#it's just... somehow hard for me to part with them

[joffyworld]

The Wall of Mutual Appreciation - Part I

@machetelettuce

You officially have the cutest Narinder boba eyes I've ever seen. They utterly confound me in the most captivating way. Perfect Nari Boba, 10/10! Not to even mention your lamb, that motherfucker is the cutest lil lamby ever made. So fluffy, so cuddly, so smiles. I need them in my life, thank you for making that possible.

@caffeinecramp

Sozo. Such an underrated and underutilized character is most au's but by God did you nail the design. He's so fluffy and neat, he looks so friendly and pure. But behind that fluffy exterior is the mad eyes of a scientist turned delusional zombie, and you portray it beautifully.

@halftoastedwaffle

Expressions! I'll admit I don't really know how to phrase this perfectly, but your expression work is flawless. Each face conveys such a beautiful range of emotions, even with characters that are super hard to use for facial expressions like Shamura. Such a powerful skill to have when telling a story through visual media, and you've got it down to an art form unto itself.

@thetireddoktor

Ugh Shamura. Shamura Shamura Shamura. Don't get me wrong Dok, your bishop designs are all absolutely stunning, I admire them constantly. But my God, you sure know how to draw that damn spider. I am deeply, deeply in love with that damn spider, and you've only made that feeling so much worse in the best way possible. You've got a real knack for drawing that evil bastard, I adore it.

@flowersgoldandgraphite

I love your Leshy to death and back. He's so smiley, so fluffy and so smug. Not to mention, he absolutely killed that dress you put him in. He looked beautiful, like he's always deserved to. The Leshy stan community thanks you dearly, your contributions will never be forgotten!

@z00lea

Undisputably the King of Cannibalism and Gore in the fandom. I don't know anyone that quite matches your crazy sense of detail when it comes to guts and violence, but somehow keeps it intimate and sensual at the same time.

@fanofthelambalt

I cannot overstate how much I adored when you went around with Vitas and interacted with so many other lambs. It was such a beautiful moment of community and made my heart so much warmer, I'll never forget those posts. So wholesome, so fun and so cute. It was perfect, and it reflects your kind and fun heart so well. Also your Helob drawing? Still the most beautiful piece of art I've seen of him, and it deserves the due credit. Such an under-drawn character, but man did you COOK with that. So so cool, so cool

@midia666

Horror! Few have mastered horror in all its subtleties quite the way you have. Your designs are dripping in horror and unease even before the gore and limbs begin to fly or dismantle, and it's such a treat to see. Not to mention, your Narinder and Shamura tear my fucking heart out. They're so tragic and pained, it's incredible really. You have a real knack for unnerving me in all the best ways, it's incredible to behold.

@wolsalwastaken

RATIL!!!!!!!!! RATILLLLLLLL!!!!!!! I fucking adore Ratil you don't understand, they're possibly my favourite main character OC and they're such an adorable lil fella. So so perfect in every way, I love the lil rat so much. Also when you put them in a dress I screamed, so bonus points for that! Your art style in general is just so fucking adorable and flexible to different tones, it's so good.

@yourtaquitos

Siliiness and seriousness, you always know the balance. You're so beautifully capable of shitposting one minute, then blowing my mind with a masterpiece the next. Your anatomy is delicious, your silliness is divine, and your art is deeply appreciated.

@lime202

Comfort. That's what I think of when I see your art. It's so perfectly comforting in every way. It's detailed, but simple, with beautiful intricacies threaded without being overwhelming. Your art reminds me of Spring and blooming flowers, it's so warming to the sight. Also your Leshy? So beautifully fluffy and cuddly, I will always love him.

@stitchesofsoulsart

There's so much love in every single post you make. It's so beautiful, the way you draw such wholesome loving fun and comfort the masses with your beautiful designs and creativity. You're equally capable of angst and drama, but goddamn the comforting fluff is what drags me in personally the most. That Nari design too? To die for. No other way to put it exists, it's peak Narinder alternate design. So fucking cool and pretty ugh.

@blueaceart

Okay this is super specific but the way you draw Shamura just intrigues me. The tired eyes and sunken sockets, like the weight of knowledge and the burdens of war have weighed upon them for eons. It's so beautifully harsh and real, and I never see anyone else take up the challenge of it in such a subtle way. So cool.

@shrimpsketchy

Pirates! I am utterly obsessed with your piracy au idea, it's so embedded in my brain and I genuinely screamed when I saw it. It's beautiful, such a unique concept I've not see anyone else attempt and WOW was the art that accompanied it just stunning on a whole other level. Genuinely art gallery tier art, I'm in awe at it every single time.

@jomo-is-here

Where the fuck to even start with you Jomo. Jomo, formerly known as Fwick, is the subject of my largest conspiracy yet. I am fucking CONVINCED that Jomo is the dev of the game that does the official artworks for special events and DLC, because holy SHIT is Jomo's art in a tier of its own. Jomo is the fucking Michael Jordan of Cult of the Lamb art, rivaled by very VERY few. The environments are splendid, the characters are adorable and it's all done in such a beautifully similar style to the official artwork of the game. You could easily tell me Jomo IS the person doing the official art, but if I'm being honest? Jomo is better (in my opinion). But don't get it twisted, you can tell the difference with a mere glance and Jomo's uniquely recognisable style is a unique and adorable edition that wouldn't go awry in a museum or an award show. This shit is top tier lemme tell you, I can't glaze it enough.

@scared-lantern

Lantern approaches art with a beautiful style and flair that few can match. Your lamb is one of the most adorable designs around and by God do you know how to maximise that cuteness in every way. Not to mention, your painted art style is just a real marvel for the eyes. I can't eat it enough, I'm always going up for seconds.

@jellyseafish

I absolutely adore the silly fun you upload with your art. Your lamb is so big eyed and fun to stare at as they get up to hijinks, even if the hijinks are just them staring back with big ol' peepers. Cutest patootest around, and boy do they love a good shenanigan. I adore them, I can't help it.

@shadbells

GOLD. Shad has a flair for the decorative and beautiful when it comes to art, and boy does it shine through in such a unique and beautiful way. The designs you make, especially for your lambs and Nari, has really quickly become some of my favourites Shad. The gold accents of the clothes and jewellery really highlight their beauty so well, and let me say personally they are BEAUTIFUL. Absolutely stunning designs with a delightfully devilish side when they want, I adore them in every way. 10/10, would marry and smooch, then get stabbed probably.

@ccarmody101

Your lamb design is beautiful as hell and your Nari and Goat bring me some seriously needed joy when I stumble on them again. You were actually one of the first COTL artists I stumbled on when I got Tumblr, and I'll always appreciate how you fed my addiction just as I took my first steps.

@shind91

Uniqueness. That's the first word that pops up when I think of Shin's art. The way you translate these furry fellas into humanised and more realistic designs is just bafflingly cool to me, it's such a brilliant translation that few people can so perfectly pull off. It's a genre of art I didn't know I needed, but by God do I love to see it now that I've seen your art more than ever before in my life. It's such a unique talent, and I cherish it every time I see it.

@spilycoris

Armour! I love the armour you've given your lamb, it's so beautiful while still being believable that they'd wear it. It's like a beautiful but functional jewellery, and really pulls the outfit together! Absolutely adorable, 10/10!

@angry-ursidae

Ursidae art, some of the most fulfilling silliness there is on Tumblr. Your Narilamb fuels my life, and your Shamura makes me die laughing. I don't know why, I just love that design it's so silly to me for some reason and I can't help but adore it. I love Ursidae art, this is known.

@frecktheheck

When I think of COTL character designs, Freck is one of the first names that pops into my mind. Between the anatomy, the charisma and character that blossoms in the characters designs and the historically-designed outfits, there's not a single thing you do badly, or even mediocre for that matter. Every single piece is a gift woven from the threads of love and passion, and the art style reflects your beautiful heart in a way that's so pure and comforting to all who see it. I cannot, and will never, have enough Freck art in my life. I can't stop devouring it and begging for more like a camel in the Sahara, and I wouldn't ever want that to change.

@haggz-is-here

If I had to give someone an award for "Person most likely to be a time travelling renaissance artist" it would be you Haggz. Your work, simply put, is INSANE in it's quality and baffling in its detail. I cannot, no matter how long I stare at it, understand how you do it. On a damn iPad no less. Da Vinci's legacy lives on in you, and by God do you do it proud. I can't praise it enough, it's just stunning every time. Stunning, there's no other word for it. Other than shocking, maybe?

@cultistic-ann-aka-sannaliel

Sanna is, quite frankly, a fucking genius at detail. There is nobody better for the minutae of an art piece than Sannaliel, and I will die on that hill. I have yet to be anything other than shocked and awe-inspired at a Sanna art piece, and I doubt that will ever change.

@hotchocolatedemon

A writer and a drawer, a rare double-talent! Not only that, but both are done to a wonderful degree! Never let it be said that hotchocolatedemon isn't a demon in the creative fields! I guess a deal with the devil would explain that 🤔

@tidalfoam

I fucking love your little gremlin ratsona. They're such a little thing, I adore them. I don't think there's a better meet the artist than your one if I'm being honest. It's perfect, sometimes less truly is more.

@loloelia

Lolo! The way your art has improved, even in the tiny amount of time I've sort of known you, has been tremendous, and it beautifully reflects your bubbly personality. Your positivity is a force for good in a negative world, and your art reflects that with every doodle and drawing! Don't ever change or doubt yourself, you're an amazingly joyful person to see around the place!

@cj-the-random-artist

This motherfucker manages to do two things at the same time. One: Draw the cutest lil fellas I've ever seen. They go to tea parties, they hug and slow dance, they go to TEA PARTIES. Two: educate the fuck out of me. I will always mention how CJ's QPR au was the first time I'd ever even heard of a QPR, l t alone been shown how it functions. It's so beautiful and passionately crafted, and reminds me how important representation is in art. There's nobody that does it better, and warms my heart in such uniquely beloved ways.

@twooftheluckyones

Gem and Cake!

To Gem: Your art heals a child in me I didn't know was wounded and in need of a bandage. It's so cute and pure, but so versatile in that too. Una is an utter delight, and Narinder is dripping with edge but without sacrificing the clear goopy interior that lies in his heart.

To Cake: You are, simply put, a writer in a tier purely of your own. The way you weave a tale with a myriad of writing tricks is just stunning to behold. If Gem is the heart, then you're the soul. There is nobody I take pride in learning from more than you, and you set a new standard with every piece you write. Never let it go said that Cake the Lucky can't write a bonafide masterstroke whenever he pleases, and in any genre he pleases. Smut? Action? Romance? Melancholy? Call this guy, he's the one to do it. Don't even get me started on how these two work together to make this shit sparkle, I'll be here all day.

@bogor-o

Have you ever seen an art piece so beautifully cuddly that you just wept because you can't actually hug the characters on your screen? Well, lemme tell you something. Bogor is the fucking expert of that. If you've ever wanted to see a character that looks like they could kill you with a stare and hug you back to life in the same breath, then go take a gander at Bogor's art, you will NOT be disappointed.

@greedykrab

Your skill in taking the abstract and turning it into the deeply developed is outstanding and profound. I will never quite "understand" your art style, and I think that's what draws me to it. It's like a beautiful puzzle you could stare at for days and never fully replicate, so uniquely yours in a world of already unique artists and styles. So so good.

@the-artist-grimm

The art? Spectacular, 10/10 on the cuteness and the violence when necessary. But the writing? Oh my God you crank that up to 11! Crimson Angel has torn my heart out every single step of the way and I'll never stop singing its praises. Your writing of parenting and the relationship between two firey but pained loves? Immaculate. Utterly perfect in every way.

@ro-bee

KIRAN. The beautiful baby boy I had the absolute honour of helping name. I will forever fawn over Pupigoat and your beautiful art style that brings them to life. Their pain is wholesome but brutal, and your skill at drawing it brings it to life so wholly and passionately. Not to even mention the rest of your art, it's all so unique and wonderful.

@losing-catharsis

A fellow poet amidst a sea of visual artists! The way you weave words into song without a rhyme scheme utterly fascinates me, and was a huge part of what inspired me to try free verse poetry in a few of my own works, to very little succes xD. Your a wonderful writer, never stop Cath <3

@zynical-forg

You draw, without any competition or contest, the CUTIEST PATOOTIEST Patooties ever. They're so small, so round and so lovable. Perfectly drawn blorbos every time, ready for some cute adventures together. Beautiful, 10/10 would fawn over again.

@yellowflowrs

Carillonneur. Need I say more? Okay but seriously now, you crafted the absolute BEST swap au I've ever seen in my life design-wise. The character traits? Hilarious and intriguing. The clothing? Beautifully horror themed. The actual character's designs and anatomy? Oh my God. Next level insane. The Carillonneur? The Rinder? So so good. I just devour them every time I see them. I've had to limit myself to my favourite of your au's or I'll be here till I die of old age, but I love them all so so so so sooooo much ugh. I can't wait to see what you get up to next, be it COTL or something else entirely!

@eliza-forget

You. You are the absolute most powerful MACHINE of creativity I have ever born witness to. I don't understand how you never seen to run out of ideas, motivation or passion, it's such a beautiful display of the human spirit at its finest. To top that off, the detail on every piece is just BAFFLING to point my eyeballs at. Every. Single. Post is just dripping with detail, whether that be clothing, design, anatomy, lighting, perspective or dialogue. It's insane how you produce artwork so fast, so efficiently and compromise nothing when it comes to vision, detail or passion. I genuinely feel inspired when I see your newest work almost every single day, I can only aspire to be like you and your bountiful spirit the same way someone aspires to a myth of the ancients and their acts of heroic bravery.

@loullipopx

Versatility. Lou does it all and goddamn do they do it well. Cuteness galore? Look no further than the Pokémon au and their designs. You'll cry they're so cute, and then you'll cry because you know you'll never see something as cute ever again in your life. Beautiful and sensual art? Go look at the pinups she did for the Lamb and Nari during the bunny suit trend. They have scarred my mind in such a beautiful way, I'll never forget it. Loulli makes that shit pop, and by God does it pop good as hell. Don't even get me started on the music she makes. Yeah that's right I'll say it publicly, this fucker makes music. Good music. GREAT music! The skillset goes above and beyond, and boy does it astound me every time I learn something new.

@lotus-duckies

Cannibalism? Check. Cuteness? Check. Religious themes? Check! The way you weave religion into your pieces is utterly fascinating to me, and I still remember our little theological talks super fondly. Every single piece is utterly soaked in symbolism, metaphor and a diabolical amount of love and passion, even when the love involved leads to a cannibalistic eating of a spouse or two. I cannot praise the detail put into these pieces enough, and the art style just emboldens those details tenfold. Never before have I seen an art style take me by the hand and plunge me into a sea of joy so quickly and vividly, and I'll always love it dearly.

@mudtrash

Two words. Anatomy. Ears. Your anatomy work on your lil sillies is utterly fantastic, especially your rare naked Nari. But the real prize in my eyes? The way you draw ears. I don't know why, but you give those motherfuckers the most beautiful flop I've ever seen. Nari? Big dorito ears. Lamb? Lil gloppy floppas. Goat? Middle ground flopperoos. They're all just so perfect. Your style is so cute and fun without sacrificing detail, it's to die for. For me though, the ears are the cherry on top of an already perfect cake. 10/10 dude, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

@streetchicken

Streetchicken cookin in the kitchen like it's KFC. Make no mistake, this motherfucker can COOK. Gay soldiers? Absolutely. Gay furry gods? Not a problem. Just a dude? Light work. Frog is an artiste behind the brush, but lemme tell you the real secret. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, can draw a bear or a hunk quite like Streetchicken. Not a soul. This motherfucker can COOK when it comes to big huggable bears and rough-and-tumble fellas, and the competition never truly stood a chance. Whether it be Captain Price, Soap or Leshy, there are hunks abound. I thank you for your contributions to the bear community Frogo, never stop cooking 🫡

@faebunnyleap

Smiles! That's my immediate thought when I think of Fae. There's not a single piece of yours that doesn't have me smiling at the hilarity, the domestic bliss or the calming of it. Every single post is crafted with such a refined and calm hand, and 9 times out of 10 your characters are always so smiley and free. Your art style helps that so much too, it's so diverse. Your sketches are so silly and fun, but when you turn it up to 11 and get serious it's such a fantastic result. Also, I think about that fuckass pagliaci twins post so often it hurts. It's so good, top 3 shitposts ever. I love it, thank you so much.

