such good taste.”

Lando laughs a bit, “Maybe my style is rubbing off on him.” I roll my eyes as he watches me closely.

I don’t mean to laugh as hard as I do, “Keep telling yourself that, love.” I shake my head as his eyes narrow.

“What, you don’t like my style?” I close my book and sigh.

“It’s just… very driver-like.” I say as he frowns, his eyebrows furrowing.

“You don’t like any driver's style?” He takes a seat at the end of the couch.

“No! I love Lewis’ and Zhou’s! You just… don’t have that. Max is probably being influenced by Pietra.” I lean my head back on the cushions, my body facing his.

“Maybe I need a girlfriend then.” He says easily, tilting his head against the pillow and looking at me with eyes that I could lose myself in.

I shake off the feeling, opening my book back up, “Would probably help.” He side eyes me.

We stay silent then, I fall back into my story as he scrolls on his phone. Still, Lando can’t be focused on anything for too long (odd considering the whole two hour non stop driving thing) so he bugs me two minutes after we stopped speaking.

He’s staring at me. I can feel the gaze of his blue eyes while I'm reading. I glance up to meet his eyes, “Is there something on my face?”

His smile sneaks back onto his face, “No. You just…” He licks his lips and shakes his head, “Sorry. I gotta go- Have a good day, Y/N.”

“Bye…?” he’s out the door before I even finish the word. I just shrug and try to ignore the tingles in my fingertips.

An hour passes and my brother's door opens for the second time this morning, letting out a loud and long groan. “Good Morning to you too.” I laugh as Max falls onto the couch, his face in the pillows. “Hey, I’m stopping by the store so text me what crisps yo-”

His head pops up and interrupts me, “What are you wearing?” He makes a face which immediately concerns me.

“What?”

“Your hoodie. I know it’s not yours because it’s like Fifty Five Thousand pounds.” My jaw drops.

I slam my book shut, “This isn’t yours?”

“Christ, Y/N how much money do you think I make? What’d you do, rob the store?” He’s being serious and I feel ill.

“Max. I found this in your room.” His confusion turns into humor when the realization hits and he breaks into laughter.

“You’re-”

I don’t want him to say it, “No.”

He seals my fate while laughing, “You're wearing Landos hoodie.” He says befitting shoving his face back into a pillow, muffling his giggle.

I roll my eyes, “You child!” I throw a pillow at him and grab my phone.

[auroralwriting]

wait for your love

spencer reid x fem!liaison!reader

after joining the bau eight months ago, you and spencer quickly became close. too close, to be just friends, that is.

word count: 2k

warnings: comfort and fluff, no use of y/n, mutual pining, (un)reciprocated feelings, spencer's love-blind, he only likes your touch, vague hints at spencer's autism, playful flirting

Spencer Reid was all you'd ever wanted. He was a sweet, smart, charming, a gentleman. He understood your thoughts and feelings. He made time for you, and actually, the two of you spent a great deal of time together on a daily basis. It was rare you'd go more than two days without seeing the resident genius.

You were even the rare exception to his physical touch boundaries-- he couldn't keep his hands off of you. Holding your hand or interlocking your pinkies was a common form of touch you shared. Hugs, cuddling, and sharing beds wasn't uncommon, either. Usually on cases, you roomed together, even if you had separate rooms. You were Spencer Reid's solace, even more so-- simply his person.

The only issue? He was just your best friend.

For as close as the two of you were, no, you weren't dating. No, you had no clue how he felt about you. Sometimes it felt like he reciprocated your feelings, but then he'd go and call you something like his best friend. So, maybe he didn't reciprocate the feelings. But that was fine, you were still in his life and he was in yours. That was all that mattered, right?

You barreled into Spencer's hotel room the moment he opened the door from your rapid knocks.

Spencer watched as you flopped face-first on his bed with a chuckle, "Hello to you, too." He walked over to where you laid, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Can you guys please profile this douche any quicker?" You groaned into his pillow, the whine of your voice making Spencer smile. "I'm seriously done with the press on this one. I cannot take another call from stupid Heather Young."

"Who's Heather Young?" Spencer asked as you flipped yourself over quickly, sitting up to face him.

Begrudgingly, you pointed to the small TV that sat in front of his bed. "She's some nosey, obsessive, and pestering news reporter who wants the full coverage story on this case." You sighed. Heather Young truly was testing every limit you had. Her phone calls boarded on stalker, at least one an hour, if not more. You'd tried to block her number, but she found another phone to use. "She won't leave me alone. I swear, Spence, every hour this woman calls!"

Spencer knew all too well the struggles of being a liaison, and this was one of them. Dealing with obnoxious reporters and pestering questions would frustrate him to no end. That's why he admired you so much, for your tolerance and patience.

Your phone rang, and you groaned, turning back over and letting yourself fall face-first back into Spencer’s pillow. He chuckled, grabbing your phone and shutting it off so you wouldn’t receive any more calls for the night. “See? Problem solved,”

“Until six a.m when she calls me trying to get an inside scoop,” your muffled voice whined.

“You’re so grumpy,” Spencer chuckled, leaning on his arm beside you. “Come on, don’t let some stupid news reporter get you like this.”

Maybe if you'd looked closer, harder, you would've noticed the adoration in the genius's eyes. However, you just rolled your eyes and scoffed at his words. "M not grumpy,"

Spencer chuckled, poking your side teasingly. "You definitely are," He chuckled at the way you squeaked, shooting upward at the ticklish sensation.

"Spence!"

"If I were to look up the definition for grumpy, your name would be its definition." Spencer continued to softly poke at your ribs and sides, causing giggles to spew from your lips like an endless waterfall. It was music to Spencer's ears.

"Spencer!" You tried to whine, but it came out as laughter instead.

After a minute or so of his relentless attack, Spencer eased. "See? Not so grumpy anymore. I just know the grumpy cure."

"Tickling me is not a cure," You argued, crossing your arms as you sat criss-crossed in front of him. When Spencer went to reach forward, you sucked in a breath, "Okay, okay! Consider me cured!"

Spencer just chuckled at your words. "Admit it, you were grumpy. I could tell based on the way you threw yourself onto my bed." Spencer joked. He wasn't wrong. His hand, instead of poking, found its way to your side, but it gently caressed you in a sweet motion.

With another roll of your eyes, you smiled, letting Spencer know wordlessly he was right. His touch was soft and comforting. Spencer's touch, no matter how it's given, was the cure.

The moment was broken when your phone buzzed, a text from JJ lighting up your screen. For a moment, ignoring it was a highly considerable option, until you realized you were still on a case, and it could be important.

"Who's that?" Spencer asked, looking over your shoulder as you grabbed your phone from his bedside table.

"JJ," You simply stated.

Where are you? The text read.

With Spence, need anything?

Why can't you ever stay in your own rooms, SMH!! Wanted to see if you're ready to give the profile tomorrow?

You chuckled at her text, As ready as I'll ever be

KK, I won't bother you two lovebirds anymore! Enjoy Spencer time!!!

Spencer grinned at the texts. "You don't think she's going to read into that, do you?"

"She already does," You shrugged, setting your phone back down. "The whole team always asks, 'When are you and Spencer getting together?,' 'When are you finally gonna date?,' blah, blah, blah."

With an eyebrow now raised, Spencer felt himself become surprised at your response. While he speculated there was some sort of, well, suspicion about the two of you, he was never on the receiving end of any of it. Apparently, that's because you were. "How many people have asked about us? Just the team?"

"Just them," You paused, considering his question. "Wait, you don't know about this?"

Spencer became more confused at your tone, "No, I don't."

"They think we're madly in love or something," you chuckled, trying to hide your true feelings, "talking about our future little genius-liaison babies."

The genius's mind became scattered, flooded with images of the two of you that his mind created in a moments notice. Children, marriage, love. It felt so surreal picturing you, yet so right. "Did you ever deny it?"

"For the first few months," You confirmed with a solid nod. "I just don't really entertain it anymore. I don't see them stopping anytime soon."

Spencer nodded, clearing his throat. "You haven't let them think it's true though, right?"

"Why?" You asked, his words confusing you. "Is there some sort of problem being with me?"

You felt defensive at his words. Maybe this was his way of telling you the feelings aren't reciprocated. Maybe, all along, you were playing the fool. This stupid, silly little mistake of a crush was mere moments from destroying your closest friendship. You wished you could swallow this whole conversation down like bad medicine and pretend it never happened.

Spencer paused for a moment, your question making his heart drop. "Why would you ask me that?" He softly asked.

"Just--" You sighed, turning over to lay on your side that faced away from him. As much as this sucked, you couldn't see yourself leaving him, either. "forget about it, Spence."

You were upset now, that much was apparent. Spencer couldn't tell if it was about the team, or his response. He wasn't good at talking to girls, let alone about romance. Spencer softly laid on his side, wrapping his arm around your middle and trying to gently pull you into him.

"Spence, it's really fine, just--" You knew this play. You knew he was going to give you the softest affection to try and get you to open up.

"It's not fine, you're upset." Spencer observed, a gentle firmness behind his voice. He hated it when you closed in on yourself.

Adamant about not moving, Spencer realized his efforts were useless; you weren't going to budge. So, he scooted closer until front was pressed against your back, practically spooning you. When your body went rigid against his, Spencer felt disappointment seep into his heart. You always melted into him. Ever so softly, Spencer let his free hand come up and begin to massage your scalp, slowly playing with your hair ever so often.

Like memory, your body began to relax into his, just the way he wanted it to. Of course, it was against your better judgement, but soft moments with Spencer Reid was what you lived for.

Spencer smiled against your shoulder, his efforts weren't so fruitless after all. "You're so stubborn," Spencer mumbled into your shoulder.

"M not stubborn," you muttered in reply, heat rising to your cheeks at his words.

"Yes, you are." Spencer said, giving you a small squeeze. It made you giggle in reply, making Spencer's heart thump loudly in his chest. Could you hear it, too? "You never answered me before,"

You hummed, "Hmm?"

Spencer said your name slowly, a growl of a warning. He needed to fix whatever happened. There was no way he was going to let you stay upset at him.

"I asked you that because.." you hesitated. "I don't know. would there be a problem being with me?"

At your soft words, Spencer realized what had happened. He'd been a fool and insulted you. How could he ever do such a thing? "Of course there wouldn't be a problem being with you," he breathed softly into your ear.

"Then.." you paused, "then why aren't we, I don't know, together?" You rolled over to face him. "I mean, we do this," Your hands waved in the air, motioning to your current position with the genius. "We're always together. We even sleep over! Even the team asks me why we aren't together and--"

Spencer felt shock flood his system at your confession. Did this mean what he thought it meant? Was he reading this right?

"Just, why? Is it me?"

Taking a deep breath, Spencer choked down his fears. "I've been.. scared."

"Scared?" Your desperation morphed into one of curiosity and confusion at his words.

"Scared," Spencer confirmed softly. "I didn't know how you felt. I didn't know if you even wanted this.. us,"

Humor slowly filled the situation. Maybe you'd both been fools, but not in the way you'd originally thought. "Do you really think I cuddle with all my best friends?"

Spencer raised a brow at your words. Yeah, he felt unbelievably stupid. How could he not have seen it before? "No, I suppose not." He meekly replied, a small smile growing on his lips. "Does that mean you-you really want to be my girlfriend?"

A chuckle escaped your lips, "Spencer Reid, you ought to know better than to assume. Don't you know what that makes you?"

He smiled in return, rephrasing his question. "You want to be my girlfriend."

"I do," you smiled.

"I want to be your boyfriend," Spencer replied with a now wide grin on his face.

You felt your heart skip a beat, "I want that, too."

"Do you want to be my girlfriend?" Spencer asked, the question feeling like one of a middle-school boy. Nothing else felt right to say, though. Nothing felt as sweet and innocent as this moment did.

A finger patted your chin as you faked deep thought. "I don't know, it's a lot to consider."

Spencer let out a small laugh, propping himself up. He moved over top of you, his weight now on his forearms as you stared up at him. "Oh, really now?"

"Yeah, being tied down is a lot, you know?"

He leaned down closer to you, so close you could feel the tip of his nose grazing your own. "Tied down," he chuckled with amusement.

"That begs your question; should I be your girlfriend?"

"I say yes," Spencer said, his lips mere centimeters from your own.

Staring down at his lips, you whisper, "I say yes, too."

Like a moment of explosion, your lips meshed perfectly with Spencer's. It felt like everything you'd dreamt of thus far. Poor Spencer, he was in absolute bliss. He felt like he'd been waiting this day his whole life and another. It was magic, heaven, and unbridled passion.

"Stay here tonight?" Spencer whispered as he pulled back, lips tingling with the feeling of you.

"Always," you smiled, pulling him in for another kiss.

[sushiyuzu]

tease

warning: fluff + tension — you start teasing sylus by squishing his cheeks and making silly faces, but sylus quickly turns the tables 👀

- second acc: @blushpawss

“i’m bored…” you whined, dramatically flopping onto the couch next to sylus.

he glanced at you from the book he was reading, raising an eyebrow. “is that so?” he asked, his deep voice teasing.

“yes, and you’re not helping!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “you’ve been sitting there reading for ages, and i’m just dying of boredom here!”

sylus chuckled softly, flipping a page in his book. “what would you like me to do about it?”

“entertain me, of course!” you said, leaning closer to him, resting your chin on his shoulder. when he didn’t respond immediately, you gave a fake, dramatic sigh, nudging him gently. “hellooooo? mr. fun police?”

he smirked at your antics but didn’t take his eyes off the page. “i thought i was supposed to be the responsible one,” he replied with a playful tone. “can’t be fun all the time, you know.”

you pouted, but a mischievous idea popped into your head. without warning, you reached up and pinched his cheek gently, pulling it out just a little.

sylus blinked, clearly caught off guard. “what are you—”

“oh my gosh,” you giggled, giving his cheek a little tug. “look at you, all serious with your book… and now you’re like a little chipmunk!” you laughed, delighted by how his face changed when you squished it.

he tried to keep a straight face, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching. “are you seriously doing this right now?” he asked, his voice amused.

“oh, i’m just getting started,” you said, still giggling as you moved your hands to his other cheek, pulling them both outward now. “look! now you’ve got fish lips!”

sylus sighed, but you could tell he was trying not to laugh. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re too handsome! i need to fix that,” you teased, smushing his cheeks together until his lips puckered into an exaggerated pout. “there we go. much better!”

you burst into laughter, absolutely losing it at how ridiculous he looked with his face all squished up like that. sylus, ever the good sport, just shook his head slightly, his crimson eyes still glinting with humor.

“i see you’ve found a new hobby,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the way you had his face trapped in your hands.

“you’re too serious all the time!” you said between giggles, still holding onto his cheeks. “i’m just trying to loosen you up a bit!”

“this is… certainly one way to do it,” sylus replied, his tone dry but playful.

you laughed again, giving his cheeks a little wiggle before letting go. his skin bounced back into place, and you couldn’t help but giggle at how quickly he regained his usual calm, handsome look.

“how do you do that?” you asked, poking his cheek once more. “it’s like your face is made of rubber or something.”

“practice,” he said with a grin, finally closing his book and setting it aside. “you done yet, or are you planning to keep torturing me?”

“oh, i’m definitely not done!” you said with a playful grin, scooting closer to him. “now that i’ve discovered how fun your face is, there’s no going back.”

before sylus could react, you grabbed his face again, this time squishing his cheeks upwards so his eyes looked smaller and his lips pressed together in a funny way. “look! now you’re a grumpy cat!”

you both burst out laughing at the ridiculous face you’d made, and sylus finally gave in to the silliness of it all. “you’re unbelievable,” he said, his voice filled with affection despite the playful complaint.

“but you love it,” you said with a grin, leaning forward to kiss his squished cheek.

he smiled, his crimson eyes softening as he looked at you. “i do,” he admitted, his voice gentle.

you were about to pull away, satisfied with your teasing, when suddenly sylus moved faster than you expected, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer to him in one swift motion.

“hey—!” you yelped, caught off guard, but your words died in your throat when you saw the mischievous glint in his eyes.

before you could react, sylus leaned in and gently bit your cheek, just enough to make you squeak in surprise.

“s-sylus!” you gasped, your face instantly heating up. “what the heck was that?”

he pulled back slightly, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “what? you were squishing my face, so i figured it was only fair.”

your heart skipped a beat at how close he still was, his warm breath brushing against your skin. “i… i didn’t bite you!”

he chuckled, the sound low and teasing. “well, maybe you should’ve,” he teased, his hands still resting firmly on your waist, holding you in place.

you could feel your cheeks burning, and the playful atmosphere suddenly shifted, the air between you charged with something else entirely. sylus’s gaze was intense, and you could feel the tension building as his thumb brushed softly against your side.

“what’s the matter?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “you’re looking a little red.”

“i’m not—” you stammered, but your body betrayed you, the heat rising in your face impossible to hide. “you’re… too close.”

“am i?” he whispered, his lips dangerously close to your ear now.

you couldn’t form a proper response, your heart pounding in your chest as his breath tickled your skin. for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, and the teasing had turned into something much more… electric.

“you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” sylus murmured, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his smirk softening into something more affectionate. “i like it.”

you swallowed hard, trying to keep your cool, but it was impossible with the way he was looking at you, his crimson eyes full of warmth and mischief.

“y-you’re impossible,” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but the way your voice shook betrayed you.

sylus laughed softly, finally releasing his hold on your waist and leaning back. “maybe,” he said with a grin, “but you love it.”

you huffed, trying to regain your composure, but the truth was… yeah, you did.

[lilliezzzzz-fics]

Dear Noisy Neighbour, !

pairing: streamer!lando norris x insomniac!reader author's note: so, i'm sorry for my abscence, this fic caused me problems and also i've been busy with art stuff!! sorry for being gone for... a month. but!! i hope you enjoy this fic!! gn!reader, no use of y/n warnings: one liiittle (🤏) sex joke, sleeping problems, neighbours-to-something, one flirty remark, that's about it i think word count: 1.8k

You’ve had many sleepless nights, far too many to count. Though none of them were quite as loud as this one. What sounded like banging coming from the wall right beside you, with uncontrollable laughter following suit. Some muffled words that you were too tired to make sense of, more laughter, and clicking on a keyboard.

You turn in your bed, groaning into your pillow. You assumed that the… Friendly ruckus was caused by your newly moved-in neighbor, who you only knew of because of the endless amount of moving boxes placed in the building's corridor. The mess was no problem, you knew moving would always be a messy process, so you thought nothing of it. On the contrary, you somewhat looked forward to meeting the mystery neighbor.

But now you couldn’t say those positive feelings remained. Not when he was yelling at the top of his lungs at 2 in the morning. You couldn’t even fathom why he was even up now. Quite frankly, you don’t want to either. With his yelling and groaning, only two things were coming to mind, either he was getting killed, or he was… Well, honestly you’d rather not think about it.

The darkness in your room is a familiar comfort, although you always swear there’s movement hiding beneath it somehow. Groggily, you sit up, swinging your legs off of your bed. Your feet search the floor underneath them, trying to find the warm slippers usually placed there. Once you find them, you messily slide your feet into them, almost putting them on the wrong way.

Your steps are slow, almost dragging your feet across your bedroom floor to find the lamp sitting on your desk. Your hand feels the cold surface, finding the button to turn it on. Soon the room is slightly illuminated by its warm glow, a yellowish light brushing the walls. Though it wasn’t peaceful, still, with your neighbour yelling clear enough that you could hear it. He’s yelling at some guy, Max, about some… Enemy?

Perhaps you should give him a knock. Like a friendly not-so-friendly reminder that he doesn’t live alone in this building. Or maybe that’s too rude.

You find yourself grumbling in the chair, unsure of what to do. You couldn’t go to bed just yet, since he was still awake, but you didn’t want to just sit around. Also, you really wanted to do something about the noise. You don’t think you’d live another day if this continued for days on end. However, you had no clue how to tell him off. You could of course just confront him, but you didn’t have the energy to potentially get into an argument at this time of night, so that was out of the question. Maybe you could get your landlord to tell him off? No, actually. That’s probably a bit too harsh. 

A sigh escapes you. You had zero clue on what to do. You slide open a drawer, rummaging through it for something to keep you entertained for the night. It’s unorganized, with different junk and scrap scattered amongst the material stored there.

In the drawer, your eyes land on a bright yellow notepad, which gives you an idea of how to tell your new neighbour off without being too rude.

You take out the notepad, as well as a pen you found lying inside the drawer. The pen gives off a soft click as you pop the cap off. It takes you a while to figure out what to write, and multiple attempts or ideas are quickly scrapped and thrown into the bin placed beside your desk. Eventually, you land on a note that goes as follows:

Dear Noisy Neighbour, 

I hope you find your new place to your liking! It’s nice to have someone new in the building, but you’re causing quite a ruckus. There are a lot of  people who are trying to or are currently sleeping,  so please tone it down! - your new neighbour :) 

You grab the note, shuffling out of your chair and out of your bedroom. You had to squint as you made your way towards your front door, making sure not to trip over anything, or yourself for that matter. You unlock the door, reaching for the handle and creaking the door open. The corridor was dark, almost tranquil, as you stepped out into it. Although it’s kind of cold.

Though, loud laughter interrupts the short peace you had, reminding you why you were out here in the first place. You turn to his door, stepping around the boxes placed at your feet like you’re finding your way through a maze. You stop in front of his door, the noise even louder now that you’re up close. His British accent is far clearer, and you can somewhat distinguish what he’s talking about.

For a moment, you just stand there as if you’re unsure of what to do. Honestly, you feel kind of silly standing here in the dark and telling someone off via stationary. The pitch-black of the corridor envelops you in a brief silence—until your neighbour's yelp makes you nearly jump out of your skin.

You steel yourself as you press the bright yellow note onto his wooden door, the bottom curling upward slightly. You press down on the note, flattening it with your palm. His boisterous laughter once again rings through the silent night and you physically flinch, stepping back from the door to calm your beating heart. Your eyes narrow, and your nose crinkles at his unashamed volume.

You take a step back, eyes scanning over the bright yellow patch now present on his front door. It stands out even in the dark of the night, and you’re honestly a little afraid. You couldn’t imagine how he would reply to it. Maybe he’d be pissed. Well, you’re already here; better not to regret anything.

Lando wasn’t sure what to make of the passive-aggressive note stuck to his front door. The letters were smudged and it was slightly crinkled in the corners, with a smiley face in the corner trying its best to show some friendliness. It usually would amuse him, but this time for some odd reason, it didn’t. If he were honest, he only felt bad. Clearly, he hadn’t made a good first impression on whoever made it.

Gently, he peeled the note off of the door and put it in his pocket. He’ll have to put it up somewhere so he remembers to keep quiet during streams. His steps back into the apartment are sluggish; his mind drifting off. The blue light from his computer screen makes his eyes hurt as he retreats to his bedroom. He winces, stepping towards his screen and pulling out the note—pressing it to the top left corner of his middle monitor.

He doesn’t think of it at the moment, but his hand rests lingering—fingertips brushing against the slightly crumpled paper. His raised arm falls to his side as he crumbles into his chair like a man defeated. 

Staying up too late like this isn’t good for him; his mind won’t stop running. He shouldn’t let a small note affect him like this, especially not when it’s something as easy to fix as this. Hell—he’s a streamer—he’s used to things like this. People who he didn’t know commenting on how obnoxious he was. He shouldn’t care. But he does. 

It’s stupid, really. But as he sits in his chair he can’t help but run scenarios in his head, playing out different ways to apologise. Maybe he could get his neighbour a gift? Maybe he should put all the boxes that’d been left in the hallway into his apartment (which he should’ve done the moment he got here, it’d slipped his mind—he swears). Maybe he could even bake them something—or well, not with his baking skills—he has to do something.

The clock ticking in his room turns into background noise as time slips through him; no longer aware of the passage of the time. Minutes turn into hours as guilt continues to reside in his body like a leech, sucking away all his other thoughts. He only realises how long he’s been awake when the birds chirping outside his window brings him back.

He sighs—not of relief—but of an overwhelm he can’t seem to describe. The slight creak of his chair when he leans back seems louder than ever—his curls that tickle the back of his neck feeling like it’s giving him a rash, despite them being so soft.

His hands reach into the drawer he’d left open for some reason, hands brushing over the notebook that he intended to use as a journal; however that intention didn’t last. But now he thought of something else he could use it for. Shuffling it out of the already filled drawer, he slips it in front of the keyboard. He slips out a pencil and hovers it over the open notebook. He thought of something to write, but then—it doesn’t fit. Writing, scrapping, then re-writing. Over and over til he finds something that fits. And eventually, he does.

A script that he thinks that he could rehearse to the person complaining, a formal apology. He rises a little too quickly out of his chair, stumbling when he stands. Shuffling through his bedroom, in the same pajamas he put on when he thought to sleep, he exits into his main living area; rehearsing the scripted apology in unintelligible mumbles. 

With his eyes still on the paper—and his handwriting that looks closer to incoherent scribbles—he steps into his slippers and opens his door. 

The loud creak that the door emits when he exits usually would put him off, but he doesn’t pay attention, his mumbles sounding like the ramblings of a madman. His steps are deliberate as he walks through the maze of boxes and he’s just a few steps away from his next-door neighbours apartment when he hears the cough of a person a bit too close for comfort.

His eyes drift up to find yours.

The man in front of you looks messy. Not the clean type of messy that you’d expect, no, but a messy that only a rugged, distressed man could be. He looks only a breath away from breaking down. His pupils are dilated and theres a flustered expression on his face as his eyes meet yours, and he mutters an: “oh fuck”. 

A curl springs in front of his face as he stumbles to start speaking, “I, uh- shit. Uhm, I’m sorry for being noisy, I didn’t realise that- uhm, I didn’t realise my impact on the others in the building-”

You can’t help but laugh—his expression is a little pitiful as his lips tremble with something you could only call guilt.

“You don’t need to be so formal,” you smile, hand brushing the back of your neck, “I only wanted you to be a bit quieter.”

God, he was incredibly cute. 

“Ah.” His cheeks reddened as he breathed out. Long and heavy, “Well, I’m sorry.”

His mouth opens to probably say something else—maybe another dumbfounded apology—or maybe something else, but he closes it once again with a small smile on his face, and red brushing his cheeks.

“Well, just keep the note in mind, for future nights, okay?” you flash him a grin, “I’ll see you around, cutie.” 

©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

[sombrashe]

fingertips ∿ nam-gyu x reader x thanos

smut

content reader has a vagina, threesome, oral m!receiving, fingering, drug mention (reader takes one of thanos' pills)

notes the longer version of this post

"Two truths and a lie, ready? Go."

"I have two sisters, I've been out of the country, and I breathe air."

The guys whisper among themselves each one dramatically looking in your direction every so often. You played with your nails, weeks unemployed has led them to get rather long. Scratching at a dry patch above your elbow they finally have an answer.

"The lie is-"

"Wait, shit. It's just one lie? I did one truth, ha. Well, I fucked up. Your turn."

You give them a wide smile, your eyes drooping as whatever Thanos gave you started to take hold. They look at each other before Thanos takes your hands in his. Long fingers bind your hands together and you're yanked.