@neon-virus

Size! I absolutely adore how you use your characters and their size differences, with such a crazy array of heights and builds. Goat is absolutely HUGE, a real unit, while Lamb is like the tiniest lil cutie patootie ever made. Nari acts as this weird middle ground where he's still super tall, but Goat's such a monster that he looks kinda normal? I love it so much. Also wow, your shading and rendering on your more detailed full pieces? Utterly splendid, I cannot ever be sated from my greed for more. So so beautiful.

@paintpaintpaintman

Trad art central over here. Your paintings are honestly stunning and it's so refreshing to see some trad art standing out amongst the digital age. Your designs are awesome too, and seeing them painted to life is so wholesomely warming. I get a shot of giddiness in my veins whenever you post, and I don't see that feeling ever fading in the slightest!

@cconfusedkat

The cuddliest designs in the whole world, so full of joy and whimsy. Every design bursts with a huggable energy that just sucks you in. It's beautiful, I adore it. There's not a single character that I wouldn't snuggle, pat on the head and feed a cookie for being such a delightful lil fella, I love them. I can only hope that they would love me.

@teruuu-main

Teru, Teru, Teru. Your brilliance knows no bounds. Every au just drips with personality and beauty, each so unique in the ways they shine. Old Faith Academy? Beautifully tropey, so comforting and warm. Compulsion of Flesh? Ohhh BOY lemme tell you about Compulsion of Flesh. Never have I seen someone write two characters that are so fucking VILE that I cannot help but love them. They're insane, they literally eat each other, and I eat it up like a starved hyena. I can't help it, they've devoured my brain since day one, and the saying is true, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." This au will always be one of my favourites, and one of the first fan projects I ever got obsessed with. Words don't quite match my love for it, so just take some sounds. SNOOB. GLOOB. GLEEB. HAPAP! And so on.

@kikorikoiko

Your improvement in the time I've known you has been absolutely immense, and I adore the way you draw Astaroth and Kallamar. You've brought the Astaroth character to life in a way few have, and it's beautiful every time. Devs hire Kiko please, we need tragic polygamous gays to be canon (as if they aren't already).

@junoberrii

Cuteness. Pure and simple cuteness. There is not a single un-cute bone in Juno's wrist I swear to God. Every single post is just the cutest shit imaginable. So cute, in fact, that I constantly forget that the lamb is canonically a mass murderer, and that Nari is an asshole. If you want fluff, and you want it FLUFFY, go to Juno and just stare at the art on display. It heals your soul man, it really does.

@spiderin-space

Talk about versatility! Spider writes, and writes a damn fine story too! Not only that, but such a passionate and dedicatedly written story, with such a beautifully paced yet long winding story that leaves you always waiting for an update. The art though? Oh man the art. Cuddly, cute and joyful but with a perfectly conveyed sense of fear whenever Spider needs to put the brakes on the fun zone. Spider knows their shit, and does it perfectly to a T. Don't sleep on spider, that spider knows how to write a story that bites in the night, or soothes in the daytime. Take your pick, you won't be disappointed.

[hazbinhotei]

giving in.

read part one here — the alternate, bad ending.

warnings/tags: angst, you bitchslap alastor, alastor is bad at feelings, happy ending

word count: 2729

summary: Fed up with Alastor's relentless push-and-pull, you finally confront him, forcing him to face the emotions he's been desperately trying to deny.

alastor x gn!reader. ugh, sorry for the delay! the last 12 or so hours have not been kind to me so i'm so glad i'm finally able to publish the happy ending to this little mini fic. i normally don't like making reader too headstrong because i know that's not realistic for most sinners dealing with the radio demon, but i just had to give them a moment to humble alastor. feel free to imagine any details you'd like for reader's powers—i made it vague enough for you to self-insert whatever you'd like!

A lapse in judgment, nothing more.

You stewed over the note for another hour, the words burned into your mind as the morning passed by in a blur. You tried to go about your day, pushing through your usual routine, but no matter what you did, the paper in your pocket felt like a lead weight. You don't even know why you brought it along with you—perhaps you believed you'd get the chance to discuss it with the very Sinner who wrote it. But as you continued about your day, it gnawed at you, every cruelly scribbled letter carving itself deeper into your mind—an echo of rejection you weren’t sure you could bear.

What made it worse (what made it infuriating!) was Alastor himself.

He was avoiding you.

Not in the way one might normally avoid an awkward situation, but actively, strategically. The moment you entered a room, he was suddenly finding a reason to leave. If you turned your head too quickly, you’d catch him watching you, only for his eyes to dart away as if he hadn’t been staring a second ago. He kept himself busy, chatting up the others in the hotel, putting on his usual performance like nothing was wrong—except you weren’t buying it.

It reminded you of before, back when he first started avoiding you. Back then, you had spent days wondering what you had done to offend him, whether you had somehow crossed some invisible line you weren’t aware of. You always took pride in being one of the few people Alastor seemed to actually enjoy, even apologizing when he snapped at you for making his coffee incorrectly.

(Which you knew was a complete lie even if he didn't admit the truth to you—how hard could it be to fuck up black coffee?)

But now? After everything? After last night? You knew why he was avoiding you—and the realization that it was over something so petty as his own feelings made your irritation skyrocket.

If he wanted to pretend last night never happened, shouldn’t he be the one acting like nothing happened? Not skulking away like some cowardly housecat every time you stepped too close? The hypocrisy of it made your eye twitch, frustration bubbling inside you with every new encounter.

By the time the sun had dipped lower in the sky, you were seething. Enough was enough.

You finally caught him when he was alone, tucked away in the hotel lounge, nose buried in a book like he hadn’t been fleeing like a guilty man all day. Your hands clenched at your sides as you marched straight up to him, your footsteps loud and purposeful.

"You!"

Alastor barely had time to look up before you slammed the crumpled note down on the table in front of him. The force of it caused his book to jolt slightly, the crisp slap of paper against wood ringing through the quiet room. You took solace in the way his ears shot straight up, reminiscent of a scared animal that had just been shot.

His gaze flickered from the note to your furious face, his usual grin faltering for a fraction of a second. "Ah, dearest! What a delightful surprise! Whatever seems to be the matter?"

Your brows lowered at his nonchalant tone, your claws pressing harshly into your palms as you made a fist. "Explain."

Alastor blinked, the faux innocence he wore doing nothing to quell your anger. "Explain what, my dear?" he asked, voice light and airy, as if you weren’t seconds away from tearing into him.

You exhaled sharply, yanking the note back off the table and shaking it in front of his face. "This! You left this in my room after everything that happened last night, and now you’re back to acting like I’m some spectre haunting the halls! What the Hell is your problem, Alastor?!"

A record scratch played in the air around you, his eyes owlishly blinking at you. He straightened slightly, his grin frozen in place, as if trying to determine whether this was some elaborate trick being played on him. "Why, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean," he said, the sound smooth but ever so slightly strained.

You scoffed, the sheer audacity of his act making your blood boil. "Oh, don’t you dare play dumb with me! Was none of it real? Did you mean nothing you said?" You sucked in a breath, willing yourself to steady, but your voice still shook as you continued. "Tell me to my face—right now—if this was one of your stupid, cruel ways to find joy in someone else's suffering. Say it meant nothing and I promise to forget about this entire thing."

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, searching your snarling face for a fraction before opening his mouth. But unlike his usual quick quips, he merely let it hang open for a moment, hesitating.

And that was all you needed to see.

Rage flared hot inside you, bubbling over uncontrollably as you waved your arms in the air dramatically. "See? See?! You can’t say it! Because it wasn’t a lie, was it?! You’re lying now, trying to act like it never happened, like it didn’t mean anything, but it did! And you know it did. So why, Alastor? Why are you running from this?!"

Alastor clenched his jaw, his smile taut. His fingers drummed lightly against the table, a fleeting movement before he crossed his arms, expression shifting into something more calculated. He tilted his head, his brows furrowing as he finally looked at you again. "Really, you should be grateful for such a selfless gesture."

Your breath hitched. "What?!"

He only flashed his yellow fangs at you, getting up to stand as he squinted at you like you were a total nuisance. "Are you saying this little temper of yours is because I had one lonely night where I merely seeked out your comfort? Honestly, I don’t even remember what I said due to my exhaustion. Surely, I know you’re better than this—causing such a fuss over something so trivial, cher.”

Your eye twitched. The boiling irritation in your chest finally burst, having enough of his stubbornness. You felt your powers bursting at the seams, your fury manifesting physically into your Sinner form. Before you could even think about the consequences of slapping one of the most feared Overlords in Hell, you raised your hand, swiftly swiping it across his left cheek. Alastor’s head snapped to the side, the loud crack of your palm ringing in the air. He stayed frozen for a moment, blinking—processing—before his expression twisted by your act of defiance.

A burst of radio static crackled through the room, piercing and deafening, as shadows exploded outward from where Alastor stood. His eyes flickered—the glowing red of his sclera now replaced by pools of black, his pupils now radio dials. His antlers twisted and grew, stretching toward the ceiling as he glared at you, his sharp-toothed grin baring frustration rather than amusement.

"May I remind you who you're dealing with, dearest." His voice echoed unnaturally, layered, crackling with barely restrained emotion. "I've erased Sinners from existence for far less than this."

You merely matched his wrath, glaring at him as his body slowly grew in size. Perhaps you had fully lost your sanity at this point, but something deep within you knew Alastor wouldn't just leave you shredded on the plush red carpet, body dismantled in the middle of the lounge. No, instead you pushed on, knowing—hoping—that deep down, Alastor truly meant every word he said to you last night. That maybe you were more important than he led on.

"Do it, then. If I care so little to you, kill me right now, Alastor." You snarled, pointing a brazen finger into his large chest as you peered up at him. "But I know that deep down, even if it'll take me years to heal from your damage, you'll be tormented for the rest of your life by the thought of me." 

Your words were an absolute bluff—a shot in the dark that you secretly prayed wouldn’t make your screams the newest addition to his broadcast. But by the way Alastor’s smile faltered, you were told everything you needed to know. 

Green stitches pulled at the edges of his mouth, a sinister, matching glow beginning to seep from his body. "I won't play this little mind game of yours."

You lifted your chin boldly as you gave him a challenging look. "Yet you're the one who started this in the first place."

Alastor let out a sharp laugh, his head tilting down with amusement, but it lacked its usual careless charm. "Ha! If you think you'll make me, the Radio Demon, admit to feeling any sort of weak emotion such as love and want, then you are sorely mistaken."

"Loving and wanting do not make someone weak, Alastor." Your voice was firm, unwavering. You observed him closely, looking for a crack in his guise, any sign that your words were getting through. 

His expression hardened, though the forced sharpness in his tone betrayed his dismissive front. "Now, why would I ever foolishly allow myself to pine for a demon who doesn't return the sentiment?"

You inhaled sharply, steadying yourself, willing your voice to stay firm. You shook your head, a bitter scoff escaping your lips before you finally spoke. “And what makes you think I don’t?”

Silence.

Alastor froze, his overgrown form stilling at your words. The eerie light around him flickered, dimming as his ears twitched, his mind struggling to process something so simple, yet so impossibly profound. "Pardon?" he asked, voice uncharacteristically quiet, almost breathless, like he truly couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

You glared up at his dumbfounded appearance, waiting—almost daring him—to challenge you further. You studied him, searching for any sign that he might still go through with his threats, that he might lash out just to prove a point. But as the tension in his frame wavered, as his shoulders slowly relaxed, you knew. You had cracked something deep inside him, shattered the beliefs he had clung to so stubbornly, proving them false in a way he never expected.

You pursed your lips, dragging in a deep breath before letting it out in a long, frustrated groan. Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, shoulders slumping under the sheer weight of your exasperation. With a heavy hand, you pinched the bridge of your nose, as if physically holding yourself back from snapping outright. "You're so fucking annoying," you swore under your breath, eyelids fluttering down as you tried to calm yourself.

You heard Alastor shift in front of you, your eyes opening back up to see him shrinking back to his usual frame. His pupils were now back to their usual glowing red, wide and bright, like a deer in headlights, his smile laced with confusion. "Wha—"

"Nope. You're going to listen to me now." You cut him off, lifting the hand you were massaging your nose bridge with to shut him up. "You're the most infuriating man in all of Hell. Do you even hear yourself? Do you realize how ridiculous all this is? All of this running, all of this hiding—over what?"

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as nerves suddenly coiled in your stomach. You forced yourself to take a grounding breath, shutting down the instinct to backtrack from the truth you were about to reveal. Confessing your feelings for him—no matter how pissed off you were over this entire thing—felt like stepping off a ledge with no idea what was waiting at the bottom. But you couldn't turn back now, you cared far too much about yourself (and, ultimately, Alastor) to let this game of cat and mouse continue on any further. "I’ve always... liked you, you idiot. I just thought you didn’t like me like that. You didn’t exactly strike me as the type who... well, did love."

The static softened, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly as he stared at you, as if hearing you for the first time. The residual shadows curling around the room wavered before beginning to settle, but his breath still came in uneven huffs, his chest rising and falling in sharp, measured movements. His brows were still furrowed—but he remained frozen, trapped in the weight of a truth he never thought he’d hear. His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Letting out a slow sigh, you stepped forward, bridging the gap between you both. His breath hitched, as if he was terrified of what you'd do, but he didn’t retreat, didn’t resist. Your gaze, though softer, didn't change from the incredulous look from earlier, but you still reached out, your fingers hesitantly cupping his cheek. His skin twitched beneath your touch, as if startled, but then—instinctively, reflexively—he leaned into it, his eyes studying yours as if he couldn't believe what was happening.

"I’m here, Alastor," you murmured, your voice lowered but steady. "I want this. I want you. If you’ll let me."

He placed a warm hand on your wrist, tightening around it ever so slightly, as if testing to see if you were real. "You mean it?"

"Don't piss me off again." You deadpanned, but as Alastor's expression didn't change, you sighed, answering his question seriously. "But yes, I mean it."

A long, silent pause settled between you two as Alastor didn't reply, simply scanning your face for what felt like eternity. You hummed lowly, taking the moment to note the small details in his face—the sharp slope of his nose, the dark circles under his eyes, even the faint X that hid beneath his hair. Alastor seemed to be doing the same, watching your face as if he was engraving every single detail to memory, worried he wouldn't be able to hold you this close again.

After a moment, his closed mouth widened, lips thinning as he took in a slow, shaky breath. "This... this will be difficult," he admitted, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. "I've never done"—He cleared his throat, slightly nervous—"this before. I can't promise I’ll do it right."

You slowly smiled, soft and reassuring, shaking your head as all traces of impatience and anger were dispelled by the vulnerability in his words. "You don’t have to get it right, Alastor. You just have to try."

He dipped his chin in a bit, hesitation flickering across his features. He was nervous. You found the idea laughable; he, the great Alastor, was nervous. But after a long beat, he meekly nodded, your eyes shining at his silent acceptance.

"I admit that this"—You motioned to the space between the two of you—"might have a huge learning curve for the both of us, but I promise that I am entirely yours." You ignored the slight blush on your cheeks from your brazen words, lifting your pinky finger to him. “As long as you are wholeheartedly and shamelessly mine."