Embarrassment floods heat to your face as you land sprawled over his legs. Your hands are pinned under you and your only solace is the placement of the bunks kept you three out of most people's view. Just as fast as you were pulled down, you're righted back into a sitting position. Only this time your back is pressed against Nam-gyus chest.

"Two truths and a lie. I'll go."

"I am a rapper, this is Nam-sus first time trying these pills, me and him fucked before."

"Well, the lie is obviously that you two fucked before." They seem to pent up to have fucked before or else they would have again by now.

"Wrong." Nam-gyu lifts his sleeve and shows off the track marks littering his inner elbow. You look between the two of them and their hungry grins as you take in the information. Then you start laughing. It's soft at first, a few quick bursts of laughter mixed with silence.

"That shit would be funny as fuck." Your laugh has upgraded to a genuine cackle as you imagined it. Leaning back, you genuinely can't figure out which one would be on top. Thanos has too much of an ego to bottom but Nam-gyu would be the perfect amount of pathetic to top Thanos.

There's a shout and a ring-clad hand covers your mouth. You all wait a moment, giggles muffled behind flesh. When you've finally calmed down enough you take Nam-gyus hand and hold it against your heart.

"Funny as fuck." You mouthed to a grinning Thanos. He leans forward and tilts his head as if he's going in for a kiss. Passing your lips he whispers low enough for you two to hear.

"Wanna know the story?"

You rub your cheek against his with an excited yes. He pulls away and his surprisingly still fluffy hair tickles your nose. Getting comfortable, you and Nam-gyu have upgraded from a simple hand on your chest to playing with each other's fingers as you listened.

"Our first time smoking together. It was just weed really. Well, we had just smoked a blunt. I think we also did Ketamine, maybe some coke. We start smoking and next thing you know we're both hard and with no señoritas around we took care of each other."

You listen intently. Your lips parted and your head slotted against Nam-gyus neck. Wow. You blink in his direction for a moment.

"Who fucked who?"

"That's not important. Now we need to know if you're gonna join us."

"Obviously, but first I want to know who fucked who."

"You let us have some fun and we'll show you."

Nam-gyu finally speaks up and you sit up at the prospect. Grabbing one hand from each boy you place them over your chest and give their hands a squeeze for them. Slipping out of the bed you pad your way to the door in the far corner. You don't hear them but you know they're both right behind you.

"I have to go. So do they."

The guard hesitates for a moment but eventually lets you three out. Staying a few steps ahead of them you walk up the stairs with them trailing behind you. Entering the bathroom you make sure it's empty before pulling both in for a kiss. It's messy and doesn't work out quite right but you'll be damned if you didn't get your fill. Pulling away you're already panting with restrained excitement.

Neither one wastes any time stripping your top half completely naked. Shivering in the conditioned room, goosebumps litter your skin as you wait. It takes a few minutes, both admiring your tits. A few minutes is all they last before you're being nipped at. Thanos has teeth on your shoulders while Nam-gyu focuses on your jawline. Each one takes a handful and starts toying with your nipples. The sharp pain of teeth against flesh tingles your toes while the pleasure from their eager hand movements has your thighs clenching. You don't know what to do with your hands so you keep them balled up at your side. Only once blood starts staining their teeth do they pull away.

Pain is replaced with a tingling sensation as the pill covers your senses. Wetting your bottom lip you sink to your knees in from of Nam-gyu. Your jacket is folded to kneel on and you look back at Thanos. Once he joins you reach up and yank their sweats down with a little too much enthusiasm. With Thanos, it's a clean pull, just his sweats, his briefs restraining his cock. With Nam-gyu you accidentally catch his briefs in your pull and his cock springs free to slap against you. He lets out a laugh and you glare up at him motioning with chomping teeth what you'll do if he continues. Covering his laugh with a cough you go back to removing Thanos' briefs. You watch as his cock springs free and slaps against his abdomen.

Biting at your nail you take in the scene; two leaking cocks waiting for you to play with. Lifting your chin you maintain eye contact as you lick a stripe up Thanos' cock. Your tongue follows the small vein on the underside before you give his tip small kisses. Pulling away you mimic your actions with Nam-gyus and memorize each of their reactions. Taking a moment to gather some spit you let your tongue drip some down onto the tip of Thanos' cock. Using your hand you jack him off while your mouth is occupied with taking a few inches of Nam-gyus down your throat. Of course, Thanos starts complaining.

"How come he gets head first? I am Thanos the Great, your mouth should be over here."

You flip him off before continuing your movements. Taking Nam-gyu further your nose tickles as his bush brushes against it. Spending a few minutes ignoring Thanos and annoyance has you fucking up your rhythm.

"Shut up for two minutes and I'll give you head."

Going back to bobbing your head the silence doesn't last long. Thanos continues to voice his concerns for a few more minutes until he catches Nam-gyus face change. Hands tangle in your hair and drool drips down your chin. Silence falls over the bathroom and the only sounds that are amplified are your muffled hums and the wet movement of your hands. Two minutes wiz by and you reward Thanos by popping off Nam-gyus dick and onto his.

You work your way down until he's a lump in your throat. Bobbing your head you're only able to get a few breaths in before he's shoving your head down until you're choking on spit and pre-cum. His sounds are much more intimate. Low groans and praise fill the space. Nam-gyu only participates with heavy breathing and long sighs. A little while later you're being yanked off Thanos with a sharp inhale.

Your hand is replaced and both jack the other off until they finish on your face. You're given little warning to close your eyes but you make perfect time and you get a rush of adrenaline. When their breathing evens, you blink your eyes open. Standing, you pop your back and look between them.

Painted nails grip the clean skin of your jaw. Each one spends moments cleaning your face with their tongues. Every so often their lips brush against one another's and they spend time swapping cum. You're thoroughly covered in spit when they're done.

Groaning you grab some paper towels and clean your face with a damp one. Turning you see them both situated and talking amongst themselves. Pushing past them you gather your shirt and jacket and throw it back on. A manicured nail is placed against your chest and you're pushed back against the wall. Nam-gyu slots himself between you and the wall and lets you push up against him.

Two sets of hands are shoved down the front of your sweats. Long fingers pet themselves past your folds and into your dripping core. Cool metal causes your abdomen to clench as it presses against your skin. Your clit is pulled and scratched at. Instead of pain, you feel pure ecstasy at the feeling.

"Oh, holy fucking God."

Grinding your hips forward, deft fingers move in and out of you. Slick sounds fill your burning ears. Burying your face into Nam-gyus neck he leans forward to give you the escape. You're played with for only a few minutes before your orgasm washes over you. Your earlier activities having worked you up enough to cum twice already.

Your jaw clenches and your body tightens. Leaning there you attempt to catch your breath. Removing themselves from you, fingers are then shoved into your mouth and you're ordered to clean them. Whining around them you suck Thanos' fingers clean, your tongue moving between his digits to clean every inch. Pulling his hand away from your mouth you take the back of your hand and remove the extra drool that fell down your chin.

Thanos grins and wraps his arm around your shoulder. Laughing he starts going off about a rap he plans to complete once he gets out of here. You catch Nam-gyu on his other side holding onto his sleeve as he gleefully listens to Thanos ramble on.

[genderless-naper]

collections

trafalgar law x crewmate!reader

theme: a bit of fluff. no mention of relationship, feelings, kissing, etc.

being talked over during conversations made you no longer willing to converse with the crew. law decides to step in to make you feel less alone

sfw, wc: 2.6k, lowercase intended!

the crew was livelier than usual. with all tasks for the day completed, conversations filled the air as everyone shared quality time together. many recounted recent ordeals, and the sounds of laughter, complaints, and heated debates echoed throughout the submarine.

you tried to join in on the active conversation. you were eager to share the new hobby you had picked up, and you couldn’t keep yourself from wanting to tell your loved ones.

although your desire to share was strong; everytime you tried to speak up your words hung in the air without response, and your crew mate continued their commotion. it seemed as though your words vanished into the noise. the lack of response made you feel a bit of an outcast within the group. although this topic was meant to be a way to connect your friends with your personal life you figured there will always be another chance to speak of it. so for now, you let everyone to continue their conversations as you listened.

ikkaku is the first to notice your hushed state. it wasnt something she was concerned about, and instead just wanted you to talk like everyone else.

“do you have anything you want to share about your day y/n?”

feeling enthusiastic you took this as your chance to talk about your beloved newfound hobby. it seemed a bit silly saying it out loud, but made you happy. it should be worth the mention.

“i’ve starting doing something new whenever we visit new islands with towns. i’ll start to-“

you were quickly interrupted with shachi’s sudden outburst, “penguin is such a liar!!”

penguin gasps dramatically. their commotion drew the small amount of attention your conversation was getting. penguin and shachi start to wrestle over a disagreement. all the members laugh while some even made bets on who would win. that is all the members but you.

you stared blankly. you knew your friends weren’t purposefully trying to talk over you. still you couldn’t push the feeling of being ignored away much longer. you stood up and slipped away unnoticed while the group was busy with their activities.

you walked to the girls cabin to find a space to yourself where you wont be feeling ignored. at that moment actually being alone felt much better than feeling lonely in a room full of people.

you laid down and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes until you heard an unexpected knocking. a muffled ‘can i come in?’ was heard from the other side of the door.

before you could respond the door had opened and your captain entered the room. his tall figure and poker face made its way over to you. you sat up confused as to what your captain could need from you.

law invited himself to sit down in the empty space next to you, “tell me about.”

you raised your brow. was there a specific report you were forgot to tell him? you searched through your mind for all the possibilities he could be referring to.

law cleared his throat to pull you out your own mind and regain your attention, “tell me about that thing you do with new islands”

you were astonished that your captain was actually paying attention to you. you figured that at the end of the day he is an observer.

he spoke again, “you looked like you wanted to talk about it, but everyone kept speaking over you.”

embarrassment crept upon you, “it’s fine really. i didn’t mind. it was a stupid topic anyways, so it would’ve bored them out.”

“it won’t bore me. i know you want to speak about it, so hurry up” the dark-haired man’s way of reassuring you made it feel like he was rushing you instead. you couldn’t refuse him, as he sat in front of you, waiting to be told as if you were keeping some infamous secret from him. you knew any attempt to refuse would be dismissed immediately by law. but deep down, you find his gesture meaningful. it was his way of saying ‘i see you’.

“you know you don’t have to do all this just because you feel bad captain.”

he knew his earlier phrasing wasn’t sitting quite well, so he added onto it, “it’s not that i feel bad, i just want to know about my crew, so tell me because i’ll listen to you.”

you could no longer protest against him. you make your way to grab a small box then returning to your seat, “you have to promise not to laugh.”

curiosity sparked within law, “whats in this box that could be so laugh-worthy? or are you just being dramatic?”

you rolled your eyes, “i’m not being dramatic. im just saying you can’t laugh jeez..”

law takes the box from you. if he left the unboxing to you, it would take hours for you to gather the courage to remove the top. with one swift motion, law unveiled what the box kept safe— what exactly it was that you wanted to share so badly with the crew.

the inside of the box contained an assortment of pens. all different shapes and colors. law was truly left speechless, “pens..?”

you grabbed the box back from him, “you said you wouldn’t laugh!”

law cleared his throat again, and fixed his expression to its stoic state, “i’m not laughing. i just wasnt expecting that. do you collect these pens across the islands?”

you nod as you look away. you couldn’t help yourself feeling a bit mortified. telling friends is one thing, but telling your captain makes you feel less strong-willed in his mind. you couldn’t help but wonder how embarrassed he must be, thinking about his crew mate being strange enough to collect a specific writing utensil.

suddenly his voice draws you out of your conscious, “which one is your favorite?”

“my favorite? it would have to be this blue one.” you pull out a glass pen that’s been dyed a shade of dark blue. it was heavy in weight, but wrote the smoothest lines when dipped in ink.

from here you start talking about the differences between the pens, their pros and cons, which island you got them from, demonstrating their writing on paper, and much more until you were certain you had bore law out. instead the tattooed man seemed just as interested as you were. he was learning about an item he never gave much thought to.

“you’re not weirded out by this..?”

law shook his head, “why would i be weirded out? you’re just like me.”

“how am i just like you?”

law smirked and lifted his hand to create his blue room bubble around you both, “i’ll show you. room, shambles.”

suddenly you find yourself in laws room. the crew’s laughter still echoed throughout the submarine. law pulls put a box , and pulls its lid off to reveal it’s contents to you.

“coins..?” you tilted your head, looking at the box

“i collect coins from different islands. don’t look at it like that when you do the same thing.”

you take the box, “just because i do the same thing doesn’t mean it’s not gonna be weird.”

law chuckled, “collecting pens is more weird than coins.”

you fired back a warning stare, “at least pens are useful. i can write with all of them.”

“so what? i can spend all of these.”

“captain, you can only spend it if you go back to these islands.”

the two of you went back and fourth, debating which item to collect was the best. as the night went on you both shares stories of certain items in your collections. you proceed to match the closest-looking pens to the closest-looking coin.

being able to to share such personal interests with each other made you both realize you are a lot more alike than you though.

at the end of the night law asks for your hand.

“what’d do you need it for?” you hold your hand out to him. law proceeds to place a gorgeous gold coin designed by fine detailing.

law spoke up, “i want you to keep it. take good care of it and keep it with your pens” a slight smile tugged at his lips.

you giggled, “is it meant to bring me prosperity?”

“hopefully. you’ll need it to buy more pens”

you roll his eyes at his remark. you look through your collection again and pull out a black pen decorated with small hearts. you have it to the tattooed man, “keep it. it suits you captain.”

law observed the pen with a smile. he continued to use that pen whenever he wrote important notes. he kept it with him at all times to remind himself that he isn’t so alone, and there are other nerds who collect things just like him.

on the other hand you were reminded of him every time you opened your wallet to pay. the gold coin shimmering was almost as bright as both of your faces sharing your hobbies with one another.

masterlist

[letorip]

helping tara through an asthma attack?

nothing’s gonna hurt you baby

“as long as you’re with me, you’ll be just fine”

===+++===

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: after tara’s date ghosts her at a party and tara forgets her inhaler, you help her through her asthma, and in the process reveal how much you really care for each other

warnings: angst at first but quickly turns to fluff, mentions of asthma, small medical crisis, confessions and kissing, for the most part, fluff

word count: 2.8k

A/N: a very adorable and small oneshot i got to write! thank you for the request, it was greatly appreciated and im sorry i only got to finish it now! i cut down a lot for time's sake but i did get it done, so sorry iff it's shorter, i left more irrelevant bits out

*also, i am english and know little to nothing about new york, but i did my best

===+++===

===+++===

She wasn’t doing a thing that you could see except sitting there on the stairs, leaning on the bannister, holding the universe together.

Parties were many things, but you had never considered them beautiful. Tara Carpenter was what made them beautiful. Grabbing you tightly by the hand and tugging you onto the dance floor despite your protests, brushing the hair from your clammy forehead when you had too much to drink, and, even now, frowning at the bottom of the staircase. That was beautiful. It was so beautiful that calling it a crush didn’t feel like enough.

She doesn’t see you until you clear your throat from the other end of the foyer, leaning on the doorframe. It’s almost empty, most people squeezing into the kitchen and living room on the other side of the house, and you can hear Jump Around muffled through the walls.

“Looking for me?” she asks, a grin forming. It’s infectious, but Tara’s an infectious person: anything she does, she makes you want to do it too.

You smile back. “Always,” you nod, shoving your hands into your pockets and crossing the room to set yourself down next to her. Neither of you say anything for a minute, watching the few people go by, Tara picking at her nail polish and fiddling with her cup.

"Is this (Y/n)-code for wanting to leave?” Tara says after a while, nudging you gently with her knee. You shrug. You’d do the right thing always when it came to Tara. No matter how much fun you had been having, her frown came first, and you’d be damned if you didn’t try to lift it. Staying at the party longer would only keep reminding her how she had been let down again.

“It is getting kind of late," you murmur. She scoffs, shifting away from the railing and resting her head on your shoulder, nuzzling herself into your neck.

"It's only 12.” You can feel the vibrations of her voice against your body, warm and human. “What kind of friend would I be if I let you leave while the party’s still young?”

“A kind one,” you snort. “I’ve got a bed calling my name.”

She hums, pretending to think on it for a second, and then nods. “Five more minutes.”

You say okay and sit back in silence, letting the background music wash over you both. The clinking of bottles and laughter from the other room is loud, but mostly, you can hear her breathing against you, slow.

Tara lifts her head from your shoulder, taking a sip of her drink. “I think he’s a no-show,” she mutters after another minute, staring down into her cup and biting her lip.

“Yeah,” you nod, giving her a sad smile and bumping her with your shoulder. “What an asshole.”

It lifts her a little bit for a momentary smile that flickers in your direction, but it falls away again. “He was a really nice asshole. Something about me ‘deserving more’ and seeing ‘the real’ me.”

You hum at the sincere line said before by all too many insincere people. Tara was always the real her, and it was part of what made her so… her. Even her attempts to hide her wounds only made them more visible. To suggest otherwise was to mean he hadn’t known her very well. “It was the guy from the karaoke bar, right?” you ask.

She nods, eyes looking a little misty. You remember him well— reeking of alcohol and jostling her shoulder harshly while they sang Copacabana off key and miraculously off beat. You hadn't liked him much then, though you never did when it came to who Tara had moved onto. You hated him now, for almost making her cry.

"I guess someone told him about the attacks," she mumbled. "He said he didn't 'want to be next.' Funny part is I don't either."

"He's just a knob," you say, shaking your head. Then, you remember a particularly special piece of information you had been holding onto for the few weeks she had been talking to him. You lean into her ear, smirking as you whisper. "Though from what I heard, he didn't have a particularly large one."

It finally manages to pull a giggle from her, and she smacks you on the leg with a brilliant smile, the one that always makes your heart beat a bit faster. "What a perverted thing to say," she chides, rolling her eyes, but she still so clearly finds it funny.

"Coming from you, that's super rich," you tease. "Your imagination's gonna get you a passport to hell one day."

She smacks you on the arm again. "Come on, we should get you home, you've clearly had too much."

"So all I've got to do to convince you it's time to leave is make dirty jokes?" you grin as she stands, turning to you with an outstretched hand. You take it, letting her pull you up from the staircase.

"Nope," she replies, popping the p. "I just think it's nice out tonight."

"Yeah right," you say, walking towards the mountain of coats, grabbing her pink puffer one from the pile and then your own heavy jacket. "It's cold as hell."

"To you, you big baby," Tara teases, ditching her cup on the nearby mantle. She still zips herself all the way up, shoving her hands into her pockets, until she looks down. "Shit."

You furrow your eyebrows, turning around from zipping up your own. "What?"

"My shoe's untied," she groans. "And I already zipped this damn thing up." You roll your eyes. She could easily unzip it and do it herself, but you know she doesn't want to.

"Just ask already, slick."

She's beaming at you again and you suck in a breath at the way her brown eyes always seem to twinkle, even in dim lights. "Tie it for me?" When you don't move, she clasps her hands together mockingly. "Please?"

"And we have a winner," you grin, bending down. She's wearing her beaten-up white Converse, and you tie it quickly, double-knotting the old, weathered laces. "Y'know, for the holidays, I'm getting you a new damn pair, these things have definitely seen better days—" you stop in your tracks when you look up. Tara's eyes are watching you with an odd expression you can't place, in a way you've never seen her look at you before. "What?" you ask.

As quickly as it flashes, Tara shoves it away, shaking her head. "Nothing, nothing." She herself seems surprised, blinking a few times as you stand back up. "We should go."

"Okay," you shrug, shoving your hands into the pockets of your pants. Tara leads the way out through the propped-open front door, right out into the cold. Tara lets out a cough, out into the air, and it turns to a condensation cloud in the cold.

New York is already icy, gearing up for winter, and the trees have shed their leaves to become small, barren branches. The house party wasn't that far from your flat or Tara's, which was part of why Sam was so okay with the both of you going. The only person more protective of Tara than you was Sam.

"So, how'd you find that out about him?" Tara asks, coughing, taking your arm in hers. She always said you were freakishly warm to the touch, but right now, it was probably a plus.

"I told you we have class together, right?"

Tara nods, her breath a little wheezy. "Yeah?"

"I talked to this girl, Ada, in that class, and she said it was true. I didn't ask how she knew, though, but she really laid into him for being an asshole."

"Hm," she hums. "And you didn't say anything about it?" You know she's teasing, but you shake your head.

"You seemed excited about him, and you can make your own choices. Plus, I didn't know if you'd really care, to be honest." She doesn't say anything back, but that weird look is back on her face, so you avert your own eyes, feeling a burning on your cheeks.

"Thanks," she whispers. "You always trust me more than Sam does."

The both of you walk about another block before Tara speaks again. "I'm hungry," she says, coughing into her hand.

"I've got food at mine?" you suggest, the cold night air tickling at the roof of your mouth as you speak. The tips of your ears are freezing, as is the back of your neck, and you shiver after a particularly harsh gust of wind. It's unforgiving, in that way, and the wind barrels down the tall streets, chilling people throughout the winter. Tara coughs again and you shoot her a look.

"This cold air is really messing me up," she says with an eye roll. "I'll be okay, let's just get home." You send her another wary glance but turn your attention back to the city. You and her pass a few high rises with people in the warm windows.

"Must be nice to be indoors right now," you grin. Tara smirks right back at you.

"Maybe we should've just stayed in and watched some movies."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, now who wants to take my suggestion?"

"Yeah, well, now I've got the bath calling for me," she says, unlinking your arms to adjust her jacket. "That and Love Is a Losing Game and the block button."

"Poor baby," you tease. "Must be nice having a bathtub."

"It is," she nods, still fiddling with the zipper and pulling it down a little. "I can have all the wine and bubble baths I want." She's still coughing, struggling through her words.

"Greedy," you laugh, walking on ahead. You get only a few steps before you notice Tara isn't following you.

"Hey, what—" When you turn around, you can see her eyes wide, and she wanders towards the curb, plopping herself down on the freezing pavement and clutching at her throat.

"Shit," you rush, quickly coming over and kneeling down in between her knees as she continues to cough. "Shit, shit, shit." Her eyes are wild as she struggles to breathe, and she grabs your hand tight, squeezing it sharp with her nails. "Tara, what's happening? Is this an attack?"

She only manages a small nod, coughing awfully and trying but failing to take in a wheezy breath. You swallow the lump in your throat, looking around for someone, anyone, but the street is deserted. "Where's your inhaler? Where is it?"

Tara's nails dig into the skin of your hand in between her coughing, drawing small crescent moons of blood. Her other hand goes to her jacket, lifting up the bulge over her chest that is her interior pocket. You nod, trying to unzip it, but for some reason, it's not coming down.

Her eyes are full of fear and the brimming of tears as she struggles to breathe, and you mess with the zipper, trying to pull it down in the cold. "God fucking dammit, it won't—" you try to explain, yanking on the damn thing, which continues not to budge. Her own fingers reach up to try and get at the zipper, but you beat her to it, harshly ripping it open.

Her medicine bag falls right out, and you open it, dumping everything out onto the pavement and picking up her small blue inhaler. She sends you that weird look again as you shake it for a few seconds, handing it over. She takes a wheezy breath out and places the inhaler over her lips as she shuts her eyes, breathing in as deep as she can. You wait nervously as she holds it in her mouth, before finally letting out a much easier exhale.

Tears are pricking the corner of her eyes, and you raise a soft hand to gently brush them away with the pad of your thumb as relief washes over you. She's breathing and she's okay, and that's all you really care about.

Tara's hand finally drops its grip on yours, and though your hand is stinging in the places she drew blood, you pay it no mind. You turn your attention to her medicine bag, picking up the bottle and bandaids you dumped out as she waits and takes another puff. You don't say anything, just silently start picking up her things and putting them away, zipping up the bag.

When it's in order, you give her a gentle smile and put the bag back into her jacket, plopping yourself down next to her as you wait for her to let you know she's okay. After another puff and about another minute, her breath is slowed, and the fast beating of your heart begins to slow as well.

===+++===

Tara doesn't say much, staring out onto the street in total silence as she takes deep breaths in and out. You watch her with a worried expression, tensing every time she lets out a cough, but it's quickly pushed away as her lungs relax. Even after twenty minutes go by, you both remain there, sitting in silence, your eyes never leaving her face, except for the occasional passing car.

After long enough, she scoots a bit closer to you, letting her own eyes find yours. "That was scary," she whispers.

"Yeah," you nod. "Sorry about... well, your jacket. I think I might've broken the zipper. Guess I'll have to get you that for the holidays too—"

She raises her hand, brushing some hair back from your forehead, her fingers lingering for a moment and then brushing themselves down your cheek. You freeze at the touch of her cold hands but do not pull away, feeling her trace your jaw and then lower, her hand stopping against you just below your collarbone, right above your heart. She's so close you can hear her breathing, feel her warmth and how it fans out across your cheeks.

"Tara—" you breathe, but before you can finish the sentence, which wouldn't have been particularly coherent anyway, she gently presses her lips against yours. It's soft and gentle, her lips slotting against your own in a perfect match. Before you can even process the divine sensation or try to give anything in return, she's pulling away, squeezing her eyes shut and apologising.

"Sorry, sorry, I must've gotten it wrong, I just, well...," she starts. Your mind is reeling at a thousand thoughts a second. "It's just that you're always there for me when no one else is, and I guess I—"

But this time, you're the one to cut her off. You lean forward, not even caring what else she has to say, instead kissing her back hard. She groans into it, her hands cupping your cheeks, holding you against her. It's magical, she's magical, and all those moments of wishing it was you she was kissing are gone because you are the one she's kissing.

Your hands slip around her waist, holding her against you as your lips move together in sync, the breeze gently moving against your skin. "I love you," she says against you, pulling you back in. It's softer than your hungry attack, but you cherish it more, letting her pull away and rest her forehead against yours. Once more, the cold is tickling at the newfound warmth you feel.

She pulls away from your lips but not from you. "I think I thought love was supposed to be this grand, tight battle. It's what my life was, some big battle. But not you. You're as easy and helpful as breathing. I love it about you that you love everyone else, too," she whispers. She reaches up placing a kiss upon your forehead. "Get it?" she laughs. "Breathing?"

"Too soon," you scoff, shaking your head. "I've loved you a long time, Tara," you reply, feeling your cheeks flush. "Through the assholes and the cowards and the people who wanted me. I've loved you. It might be chronic, I think I always will." You're so damn warm it's antithetical to the freezing chill that attempts to throw itself at you and Tara, only to be batted off by your hands upon each other.

She lets out a soft smile, putting her head back on your shoulder, only this time, it's your other one. "Maybe I should almost die more often if it means I get to have you."

You shake your head, leaning it against hers. "That's not funny," you scoff, and she rolls her eyes at you, gently prodding you in the side. "Besides," you smile. "You can have me any time now, you dork."

"That sounds nice," she hums against you. "But I still want pizza."

"Do you want to come back to mine? I think I have one in the freezer."

"Hm," she murmurs, then nuzzles deeper. "Five more minutes."

As easy as breathing, together.

===+++===

really struggled with the ending speech but i kind of liked not really having one? it's just kind of understood. no nice-guy 'it was me all along' or 'i'm sorry i didn't notice you sooner.'