Alastor glanced down at your extended pinky, chuckling lowly at your gesture. He interlocked his pinky with yours, looking at you with an emotion you had first and only seen last night, in the shadows of your room—adoration. He nodded, leaning his forehead down to meet yours with unexpected tenderness. "You, my dear, continue to astound me in ways I never thought possible."

You couldn't help the grin that broke through your face, poking his cheek playfully. "I hope you know I haven’t forgiven you for deserting me in the middle of the night... yet."

Alastor beamed at your words, pulling away to laugh, the sound rich and full. Then, without warning, he lifted you, spinning you around effortlessly. You gasped, surprised at the sudden feeling of being airborne, clasping onto his shoulders tightly. He placed you down, and as you recovered from the dizzy motion, he pulled your frame into a warm embrace. "That's fine with me, mon amour. I now have eternity to make up for it."

You huffed, still flustered from being twirled, "Maybe I should have just listened to your stupid note."

His smile softened as he looked at you, his movements more tentative and apologetic in the way he leaned down to meet your height. He hesitated for only a second before rubbing his nose lightly against yours, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

“I am infinitely grateful you did not.”

tag list: @sirens-and-moonflowers @diffidentphantom @catticora @onth3cusp @frompiscium @rose-in-blue [for the ones who asked to be tagged for this story, please let me know if you'd like to be added to my reoccuring tag list for all my fics!]

[buckyschair]

AFTERGLOW

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

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

read part one on tumblr here

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

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

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

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~14k 

Read on AO3

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

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

You murmur something noncommittal. 

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

“A bath?” you propose.

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

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

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

“I saw that!” he calls from inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Az? Is that you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How badly could this go? 

✸✸✸ 

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

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

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

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

“Quit it with the hysterics,” Rhys teases. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dinner was good,” Azriel shares.

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

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

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

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

“Did you fuck her?” Cassian deadpans. 

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

“No!” Azriel balks. 

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

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

“Why the hell not?” Cassian demands. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just… things.” 

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

Rhys nods, encouraging him.

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

Cassian groans, and Rhys winces. 

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

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

Az opens his mouth, then closes it.

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

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

Cassian and Rhys just look at him with pity. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✸✸✸ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he had declined. 

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

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

“I’d like to see you again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

✸✸✸ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look beautiful,” he offers. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you cook?”

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

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

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

“I’m impressed.”

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

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

You accept the drink with thanks.

“So, this is your place?” 

Azriel just nods. 

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

“Oh, that was the House of Wind.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? You like it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A loud knock interrupts your mooning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mor,” she offers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out.

His brows furrow, “Why?” 

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ask with disbelief, “ I scared you ?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp, teeth kissing the air as he continues. 

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

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

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

“Why me?” you finally manage. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I feel it too.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit,” he groans as he lifts you.

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

“Make me yours,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your freak,” you correct. 

“My freak,” he agrees. 

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

“Shit, Az, I'm not paying you!” 

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

“Oh, no–”

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

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

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

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

“Your turn,” he says, voice gravelly. 

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

“Boots,” he chooses. 

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

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

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

“Please.”

He effortlessly unlaces your boots with capable hands. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you to show me.” 

Azriel pauses, and his breathing goes a little uneven. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you say weakly.

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

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

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

“Don’t cheat,” you scold. 

He just whines, reluctantly stopping his thigh flexes. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” he says, “don’t tease me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you need, angel,” he hums. 

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

“Go on then,” he purrs.

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

“You look so perfect,” he praises. 

“And you’re sex incarnate, Az.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That was so hot,” Azriel praises. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you fuck me now?”

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

“I’m not going to last,” he warns. 

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

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

When he finally enters you, he groans lowly. 

“Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you with me?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m close,” you warn him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I lie down?”

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

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

“You’re good.”

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “When?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort at his air quotes. 

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

“We suck at this,” he decides brightly. 

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

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

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

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

He hums, not denying it.

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

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

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

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

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

“ No ,” you say with sarcasm. 

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

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

He rolls his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bath?” he offers eventually.

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

“I’ll carry you.”

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Come on, I’ll show you.” 

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

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

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

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

✸✸✸ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

_

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

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

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

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

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

[theonottsbxtch]

ANXIETY PT 2 | CL16

an: and here she is! i hope you guys enjoy her, please come and talk to me about it in!!

wc: 4.4k

part one

AT FIRST, SHE DIDN’T SLEEP.

Not really. The chair was uncomfortable, the ropes cut into her wrists, and every time she let her eyes close, her mind jolted awake with the same question hammering over and over: Where am I?

At some point, exhaustion won. When she woke, her neck ached from slumping forward. The room was dim, only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Her stomach was empty now, hunger gnawing at her ribs.

And Charles was there.

Sitting calmly on a chair opposite her, reading a book like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

She stiffened, heart thudding against her ribs. “How long was I out?”

He glanced up, gaze unreadable. “A few hours.”

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “You can’t keep me here.”

He sighed, setting the book down on the table beside him. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” She yanked at the ropes again, ignoring the sting. “You can’t just—just take someone and expect them to—”

“To what?” His voice was calm. “To accept it?”

She glared at him, breathing hard. “I will never accept this.”

Something flickered in his expression, but he only nodded. “You’re hungry.”

She clamped her jaw shut.

Charles stood, moving toward the door. “I’ll bring you something.”

“I’m not eating anything you give me.”

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “You said that last time, too.”

And then he left.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

He’s lying. He has to be lying.

Doesn’t he?

On day three, the ropes were gone.

She woke in a different room—a bedroom this time, the bed soft, the room too grand to feel real. Dark wood, deep emerald curtains, a chandelier above her that glowed with warm golden light.

She sat up so fast the world spun.

The door was closed. Not locked. She knew that because when she stood, moving hesitantly toward it, she tried the handle.

It turned easily.

Her stomach clenched.

A trick. A mind game. He wanted her to think she was free.

Carefully, she edged the door open, stepping into a long corridor lined with paintings. The air smelled like old books and polished wood. No signs of anyone else.

Her breath quickened. If she was somewhere new, if she wasn’t tied down—maybe she had a chance. Maybe—

“I wouldn’t do that.”

She spun, heart slamming into her ribs.

Charles stood a few steps away, arms folded, watching her with that infuriating calm.

“Do what?” she forced out.

He nodded toward the far end of the corridor. “Try to leave.”

She clenched her fists. “Or what? You’ll drag me back?”

His lips quirked slightly. “You’d only get lost.”

She hated how certain he sounded.

“I want to go home,” she said, voice shaking.

Charles tilted his head slightly. “You are home.”

A chill ran down her spine.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”

Charles said nothing. He only turned, walking away.

And the worst part?

Somehow, she knew he was right.

She would get lost.

Because she had no idea where she was.

On day five, she ate.

Not because she trusted him, but because hunger gnawed at her so fiercely she could barely think.

Charles didn’t comment when she finally picked up the fork. He simply sat across from her at the long dining table, reading another book, drinking from a glass of wine.

Like this was normal.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

He turned a page. “Doing what?”

She gestured around. “This. The house. The food. The—freedom.”

At that, he glanced up. “You call this freedom?”

She swallowed, setting the fork down. “It’s more than the chair.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just studied her, his gaze sharp, like he was assessing something.

Then, finally: “Would you like more?”

More.

The word sent a shiver through her.

She should have said no.

Instead, she whispered, “Yes.”

The garden stretched endlessly, walled in by high iron gates. Roses bloomed in neat rows, and somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly.

She stood on the stone path, arms wrapped around herself, the warm breeze brushing against her skin.

Charles had let her outside.

That morning, he’d simply left the door open, said nothing.

And so she’d walked.

Not away—because where would she go? There was no way out. Not yet.

But here, in the open air, something inside her loosened.

She turned, slowly, finding him watching her from the terrace.

She should have hated the way he looked at her.

Should have feared the way he watched.

But she didn’t.

Not as much as before.

And that was the part that scared her most of all.

In the three weeks she was here she still flinched when the doors closed behind her.

She still watched the windows, traced the lines of the gates with her eyes, searching for weak spots, exits, anything.

But she walked freely now.

She could move through the house, through the halls lined with dark wood and grand chandeliers, past the velvet curtains that swallowed all the light when drawn.

She ate when she wanted.

Read when she wanted.

Walked outside in the gardens without him hovering over her shoulder.

It was a trick, of course. A slow, careful noose around her neck that Charles kept loosening, letting her believe she wasn’t trapped—until one day, she’d forget she ever wanted to leave.

But she wouldn’t forget.

She wouldn’t let herself.

Would she?

That night she found the man by the main door.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit.

His back was to her, but something in the way he stood sent a jolt through her, something familiar.

Her stomach turned as she took a step closer, her voice hesitant.

“…Carlos?”

He turned, and there it was.

The same sharp cheekbones, the same neatly-trimmed beard, the same deep brown eyes she had passed a hundred times in the lobby of her old building.

Carlos.

Her doorman.

The man who had held the door open for her every morning. The man who had nodded politely whenever she returned home late.

The man who—

Her breath hitched.

He let Charles in.

A chill ran down her spine.

Carlos studied her with a neutral expression, his hands folded in front of him. Not nervous. Not guilty.

Like this was normal.

Like he belonged here.

“I—” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t understand.”

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

Then, a voice from behind her.

“I see you’ve met Carlos.”

She froze.

Charles.

His presence was immediate, filling the space even before she turned to see him standing there, watching, a small smile playing at his lips.

“You know him, don’t you?”

A shudder rippled through her.

She looked back at Carlos, at his blank, unreadable face, at the way he didn’t deny it, didn’t react.

Her mind reeled.

How long?

How long had Carlos been watching her? How long had he been letting Charles in and out of her apartment, standing there while she went about her life, oblivious?

Her stomach twisted.

“Why?” she whispered.

Carlos didn’t answer.

Charles only smiled.

A slow, knowing smile.

And in that moment, something inside her cracked.

The days blurred together.

She told herself she was still angry.

Still fighting.

But anger was exhausting.

And fear—fear ate away at her like a slow poison, seeping into her bones, making her limbs heavy, making her thoughts sluggish.

She couldn’t live in a state of panic forever.

Could she?

Charles never raised his voice.

Never locked her in a room.

Never forced her to do anything.

He gave her space.

Gave her freedom.

She wandered the mansion now. Sat by the grand windows that overlooked the gardens, let the golden light of the afternoon spill over her skin.

She could walk outside.

Could touch the flowers.

Could breathe in the crisp, fresh air.

But not once—not once—did she ever make it past the gates.

She thought about running. She did.

But there were cameras.

Carlos was always nearby.

And Charles…

Charles would know.

He always knew.

He was in her head.

It was in the little things.

The way she’d hesitate before touching something, as if waiting for his approval—even though he wasn’t there.

The way she found herself choosing clothes she knew he liked, soft fabrics, delicate things, things that felt beautiful.

The way she caught herself listening for his voice, the sound of his footsteps, the subtle shift in the air that meant he was near.

She hated it.

Hated how much space he took up in her mind.

Hated how her body had begun to relax around him.

One evening, she sat by the fire, staring into the flames, the heat licking at her skin.

Charles sat across from her, reading.

Just reading.

Not speaking. Not looking at her.

But his presence—his quiet, calm presence—wrapped around her like a thick, suffocating blanket.

She should leave.

She should go to her room.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

And when the fire crackled, and she flinched, he finally looked at her.

“You’re safe,” he said.

Simple. Soft.

Something in her chest ached.

She turned away, her jaw tight.

Because she knew—she knew—what he was doing.

But her body didn’t.

Her body had already started to believe him.

Sometimes at night she would have nightmares, she dreamt of her old apartment.

Dreamt of the cold metal handle of her front door.

Dreamt of reaching for it—

And finding it locked.

No matter how hard she twisted, how much she pulled, it wouldn’t open.

She turned, frantic, searching for help.

And there, standing in the hallway—

Carlos.

His face calm. His hands folded in front of him.

Behind him, Charles.

Watching.

Smiling.

She jolted awake.

Heart pounding. Breath shaking.

She wasn’t in her apartment.

She was here.

In the mansion.

And when she turned her head—

Charles was there.

Sitting in the chair beside her bed.

Not touching her. Not speaking.

Just watching.

Her breath caught.

“Bad dream?” he asked, voice low, smooth.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying her with that unreadable expression.

And then—

“You called for me.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No, I—”

“You did.” His voice was steady. Certain. “You said my name.”

A lie.

Had to be.

She wouldn’t have.

Would she?

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

His eyes flickered to her hands, then back to her face.

“You don’t have to fight me,” he murmured.

The worst part?

It sounded kind.

It sounded gentle.

She turned away, pressing her forehead into the pillow.

She didn’t want to know if he was lying.

Because if he wasn’t—

If she really had called for him—

Then she was already losing.

She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but she awoke a second time to a knock at the door.

She had learned to read the silence in this house.

Knew when Charles was near, knew the way the air shifted when he entered a room, how his presence curled around her like an unseen force.

But this—this was different.

The knock echoed through the grand halls. Sharp. Unexpected.

A voice—low, irritated—followed.

Charles.

She couldn't hear the words, only the tone.

Something wasn't right.

She barely had time to sit up before her bedroom door burst open.

Charles stepped inside, closing it swiftly behind him.

And in his hand—

A knife.

Her breath caught.

Not because she thought he would kill her.

If he wanted her dead, she wouldn’t be here.

But because there was something in his eyes she had never seen before.

Fear.

True, genuine fear.

She pressed herself against the headboard as he approached, his steps controlled but urgent.

"You're going to listen to me," he said, voice low and edged with steel.

She forced herself to breathe. "Charles—"

He climbed onto the bed, hand pressing the cold blade to her throat.

Not enough to cut.

Just enough to remind her that it could.

Her body went rigid.

"You’re going to go downstairs," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "You’re going to smile. You’re going to hold my hand. And when they ask, you're going to say you're my fiancée."

The word made her stomach churn.

Her fiancée.

Not his prisoner.

Not his victim.

His fiancée.

Her pulse pounded against the knife. "Who—"

"My parents."

It was barely a whisper.

And suddenly, she understood.

The fear in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.

This wasn’t just about keeping her in line.

This was about him.

She watched his expression shift—controlled, but cracking at the edges.

She had never seen him like this.

So close to unraveling.

So vulnerable.

The realisation came slow.

Charles wasn’t untouchable.

He wasn’t some godlike captor, holding all the power.

He needed something from her.

And that meant—for the first time—she had something to use against him.

She swallowed, carefully. "And if I say no?"

The knife pressed harder.

His jaw clenched.

"You won’t."

Silence stretched between them.

And then—

He begged her without words.

Not with his mouth, but with his eyes.

She should have relished it.

Should have felt some twisted sense of victory.

But all she felt was cold.

Because beneath all the threats, beneath the blade at her throat—

She realised something else.

Something worse.

He was just as trapped as she was.

And against her own will, against all logic—

A part of her wanted to know why.

She walked down the grand staircase, her heart a chaotic drum in her chest. The house felt suffocating, every shadow looming over her like a heavy cloak, pressing down on her. Charles followed closely behind, silent, his presence more oppressive now than ever before.

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, the tension in his hands as they gripped the knife, still not far from her body. She tried not to think about the cold metal, the threat of it against her skin.

At the bottom of the staircase, in the vast, immaculately decorated living room, an older couple stood near a fireplace. They were every bit the aristocratic picture Charles had painted of them. His mother, a stately woman with silver hair and a soft smile that somehow didn’t reach her eyes, wore an air of command. His father, frail and stooped, leaned on a cane, his expression hardened and distant, eyes too tired to care about anything beyond his own world.

His mother, however, noticed her immediately.

"Ah, Charles!" She said, her voice surprisingly warm, eyes lighting up with something that bordered on excitement. "And you’ve brought her."

Her eyes roamed over the woman who had entered their world, as if appraising her like some prized possession, before settling with a satisfied smile.

"Isn't she simply delightful?" The woman’s gaze swept over her, a smile as sharp as glass on the edge of her lips. "She’s even lovelier in person, Charles."

Charles stiffened behind her, and she could feel the way his breath quickened slightly. His mother didn’t seem to notice or care. She had already turned her attention back to her son, a pleased hum in her throat.

The woman approached her slowly, as if she were a rare animal, circling her with the precision of a predator. “Tell me, darling, when are we expecting the wedding?”

The question landed like a blow, and the world seemed to stretch in that moment, spinning around her. She blinked, unsure of what was happening - her mind whirling. The wedding?

Before she could gather her thoughts, his mother was speaking again.

“Charles, you’ve been keeping her all to yourself, I see. We can’t have that, can we? Our family is far too old, too proud, to let such a treasure go unnoticed - she’s gorgeous.”

Her voice was syrupy sweet, but there was something cold in her gaze, something unnerving in the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It felt like the woman was sizing her up, mentally cataloging every detail of her appearance - her clothing, her posture, the subtle trembling of her hands.

“Charles, I’m so glad you finally found someone who matches our family’s standards.”

The words didn’t sit right. The way his mother spoke - like it was all an agreement, a deal in place. She wasn’t just meeting a future daughter-in-law. She was assessing an asset.

“Isn’t she beautiful, darling?” His mother asked, turning back to him with a satisfied grin. “Just like your father wanted.”

The mention of his father caught her attention. Wanted.

A shiver ran through her, the weight of it suddenly hitting her all at once. It wasn't just about love for him.

It was about inheritance.

And Charles.

Charles wasn’t in control of this.

She met Charles’ eyes across the room. His face was stiff, his jaw clenched. He wasn’t smiling. There was something behind his gaze, something darker than she had ever seen before.

Her stomach twisted.

She was trapped in his world now, his carefully constructed reality that he was trying to force her into.

And still, she played her part.

“Thank you” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.

His mother’s smile widened. “You’re a smart girl. I can see why Charles chose you. You’ll fit in here nicely.” She stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder in a way that felt oddly possessive. “Now, let’s talk about the wedding details, shall we? I’m sure you’ll want the very best of everything.”

“Of course,” she managed, her voice quiet.

But in the back of her mind, questions bloomed like thorns. Why had Charles done this? What was his real game?

She could feel it now, the slow creeping of understanding. He wasn’t just trying to trap her.

He needed her.

More than she could have ever known.

And with each passing moment, her sense of self-control slipped further away, replaced with something far more dangerous. 

Before she knew, before she could take one more final look at Charles, she was being ushered into a room with a tea set already waiting for them. She sat opposite his mother, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her lap - the way she thought his mother would like to see.

The tea was delicate, floral, and far too refined for a situation like this. It sat untouched in the dainty china cup the maid set before her, the scent of lavender and something citrusy curling around her like an unwanted embrace.

Charles’ mother sat opposite her in the vast room. Light spilling through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Everything about the scene should have felt elegant, serene even - but it didn’t.

It felt staged. 

It was too perfect, too rehearsed. Like a moment out of someone else’s life that she’d been forced to step into.

His mother was watching her, a satisfied smile playing at her lips as she stirred her tea with an air of contentment.

“I must say, I’m relieved,” she said suddenly, her voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. “I was beginning to wonder if Charles would ever find someone.”

She tensed slightly.

His mother sighed, a hand resting delicately on the table as she glanced out towards the sprawling estate grounds. “After his diagnosis, well…” She let the words hang in the air, almost wistfully. Then she turned back to her, eyes sharp. “It’s just so wonderful that he’s found you.”

The breath hitched in her throat.

Diagnosis?

She kept her expression carefully neutral, but inside, something splintered.

His mother didn’t seem to notice - or if she did, she didn’t care. She carried on, voice gentle, as though she was discussing something as mundane as the weather.

“For so long, we worried, you know. The unpredictability, the… obsessive tendencies. It’s difficult, raising a child like that. Difficult to see them struggle with attachment. But look at him now - he’s changed so much.”

The world around her seemed to shrink, the space between them closing in as though the very air had turned thick and suffocating.

Attachment.

Obsessive tendencies.

Her mind raced, pieces snapping into place with a horrifying clarity.

His break-ins. The way he had watched her, orchestrated everything. The control. The calculated way he had slowly stripped away her autonomy, little by little, reshaping her world until she had no choice but to exist in his.

She had thought it was just manipulation. Just power. Need.

But it was more than that.

His mother reached forward suddenly, placing a delicate hand over hers, her grip deceptively strong. “You must be something special,” she said with an approving nod. “He’s never taken to anyone like you before.”

The room felt colder.

Her chest tightened.

Because now, she wasn’t just his little prisoner.

She was his fixation.

A carefully chosen piece in a puzzle he had been building long before she had even realised she was part of his game.

And Charles, he wasn’t just keeping her here because he wanted to.

He was keeping her here because, in his mind, she was slowly the only one who could truly ever belong to him.

Who could get him that inheritance.

To fulfil his life.

The weight of his mother’s hand on hers sent a chill up her spine. She willed herself to stay still, to keep her fingers from trembling beneath the woman’s touch. The realisation sat heavy in her chest, a slow creeping dread wrapping around her lungs like ivy.

She tried to swallow it down, to push past the rising nausea, but the older woman’s gaze held her in place - evaluating, assessing, approving.

“It really is lovely to finally meet you, dear,” she continued, giving her hand a light squeeze before retreating, picking up her tea as though she hadn’t just cracked the foundation of reality beneath her. “I always knew Charles had a heart for romance, but he was so particular.”

She managed a small, weak nod, the motion barely there.

Particular.

Another careful choice of words.

His mother sighed, giving her a knowing smile as she took another delicate sip of her tea. “Oh, don’t look so worried. He’s an intense man, yes, but intensity is just another word for devotion, isn’t it?”

Devotion.

The world settled uneasily in her stomach. 

She forced herself to glance away, her eyes flickering towards the garden beyond the glass. The estate stretched out endlessly, its perfectly kept hedges and winding paths giving the illusion of freedom when she knew it was nothing but a gilded cage.

“I-” she started, but the words caught in her throat.

What could she even say?

That she had no choice? 

That she was here against her will?

That her presence at this table was a careful act of survival?

His mother’s eyes were too sharp, too perceptive.

“That’s why I’m so pleased to see you two together,” his mother went on, placing her cup back into its saucer with a soft clink. “A woman like you will be good for him. Anchor him. Make sure he doesn’t slip into those… darker tendencies.”

She felt like she was going to be sick.

“I-”

But the door swung open, and there he was.

Charles.

His presence filled the room instantly, the air shifting with an almost imperceptible tension.

His expression was carefully neutral, but she saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw.

“Mother,” he said smoothly, stepping inside. “Father and I have just wrapped up in the office and while this was a lovely surprise-”

His mother cut him off, beaming. “Oh, Charles, really. No need to sound so stiff. We simply had to meet your lovely fiancee.” She gestured towards her, as though presenting a mule at an auction.

Charles’ gaze briefly flickered to her, unreadable, before he turned back to his mother.

“As much as I’d love to extend the visit,” he said, his tone still polite, still composed, “I believe you and Father have tea at the Wetherby’s soon, don’t you?”

His mother waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, they won’t mind if we’re a little bit late-”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Charles interjected smoothly. “But it would be terribly rude to keep them waiting, wouldn’t it.”

A beat of silence.

Then his mother gave a soft chuckle, shaking her head with a knowing smile. “Oh, you always were one for manners. Perfection.”

Perfection.

She rose from her seat gracefully, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.

His father walked in, just as she stood, casting a look at Charles that lingered. There was something unspoken in it - something that made Charles’ expression harden just slightly.

Then his mother spoke.

“You know,” she mused, tilting her head, “for an engaged couple, you don’t seem terribly affectionate.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

And then he looked at her.

It wasn’t just a glance, it was a look that sliced right through, that saw. As if he were peeling back the layers, peering at what lay beneath the surface.

Her breath hitched.

Charles didn’t hesitate.

Before she could process it, he took a step, his hand was at the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her face up towards him. There was barely a second to react before his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss.

It was possessive.

Demanding.

Her body stiffened, instinct flaring up like a warning siren. But there were eyes on them.

His mother.

His father.

Watching.

Judging.

Expecting.

So she kissed him back.

The act of submission made something shift.

Charles’ fingers tightened in her hair, his other hand pressing against the small of her back, drawing her in. His lips moved against hers with a slow-burning intensity, something dark and unreadable curling at the edges of her mind.

The worst part?

For just a fraction of a second, just a sliver of time too small to admit aloud, she forgot.

Forgot the circumstances. Forgot the control he had over her. Forgot the door that had locked behind her, the cage she had been placed in.

For a moment, it was just heat.

Just breath.

Just the slow, sinking sensation of something shifting inside her, something she wanted to recoil from but didn’t.

The sound of his mother’s voice snapped the moment in two like a brittle twig.

“Alright then!” she chimed, her tone light, amused, but edged with something knowing. “Don’t defile your poor fiancee before the wedding, Cha!”

A soft laugh.

His father sighed.

Charles finally pulled back, just a breath away, his lips still perilously close to hers. His eyes locked onto hers, dark, unreadable, his breath steady and controlled.

But there was something in his gaze.

Something that said: I felt that too.

Her stomach twisted.

PART THREE...

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @taetae-armyyyyy @theoslove @iimplicitt

[quinny19]

Sleeping My Way to Victory - Part 3

(Or: How to Win Without Trying)

Scenario 1: The Origin of the Rivalry (Flashback – First Year, First Sparring Match)

Bakugo had always been competitive. He was the strongest, the fastest, and the most determined in the class. No way was he gonna let some half-asleep classmate be better than him.

Except, you were.

The first time you fought him, you yawned, stretched, and somehow managed to dodge all his attacks without even looking awake.

"STAND STILL AND FIGHT ME!" Bakugo roared, sending a blast your way.

You sidestepped, rubbing your eyes. "Mmm... Too much effort."

The class watched in disbelief as you moved like you had ultra-instinct, effortlessly dodging every single attack.

"Dude," Kaminari whispered, "I think they’re on another plane of existence."

Aizawa sighed. "They're just instinctual. It’s a different kind of combat style."

"IT'S INFURIATING!" Bakugo exploded forward, trying to close the distance.

You blinked at him. "Oh, you're still here?"

He saw red.

Five seconds later, you’d knocked him flat on his back.

One move.

You yawned. "Mmm… nap time?"

The class erupted in laughter. Bakugo swore on his life that one day—one day—he’d wipe that smug, half-asleep expression off your face.

Scenario 2: Izuku Wants Answers (Or: How Does Your Quirk Even Work?)

"Hey, (Y/N), do you mind explaining your quirk to me?" Izuku asked, notebook in hand, eyes practically glowing with curiosity.

You stretched, blinking slowly. "Mmm… sure, why not?"

Bakugo, sitting nearby, scoffed. "Tch. Don’t bother. They don’t even understand their own quirk."

You raised an eyebrow. "I understand it. I just don’t like explaining things. Too much work."

Izuku, completely ignoring Bakugo’s grumbling, flipped to a new page. "So, what’s the full breakdown?"

You thought for a moment before lazily holding up a finger. "Okay, so imagine… your brain is a computer."

Izuku nodded eagerly.

"My brain is like a computer too, but it runs on low power mode all the time. Saves energy."

"...That explains so much," Jirou muttered.

Kirishima nodded. "Dude, they’re literally in sleep mode 24/7."

You continued, yawning. "My quirk is an enhanced reflex system. My body reacts to danger automatically, even when I’m not fully conscious. Like sleepwalking, but for fights."

Izuku scribbled furiously. "So your subconscious is in control most of the time, letting you move and fight instinctively without needing to actively process it?"

"Pretty much. If I think too hard, I actually get worse."

Bakugo twitched. "So you mean to tell me… you kick my ass WITHOUT EVEN THINKING?!"

You gave him a sleepy smile. "Yup."

Bakugo looked like he was about to explode. Kaminari and Kirishima immediately stepped back, bracing for impact.

Izuku beamed. "That’s amazing! No wonder your reaction time is so fast! Have you ever tested it in a controlled setting?"

You blinked. "Mmm… you wanna spar?"

Izuku nodded eagerly. "Yeah! I’d love to analyze your movements in real time!"

Bakugo immediately pointed at Izuku. "DEKU, DON’T DO IT! YOU WON’T WIN!"

You stretched. "Eh, let’s see what happens."

Scenario 3: Sparring with Izuku (Or: Why Does This Feel Unfair?)

Izuku activated Full Cowling and launched forward, aiming a well-controlled strike toward you.

You swayed slightly to the side, dodging effortlessly.

He adjusted, throwing in feints and quick kicks. You sidestepped all of them, eyes half-lidded like you were about to fall asleep.

"Man, this isn’t fair," Kaminari whispered.

"They’re dodging like they’re in a dream," Sero added.

Bakugo gritted his teeth. "Just WAIT! They’re gonna mess up!"

They didn’t.

Izuku kept attacking, increasing speed, analyzing your movements, but you kept avoiding everything like a ghost.

Then, mid-dodge, you caught his wrist.

"Huh?" Izuku blinked.

You yawned. "I win."

With a simple twist, you flipped him onto his back, gentle but decisive.

The class stared.

Kirishima whistled. "Man, that’s gotta be embarrassing."

Izuku sat up, dazed, but grinning. "That was incredible! You didn’t even tense up! It was like your body just knew where I was going to be!"

You plopped down next to him, yawning. "Mmm… good match."

Bakugo, meanwhile, was losing his mind. "HOW DOES NO ONE ELSE FIND THIS INFURIATING?!"

Scenario 4: Cats Hate You (Or: Why Won’t They Love Me?)

You loved cats.

Cats? They did not love you back.

The class found this out when you spotted a stray outside the dorms and immediately walked over, crouching down with an excited expression.

"Kitty!" You reached out.

The cat? Hissed.

You recoiled, looking betrayed. "W-what? But I love you."

The cat arched its back, clearly not a fan.

Kirishima snorted. "Aw, man. I thought everyone loved (Y/N)."

"Clearly, felines disagree," Momo observed.

Bakugo smirked. "Guess even animals can tell you’re a pain in the ass."

You pouted. "This isn’t fair. I want love."

You tried again with another stray the next day.

It ran away.

You tried with Aizawa’s cat.

It hissed and swiped at you.

You flopped onto the ground, devastated. "I have been forsaken by the feline gods."

Ochaco patted your back. "Maybe they’re just intimidated by how strong you are?"

"Or maybe they sense your chaotic energy," Jirou added.

Bakugo rolled his eyes. "Serves you right, dumbass."

You turned your sleepy gaze toward him. "At least I’m loved by someone."

Bakugo immediately turned red. "WHO THE HELL SAID I LOVED YOU?!"

You smirked. "Never said it was you."

The class erupted into laughter as Bakugo combusted in rage.

Scenario 5: One Last Match (Or: Bakugo Will Never Give Up)

"You’re fighting me. Again."

You yawned. "Didn’t you lose, like, a hundred times already?"

"SHUT UP AND FIGHT ME!"

The class gathered, watching in amusement as Bakugo once again attempted to beat you.

Explosion after explosion, you dodged effortlessly, still half-asleep.

Finally, he lunged forward—only for you to casually sidestep and trip him.

He hit the ground. Again.

You stretched, lazily leaning over him. "Mmm… guess I win."

Bakugo growled, gripping the dirt. "One day… I swear…"

You smirked, crouching next to him. "Mmm… if you wanna win, you should try relaxing. Maybe take a nap."