[yandere-daydreams]

file #4: the body mod fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!wriothesley x reader (genshin).

length: 3.1k.

warnings: non/con touching + groping, nonconsensual piecing, dubiously consensual tattoos, permanent body modification, intimidation, needles, obsessive behavior, and unbalanced power dynamics.

“Just one?”

The question had been hushed, meek, directed more towards your lap than the man sitting across from you. The warden – Wriothesley, you chided yourself, biting the inside of your cheek and attempting to remember what he’d asked you to call him, Wriothesley – broke into a wry smile, but nodded, leaning back in his armchair. “Just one,” he reassured. “And you’ll taken care of until your release date.”

You didn’t respond, but he must’ve seen the way you paled at the suggestion. “Having second thoughts?”

“No, it’s just—” You grit your teeth. Your eyes flitted up momentarily, but fell back to your legs just as quickly. “I… I’ve never really liked needles, I guess.”

You could see his eyes light up, his grin broadening as he tried to stifle his laughter. You scowled, but couldn’t blame him. He was used to dealing with hardened criminals, the scum of Teyvat, thieves and spies and murderers, and here you were – on the verge of fainting because he asked you to get a tattoo. “I promise, you don’t have anything to worry about.” At least he was trying to sound comforting, even if it was clearly a half-hearted effort. “I’ll make sure you’re in good hands.”

And he had, in a way.

You just wished he would’ve mentioned that those hands would be his own.

Calloused fingertips dug into your bicep as a scarred palm pressed into your skin, keeping one of your arms loosely secured against the mattress of the cot while the other was pinned between the bedframe and his chest (the placement unintentional, or so you hoped). You’d been shaking when he brought out that terrible machine – a vial of dark ink trapped inside of a cage of copper and steel; a single, silver needle protruding out of one end and a leather grip wrapped around the other – but it’d only taken an hour for fear to fade into boredom, another for boredom to drag on into a rotting, discolored sort of exhaustion. For as much as you’d been dreading it, there was more pressure than pain. It was repetitive, if anything – a monotonous pierce, stab, pierce, stab that you could only try your best not to focus on. You could already feel an ache settling below the skin of your shoulder, already knew that you wouldn’t be able to lift your arm for days, but you tried not to—

His needle stabbed into the thin skin over your shoulder blade, and you couldn’t stop yourself – letting out a low hiss as you flinched into the cot’s thin mattress. You expected Wriothesley to laugh, to drag a damp cloth over the affected area and mutter something like ‘bear with me’ or ‘my bad, love, my bad’ like he had a dozen times before, but instead, there was a muffled click as he switched off his awful machine, a dull clatter as he dropped it onto a bedside table already crowded with bottles of disinfectant and the nurse’s bizarre tools. “We’ll stop here. It’ll take another session, but I think you’ve been through enough for one day. For a virgin, especially.”

You were only half-listening; the phantom of his machine still buzzing in your ears. “Are you sure?” You asked, trying to hide how desperate you were not to spend another night in the empty infirmary with a man you barely knew. “It’s not that bad, I can go for another—”

“I’m sure. Sit up, I’ll let you have a look.”

You pursed your lips, but didn’t protest. You could see how Wriothesley had gotten into such an authoritative position. The way he spoke, his constant undertone of stern stability – it was hard to so much as imagine talking back to him, let alone breaking one of the rules that’d been meticulously and painstakingly drilled into you when you’d arrived at the Fortress of Meropide a little under a week ago. Still, you’d been terrified – too scared to so much as speak to another prisoner for the first two days. You weren’t dangerous. You couldn’t hold your own in a fight, or protect yourself if someone else, someone stronger decided they had a problem with you. You could barely even call yourself a criminal, but apparently, the Iudex hadn’t agreed. You’d been on your way to the fortress before he could finish reading out your sentence, and now, you were trapped in the darkest, deepest place in all of Fontaine, alone and so, so painfully vulnerable. If it hadn’t been for Wriothesley, you probably would’ve requested to forgo your imprisonment entirely and be sent straight to the gallows.

A hand on your shoulder, a softened lull to his voice. “You can sit up, can’t you? I’ll have to call Sigewinne, if you’re in that much pain.”

“Right, I— uh, sorry,” You stammered as you shook your head and pushed yourself up, careful to keep the thick, overly starched cot sheet pressed to your chest. The infirmary was empty, the door locked and sealed, and while Wriothesley hadn’t seemed to think much of ordering you to take off your shirt and lay face-down, you couldn’t bring yourself to brush off the stark, damp chill that came with any amount of exposure in the fortress so easily. You guessed that, after enough time, you’d get used to it. You guessed that, when you did, the thought of not being so cold so constantly wouldn’t make you feel so sick. “I…  I think I’m still getting used to this,” you went on, with a strained smile. “Still a little out of it, I guess.”

“That’s alright, love. We all take a few months to find a way to cope.” When you glanced over your shoulder, there was already a mirror in his hand – a compact, small enough to fit in his palm. You had to crane your neck to see it, but Wriothesley knew how to strike the right angle, and soon enough, the sprawling, spiraling pattern stretching from the lower curve of your shoulder blade to the ball of your shoulder came into view. It took you a moment to make out the pattern, but relief accompanied the delayed realization. Lumidouce bells, all blossoming and linked together by a single vine. He’d finished the linework, and there was a smattering of color in the bottom corner – only, oh, he’d gotten the shade wrong. Rather than deep violet, he’d used a light blue, more similar to ice than the water nearly everything in Fontaine stole its palette from. Judging by his expression, though, all beaming pride and low-brewing mirth, he hadn’t caught the mistake. “What do you think? Don’t keep me in suspense, now.”

“It’s… nice,” you said, the sentiment sincere despite your hesitance. And then, laughing, “I was—Well, it feels a little silly now, but I was terrified you’d leave me with, I don’t know, a sea monster or a giant wolf or something.”

“Maybe next time. Not a wolf, though - you don’t strike me as that vicious.” You bit your tongue, forcing yourself not to tell him there wouldn’t be a next time and opting to focus on the soreness starting to knot in your shoulder, instead. You swung your legs over the side of the cot, moving towards where you’d left your shirt draped over an unopened crate, but Wriothesley caught your wrist, tugging you gently back onto the thin mattress. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his playfulness suddenly more irritating than it had been, a few second ago. “I don’t think we’re finished, yet.”

Not for the first time, your smile wavered. “I… I thought we only agreed to one, sir.”

“Of course.” He squeezed your wrist teasingly. “One of each.”

Something heavy and spiked dropped into the pit of your stomach. This time, you couldn’t help the way your expression dropped. “Sir, that’s really not what I—”

“It’ll be worse the longer you put it off.” You weren’t dangerous. You weren’t a criminal. You weren’t strong, but Wriothesley was. Before you could so much as push yourself to your feet, his arm was around your waist and he was perched on the edge of the cot, one leg tucked underneath him to make more room for your body, soon pulled between his thighs. The back of your shoulder screamed where it pressed into his chest, but you managed to swallow the little, pitiful sound threatening to bubble past your lips and clung to your sheet – suddenly so much thinner than it’d seemed, seconds prior. If Wriothesley noticed your apparent panic, the distress of his prisoners was an inconvenience he was willing to endure. Only half-consciously, you tried to shove yourself away from him, but his muscle-bound arm was snaked around your waist before you could gain any distance, keeping you flush against his broad chest. He was so much bigger than you’d realized, when he was on the other side of that desk, when he was engraving something intrusive and permanent into the very fabric of your being. This had been a bad idea. Trusting anyone here had been a bad idea. You should never have—

Your elbow slammed into his diaphragm, and Wriothesley let out a slow grunt, his fingers burrowing into the plush of your side. “Easy now, love,” he half-muttered, half-breathed, bowing his head to speak into the side of your throat. “We had a deal, remember? Can you tell me what it was?”

“You—you said I wouldn’t get hurt if—” You forced yourself to stop, to swallow, to breathe. “But, I only agreed to get one tattoo, and you—”

“I said I’d take care of you. Get you a nice, cushy job with the fortress administrator, keep you out of any over-crowded bunks, make sure the other prisoners don’t cause you any trouble – that kind of thing. I’m really not supposed to play favorites, so even doing that much is going to take more than a little discretion on my part.”

“But, you offered to—”

“I said I’d take care of you, and I’m going to.” You could see him fishing something off of the bedside table with his free hand, but you forced yourself not to look, not to make the ever-growing pit in your stomach feel that much more hollow. “You’ve heard a few stories about what it’s like in the underworld, right? I try to keep all of you nice n’ safe, but a few are bound to fall through the cracks. Rehabilitation can only do so much and—well, I’m sure you know all about how bloodthirsty desperation can make someone.” There was a pause, an ebbing lull to the tenderness in his voice. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, sweetheart. Are you going to help me get a little practice in, while I do that?”

Practice. If he wanted practice, you were sure there were another hundred prisoners who’d willingly lay down and let him carve a hole through whatever he wanted to. Still, you did your best to calm yourself down, to stop thrashing, to shut your eyes and try to ignore the large, pulsing thing you could feel pressing into your ass. You didn’t nod, didn’t give him permission, but when his fist balled around the infirmary sheet and tugged it away from you, the only resistance you managed to scrape up was a slight frown and a wary glance in his direction. “You’re already in for a rough night,” he explained, as if that was any excuse. “Might as well get the hardest one out of the way first, right?”

You refused to let yourself linger on the implication that this wasn’t going to be the last, too.

You clenched your eyes shut as his large hand pawed at the right side of your chest, kneading into the softened flesh with an almost delicate sort of care. “It’s easier after a little stimulation,” he murmured, as if that meant he had to spend so long circling your nipple with a calloused thumb, occasionally swiping over the sensitive bud in a way that made your thighs twitch and your face burn. When your nipple was stiff and pebbled, he pulled away, but it was a momentary reprieve – torn away from you with a splash of freezing disinfectant. It dripped down your chest and filled the stagnant air with a thick, chemical haze as Wriothesley caught your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching tightly. You felt the long, curved tip of his piercing needle against your skin, and braced yourself for the pain. Wriothesley wasn’t kind enough not to drag it out, though. “Wanna count me down?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself that much closer to his chest, desperate for any kind of stability. You’d hoped that Wriothesley would take your clear obstinance as a sign not to drag it out any longer, but he seemed to savor it – the agony of the wait, the way the dread seemed to multiply tenfold every time you forced yourself to suck in a ragged inhale. Seconds seemed to pass like frozen honey, only just beginning to drip. You’d started to think he wouldn’t do it, that he’d just laugh and admit this was all part of some bizarre, invasive hazing ritual when Wriothesley let out an airy chuckle and plunged his needle into you.

Oh, archons.

You really thought the tattoo would’ve been worse.

It was faster, at least; a bright shock of pain followed immediately by a steady, throbbing sort of ache that seemed to drown out every other sensation and fill your mind with a buzzing, numbing static. You didn’t realize your eyes had shot open on reflex until tears blurred your vision, until you glanced down just in time to watch as he dragged the needle through and replaced it with a small, silver stud – a barbell, as wrong as it felt to think of yourself having something so vulgar attached to you. You were crying unabashedly by the time he finished, pain and humiliation dripping down your cheeks in hot, wet streams, but Wriothesley’s shallow pool of sympathy must’ve run dry. “Ah, don’t make that face, sweetheart – we’re only halfway done.” You felt him panting into the crook of your neck as his hand found the other side of your chest. The last threads of his veil of composure frayed and broke apart as he groped unabashedly at your chest, toying with your nipple as your sobs echoed off of the clinic walls. You felt something thick and hot and wet crash against your collarbone and drip down the curve of your chest, and forced yourself to believe it was only disinfectant. That there was nothing it could’ve been except disinfectant.

Wriothesley’s hips rocked against your ass, the rigid outline of his cock pressing into you, incinerating any lingering delusions you might’ve had of helpful prison wardens exchanging one favor for another. Five fingers bit into the plush of your chest as he brought his needle to your unmutilated nipple, his hand surprisingly steady despite the airy, drawling moans he was pouring into your throat. “P-please don’t,” you managed, fighting to speak above the pathetic cries and choking fear doing their best to strangle out your voice. “Please, I can’t—I don’t want to—”

But, Wriothesley wasn’t listening. It wasn’t a spark, this time, but a red-hot knife, stabbed deep into your chest and twisted as far as it could go. You heard Wriothesley let out a rough groan, felt something warm and damp against your ass, and then, you were gone.

~

You startled awake hours later; bolting upright as you heaved in jolting, uneven inhales. Immediately, pain knocked you out of your panicked daze – sharp and piercing, imbedded into the back of your shoulder and either side of your chest, strong enough to remind you to measure out your breathing and calm down before you blindly threw yourself back into a seething pit of violent criminals. It took you a second to realize that you weren’t on an undersized infirmary cot, anymore, and another to piece together where he’d taken you – a bedroom nearly triple the size of your bunk. The warden’s chambers, you figured, as you scanned over the limited decoration and piles of dust-coated paperwork stacked onto every possible surface. Wriothesley’s room.

Wriothesley’s bed, at that. A cold chill ran down your spine as you realized that he’d taken the time to strip you out of your ill-fitting coveralls and redress you in a shirt sizes too big to be one of yours – the bleached, threadbare material a stark contrast to the satin sheets draped over your legs. You started to push them away and move towards the edge of the mattress, but froze as a door on the far side of the room creaked open – Wriothesley slipping inside and letting the door shut behind him. He moved away from it quickly, but as it closed, you could’ve sworn you heard the muffled, deafening click of a lock sliding into place and cutting you off from the rest of the world – or, the rest of the underworld, rather. As if there was anyone out there who would bother to save you, even if they could try.