"YOU WANNA DIE?!"

You chuckled. "Nah. But you look cute when you’re mad."

Bakugo.exe stopped working.

The class lost it.

Denki was on the floor wheezing. "BRO—DID THEY JUST—"

Kirishima clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing too hard.

Bakugo, still red, pointed a shaking finger at you. "YOU’RE DEAD. ABSOLUTELY DEAD."

You smiled sleepily. "Mmm… wake me up when you can actually win."

He screamed into the void.

Part 4 coming soon...

Part 1

Part 2:

[harmonysanreads]

Been thinking about this for a long while and wanted to share but, Phainon with a lover (or he considers them his either way) who's a part of the astral express - a nameless just like him they joke.

Then obviously alongside Dan heng and the trailblazer they don't really see him as a hero. Sure they respect him, and they've had the lore of the chrysos heirs explained but then on the other hand nikador pales in comparison to even some of the weaker foes they've gone against. So ultimately they can be an escape from everyone else's expectations of him.

But they don't belong in amphoreus, that's so plainly clear with how they look to the sky and flick through their photos of other worlds with longing. Then there's the other fact of how they talk to their companions with what sounds like grief for his planet, like it might already be dead. He might not be fully aware of the true weight of what only being accessible through the garden of recollection means but the way it's said is enough to put him on the edge.

Maybe the final push he needed was when aglaea interrogated the three of you, when he thought he'd be arriving to your corpse. Or it might have been hearing you and Dan heng talking about whatever the luofu is. Or perhaps even joking about how "amphoreus is just belobog round two" with the trailblazer and saying how you should really return to there.

But he won't be with you if you leave will he?

On the other hand it shouldn't be too hard for him to join the astral express. His home is already gone, cherished only in his memory and even that could be changed if he overheard about the creation of memory bubbles in whatever penacony might be is true.

And you've already told him he's a nameless just like you.

oh wow this ended up longer than I intended lmao, specially for a first ask.

But while I'm here I also just wanna say thank you so much for causing me to fall head over heels for phainon??? like your works and drabbles have just caused me to go from a like of him to falling HARD and just.... let him get away from amphoreus if it's all gonna go bad for him there, get him out and safe. (and give welt major flashbacks at the same time too lol)

And it's especially difficult for Phainon to not daydream when it seems like you two just click so well. You get each other's sense of humour, balance and compliment your respective energies, can somehow understand the other as if acquainted for a lifetime. Is this what they call a 'match made in heaven'...? Please don't mind it when he starts calling you his soulmate 'in jest'.

It's truly a pity that you don't seem to see it. When you whisper with the Trailblazer and Dan Heng, longing for that outside world you seem so bewitched by, sigh whenever you think of the fate of Amphoreus - it hurts him, do you know? Moreso, it makes him feel... left out. The realization of how fickle whatever bond he's made with you might be in comparison to the ones you share with your other companions makes him feel rather jealous, admittedly.

Now, passing instances of these sudden hits of negativity he can shake off. But, when they accumulate over time and gradually develop to frustration, helplessness and eventual loathing towards the matters that seem to be impeding between what could be your shared happiness? That's when things get concerning.

We don't know yet if it'd be possible to get someone born in Amphoreus out of there so I'm unable to provide an input here. But this is a really neat concept.

[anglsweets]

F.H ⭑.ᐟ – 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

‧₊˚ 🏹 ᵎᵎ now serving – RETIRED! Five Hargreeves x gn reader

⭑.ᐟ mostly is sfw so no warnings

-• this is my first time writing so just tell me anything about improvements, should i do a smutty part 2? is that even prompted?

It’s late, and the world outside has gone quiet. The two of you are tucked away in your apartment, wrapped in that kind of comfortable stillness that only happens after midnight.

You’re sprawled on the couch, wearing one of Five’s button-ups, because according to you, it “fits perfectly,” and according to him, you just like stealing his clothes. Meanwhile, the man himself is in the kitchen, rummaging around like a raccoon in search of something sweet. Midnight snacks have become a ritual at this point because one he claims not to indulge in but somehow always partakes in anyway.

“Do we still have those sea salt chocolate cookies?” His voice drifts from behind the fridge door, slightly muffled. It wasn’t too sweet or too plain, and the sea salt to chocolate chip ratio balances it out.

You glance over, watching as he stands there with the fridge open, light spilling into the dimly lit room. He’s still in his slacks and shirt from earlier, sleeves rolled up, looking more like a disgruntled businessman than a retired assassin.

“We finished those days ago” you say, amused.

There’s a pause. Then, flatly “You’ve been eating them in secret. Don’t lie.” You raised an accusatory eyebrow.

“Right, because I’m the one with the sweet tooth.”

He peeks out from behind the fridge door, narrowing his eyes. “That’s slander.”

“That’s the truth.”

Five lets out a long-suffering sigh, then in a familiar whoosh, he’s suddenly next to you, a carton of ice cream in hand. He pops the lid open like this was his plan all along. “Luckily, I always have a backup.”

Against all odds, yes the hottie with a huge murder streak has a sweet tooth.

You roll your eyes but shift to make room for him, pulling the blanket up around both of you as he digs in, scooping out a spoonful before holding it out for you. This is his way of regulating his emotions after being sucked back into a twenty something body with the cognitive awareness of someone way over fifty.

You take a bite, humming in satisfaction as the cold sensation against your tongue muffles your voice. “Never in a million years did I think Five Hargreeves sharing ice cream with me would be the most romantic thing ever.”

In your defence Five wasn’t always the first person to come to mind when the words ‘comfortable’ and ‘vulnerability’ pops up. It was hard to imagine him sharing his domesticity with anyone.

And yet…

Five chuckles, placing the carton of ice cream between his thighs before sliding an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in closer.

He smirks, clearly pleased but trying to hide it. “You’re too easy to please.”

You nudge him playfully. “Hey, this is a rare sight. You, willingly sitting here, being normal.”

Five scoffs, scooping up another bite. “Normal is a strong word.”

“Okay, fine, normal-adjacent,” you concede. “Still, you’re the one who insists on staying up way too late every night.”

He shrugs. “Can’t help it. I like nights like this.”

His voice is softer now, the usual sharp edges smoothed out. He glances at you with that look, you know the one that betrays him every time. The one he gets when he forgets to guard himself, when he realizes, despite everything, you’re still here. That you chose him.

He sets the ice cream on the coffee table and shifts, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch is careful, precise, like he’s mapping every detail of you with his fingertips.

“It’s nice, just… being here. With you.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but coming from him, it feels like everything.

You smile, leaning up to kiss him gently, the soft glow from the TV casting shadows around the room. His hand cups your face, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

Five smirks against your lips. “So, is there a chance I might get lucky tonight?”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe, don’t push it old man”

He hums, deepening the kiss, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, fingertips dragging just enough to make you shiver. His lips move against yours, exploring the contours of your mouth, wanting to taste more of you. He nips at your bottom lip, tugging it softly before you felt a swipe of his tongue, begging for entrance. The sweet flavour from the previous indulgences still evident on his tongue. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he pulls you closer, Five’s other arm wrapping around your waist to anchor you to him. His touch was feather-like, translating like an invitation to a world where only the two of you exist.

The ice cream is forgotten, condensation pooling on the coffee table, but neither of you cares.

You break the kiss with a soft giggle, and Five watches you, eyes dark, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. Your boyfriend’s movements seemed hesitant but the gleam in his eyes betrays the truth. Oh, he’s aware of what he’s about to do but unsure where to begin.

You lean in as of result, kissing along your boyfriend’s jawline down to his adam’s apple, feeling the scratchy light stubble along his skin. as his adam’s apple bobs up and down. The smell of his infamous cologne mixed with aftershave with the smell of coffee sticking to his sweater was something you could never grow bored of.

His rugged breaths fell from his lips while his other hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling your hips flush against his. You can feel the hard bulge through his pants pressing insistently against you. Five grinds against you, the friction making you drag out a delicious whimper as you feel yourself grinding your clothed parts against him like second nature.

The forgotten ice cream melts, forming a puddle of condensation on the coffee table, but that was the least of your worries right now. All that matters is the overwhelming horniness coursing through your veins

“Fuck” He grunts.

“Bedroom. Now”

[starkwlkr]

i gave so many signs | mark webber

an: instead of mark announcing this retirement in early 2013, it’ll be announced at the end of the 2013 season

part 1

2013

For the past week, Y/n and Mark had avoided each other. It was complicated since their place of work required them to see each other daily, but somehow they didn’t speak one word to each other.

After the race, while Y/n talked with Sergio Perez, a Red Bull strategist approached them interrupting their conversation.

“Mark needs to speak with you.” The strategist told Y/n.

“Tell him he can come tell that himself.” Y/n tried to continue her conversation, but the strategist insisted.

“He said it’s very important and to bring the papers . . .” The strategist wasn’t sure what ‘bring the papers’ meant but either way he delivered the message.

That was enough for Y/n to apologize to Sergio for cutting their conversation short and leaving to find Mark. Well, her first stop was to retrieve her bag then find Mark. How did he know about the papers? It was a mystery to her.

She knew Mark was in his drivers room so she made her way to him. She also knew he wasn’t in the best mood. One word. Multi-21. Y/n had witnessed it. It was heartbreaking to watch so she would occasionally look down at her wedding ring and play with it.

When she finally made it to Mark’s room, she lightly knocked. “Yeah?” She heard Mark’s soft voice call out. Y/n opened the door and saw a worn out Mark seated on the floor. Once he saw her, he sat up straight and cleared his throat. “I didn’t think you would come. . .”

“How do you know?” She got straight to the point.

Mark knew what she was talking about. Last month he had found divorce papers on the kitchen counter of their shared home. Y/n was out running errands and Mark had come back early from the Gym.

Mark didn’t look up right away. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before finally meeting her gaze.

“I know you’re not happy,” he said, voice thick with exhaustion. “And I’m not either. So let me sign them, and we’ll each go our separate ways.”

Y/n tightened her grip on the papers. For a moment, she hesitated. She had come here fully expecting this outcome—after all, Mark had sent a strategist to find her, to tell her to meet him here and bring the papers. He was ready. He had made his choice.

A part of her still believed there was something to salvage. That maybe, despite all the fights, despite the growing distance, they could fix it. That this—whatever this was—wasn’t the end of them.

But then she thought about what Mark really wanted. What he had always wanted.

A family. A home. Something she wasn’t willing to give up everything for. She had worked too hard, fought too long to be where she was, to have a career that meant everything to her. And the truth was, she knew Mark wouldn’t be the one making the sacrifices.

So she swallowed the lump in her throat and took slow, measured steps toward him. Without another word, she held out the papers.

Mark took them, his hands steady as he flipped to the last page. The only sound in the room was the scratch of his pen against the paper as he signed his name.

And then it was done.

They sat in silence for a while, both staring at the floor, neither one sure what to say now that the inevitable had finally happened. It wasn’t an argument, it wasn’t explosive—it was just over.

Mark turned his head slightly, looking at her with something unreadable in his expression. “I hope you can be happy,” he murmured.

Y/N swallowed hard before nodding. “You too.” She hesitated, then added, “Maybe with someone who can give you what you want.”

Mark shook his head, a sad smile ghosting over his lips. “No,” he said softly. “That won’t happen. Because I want that with you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a fleeting second, she thought about what could’ve been. But it was too late. It had been too late for a long time.

So she nodded, turned on her heel, and walked out the door.

2023

The air was thick with tension and anticipation, the sound of engines roaring down the straight filling the garage as McLaren’s pit crew stood ready. It was the first race of the season, and Oscar’s rookie year. Y/n felt the familiar pulse of adrenaline coursing through her veins, but beneath it, a layer of nerves simmered.

As she moved to step into the garage, someone else did at the same time. Their shoulders brushed, the unexpected contact making them both pause.

Mark.

For a second, neither of them spoke. They hadn’t spoken in years, hadn’t even acknowledged each other in the paddock despite the countless times they had been in the same space.

Y/n muttered a quiet, “Excuse me,” and stepped aside to let him through, treating him like he was just another person in the garage, just another face in the paddock.

Mark didn’t like it.

"Y/n," he said firmly.

She sighed, already exhausted by the conversation she knew was coming. “Mark, I have a job to do.”

“I know. And you’re brilliant at it. But I need to talk to you.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There is,” he insisted, lowering his voice. “I miss you.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t let it show. “Mark…”

“I don’t care about kids anymore,” he cut in before she could protest. “That was years ago. We’re older now. Things are different.”

She inhaled sharply, stepping back. “You can’t say that.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head. “It’s the truth.”

“Because—” Her breath hitched, her vision blurring. “Because I ruined everything.”

Mark’s brows furrowed. “Y/n…”

She shook her head, her hands trembling. “I didn’t even think about it, Mark. I could’ve had both—I could’ve had a career and a family, but I didn’t even try. I was so fucking stubborn, so afraid of losing what I worked for that I didn’t see that I was losing you.”

Mark’s face softened, his expression pained as he reached for her. This time, she didn’t pull away. His hands settled gently on her arms, grounding her.

“I would’ve waited for you,” he murmured. “I would’ve figured it out with you. I didn’t want just a family, Y/n—I wanted you.”

A shaky breath escaped her lips as she shut her eyes, trying to hold herself together, but it was no use. The years of regret, of what-ifs, of missed chances—they crashed over her all at once.

Mark pulled her in without hesitation, his arms wrapping around her as she broke down against his chest.

“You didn’t ruin everything,” he whispered into her hair. “We’re here. Right now. We can still—” He swallowed hard. “We can still try.”

She clung to him, her mind racing, her heart aching. She wanted to believe him. She really did. But could she forgive herself? Could she let herself have this again?

She didn’t have an answer.

But for the first time in a decade, she let herself hold onto him, just for a little while longer.

Y/n didn’t know how long they stood there. Seconds? Minutes? It didn’t matter. Because for the first time in ten years, she wasn’t just existing alongside him—she was with him. And it hurt. God, it fucking hurt.

She pulled back, wiping her face with the sleeve of her McLaren jacket, her hands unsteady. “I should get back,” she muttered, her voice still thick with emotion.

Mark frowned, reluctant to let go, but he dropped his arms. “Y/n—”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This—whatever this is—this conversation shouldn’t be happening.”

His jaw tightened. “Why not?”

Y/n’s breath was unsteady, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to get a grip on herself. She needed to leave before she said something she couldn’t take back.

But Mark wasn’t letting her go that easily.

“Why do you do this?” he demanded, stepping closer. “Why do you push me away and then act like it hurts you just as much?”

Before she could think—before she could stop herself—her hands shot up, grabbing his face, and she kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate and angry, all clashing teeth and bottled-up regret.

For a moment, Mark didn’t react, frozen in shock. And then he did, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer like he was afraid she’d slip through his fingers again.

And then reality hit.

Y/N pulled back, her lips tingling, her mind reeling.

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered, eyes wide.

Mark barely had time to process before her palm connected with his cheek in a sharp, stinging slap.

“What the fuck?” He staggered back, touching his face in disbelief.

She was just as stunned as him, her hand trembling. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

His nostrils flared, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t understand you, woman!”

“Neither do I!” she shot back, throwing her hands in the air.

They stood there, breathing heavily, both looking like they wanted to strangle each other and kiss again all at once.

And that’s when Oscar appeared at the entrance of the garage. The poor rookie froze, wide-eyed, like a kid who had just walked in on his parents fighting. He looked at Mark. Then Y/n Then back at Mark.

Neither of them acknowledged him.

Oscar awkwardly cleared his throat. Nothing.

Alright. Cool. He’d just . . . pass through.

With the stiffest posture known to man, Oscar walked between them, silently making his way to his car, pretending he was not in the middle of some extremely personal, possibly violent lover’s quarrel.