“There’s my sleeping beauty.” He grinned as he lowered himself on the side of the bed, positioning himself closer to you than he absolutely had to. He reached out, moving to cup your face, but quickly let his hand fall back to his side when you flinched away. His smile dimmed, but didn’t fall away. “Get a chance to see the improvements, yet?”

After a second of hesitation, you shook your head, and he nodded to your chest - the gesture more of an order than a suggestion. Reluctantly, you pinched your collar between two fingers and peeled away from your skin. Through the narrow sliver, you could see his handiwork: a pair of twin rings hanging from either nipple, connected by a thin, lax, silver chain – so light, you could barely feel it brushing your diaphragm as the air caught in your chest.

You dropped the collar before you could give in to the nausea beginning to coil in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t bear to look at Wriothesley, so you kept your eyes on the sheets, kneading at the fabric half-consciously as you struggled to find your voice. “That wasn’t what we agreed to,” you muttered, mostly under your breath. “Can I go back to my bunk, now?”

His smile took on an almost apologetic note. You tried again. “Am I... Am I going to be able to leave?”

This time, when he reached out, flinching away wasn’t enough to stop him – his hand catching your chin and drawing you that much closer to him. You tried to lurch away, but it was too late, his lips were already crashing into yours, his tongue already slipping past your teeth and raking over your own. While your eyes widened in shock, his went half-lidded, closing just a second too late. Abruptly, it occurred to you that you’d never really noticed the color of his eyes – a pale, faded blue. The color of the half-formed flowers currently stretching across your back.

Wriothesley’s hand slipped to the nape of your neck. You let your eyes fall shut, and did your best not to think at all.

[buckysgrace]

Let Me

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

CW: Mentions of smut but no actual smut, lots of fluff hehe <3

Steve gets embarrassed after he cums too fast when you crawl on top.

You were breathless, slightly sweaty as you rolled over to where your boyfriend had one hand over his face, his cheeks still flushed as he shook his head back and forth. You were biting back your laughter, a little amazed at how sheepish he had become.

"Don't look at me." He mumbled as he pressed his other hand over his face, hiding away the way his face had burned red. You shifted up onto your knees, letting the sheets fall away from your body as a little laugh left your lips again.

"Steve, it's alright." You promised as you wrapped your fingers around his wrists, noting how much larger his hands were than yours. He grumbled as he wiggled his face into the pillows this time.

"Don't touch me." He whined pathetically, tugging the sheet in his direction so he could try and hide his face underneath it. You laughed as you moved it back, leaning forward to kiss his flushed cheek.

"You're fine, really." You promised him as you played with his brown strands. You got a peep at as forehead before he buried his face into the pillows.

"No, it's embarrassing." He corrected, voice muffled as he hid himself away. You shook your head, leaning forward to trace your lips across his shoulder blades.

You thought he was being dramatic, just a little bit. Sure, you had only sunk on top of him for maybe two minutes before he burst into his condom, humiliation taking over the pleasure on his features a moment later.

You weren't at all offended, you were actually flattered. But there was no convincing him as he hid away, mumbling about being worse than a teenager. But it made you giggle.

"Stevie," you grinned as you traced your lips over his moles, wondering how long it would take to kiss every single one that decorated his skin, "it's fine. I promise." You hummed as you lightly nipped at his back muscles. He yelped, sitting up that time.

"I think you like seeing me suffer." He replied as he glanced towards you, eyes all hazy and soft. You cupped his face, smiling as you leaned forward to peck his lips.

"Me?" you questioned, grinning at the way he hummed against your lips in response, "I would never." You scoffed playfully, knowing that you quite enjoyed getting him flustered. But you would never admit to it.

And this incident hadn't been on purpose, not at all. You'd climbed on top of him various different times and never had him fall apart so easily. You couldn't deny that you loved it.

"Mhm," he smiled as he rested his cheek against the pillow, his long fingers dancing across your jawline, "I'm going to remember this." He threatened jokingly, making you laugh. His threats were never very serious.

"Trust me, I will too." You giggled as he groaned again, pulling away so he could cover his face with his palms. You grinned at the banner, glad that you could play with him.

[mahalachives]

Part 9: Shadows and Secrets

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

The dream always began the same way.

A small wooden cabin, nestled deep in a forest far from any court. The perpetual scent of pine and moss, the constant drip of rain on the roof.

Isolation that seemed to stretch forever in all directions.

In the dream, you were a child again, no more than six or seven. Your small hands worked methodically, stoking the hearth fire as winter winds howled outside. You prepared a simple stew in a dented pot, the steam rising in lazy spirals.

She lay on her bed, your mother, staring at the ceiling, as she had for days. Her once vibrant eyes hollow, her cheeks sunken. This wasn't illness.

This was something deeper, a wound in her spirit that never seemed to heal.

"Mother," your child self whispered, "I made dinner."

No response. Just that vacant stare, tears occasionally sliding down her temples to disappear into her hair.

You placed the wooden bowl beside her bed, knowing it would remain untouched. Just as yesterday's had. And the day before that.

"I'll leave it here," you said, your small voice almost swallowed by the emptiness of the cabin. "For when you're hungry."

Loneliness wrapped around you like a physical cloak, heavy and suffocating.

Through the window, you watched snowflakes dance in the darkness, deepening your isolation. No one would travel these woods in such weather. No one would find your cabin.

No one would find you.

Then came the voices, whispers that seemed to seep from the very walls of the cabin. Words you couldn't quite make out, meanings that skittered away when you tried to focus on them.

Strange images flashed. Your reflection in the window glass, eyes shimmering with an odd light. Your mother suddenly sitting up, panic lending her strength where grief had stolen it, grabbing your shoulders with desperate hands.

Words you couldn't remember upon waking, a promise you didn't understand.

You jolted awake, a gasp catching in your throat, but the sound was muffled against warm skin and solid muscle.

Disoriented, you blinked in the pre dawn darkness, momentarily confused by the weight across your waist, the unfamiliar heat surrounding you. Then recognition settled in, along with immediate comfort.

Azriel.

His arm was draped possessively around your middle, his chest pressed against your back, his wings partially unfurled to cocoon you both in living shadow and warmth. His breathing was deep and even, fanning against your neck in a rhythm that normally would have lulled you back to sleep.

But the dream lingered, its ghostly fingers still clutching at your mind.

You shifted carefully, not wanting to wake him, but of course he sensed the change instantly. Azriel had spent centuries honing his awareness, training his body to register the slightest disturbance even in sleep.

"What is it?" His voice was rough with sleep, yet quiet in the darkness. The arm around your waist tightened slightly, instinctively protective.

"Nothing," you whispered back, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just a strange dream."

You felt him shift behind you, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at your face.

Though the room was dark, you knew he could see you perfectly. Those Illyrian senses missed nothing, especially not the rapid flutter of your pulse, the lingering tension in your body.

"The same one?" he asked softly.

You nodded, though you couldn't remember telling him about the dreams before. Maybe he'd sensed them, felt the disturbance through the mating bond that connected you.

With gentle insistence, he turned you in his arms until you faced him. In the darkness, his hazel eyes seemed to glow faintly, catching what little light filtered through the curtains. His shadows stirred around him, coiling closer as if sensing your distress.

"Tell me," he urged, one scarred hand coming up to brush hair from your face.

You hesitated, trying to grasp the dream details that were already fading.

"I was a child, in a cabin somewhere... with my mother, I think. She was sad... or sick. I don't know." You shook your head, frustrated by the fragments slipping away. "It felt so real, but now it's just... pieces."

Azriel's expression shifted, the neutral mask giving way to something sharper, more alert. His shadows suddenly swirled more actively, stretching toward you in agitated patterns. One brushed against your cheek, surprisingly cool against your skin.

"This is the third night," he said, his voice no longer sleep-rough but precise, calculating. "The same dream, becoming clearer each time."

You blinked, surprised by his intensity. "It's just a dream, Az."

"Is it?" His gaze remained fixed on yours, searching.

You tried for levity. "Maybe I'm just stressed about Gregory's upcoming scale polishing appointment. Fish parenting is serious business."

Your joke fell flat against Azriel's unwavering concern. His shadows whispered to him, coiling around his ears before stretching out again to touch your hair, your wrists, the pendant at your throat.

"We need to see Rhys," he said suddenly, already sitting up. "Now."

"What?" You stared at him, bewildered. "Now, as in right now? It's not even dawn!"

"Now." The word was firm, brooking no argument.

"Azriel." You sat up, clutching the blanket to your chest. "It's the middle of the night. We can't just burst into the High Lord's bedroom because I had a weird dream about a sad mother and a pot of stew. That's not how normal people behave."

"You're not normal people," he said, already pulling on his fighting leathers with swift, economical movements. "You're my mate. And something's happening to you."

"Yes, it's called sleep deprivation," you protested. "Caused by a certain shadowsinger waking me up at an ungodly hour to discuss my dreams with his boss."

Azriel paused in buckling one of his many knives to his thigh.

Despite your exasperation, you couldn't help admiring the sight of him, half-dressed and serious.

The man could make paranoia look attractive.

"The cabin," he said quietly. "Did it have a blue door? With a carving of a crescent moon?"

Your heart stuttered. You hadn't mentioned that detail, had you? "How did you..."

"Rhys has been searching for a cabin matching that description for weeks," Azriel said, returning to his weapons with renewed urgency. "Ever since the night of the River House party, when he first recognized you."

"Recognized me?" You felt like you were missing several crucial pieces of a puzzle. "I've only met Rhys a handful of times since I started at the Archives."

Azriel's gaze met yours, something ancient and knowing in his eyes. "No," he said gently. "You met him long before that. You just don't remember."

A chill ran through you. "That's... that's not possible."

"Isn't it?" He crossed back to the bed, kneeling before you, taking your hands in his scarred ones. "The voices that no one else hears. The dreams that feel like memories. The way my shadows sought you out from the moment we met, like they recognized something in you that I couldn't yet see."

Your mouth went dry. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he replied, squeezing your hands gently, "that you need to talk to Rhys. Tonight."

"Can I at least put on clothes first?" you asked weakly, grasping at the last shreds of normalcy. "Or should I meet the High Lord of the Night Court in my nightgown? I hear that's the fashion these days."

A smile flickered across Azriel's face, there and gone in an instant. "Clothes would be advisable."

"Well, thank the Mother for small mercies." You slid from the bed, moving to your wardrobe. "But if Rhysand is sleeping, I'm blaming you entirely. I'll tell him you forced me to come, driven by some mad spymaster conspiracy theory about my entirely ordinary bad dreams."

Azriel watched you with that penetrating gaze of his. "You're deflecting."

"I'm coping," you corrected, pulling out a simple dress. "Some of us manage fear with humor rather than an arsenal of pointy objects."

His expression softened. "I would take all your fear if I could."

The simple sincerity in his voice melted your resistance. You sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine. We'll go see Rhys. But I want it on record that this is ridiculous, and I'm only agreeing because you look very convincing with all those knives."

Azriel's lips curved in a barely-there smile. "Noted."

Ten minutes later, dressed and marginally more awake, you found yourself gathered in Azriel's arms as he prepared to fly you to the River House. His wings spread wide, magnificent even in the dim light of your bedroom.

"For the record," you mumbled against his chest, "if he's is annoyed at being woken up for dream interpretation, I'm throwing you under the carriage."

"He won't be," Azriel said with absolute certainty. "He's been waiting for this."

"For what?"

Azriel's arms tightened around you as he moved to the window. "For you to remember."

As his powerful wings caught the night air and lifted you both into the star-strewn sky, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were flying toward something that would change everything. That the dream wasn't just a dream, but a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered.

You promised. No magic. No matter what you see or hear.

But whose voice it was, you couldn't remember.

The flight to the River House was mercifully brief.

Dawn was still nothing more than a promise on the horizon when Azriel landed on a wide balcony with practiced silence, setting you gently on your feet.

You'd expected darkness, servants scrambling to attend unexpected visitors, perhaps even an annoyed High Lord in sleeping attire.

Instead, warm light spilled from the open balcony doors. Rhysand stood waiting, fully dressed in elegant black, a glass of amber liquid in one hand.

As if he'd been expecting you. As if he'd been waiting.

"Right on time," he said, violet eyes gleaming in the low light. His gaze swept over you, assessing, before settling on Azriel. "The dreams have started."

Not a question. A statement of fact.

Your mouth fell open. "How did you—"

"Let's talk inside," Rhys interrupted smoothly, stepping back to allow you entrance. "Feyre has prepared tea."

Your steps faltered. "Feyre's awake too?" You shot Azriel an accusatory look. "Is everyone in the Night Court up at this unholy hour discussing my sleeping habits?"

"Not everyone," Rhys replied with a hint of amusement. "Just those who need to be."

The High Lord's study was unexpectedly cozy, with a fire crackling in the hearth and comfortable seating arranged around it. Feyre rose from an armchair as you entered, her expression kind but tinged with something that looked disconcertingly like concern.

"Please, sit," she said, gesturing to a plush sofa. "You look like you've had a rough night."

"Apparently it's about to get rougher," you muttered, but did as suggested. Azriel settled beside you, close enough that his wing brushed your back in a gesture of silent support.

Rhys remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece with casual grace that didn't quite mask the intensity of his focus. "Tell me about the dream."

Under that violet gaze, you suddenly felt self-conscious. "It's nothing special. Just a cabin in the woods. A sad mother. Some voices." You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably. "Probably just my subconscious processing Archives stress or something."

"The cabin had a blue door," Rhys said softly. "With a crescent moon carved into it."

Your heart stuttered. "How do you—"

"You were small," he continued, eyes never leaving your face. "No more than six or seven. Your mother was... unwell. Not physically, but inside. She wouldn't eat. Wouldn't speak except to warn you about something. To make you promise."

The room tilted alarmingly. You gripped the sofa cushion to steady yourself, feeling Azriel's hand press reassuringly against your lower back.

"That's... that's impossible," you whispered. "How could you know the details of my dream?"

"Because it's not just a dream." Rhys pushed away from the mantelpiece, moving to sit across from you. His expression softened, a surprising gentleness entering his voice. "It's a memory. One that was taken from you."

"Taken?" Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "By who?"

Rhys and Feyre exchanged a look laden with meaning. Then Rhys sighed, seeming to make a decision.

"By my father," he said simply. "The previous High Lord of the Night Court."

The words landed like physical blows. You stared at him, unable to process what he was saying. "I've never met your father. He died centuries ago."

"Yes." Rhys leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. "But you knew him before that. When you were a child."

"That's not possible." You shook your head vehemently. "I grew up in a small village near the Day Court border. My mother was a seamstress. I only moved to Velaris a few years ago."

"Those aren't your memories," Feyre said gently. "They're fabrications, planted to replace what was taken."

You let out a shaky laugh, looking between them. "This is insane. Why would anyone bother tampering with a random child's memories?"

"Because you weren't random," Rhys said, his voice dropping lower, carrying a somberness that made your heart ache. "You were his secret, yes. A pawn, perhaps. But you were also—" His breath hitched. "—something he kept hidden, even from us."

The room went utterly silent. You could hear the crackling of the fire, the soft rush of Azriel's wings as they shifted. You could feel his tension beside you, the protective coil of his shadows around your wrists.

"No," you said flatly. "That's not... no. My father was a Day Court soldier who died before I was born. My mother showed me his portrait."

"Did she?" Rhys asked softly. "Can you remember his face?"

You opened your mouth to reply, to describe the portrait you'd seen a thousand times... and found nothing. No clear image. Just a vague impression of a uniform, a faceless figure, a story told so often it had become truth.

"This is ridiculous," you insisted, though uncertainty crept into your voice. "Why would you even think that I... that he..."

Rhys's expression turned solemn. "Because I remember you."

His hand trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small carved star, its edges smooth from years of wear. It glinted in the firelight, a relic from a past neither of you could have foreseen. "This…" His voice cracked. "You gave this to me, when you called me brother."

A chill skittered down your spine. Something about the star in his palm tugged at your mind, a faint thread of recognition.

"You were brought to the Court Under the Mountain when you were about six. Your mother had been my father's mistress for years, but kept you hidden until then. One night, I found you on a balcony, watching the stars."

Feyre made a small sound, halfway between sympathy and wonder. Azriel remained silent beside you, but his hand found yours, fingers intertwining with quiet strength.

As the memories churned within you, Azriel's shadowed presence at your side became a delicate balance.

He was there—always there—but his restraint burned through him, a visible tension in his jaw. He wanted to reach out, to wrap you in his arms, but he was waiting for you, respecting the distance you needed. His shadows, once so familiar and comforting, now seemed like an extension of his anxiety, curling tight at his sides as if waiting for you to allow them closer.

"After that night, you disappeared," Rhys said. "Both you and your mother. My father forbade anyone from speaking of you. When I asked, he... punished me. And then he removed the memory entirely."

"But it returned," Feyre added, her gaze compassionate. "After all these years. When he saw you at the River House party, something clicked. A memory that had been altered but not completely destroyed."

You swallowed hard, trying to process what they were saying. "So you're claiming that I'm... what? Your half-sister? The illegitimate child of the previous High Lord?"

"Yes," Rhys said simply. "And I believe my father altered your memories before sending you away. Created a false past for you and your mother. To keep you hidden, perhaps as insurance, or perhaps out of some twisted form of protection."

"The dream is your true memory fighting to surface," Feyre explained. "The cabin was real. Your mother's depression was real. And the voices..."

"The voices were your power," Rhys finished. "A power I've never seen before in any daemati. Even in our bloodline."

Your head spun.

It was too much, too fantastical.

And yet... and yet it would explain the whispers in the Archives. The strange sense of recognition you'd felt toward Rhys from your first meeting. The way Azriel's shadows had always seemed to know you, reaching for you even before he consciously recognized the mating bond.

"What do you mean, a power you've never seen before?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys leaned forward, intensity radiating from him. "I'm considered one of the most powerful daemati in Prythian's history. But your abilities, even when untrained and trapped behind whatever shield my father put in your mind... they're extraordinary. You don't just hear thoughts. You hear voices across realms. You hear the dead."

"That's not possible," you whispered, but even as you said it, fragments of memory flickered at the edges of your consciousness. Whispers in the dark. Secrets no living soul should know. The endless solitude of that cabin, broken only by voices that shouldn't exist.

"My father placed a shield in your mind," Rhys continued. "But I don't know why. What he was hiding. What he feared." His violet eyes locked with yours. "I want to help you uncover it. To remember who you truly are."

As he spoke about your mother, about the cabin, something shifted in your mind. Like a key turning in a rusty lock, a door creaking open to reveal horrors long hidden.

The image of her body—a stillness that didn't make sense to your young mind—kept cutting through your vision like a broken film reel.

Blood, you thought. It clung to your skin, soaked into your small hands, but the details weren't clear. You only knew the terror, the screaming. The whispers of someone else… someone cold… someone waiting for you to be strong.

Your mother.

Not sitting up in bed, not warning you about using power.

Her body. Still. Cold. Lifeless.

Blood. So much blood. On the floor. On your tiny hands. On your nightdress.

Your child self, screaming. Sobbing. Alone with a corpse in the wilderness.

And a voice, familiar yet chilling. "She was weak. But you, little one... you will be strong."

The memory slammed into you with physical force. You jerked back, a strangled sound escaping your throat. Azriel's arm immediately went around you, his shadows flaring protectively, but you barely felt it through the surge of panic.

"She's dead," you gasped, the words torn from some deep, wounded place inside you. "My mother. She's dead. In the cabin. I found her."

Rhys straightened, alarm flashing across his features. "What do you remember?"

But the memories were coming too fast now, a torrent of images and sensations breaking through the crumbling dam in your mind. Your mother's body.

The isolation. The terror.

You tried to shove it down, to rebuild the walls that had protected you for so long.

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be your life.

Your mother died peacefully. Your father was a hero. You were normal. Ordinary. Safe.

But the truth clawed its way out, ripping through the carefully constructed lies, leaving you raw and exposed.

The air stilled, thick with tension as your power surged, a wave of energy too raw and untamed to control. The fire sputtered and died in the hearth, the once steady flames now nothing more than flickering embers that reflected in Rhysand's wide, shocked eyes. The tea service shattered, its delicate porcelain scattering in a rain of broken shards that echoed through the silence, the sound as jarring as the chaos inside you.

"Stay away from me," you said, surging to your feet, backing away from them all. Your chest heaved with panicked breaths. "All of you. Stay back."

Azriel's shadows, once a comforting presence, writhed beneath his skin, the invisible tendrils curling tighter around you, though the proximity of his presence did little to ease the tempest inside you. His eyes darkened with his own helplessness, his usual calm shattered by the storm of emotions sweeping over you.

"You're safe," Azriel began, rising slowly, hands outstretched in a non-threatening gesture. "No one here will hurt you."

But you weren't seeing him anymore. You were seeing a cabin in the woods. A small child covered in blood. A High Lord with darkness writhing at his command, reaching for you, into you, twisting something in your mind until the world went black.

"Don't touch me!" The words burst from you in a wave of power that rippled through the room, knocking over furniture, extinguishing the fire, shattering the tea service.

Feyre gasped. Rhys moved in front of her instinctively, though his expression wasn't fear but shock.

And Azriel... Azriel stood perfectly still, watching you with those ancient eyes, shadows writhing around him but never approaching you.

"I need to go," you said, backing toward the balcony doors. "I need... I can't..."

"Let me take you home," Azriel said quietly. "Please. I won't touch you if you don't want me to. I won't speak. Just let me make sure you get home safely."

The raw concern in his voice penetrated your panic. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw not the threat your fragmented memories had conjured but your mate.

Your protector.

The one who had woken in the night to your distress and brought you here out of worry, not malice.

"Az," you whispered, voice breaking on his name.

He took a careful step toward you. "I'm here."

"I don't know what's happening to me."

"I know," he said softly. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

You looked past him to Rhys and Feyre, who remained where they were, making no move to approach. The shock on their faces had been replaced by deep concern.

"I didn't mean to..." you gestured weakly at the destruction around you.

"It's nothing," Rhys assured you, his voice gentle in a way you'd never heard before. "Just furniture. What matters is you."

And in that moment, despite the terror and confusion, despite the horror of the memories surfacing in your mind, you felt something unexpected.

Belonging.

"I want to go home," you said finally, your voice small.

"Then that's where we'll go," Azriel promised, moving to your side but still not touching you without permission. "May I?"

You nodded, and he carefully wrapped an arm around your waist, gathering you close as his wings spread in preparation for flight.

"We'll talk when you're ready," Rhys said from behind you. "No pressure. No timeline. This is your journey, on your terms."

You didn't respond, couldn't find words through the storm in your mind. But as Azriel lifted you into the dawn-brightening sky, as Velaris spread below you in all its awakening beauty, you clutched the carved star Rhys had pressed into your palm and wondered what other horrors waited behind the walls in your mind.

The apartment felt both sanctuary and prison.

For three days now, you'd barely left your bedroom, the walls both shield and cage. Gregory's bowl sat on your nightstand, his silent companionship the only interaction you could bear.

Even then, sometimes his innocent bubbling felt like accusation—why are you hiding?

Outside your door, life persisted.

The quiet conversations, ceramic against wood as meals appeared and disappeared, untouched. The soft rustle of wings as Azriel moved through your apartment—a constant, patient sentinel.

He hadn't tried to force his way in. Hadn't sent his shadows slithering under the crack to spy.

He simply... waited.

Like the mountain waits for spring after winter's grip—inevitable, unrushing, certain.

Your latest nightmare had left your body hollowed, sheets damp with cold sweat that smelled of fear.

The memories—were they even memories?—grew sharper each night, glass edges cutting deeper. Mother's body. Blood pooling black in the moonlight. The silence after screaming that stretched into forever.

Who am I, if not who I believed? The question echoed, unanswered, a stone dropped into a bottomless well.

A soft knock pulled you from the spiral, gentle but unmistakable.

"There's food," Azriel's voice came through the wood, his deep timbre neither demanding nor pitying. Just stating fact. "And tea. When you're ready."

You didn't answer. Hadn't in days. But something in you ached at his voice—steady as the North Star while you drowned in shifting seas.

"Lira stopped by," he continued, as though conversing through doors was perfectly natural. "She brought more books from the Archives. Said they might help distract you."

Your chest tightened. Lira. Sweet, fierce Lira who knew nothing of your true heritage but had still shown up, bearing gifts and stubborn concern.

"Is she still sick?" she'd asked earlier, her voice carrying through the door.

"Something like that," Azriel had replied, the evasion smooth as silk.

You'd pressed your ear to the door then, desperate for that connection to normal life—if it had ever been yours at all.

"Well, tell her Gregory misses his mother," Lira had said, false lightness straining her words. "And that Mor is threatening to organize a rescue mission if she doesn't emerge soon."

The thought of Mor charging in, all golden fury and determination, had almost—almost—made you smile.

Another knock, firmer this time.

"You should eat," Azriel said.

Not an order but a reminder that your body still existed, still needed care, regardless of the crisis consuming your mind.

The whisper of fabric as he shifted outside—a sound so faint only Illyrian hearing could detect it. His shadows moved too, their presence palpable even through the door, like cool fingertips brushing the wood between you.

"This will pass," his voice came again, softer now, intimate as a shared secret. "Nothing lasts forever. Not even this darkness."

The words carried something rare for Azriel—naked emotion, unguarded by his usual careful reserve.

"How can you know that?" you whispered, unsure if he could hear.

A pause. Then, "Because I see you, even when you can't see yourself."

The simplicity of it burned your eyes with unshed tears.

For days, you'd been terrified of the power that had exploded in Rhys's study, of hurting those you loved. Yet Azriel's voice held no fear, only bedrock certainty.

"I'm afraid," you admitted, pressing your forehead against the door. "Of what I might do. What I might become."

"I know," he said, and you sensed him move closer, his presence a weight against the other side. "But whatever you face, you don't have to face it alone."

His shadows seeped through the thin crack beneath the door, not invading but reaching—cool tendrils of night that carried his silent promise.

"Some nights," he continued, voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated through the wood, "when darkness feels absolute, I remember that dawn has never once failed to come. Not once in five hundred years."

Gregory bubbled in his bowl, a mundane counterpoint to Azriel's poetry.

"What if I hurt someone?" The fear that had kept you locked away. "What if I can't control it?"

"Then we learn control together," he answered without hesitation, the words carrying a thread of steel. "No one expects you to master this alone."

You closed your eyes, his words settling into the hairline fractures of your fear like healing rain into parched earth.

"The others have been asking about you," Azriel said after a moment. "Mor. Cassian. Even Amren, in her way."

"Amren?" The surprise pulled your voice higher. "Truly?"

"She said—and I quote—'Tell the girl to stop wallowing and come learn what she can do.'" A hint of wry amusement colored his tone. "I believe that's her version of concern."

Tiny, ancient Amren, with her quicksilver eyes and merciless pragmatism, worried about you. The thought unfurled warmth in your chest—this strange, cobbled family refusing to abandon you, even now.

"Rhys hasn't pushed," Azriel continued. "He understands better than most what it means to discover truths about yourself that change everything. But he's there, when you're ready."

When, not if. The distinction wasn't lost on you.

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," you confessed.

"You will be," he said, conviction running through his words like iron. "And until then, I'll be right here. Not moving."