The moment he was gone, Mark threw his hands up. “See?! Even Oscar thinks we’re fucking insane!”

Y/N groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t!”

“Yes, I do!”

“You kissed me!” Mark accused, pointing at her.

“And then I slapped you!”

“What kind of insane logic—”

“I panicked!”

Mark dragged a hand down his face. “You are impossible!”

“And you are unbelievable!” Y/n’s voice cracked, all the pent-up emotions clawing their way out. “You show up here, after years, and act like—like we can just fix this? Like none of it mattered?”

Mark’s nostrils flared. “It did matter.”

“Then why did you let me go?”

Mark exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Don’t do that, Y/n.”

“Do what? Speak the truth? Say the things you don’t want to hear?” She let out a hollow laugh. “I gave you so many signs, Mark. So many signs that I wasn’t happy, that I needed you to fight for us. But you didn’t. You just—let me go.”

Mark scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “You really think I didn’t see it?” His voice was lower now, rough. “I felt it. Every time you pulled away. Every time work came first. Every time I looked at you and wondered if you even wanted this anymore.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, something inside her cracking. Silence fell between them, thick with everything unsaid.

Oscar, still sitting awkwardly in the car, looked between them again and let out a quiet sigh. Yeah, they’re definitely still in love.

She looked at Mark—really looked at him. The sharp crease between his brows, the tired weight in his eyes, the way his fists clenched like he was bracing for her to say something he didn’t want to hear.

And for the first time, she saw it for what it was.

They had spent years running in circles, trying to fix something that had been broken long before either of them admitted it.

“We weren’t good for each other back then,” she finally said, her voice quiet but firm.

Mark’s jaw tightened.

“And we’re not good for each other now.”

His expression darkened. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth, Mark.” Y/n exhaled, shaking her head. “We tore each other apart without even meaning to. And we’re still doing it.”

Mark stared at her, the fight in him flickering—fading into something worse.

Acceptance.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The only sounds in the garage were the distant hum of engines and the occasional radio crackle.

Finally, Mark swallowed, nodding stiffly. “So that’s it?”

Y/n’s chest ached, but she nodded. “Yeah.”

And that was the cruelest part of it all.

They had loved each other. Really loved each other. But sometimes, love wasn’t enough. Sometimes, no matter how much you wanted to rewrite the past, the ending was already written.

tags!!

@hc-dutch

[blackened-angel]

I'm personally not looking forward to the Netflix adaptation of Devil May Cry.

With the new trailers, I wanted to share my opinions again but I will say that this post isn't recommended for those who only have praise and that any criticism is forbidden.

It's a pretty long post where I try to explain what is my main problem with the adaptation and that is the person who is directing it.

I highlighted some parts that I hope you can at least read those ones, but if I were to give you a TL;DR it would be this:

If you want to make an adaptation based on an IP that's been around for a while, even if you proclaim that you're fan, at the very least be modest and try not to cause trouble with your audience, given that you're supposed to be a professional in the industry and perhaps trying desperately to please everyone isn't such a good idea because you might be hanging with the wrong crowd and that will reflect on your image.

Sorry but I'm not interested to coddle that guy so if that brief summary is enough to make you displeased, I'm asking you not to read any further.

So, will talk about why it's difficult for me to praise Netflix Devil May Cry. It's because of the person attached to it.

I've criticized aspects of this adaptation before and while the majority will get angry because the show hasn't come out yet, thus any criticism is invalid, personally, what I have seen so far has been enough for me to have a disdain for it because one of my favorite series is being handled by someone who has never done anything with it before.

Proclaiming to be a fan doesn't automatically mean that it will be a masterpiece and for someone who is allegedly a professional in the industry, their conduct reflects on the product and others that are involved.

Also, just saying, that I refuse to use the word "anime".

Pseudo-anime perhaps but I'm sorry, DMC The Animated Series from 2007, that's the only Devil May Cry anime. I don't see any 'bishounen'/ biseinen' . Have you?

Anime, to someone like me who has been into anime and manga for two decades, is animation produced in Japan, primarily for the Japanese audience, with aesthetic that is different from Western animations.

So yeah I'm just gonna say Netflix DMC.

Ok, so, let's return to the subject, but first, I want to ask you and of course, you can provide examples because from my experience, I haven't seen anime studios acting so desperate like Shankar.

Please tell me if you have seen anime studios on their social media accounts being so friendly with people?

At most, there are some who on some occasions retweet fan creations like art or cosplay but in general they just post information regarding what they are producing, trailers or key visuals, but they don't engage much with the audience.

They are just working on the stuff they want to deliver to their audience, hoping they will enjoy it and look into feedback afterwards.

How many anime studios have you seen bragging like Shankar has been doing?

He actually said on Twitter "I never miss."

Oh and on a few occasions, this grown-ass man kept referring to himself in 3rd person, somehow thinking his fans will find it...cute? Yeah, so it was more like "Adi Shankar never misses."

It's obnoxious. You can tell me that he was joking, but he seems committed to his whole "I never miss with my projects" bit, so it's kind of hard to tell.

Oh and do you think it's also adorable when he reposted people's fanart without crediting? Even when some of them had watermarks?

Like I'm not kidding. If you follow him on Twitter, there were a few times when he was called out for not properly crediting artists and you'd think he'd stop after being told once but no.

In addition to that, one time when I was reading the comments on a reposted artwork, there were only two people that mentioned the artist while the rest of them didn't even ask things like "Hey did you draw this? Did the animation team do it?"

It seemed that even though they must have known it wasn't art made by Shankar or the ones doing the animation, they treated like it was no biggie if he was reposting.

As a professional, allegedly, he should have never done such a thing, but most of his followers seem treat him like "oh he's just enthusiastic, cut him some slack, don't be mean to him".

And we know that in general, anyone else who would do that sort of thing just once would get torn apart by others, but with that guy apparently we must be indulgent.

When caught in the act, he did apologize but like...shouldn't he know better? He most likely expects that everyone will forgive him for anything he does.

Thus, can you understand why I'm having a tough time to like something from that person? Who keeps bragging, promising the best anime ever, acting as if he invented DMC...

That's a person who is supposed to be a professional in the industry, yet he as only been acting like a redditor...And of course he promotes a lot of memes. Gee, I wonder who's the intended audience?

He's been desperately trying to please everyone.

This is why I like the way anime studios conduct their promotion for their projects. They are humble and want to avoid causing problems t and that's why they generally just post information, artwork, trailers etc..

That's something I personally appreciate.

Shankar has only been off-putting...Honestly, what the heck was Capcom thinking?

Apparently he wanted Dino Crisis, but Capcom was like, have DMC instead. It feels like they were saying "yeah do whatever with this IP, doesn't matter", as if DMC isn't popular, which was proven by the popularity poll they hosted.

I feel like this adaptation is mostly for the people that know DMC just from memes and I'm sorry for the long time fans that will most likely get insulted and told to shut up by the people who will only watch this generic Marvel/DC looking animation and be told that DMC is only good because of Shankar or think he should be in charge of other Devil may Cry projects.

So yeah, to me, above all is that narcissistic man who has been trying so hard to please everyone.

No, I don't think it's endearing when he spoke in 3rd person and claims that he never misses with his projects. I did not find it cute when he went on to say stuff like Vergil is a hero and other bullshit, because some people would believe those will actually be the characterizations in the show, only for Shankar to post something like "I'm joking, I'm just a troll" after those kinds of posts, wanting to gain sympathy from people, to see just how much of a fun guy he is and you must definitely watch his DMC "anime".

We already had the reboot that was supposed to appeal to the Western audience because Capcom thought the original series isn't appealing to westerners, but man were they wrong. Still hate it for the fact that they mocked the OG series and here we are again, another production that's mostly for the western audience.

So yeah, I'm just not a fan of how much that man has been boasting and assuring everyone how great the show will be.

Perhaps, for some of you, it will the greatest "anime" ever, he keeps telling you that! But not for me. I don't appreciate the shit I've seen him do on Twitter done and as much as he brags that failure never happens for Adi Shankar, not everyone is of the same opinion.

If it turns out that it might fail the expectations of those who only praised, what then? Will they keep praising despite being disappointed so that the series keeps getting content, even if it might be the same quality or even worse?

I think that will send the message to the bigwigs that those people are willing to consume anything.

Like I've mentioned thought out the post, I personally would have appreciated humbleness instead of someone trying so desperately to please everyone.

I'm not sorry for what I said and I know there must be others who share my opinions.

If you have made it this far, I thank you!

[brklynbxby]

Nathaniel listened—really listened. He let her words settle in the space between them, tried to make sense of them, tried to find some thread of reason that would stitch the wound she had torn open in his chest. But no matter how hard he searched, there was nothing. No explanation, no justification—just empty syllables strung together like a feeble attempt to rewrite what had already been done. "Do you think you can forgive me?" But she hadn't even been willing to fight for him, not when it mattered. "I never meant to hurt you." Then why did she? And if it was so easy to give in once, would it ever stop? "I love you, Nathaniel. I always will." That was the one that shattered him the most. The cruelest lie disguised as devotion. His breath hitched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of every ounce of pain she had inflicted. “If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t have betrayed me. So don’t stand here and tell me you’ll always love me—because love isn’t supposed to hurt like this. If I was really the one you wanted, you wouldn’t have risked losing me." And that was it. That was all he had left to say. There were no more fights to be had, no more words to exchange. Only silence. Only heartbreak. And the aching fear that this pain would never leave him.

His gaze met hers, a silent plea hanging in the air before she turned back to her suitcase. He wanted—needed—to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and whisper that somehow, everything would be okay. But he couldn’t. This wasn’t the Harmony he had fallen for, the one he had spent countless moments learning, loving. That version of her felt like a ghost now, slipping further and further from his grasp. A sharp breath caught in his throat as he clenched his hands into fists, forcing himself to turn away. He couldn’t stand there and watch her pack, watch her walk out of his life as if everything they had meant nothing. So he left the room instead, putting distance between them before his resolve shattered completely. And yet, no matter how much she had broken him, no matter how deep the betrayal cut, a part of him knew—she would always hold a place in his heart. A cruel, unshakable truth.

—

The camera felt like an extension of him by now, muscle memory guiding his hands as he fine-tuned the focus. This project was different—new faces, a different energy, a production studio he wasn’t used to. He liked the challenge, but there was an unease to it too. He was used to knowing how things ran, how the crew moved around him. Here, everything was unfamiliar. The last few months had been a whirlwind of work—commercials, music videos, a feature that had nearly burned him out. But he thrived in it. There was something about the pace, the constant motion, that kept his mind occupied. And then there was Lily.

They hadn’t even known of one another back then, but then it became more. Easy conversations between takes, little glances when she touched up an actor’s makeup. It had started slow—casual drinks after wrap, a late-night phone call here and there. And now? Now she was his girlfriend, a label he still wasn’t sure how to sit with. Not because he didn’t want it, but because it had happened fast. One minute she was just someone on set, and now she was part of his life. He liked her. But she wasn’t Harmony.

"Camera ready?" The director’s voice cut through his thoughts. Nate blinked, refocusing on the frame. "Yeah, rolling when you are." Work first. Always. He was never going to make the mistake again where he put his all into a person just to get it thrown straight back in his face again.

Harmony packed her things, the weight of each item pulling her heart down further, until she slowly looked up when he walked over to her, she zipped her suitcase up and put it on the ground. She stared at him, her tears streaked down her face, each drop a testament to the pain she could no longer hide. "If I stay will we have a chance, Nate?" she sobbed quietly, "Do you think you can forgive me?" she knew he couldnt. Nothing would be the same anymore, she fucked up.

"Nate.. I- she whispered, her voice barely audible. She let go of her suitcase, her hands trembling as she stepped closer to him, her eyes meeting his for what she knew would be the last time. "I—I never meant to hurt you, Nate." Her words were soft, but they carried the heavy burden of sorrow. Her heart ached, a deep, unbearable ache, because she knew this was it. There was no going back. "Nate," she continued, her voice trembling with emotion, "the way you love... the way you loved me... it was so beautiful. It felt like a dream, like something out of reach. Everything was so surreal, and I wasn’t used to it. I wasn’t used to that kind of love. From the very start, I felt like I didn’t deserve it."

Her words caught in her throat, and she had to pause, trying to breathe through the pain. Her tears flowed faster now, each one a reminder of the wreckage she had caused. She fought to keep going, but her chest felt tight, the air too thick. "When I saw Cassian… I slipped back into my old habits. I wasn’t Harmony anymore. I became that girl—the one who did whatever it took just to survive. When I dance, I disassociate… it makes everything easier. But I let myself give in. I should’ve never picked up my boss's call. I should’ve texted him, told him I couldn’t come in. I should've stayed with you at your workplace. I should’ve spent that day with you. I should’ve gone home with you." Her voice broke as she spoke, each word a painful regret. "If I could turn back time... I would do exactly that."

Her gaze faltered, and she couldn’t bear to look into his eyes anymore. She had lost that right. She was no longer worthy of it.

"I—I meant it, Nate, when I said I wanted to become a better person." She stepped back, pressing a hand over her chest, where the pain felt sharp and endless. "I had already quit my job before everything with Cassian happened. I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to be someone you could be proud of… and yet, I disappointed you." She took another step back, each movement feeling like it was tearing her apart, but she knew she had to leave. "I love you, Nathaniel. I always will." Her voice was barely a whisper now, a final confession. "Thank you… for showing me what true love really is. Thank you... and... I’m sorry. Truly."

With one last look at him, she walked back to her suitcase. She did not want to leave, she needed his arms around her more than ever right now.

[pettysreverie]

Thinking about Faerie!Reader who is the jewel of faery society. Since young, the elders doted on you and your generation-mates followed you in whatever you did. You were said to be the prettiest faerie in your generation. It was rumored that you would have oh-so many suitors.

CW: Implied Size Difference (pretty sure that’s it but let me know if I missed any)

Except…no matter how much older you got, your wings never came in.

You could be as pretty as you wanted to be—as talented and skilled as ever—but without your wings, you were nothing more than a failure. A dud. A mistake.

Then comes the coming of age ceremony, when you should be celebrating with your generation-mates—taking flight and reaching the canopy of the forest your clan resides in. The canopy—where all full-fledged faeries live. Where the big celebration is held. Where the suitors approach their intendeds and begin the courtship process.

A place you would never be able to reach. Not as you are.

Effectively shunned by all of those you’ve held dear for so long, you leave your home and trek through the oh-so foreign lands that surround the forest you once called home.

After a fairly dangerous and eventful journey, you manage to come upon a rather bustling city.

No, it is not like the beautiful forest you once knew…but it is not so bad either.

Maybe you get a job in the local apothecary, which makes sense given your extensive knowledge about herbs and the many remedies one can produce from them, as a result of growing up in such a lush forest.

You settle in okay enough. A steady job with a fairly nice boss. A quaint yet cozy room you’re renting next door to the closest book shop… things are going fine. And then this big behemoth of a man enters the apothecary one day.

You figure that he has got to be part orc or something, but you see nary a tusk nor green tint to his skin. Actually, you don’t see much of his face at all. He covers it up quite well whenever he comes in.

Not that you mind.

He’s a gentle and quiet customer, coming in every few weeks for a big supply of pain remedies. He leaves a very adequate payment, always over the price of his total.

The first few times it happens, you think it a mistake and try to correct it. But after simply not getting the hint, the large and quiet man wraps his equally large, and very warm, hands around yours and passes you the change back.

“Keep it, love.”

Oh.

Oh.

His voice…

It makes you positively swoon.

After that, whenever he comes in, you try your best to make conversation with him. To get a better look at him. He’s a rather slippery fellow, though. Somehow managing to evade your attempts rather gracefully.

Then, it happens.

On his usual day for pick up, he does not come.

And that’s just not like him.