His shadows pulsed beneath the door, physical manifestations of his oath, curling up like ribbons of midnight. One shadow reached toward your bare foot, pausing as if asking permission.

You stared at it—this living darkness that could pierce any barrier yet respected your boundaries enough to wait, to ask.

Slowly, you lowered your hand, allowing the shadow to brush your fingertips. The sensation was cool but not cold, silk against skin, a touch more intimate than any physical contact.

"Az," you whispered, his name breaking on your lips.

"I'm here," he answered immediately, voice taut with restrained emotion.

Your fingers found the door handle, hesitated, then began to turn it.

And then they came.

Whispers.

Not one, but dozens. Hundreds.

A cacophony of voices like brittle bones breaking, like water over burial stones, like the final stuttering exhale of the dying. They surrounded you, filled the room, pressed against your skin from all sides.

"Little listener," they hissed, words overlapping, discordant as broken instruments. "Little one with the gift and the curse."

Your hand froze on the doorknob, lungs seizing mid-breath.

"The shadowsinger cannot protect you," another voice rasped, this one colder, closer, the sound of it like frost forming on your spine. "His shadows are nothing compared to us. We exist in the space between heartbeats. In the darkness behind your eyes."

"His throat would open so easily," whispered one that sounded like a child, the innocence in the tone making the words obscene. "Wet and warm and red. We remember red. We miss red."

Terror crashed through you, limbs locking rigid as ice spread through your veins.

"His wings would snap like frozen branches," offered another, the voice wet with anticipation. "We could guide your hands. We could sing the song of breaking bones together."

"Stop," you breathed, the word barely audible. "Please stop."

The voices laughed—a sound like maggots writhing in rotting flesh.

"She thinks she commands us!" they mocked, voices layering over each other in horrible harmony. "Little daemati, little Night Court foundling. You don't command the dead. You are our doorway. Our puppet. Our hands in the world of flesh."

A sob caught in your throat, your fingers slipping from the doorknob as you backed away. The voices followed, clinging to you like grave mold, their phantom touch raising gooseflesh across your body.

"What's wrong?" Azriel called, alarm sharpening his voice. "Are you alright?"

You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words as the voices pressed closer, their whispers filling your ears, your mind, crowding out thought.

"Tell him," they urged, vicious excitement in their chorus. "Tell him we're here. Tell him we can see the exact moment his heart will stop beating."

"Tell him we're coming for him through you."

The doorknob rattled. "I'm coming in," Azriel commanded, all patience evaporated in the face of your distress.

A sharp crack split the air—wood splintering, metal snapping—and the door swung open, lock destroyed by Illyrian strength.

Azriel stood in the doorway, wings flared wide, shadows roiling around him like storm clouds. His eyes, usually so controlled, burned with fierce concern as they found you huddled against the far wall.

"Don't," you gasped, pressing back as if you could melt into the plaster. "Please. Go away."

"Too late," the voices crooned, crawling over each other in gleeful anticipation. "Too late, too late, too late..."

He didn't leave. But he didn't approach either.

Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, a careful distance away, movements slow and deliberate as if approaching a wounded animal. His wings tucked tight, though his shadows continued their agitated dance.

"I'm not leaving," he said quietly, each word a stone foundation. "Not now. Not ever."

The voices hissed—some in frustration, others in what sounded disturbingly like hunger.

"How sweet, his devotion," they mocked. "How easily it will break when your hands wrap around his throat. Your body, our will. Your power, our purpose."

You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears tracking down your cheeks. But you couldn't block the voices. They were inside you, part of this cursed gift you'd inherited.

"There's something wrong with me," you managed, words raw and jagged.

"No," Azriel replied without hesitation, the word landing with the weight of absolute truth. "There's something wrong with what was done to you. That's different."

The distinction hung between you—simple yet profound. He didn't demand explanations. Just sat there, solid as bedrock, his shadows gradually settling as your breathing steadied.

The voices retreated slightly, their frustration a tangible pressure, but they didn't vanish. They lingered at the edges of your awareness, whispering promises of violence, of control, of horrors to come.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. You couldn't tell him about the voices, about their threats. Not yet. Not when you feared they might use you as their instrument.

"None of us do," Azriel replied, unexpected vulnerability in his admission. "We're all just... finding our way forward. One step at a time. Even Rhys."

A surprised laugh escaped you, so incongruous with the terror still coiled inside that it startled even you. The voices recoiled at the sound, as if your moment of genuine feeling caused them physical pain.

That was... interesting.

"You don't have to tell me everything," Azriel said, his perceptiveness cutting to the heart of your silence. "Not until you're ready. But don't convince yourself you need to face it alone."

Gregory bubbled energetically from his bowl, as if agreeing—or perhaps sensing the momentary retreat of the dead that had filled the room.

"Even Gregory agrees," Azriel noted, the faintest hint of humor warming his voice.

You wiped tear-stained cheeks with trembling hands. "You broke my door."

"It was between us." he replied simply.

Another surprised laugh, this one stronger. "You're impossible."

"I've had centuries of practice." His gaze remained steady, shadows settling into calmer patterns. "Are you hungry?"

The question was so normal, so everyday amid the supernatural crisis consuming your life, that you could only stare at him.

Then, absurdly, your stomach growled—loudly.

Azriel's brow lifted slightly, the closest thing to smugness his severe features could manage. "I'll take that as yes."

For the first time in days, you felt something simple and human beneath the fear. Hunger—a reminder that regardless of what else you might be, you were still flesh and blood with basic needs.

"Maybe a little," you conceded.

He nodded, rising with fluid grace that belied his warrior's build. He didn't offer his hand, didn't try to help you up—understanding you needed to stand on your own terms, in your own time.

"I'll bring it here," he said, already turning toward the broken doorway. "You don't have to come out until you're ready."

The consideration in the gesture made your chest ache. "Az?"

He paused, looking back over his shoulder, wings shifting slightly.

"Thank you."

For staying. For breaking down doors. For not demanding answers you couldn't give.

"For everything."

His expression didn't change, but his shadows swirled with something that might have been tenderness. "Always."

As he left to retrieve food, the voices whispered again—fainter now but laced with malice.

"You won't escape us forever," they warned. "We are patient. We are eternal. We will always find you, little daemati."

But for the first time since they'd begun their terrible chorus, their threats felt less absolute.

A shadow—one of Azriel's—had remained behind, curling around your wrist like a bracelet of cool night. It pulsed gently, as if taking your pulse, reminding you that you weren't alone in this darkness.

That perhaps there was light worth fighting for after all.

Consciousness returned like the tide—gradual yet inevitable. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting golden stripes across your rumpled sheets and warming skin that had felt cold for days.

You shifted, muscles protesting after being tensed in fear for so long. The absence struck you first—that terrible chorus of dead voices had finally quieted sometime in the night. The silence in your mind felt vast and pristine, like fresh snow before footprints mar its surface. You'd forgotten how peaceful quiet could be.

A soft rustle drew your attention.

Azriel sat in the chair beside your bed, a sentinel carved from shadow and steel. His wings were folded tight against his back, the tips brushing the floor. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, the only evidence of his sleepless vigil. His shadows moved languidly around him, more settled than you'd seen them in days.

Guilt twisted through you. "You didn't sleep," you murmured, voice rough from disuse.

His eyes—sharp despite his evident exhaustion—focused on you immediately. The slightest tremor ran through his hands before he stilled them against the armrests. "You did. That's what matters."

You pushed yourself up against the headboard, studying him. The shadows beneath his eyes looked almost bruised, his normally immaculate appearance showing subtle signs of strain—a slight wrinkle in his fighting leathers, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead.

"Az, you need rest too," you said softly.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I've gone longer."

The stubborn male.

Your lips pursed into what you knew was a childish pout, brows drawing together as you frowned at him.

Something shifted in Azriel then—subtle at first, like ice beginning to thaw.

The rigid line of his shoulders eased slightly. The severe set of his mouth softened at the corners.

Then, like dawn breaking after endless night, his expression transformed completely. A genuine smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes in a way so rare and beautiful it momentarily stole your breath.

"What?" you asked, unsettled by this sudden change.

"There you are," he said, voice hushed as if sharing a sacred truth. "I thought I'd lost you to the fear."

His shadows stirred, stretching toward you like creatures seeking warmth.

Before you could respond, he moved to the edge of your bed. Not with his usual predatory grace, but carefully, almost tentatively, as if afraid you might shatter or flee.

"Az?" Your heart quickened as he leaned closer.

His scarred hands hovered near your face—hesitating, uncertain—before gently, reverently cradling your cheeks. The calluses on his palms were rough against your skin, a warrior's hands trying to be gentle. Then he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if in prayer.

"Azriel!" Heat flooded your face at the unexpected tenderness.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, something vulnerable flickering in the depths of his hazel eyes. A question. A fear of overstepping. But at whatever he saw in your expression, his hesitation melted away.

Another kiss found your temple, his breath warm against your skin. Then your cheek, the touch feather-light yet devastating in its sweetness. The tip of your nose. Each contact deliberate, almost worshipful.

"Az, what are you doing?" you asked, breathless.

The shadows of his lashes fell across his cheekbones as he looked down. "Making sure you're real," he confessed, voice rough with emotion he rarely displayed. "That the voices didn't take you from me."

His shadows joined this unexpected display of affection, curling around your wrists like cool silk ribbons. Where they touched, they left a sensation like starlight against your skin—bright yet gentle, familiar yet extraordinary.

"I'm still here," you assured him, flustered by this uncharacteristic display. "You can stop now."

He caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, his expression softening further.

"No," he said simply, the word carrying a world of tenderness you'd never heard from him before. "I don't think I can."

The bold declaration, so unlike his usual measured restraint, left you momentarily speechless.

"When did you get so impossible?" you managed finally.

His thumb traced the curve of your lower lip, his touch reverent. "When I thought I might lose you to the darkness in your mind."

You tried to maintain your composure, but a smile betrayed you, tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I'm stronger than that."

"Yes," he agreed, shadows swirling with something that might have been pride. "You are."

He brushed your hair back, the scarred ridges of his fingertips catching slightly against the strands. "The voices... are they quiet now?"

The question sobered you. You turned your awareness inward, holding your breath as you listened for that terrible chorus.

Nothing.

Where before there had been a cacophony of malicious whispers, pressing against your consciousness like hands trying to break through glass, now there was only blessed stillness. The relief was so profound it brought tears to your eyes.

"They're gone," you whispered, voice breaking on the words. "I can't hear them at all."

A shudder passed through Azriel, his exhale shaky as he leaned his forehead against yours. "Thank the Mother."

For a moment, you simply breathed together, sharing the same air, the same space. His shadows drifted around you both, forming a cocoon of living darkness that felt strangely like protection.

"You know," he said finally, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard, "Rhys believes he can help."

Tension crawled back into your shoulders. "How?"

"He's a daemati too," Azriel reminded you, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck in a steadying touch. "He could teach you to build shields in your mind. To filter what you hear."

His shadows faltered slightly at the mention of Rhys, twisting into agitated patterns before settling again—a tell you'd never noticed before.

"What if I hurt him?" Fear crept back into your voice. "What if the voices come back when I'm with him, and they make me do something terrible?"

Azriel's grip on you tightened fractionally, his jaw hardening with determination. "Then I'll be there. Between you and him. Between you and anyone who might be harmed." His shadows surged in agreement, darkening with protective intent. "But we can't hide from this forever."

The "we" wasn't lost on you—he had claimed your burden as his own without hesitation.

"I'm terrified," you admitted.

"I know." He kissed you again, this time at the corner of your eye where a tear threatened to fall. "But I've watched you face impossible things before."

"You make me sound braver than I am," you murmured.

"No," he said with unexpected fierceness. "I see you exactly as you are."

The simple truth of it struck deep, warming places inside you that had been cold with fear for days.

His thumb brushed your cheek. "We'll go only when you're ready. But Rhys can help in ways I can't."

You sighed, leaning into his touch. "When did you get so persuasive?"

"Five centuries of practice," he replied, the serious line of his mouth betrayed by the warmth in his eyes.

"Fine," you conceded, unable to resist the hope he offered. "We can see Rhys. But after that, you're going to sleep for at least twelve hours."

"Is that an order?" he asked, amusement threading through his voice.

"Yes," you said firmly. "And stop with all the... the..."

"Affection?" he supplied, pressing another deliberate kiss to your cheek.

You tried to summon a glare, but a helpless laugh escaped instead. "It's disconcerting. You're supposed to be scary and brooding."

"Only to everyone else," he said with quiet sincerity. Then, as if catching himself being too earnest, he added, "Besides, this is far more effective at keeping you off-balance."

He rose gracefully, extending one scarred hand. "Breakfast first? I imagine you're hungry."

Your stomach growled in agreement, making his lips twitch with satisfaction.

As you placed your hand in his and let him help you to your feet, you felt something fundamental shift between you. The voices might return. Your power remained untamed. But for the first time since the River House, since the memories and the whispers had begun, you felt a flicker of something precious.

With Azriel looking at you as though you were the dawn after his longest night, even the darkness that had nearly consumed you seemed less absolute, less eternal.

And in the Night Court, perhaps that was the greatest victory of all.

Author's Note:

Dear wonderful readers,

I apologize for vanishing faster than memories in the Night Court! Life's been a whirlwind—juggling the whispers of the dead, a pet fish named Gregory, and a moody shadowsinger boyfriend demands more multitasking mojo than I've got.

I promise the next update won't take as long—Azriel's threatened to hunt me down with his shadows if I keep you waiting. (Who knew he'd be so invested in my storytelling? Definitely not him!)

Thank you for your patience! Now, back to stumbling over things and accidentally causing havoc.

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