Your boss tells you to simply wait for the end of the business day. So you do, and yet your handsomely voiced stranger does not arrive. With him being a no-show, your boss hands you the remedies that the man normally picks up.

Apparently, this has happened one or two times before. Procedure is to wait until the end of day before delivering it to him.

“Here’s ‘is address. It’s a bit of a walk. Think ye can manage it?”

And you assure him you can.

Not just because you want to prove yourself to your boss but, of course, because you also want to see the strange and quiet man that has claimed your attention so thoroughly.

So you follow the directions listed by your boss, trekking through the bustling city—your feet tapping against the cobblestoned paths as you imagine what he’d be like when you arrive at his doorstep. Will he be upset? Surprised? Maybe…maybe even glad?

By the time you arrive at the doorstep of his cabin, the sun is sitting just above the horizon line.

Your hand knocks against the hard wood door, your eyes taking in the quaintness of his home from the outside. It is just far enough outside of the city limits that the hustle and bustle has quieted into a gentle murmur.

So fitting for your handsomely voiced stranger, you cannot help but to think.

“Damn it, Johnny! I said I’m no’ in’erested in yer—”

You stare up owlishly at your stranger as he swings the massive door open as though it were nothing but a small scrap of parchment.

“Ah…sorry…”You squeak out, your hands reaching out to deliver his usual order. “Boss and I…we got worried when you didn’t come. Had me come delivery it.”

He just stands there, staring at you and then at the wrapped package you are extending to him from behind the usual mask that covers his face. You wonder if maybe he will close the door in your face. It did not seem like he was looking forward to any visitors…

“Come in.”He mutters, moving aside for you to enter.

“I’m sorry?”

“S’late…and a li’le doll like yerself shouldn’ be wanderin aroun’ late like this.”

You’re shocked by his words, even more so by his kindness.

Looking over your shoulder, you gaze at the darkening sky. Sure, you have found stability in the city. You have a lot more confidence navigating the cobbled paths and the swept avenues. But…well, he’s not wrong. It is getting dark.

And really, you would rather not take the chance of leaving now as the daylight continues to dwindle more and more.

“Okay…”You reply, one part excited for what could possibly unfold between you and this seemingly chivalrous stranger, one part nervous for the very same reason.

Just as you step through the threshold his deep, rich voice fills your ears…though only as a mumble. “I’m sorry…?”You repeat once more, so timid and hesitant. So worried that you’re already screwing this up.

“Tha name’s Simon.”He repeats, this time louder and clearer enough for you to hear properly.

You give him your name and follow him deeper inside. The entire time, his voice replays in your head.

Simon.

Simon.

Simon, your stranger, whom you will be spending this fateful evening with.

Now if only it will go well…

[ravenvsfox]

Rockband AU Chapter 14 (Finale)

That's right folks, the concert is coming to an end. As an homage to my long history of andreil tumblr fic, I'm posting this chapter here, as well as on AO3. I sincerely hope I've served the wonderful readers who have stuck with me all this time 🖤

__________

His face doesn’t even register at first. 

Andrew has become desensitized, defused, having spent months expecting Riko in every crowd, and having trained his own stomach not to revolt at the sight of a threat. He has bracing for the worst down to an art form.

But numbness is the antidote to pain, not fear. The fear still comes. A black hole in the mind, extinguishing cells and sucking down energy until everything and everyone feels stretched thin, fluttering, spaghettified. Andrew’s eyes dart to the slope of Neil’s back, and as he watches, the outline of his guarded shoulders turns to water.

Riko’s smile is hateful; his teeth should be red. Where there are ravens, inevitably, there is carrion. Bad omens yield blood. Andrew has never been allowed the luxury of believing otherwise.

Somehow he manages to keep a steady beat, even with his whole body haloed in outrage. A drumstick cracks in half over a crescendo, and he swipes at the spare strapped to his stool like he’s drawing a pistol.

From the corner of his eye, Renee jerks, and he knows her scan of the room has turned Riko over. She’s pumping on the bass pedal like it’s the brake that will halt this car crash. Kevin hasn’t spotted him yet, or he would surely be regressing by now. The music whines like a kicked dog, because Neil has—briefly—stopped singing. He plays it off like he’s giving the mic some room, taking the edge off a high note, letting the audience plug the gap with their cheering.

His panic is well-suppressed, but Andrew knows its shape well. Every time he’s ever held Neil he’s also held his fear.

(Read on AO3)

Another moment passes, impossibly. Their song, their hard-won anthem, Neil’s song, blows around them like a hot air balloon, lifts them precariously into the atmosphere. He can practically feel the furnace at his back, that wobbling little explosion.

It doesn’t stop the nightmare from unfolding. The movie monster progresses beyond the jump scare and into its next phase: pursuit. Riko is approaching the stage.

The crowd parts for him, bowing and gasping, their seams all ripped. It’s so ugly, their bystander fans, unlocking the door so the bad guy can slither inside. He’s known betrayal like this: thoughtless, grey, stunned and tearful to know it’s done wrong.

Riko makes his progress purposefully measured, darkly composed, hands ghosting across the face of the crowd without ever making contact, mouth curled with poorly concealed malice. Against all logic, he is beloved.

If he turns his attention on Neil or Kevin, Andrew will kill him. It’s not a threat but a reality.

Neil is pooled in light, dripping with sweat, inked and scarred and swallowed by the music he has nearly killed himself to produce. As always, he is such a tidy little bullseye. In a tangential sort of way, he can see the appeal—Neil has been such a problem. It’s just that Andrew and Riko disagree on the best way to solve him.

Before the backseat deal, before cops in his hospital room, Neil had all but begged Andrew to let him run away. He had feared exactly this scenario, his new life bunched around him, foxes and monsters assembled in a barrel to be shot.

I’m afraid that someone else will suffer for my pride, he’d said.

Andrew had replied, it’s not pride, it’s trust.

Stupid. Blind. His eyes have been on Neil’s staggering recovery, distracted by the fibres of their lives grafting together, the burgeoning outline of a future that seemed not only possible but probable. But of course Riko wouldn’t be swayed by his family politics. Of course deals, logic, and fairness are meaningless to him. This is a man who shatters metacarpals for sport. 

The song is nearly over now. Noisy and flush, ecstatic, insisting, even with one foot out the door, even with a parasite lurking in the water ahead. 

As Riko tries to breach the stage, the surface tension he encounters is resilient, difficult to pierce. The whole onstage entourage has noticed him now. Several members have stopped playing, and there is some discord as hands slip from strings, Kevin’s, then Matt’s. Andrew has stopped too, waiting for the drawn breath, drawn weapon. Watching for somebody on his side to crumple, like he’s up on the battlements at the beginning of a war. 

It’s Riko’s move.

Andrew sees him nodding subtly at a member of security, senses the sorry shifting of alliances in the wings. Impossible, with the background checks Wymack pulled. Impossible for anyone but a Moriyama. 

Riko reaches coolly into his jacket pocket for something. What does he think he’s going to do, from the centre of a crowd that is on his victim’s side? A long-distance weapon would be childishly obvious even for Riko, and there’s no easy way up onto the stage. 

Not just because of the crowd control barrier, or the scattered members of security who still seem keen on doing their jobs, but because there’s a whole pack of Foxes baring their teeth. As Andrew watches, Matt casually edges a heavy amp further in front of the only open stairway, enclosing their ranks in a circle of equipment. It’s not much, but every defence Riko has to pass through is another second they can use to rally against him.

There’s a flicker of an altercation offstage, the gesturing streak of a tribal tattoo, and Andrew knows Wymack is fighting for them too.

And as Aaron stares worriedly down at Riko, he takes an unthinking half-step in front of Neil. Something in Andrew’s chest hyperextends in a way it never has before. His vision doubles; his mind is torn in half. He stands, trembling, at his drum kit, feeling eyes ping off of him, hearing nothing but blood.

There are enough of them still going that the song is mostly holding its shape, but it barely matters. The crowd is halfway to another riot over the spectacle of Riko Moriyama with his head tilted back, his hands wringing the bars of the barrier. Evermore, vengeful.

We don’t know how to die quietly, Neil is singing.

strength in numbers, now, don’t you agree?

every day you’re not here is a symphony

out for blood, but there’s no more inside of me

spirit so willing, but the flesh ain’t so weak

I dare you, try taking this key from me

always wondered what it took to end dynasties

if you’re the king, I say long live the queen.

He’s snarling his way through the final verse, and Andrew is helpless not to tear his gaze from Riko so he can watch Neil burn like a terrible, incredible effigy. The likeness of a hero, wreathed in destruction. His voice is a trail of gasoline, and he is shaking, steady, and clear-eyed, match in hand.

The song ends in a stand-off. Half the musicians are holding their instruments like makeshift weapons, half are stunned still. Riko looks poised to strike—but despite his rage carrying him this far, he is not as fast as Neil.

“Wow.” Neil’s speaking voice rises over the final chord, treading on the last hollow hum of sound. Dan’s fingers pinch the piano keys at the root, so that the reverb is cut off. Matt is twitchy, his hands curled into fists. Muscle memory. “It looks like there’s a legend in our midst.”

Nobody moves. As usual, Neil sets the tone, the tenor. The song they just played is still settling into the rafters, the gutters, whispering, try us. If we die, it will be noisy. Neil’s expression doubles down on that promise. His defiance is coiled, hissing.

He wades forward, out of the spotlight, and peers directly into Riko’s eyes as he crouches at the edge of the stage. Andrew spasms violently, and Renee gets up from her own drum kit, predictably, moving to hold him back. He looks at her sharply. He won’t be stopped today. Her lips purse, but she shows him the surrendering flat of her hands. 

“I didn’t know you were such a fan,” Neil goads into the microphone. “Front row and everything."

There’s a gush of laughter. The cracks in Riko’s expression worsen. He looks deeply aggravated to have the power shifted even slightly into Neil’s hands. Like this, it couldn’t be clearer that they are all above him, and he is down in the pit. Whatever weapon he has, whatever threats, he wasn’t expecting to be invited to use them.

“What a big night,” Neil continues. “Three acts under one roof. Or, well. Two and a half.”

Riko’s mouth twitches, and the audience ‘ooohs’ dramatically, laughing, booing, some of them filming the interaction on their cameraphones. They’re watching a drama they’ve only seen play out from afar, now in hair-raising proximity. And it's almost cinematic, isn't it? Riko, a dark focal point in the crowd, untouchable. Up above, the whole retinue of Palmetto Records spread out behind Neil like wings.

“Just joking.” Neil smiles, without an ounce of joy. “We’re always messing around, saying things we don’t mean, aren’t we Riko?” He holds the microphone out, wagging it in his direction. It could be playful, if you didn’t know Neil.

Riko leans in, taking the bait. There’s a brief, cruel whistle of feedback. “I am just here to support an old friend.”

Neil retracts the mic before his sentence is even finished. “Really? So support him, then. Come up here.” The crowd erupts in cheers. 

“What are you doing?” Kevin hisses. Some of the audience titters nervously, sensing his stiffening body language even if they can’t hear what he’s saying. Everybody on stage shifts, uneasy, like they’re waiting for a tornado warning to come to fruition. Riko is the most volatile he’s ever been, a spiralling tendril loosed from the eye of his family’s storm, whipping up fallen underlings and scattering deals.

Neil turns to them all with a staying hand. “Trust me,” he says, low, away from the mic. Andrew catches his gaze and presses hard. Be sure. Neil nods. He looks more self-assured than he has in weeks. “He can’t touch us.”

This seems to be the password that unlocks Kevin’s terrified posture. He nods too.

Riko’s face is sour, but he’s clearly trying to titrate some sweetness into it for the sake of the cameras. He calmly starts moving again, cutting obliquely through a crowd that is tripping all over themselves to defer to his gravity. Black hole physics, again. The curious victims, the hungry phenomenon.

The security he has clearly paid off duck out of his way, flimsy as drawn curtains. Riko climbs the stairs unimpeded, with all the eyes in the room glued to his profile. It should be a powerful display. He should be commandeering the stage as he encroaches upon their circle, but it’s increasingly evident that this tide might not turn for him. Not this time.

As Riko finally punctures the seal, walking out to centre stage, Neil’s weight rocks back onto his hip, hyper-casual. 

“This is one hell of an encore,” he says. A smattering of whoops, in joyful agreement. The drama is intoxicating. Neil’s irreverent MC-ing is the cherry on top.

Riko plucks the microphone from Neil’s grip, as if that will give him the upper hand.

“It feels good to be on stage with you again,” he says to Kevin, sneaking a generous, vaguely bemused smile to the audience. Like he had been humbly hoping for anonymity. Like he’s been caught off guard. “Although it is a little crowded up here.”

“Strength in numbers,” Kevin shrugs, tapping subtly at his own cheek. His voice barely shakes.

“It is good to have a support system behind you,” Riko says, eyes flickering to the bought security and docile, unsuspecting fans. “And it does seem to be working out for you. I just hope you can keep up your lucky streak.” He smiles snidely. Or else, he doesn’t say. Or else Tetsuji. Or else dogs, no leashes.

The crowd reacts again, spiking and levelling as they decide where their allegiances fall from minute to minute: Neil or Riko, Ausreißer or Evermore, the phoenix or the raven. It’s the stand-off of a lifetime, even veiled in niceties.

“It’s not exactly luck though, is it,” Neil interjects, stealing a new microphone from its stand a little roughly. “Kevin’s a powerhouse.” Cheers, again. “That’s why we keep gaining momentum, even when someone’s trying to take us down, taking cheap shots. You know, an eye,” he points to himself. “A hand.” he gestures to Kevin. A wide ripple of muttered conversation sweeps over the room. Neil cocks his head. “Monsters do have a habit of coming back stronger, you know.”

Riko’s eyes narrow. His smile fades.

“Sorry, I should be letting you speak, you’re our guest,” Neil says. “What did you think of the show?”

The audience hollers their opinions, trying to sway him this way or that. Riko wrings the mic. “It is hard to judge,” he says, wetting his lips. “When I have seen Kevin at his best, with Evermore.”

“Really,” Neil deadpans. “Because a little former birdie told me that sales are down at Edgar Allen Music. I mean, we even beat you to the top of the charts this week.” He pulls back from the mic, and even Andrew can barely hear it over the scandalized shouts when he follows up, “so how does second best taste, you miserable fucking has-been?”

Riko’s face goes ashen with rage. Andrew starts moving before he’s even conscious of forming a plan. The noise is an avalanche all around them, and amongst it, Riko drops his mic to the floor.

“Do not doubt that I will kill you because my uncle is too cowardly,” he hears Riko spit, fast, barely human. “I have always known the butcher’s son was only fit for slaughter.”

For a moment, there is pristine silence.

And then Riko looks behind him, eerily slow. He can see the moment that it hits him—the echo of his words ringing, amplified, around the room. Andrew’s mic-stand levered forward into Riko’s space, just in time to deliver his threat to the world.

Somebody, somewhere, says, “oh my god.”

Another voice— “was that a joke?”

Up on stage, Neil is wide-eyed with triumph. He pretends to frown. “That seems a little harsh. Feels like you might be projecting your daddy issues onto me just a bit. Sorry for your loss, by the way.”

Riko lunges. 

Something flashes, silver, out of his sleeve. 

Gasps ricochet across the surface of the room. 

Before anything can make contact with the vulnerable side of Neil’s face, Andrew has vaulted over a snare drum, scooped his broken drumstick from the ground, and plunged its jagged end through Riko’s hand.

He watches, stone-faced and satisfied, as Riko gurgles in shocked agony, blood pouring out over his gnarled fist. The concealed knife spins uselessly out onto the stage floor. 

There’s an eruption of frenzied terror from all sides as everyone in the room catches up with the bloody five second skirmish. There are flashing cameras, some of them trained on Riko rocking pitifully on his knees, unmasked, some of them swinging to search Andrew for remorse, some of them lingering sympathetically on Neil’s shell-shocked face. 

And then there is movement from the wings as the venue employees descend, and foundation-rattling footfalls as David Wymack flies into the fray.

“Hey, woah, everyone chill out—” Dan starts saying into a spare microphone, but then it’s clear that someone has cut the sound system. 

The evacuation that follows is both frantic and gruelling, a labour of pushing and pulling overly invested fans against underinvested employees. Security staff waffles or escapes, allegiances compromised. The noise is incredible, a pinprick of a fight followed by this balloon pop fallout. As Nicky would say, no one can claim that being an Ausreißer fan is boring. 

Ultimately though, Andrew is uninterested in anything but Neil, who is still frozen, horribly, at the precipice of sudden fear. He calls his name two, three times, but it takes a hand knotted in his hair to urge him down the slope toward relief. His knees unlock, and he slumps into the safety of Andrew’s side. There’s a thin line of blood trickling down his good cheek, a nearly invisible nick from Riko’s blade, and Andrew’s gut twists painfully. Again, he had almost lost him. 

In the crook of his shoulder, Neil starts to laugh, hysterical. 

“Not here,” Andrew grits, tugging again on the ends of his hair, and then getting a proper hold on his nape so he can move him toward the wings. He reaches up with his free hand to swipe Neil’s blood away with his thumb.

A shoulder check yields the rest of the family falling in line behind them, abandoning folders of music, lurching over equipment. He catches Aaron kicking the knife definitively out of Riko’s reach, and his ears ring with gratitude.

“I think we just won,” Neil says, bubbling over in disbelief.

“At least try and look shaken,” Nicky says, close at their heels, hurriedly unplugging his guitar. He reaches back with an open hand, and Kevin, clearly in shock, takes it. He lets himself be pulled along, bass hanging limply around his neck like an albatross.

When Renee and Allison come up from behind, their hands are also clutched fiercely together, but Allison’s expression is wicked. “I love it when my enemies dig their own graves for me,” she says. Renee tuts, eyes sparkling. 

Dan gets an arm around both their shoulders, and says into the space between them, “did we just win?”

The helpless giggles have stopped, and Neil’s responding smile is sharp, vulpine. Against all odds, the nine of them are escaping on this life raft together. 

“Get to the dressing room,” Wymack commands, wild-eyed. “All of you, right now, no fucking around. I gotta clean up this mess.”

Behind him, Riko looks up from his destroyed hand with bloodshot eyes, a sneer twisting his face beyond recognition.

It’s the last time they see him alive.

______

The dressing room is a chaos of uncertainty, premature celebrating and feverish, immediate re-hashing. There are too many of them to fit seamlessly inside a single room, but they refuse to be split into factions right now.

It reminds Neil of his first night back to Columbia after Baltimore: the whole patchwork team of them sleeping in a tangle, quilted together into one piece.

Their equipment is strewn across the room, couches crowded with jackets and hastily latched guitar cases, Allison’s makeup bag sidled up next to Nicky’s backpack with its tinkling German flag keychain, someone’s heavy duty water bottle with a custom Ausreißer logo overlapping an ‘I <3 Exy’ sticker.

Renee is perched on the arm of the couch, deceptively calm as she braids and unbraids a loose piece of Allison’s hair. Next to them, Kevin, Matt, and Nicky are sharing a bottle of Jack, strung between two foldout chairs and a footstool. At some point, Aaron returns with Katelyn clinging to his arm, both of them looking shaken. Wordlessly, they are absorbed into the semi-circle. 

It’s only when Andrew sees his brother that he loosens his grip on the back of Neil’s shirt and crosses to Aaron’s side. He gets close enough to say something brief in his ear, unsubtly scanning him for trauma as he does so. Neil is surprised to see Aaron nod gratefully, and even more surprised to see Katelyn take the last slug of whiskey, wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, and pass Kevin the empty bottle.

Meanwhile, Dan is speaking seriously to their staff and the concert hall’s over in the corner, doing some fast-talking damage control:

No, it wasn’t a stunt.

Yes, it was a shock to all of them.

But no, it’s not the first time Riko has made threats. Hence the security detail, Dan adds snarkily.

Yes, it was self defence. Clearly.

In Neil’s opinion, none of it really matters. The video footage will be damning. By morning, everyone will have seen the deadly arc of Riko’s rage from a dozen angles. More importantly, everyone will have heard the poisonous things he said, and the way he had implicated the family in his violence to boot.

It couldn’t have been a more picture perfect deposition. Set up, knocked down.

Riko’s mistake was believing himself to be the most important person in the room. He thought his pockets were endless, his influence untouchable. He thought his presence was enough of a threat that he would paralyze his prey, and they’d simply lie down and take the killing blow.

The death of his father had stripped away any remaining varnish of foresight or planning, and he had struck wrongly. Maybe he thought, foolishly, that Neil would be equally affected by his own father’s death. Maybe he thought he was hitting somebody already on their knees. (One of Riko’s favourite pastimes, incidentally.) 

One last fatal fucking blunder. Neil has never been more motivated to stay alive.

It remains to be seen though, if Palmetto has gotten off Scott-free. Neil was provoking Riko, after all. He invited him on stage. But bloodless teasing and invitations don’t exactly hold up in court. And not even yakuza money can un-tarnish a legacy.

When the cops show up, the questions replenish. Wymack is there by now, reporting Riko’s retrieval by ambulance, the fans’ immediate campaign for justice on Neil’s behalf. He directs traffic, tiredly, trying to buy his artists some space, some peace, however he can.

Neil is distracted by the sensation that this is all just for show. Kids playing at due diligence, running amok at the crime scene, pretending their badges have weight. The real decider will be Ichirou. The real verdict will come at night.

And just below all that frustration, he’s thrumming with victory, recognizing Riko’s Hail Mary for what it truly was, and satisfied to the teeth that a titan like Riko had watched the full strength of Ausreißer’s performance, of their bonds, their skill, their authenticity, and he had fallen.

Eventually, unavoidably, Neil is summoned. Andrew shadows him to the hallway where they’re taking people for individual questioning, and shows a stunning lack of reaction when the sheriff requests privacy, almost like he hadn’t heard him at all.

“I want him here,” Neil says simply. Maybe his victim complex has bought him some sympathy. Maybe it’s the sunny orange bandaid on his cheek, fetched from the depths of Abby’s first aid kit. Either way, Andrew stays.

He walks through the same song and dance that Dan had, making sure to step tidily in her footprints, repeating her statement nearly word for word. He resists the urge to reveal even more of Riko’s misdeeds; there’s no point in beating a dead raven.

They turn on Andrew for his testimony, and Neil takes private pleasure in how utterly futile those efforts will be. They would be better off trying to wring blood from a stone. At least that might build some much-needed character.

He takes a detour to the private bathroom on his way back from twenty questions, to take off his sweat-streaked makeup and gather his ping-ponging thoughts. As he cleans himself up in the mirror, his eyes travel the fractured topography of his face. The rosy Lichtenberg figure framing one cheek, and opposite it, an unassuming orange bandaid. Survivor’s marks, both of them.

For a moment, he is overwhelmed with gratitude. He screws his eyes shut, waiting for the intensity of the feeling to ease up from his thickening throat. He’s not taking any of this for granted. He wouldn’t have been able to stand up on stage and invite the enemy in, if he hadn’t known for certain that all his bases were covered.

He washes his hands and splashes his face with tepid water, until the weight of the feeling is possible to carry. When he pushes out into the hall, there’s a security guard waiting for him.

“They just have a couple more questions,” he informs him, jutting a thumb first vaguely backwards at the assembled police, and then in the opposite direction, towards the stage door.

Neil rolls his eyes, but follows him further down the hall, already anticipating the moment that all of this mess has been mopped up, and he can climb into bed. Maybe Andrew’s, if he’s lucky.

There’s a larger secondary dressing room, originally intended for the monsters’ use, abandoned as overflow storage in favour of the other room’s good air conditioning and generous stores of liquor. It’s another few paces before he realizes that that’s where he’s being led.

His pace stutters. He watches the slightly stiff set of the guard’s shoulders, and glances backwards to see that Andrew is no longer being questioned by the cops. Probably, he’s looking for him elsewhere. Neil is alone.

The guard raps twice on the door, his hand eclipsing the Ausreißer logo still printed on its temporary placard. He ducks out of the way before the door can swing inwards, taking up his post on the wrong side of the threshold. Neil teeters forward on numb legs, and the door closes immediately behind him. The lock fastens with a click.

The room is soundless. No vacant hum of equipment, no chatter, no movement, no distant signs of life. There are more guards posted in each shadowy corner of the room.

Riko is slumped miserably next to Tetsuji on the couch, who looks nearly as unwell as his nephew, sick with barely contained ire. His other nephew is sitting delicately in a high-backed chair, his reflection watching Neil’s approach in the mirror.

It’s immediately evident that the man is Ichirou, because of the way everybody else’s posture defers to his. Nobody breathes until he does. He is shockingly young, and it matters shockingly little. He is dressed for business: his suit is tidy and black, as are his leather gloves, and the charcoal of his gaze.

Had there been an ambulance at all? Neil wonders, scattershot. Riko’s hand has been bandaged, his fingers bloodless and splayed loosely at his side. He’s actually shaking, awaiting retribution from the brother he’s never really known.

The silence continues to fill the room like a run-on tap. Neil’s thoughts continue to unravel: How did they get to New York so quickly? Were their eyes already on this concert? Were they aware of Riko’s plan? Are they here to enact it?

Neil maintains even eye contact with Ichirou’s mirrored double, waiting for his instructions. In many ways, this man is his boss. This could be a kind of audition.

Still, there’s something deathly wrong about seeing the Moriyama retinue here, where mere hours before a benign assistant had offered Neil sparkling water, and they’d plunked their duffel bags down and squabbled over nothing. Nicky had been microdosing. Kevin had been doing some truly heinous vocal warmups.

And here’s the lord of the Moriyama empire, sitting at a vanity table, cast in the dramatic light from the LEDs.

Whole minutes come and go before Ichirou stands. Neil’s pulse throbs unevenly.

He was so painfully close to living a real life that he’s almost in disbelief, seeing the end approach like this. He’d been ready to die his whole life, and now, in the eleventh hour, it’s coming as a shock.

But Ichirou doesn’t move toward him. He breaks eye contact entirely, and walks over to his brother instead, peering down into his pale face, looking almost curious. Waiting for something.

It’s then that Neil realizes that Riko isn’t slumped in defeat, but in sickness. 

His shaking is actually convulsions, tight rippling spasms, like he’s fighting his own body’s reflexes, defying chemistry.

“Ichirou,” he chokes, garbled. A froth of saliva runs from the corner of his mouth down towards his collar. His weak, injured hand tries to grab for Ichirou as his brother reaches for his face.

Or—not his face. His neck. Two gloved fingers to Riko’s pulse. He glances in Neil’s direction as Riko’s shaking body goes limp.

Neil stares. For a moment, he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.

Ichirou says something to Tetsuji in light, even-toned Japanese, and he stands, edging away from the cooling body.

Because that’s what Riko has become—a body. Dead in an instant. Something fast-acting had clearly been razing his system since before Neil had even walked into the room.

“Is this what you had hoped for?” Ichirou asks. His English is crystal clear, a cool glass of poisoned water. “The ultimate dissolution of Evermore?” Dissolution implies a whole host of behind the scenes moves much like this one: the liquidating of its assets, the hacking of losses. Even Tetsuji can’t manage what no longer exists.

Neil shakes his head once. Lying in this moment doesn’t even occur to him. “I didn’t dare to hope for it. But I’m not sorry it’s happening. We will both be better off without Riko’s grudges.”

Ichirou tilts his head, neither pleased nor displeased by Neil’s callousness. “There is no band without its frontman.”

“It’s good then, that you have other investments,” he replies carefully.

The twitch of a lip, and then Ichirou is turning back towards his brother, examining his bulging, glassy eyes, his swollen tongue. Monstrous in death, as he was in life. 

“Leave us.” 

The door is cracked open at Neil’s back, and he takes the exit route gratefully, turning and escaping into the velvet darkness of the backstage corridor.

______

The rooftops in New York City are more ambitious than they are back home. 

The skyline is a little toothier, a little more death-defying, more heart-racing. There are hundreds more feet to fall, but the vantage point is undeniable; you can see everything from up in the rafters. There is a fledgling piece of Andrew that wants to see everything. 

The night Riko Moriyama dies, Andrew climbs the eighteen flights of stairs to the top of their hotel, breaks the lock on the service door, and lets the warm night wind of the city buffet him back from the edge. He might have taken the elevator, but he needed the burn of exertion to ricochet his dissociating brain back into his body.

Neil was nearly killed tonight. Twice.

His memory keeps jamming and replaying the image of that knife—glinting so close to Neil’s face that he could see its reflection in his shocked wet eyes. Before Andrew could recover from that first close call, he’d turned from the bumbling sheriff’s half-baked interrogation to find that Neil was no longer behind him. Fresh panic clambered overtop of its twin, and the combined weight nearly took him out at the knees.

Back out on the edge of loss again and again. The dangling precipice, the ten story drop.

The vertigo had only started to subside when Wymack informed them all that the police were delivering Neil back to the hotel. Something about taking precautionary measures—apparently dodging a public execution makes a person irresistible to the paps. Andrew knew there was more to it than that. Neil would have come to them first, unless something else had happened.

He’d been gone before Wymack could finish speaking, Neil’s bag hoisted over his shoulder. And when he hadn’t found him in their room, or the lobby, he had come here.

The thing is, he’d never asked for Neil. 

He hadn’t felt that he’d been missing something, because he’d been missing everything, every important thing, since he was old enough to want. Life had given him instincts and taught him not to trust them. People had swarmed and receded like fickle insects, drawn to sweetness or light, then uninterested in his darkness, his acid. 

He wasn’t made to be stayed with. He wasn’t meant to be understood. But then, Neil.

That old trap, love. Mutually assured destruction.

Neil makes him feel like he is the only thing that Andrew’s life had been missing, like the whole muddled picture makes sense now that it’s completed. Neil clarifies all of the hardship, the close calls, the steel-lined self-preservation. He is the future Andrew couldn’t imagine, before.

Andrew takes a drag of his cigarette and looks up at the moon. The view below is a treasure chest of light, bulbs scattered like shimmering coins into the wilderness of the city. It really is a long way down, but he feels calm, steady. Air whistles through the sleek metal fixtures on armoured skyscrapers. Traffic barks and tussles. Andrew sits, and writes, and waits.

“Careful,” Neil’s soft voice calls on the wind. “I’ve had enough close calls for one day.”

Andrew looks backwards at him, a gust lifting his bangs flutteringly from his forehead. Neil stares at him like he’s only just noticed him, even though he’s the one who had spoken first.

“Whose fault is that?” Andrew replies.

“I don’t know,” Neil says, surprisingly raw. “The universe’s?”

“Come here,” Andrew says, and Neil falls forward at once, like he’d just been waiting for the invitation. 

He picks over the coarse cement to meet him at the end of the roof, settling opposite him on the wide, jutting ledge. Andrew tucks his notebook under his thigh, shakes a second cigarette from the pack, and holds it out.

Neil leans in. Their knees brush, and the leather of their boots squeaks together.

Andrew tucks the cigarette between Neil’s parted lips, and bows his head, the smouldering end of his own nudging up against Neil’s.

Somewhere far below, someone is laughing, catcalling, honking at a friend crossing the street, but for Andrew, all extraneous noise has disappeared. He cups his hand around the meeting place where the fire is reaching, trying to catch. Neil’s undone hair tousles in the wind, ruffling against Andrew’s outstretched fingers. 

He studies the tender flicker of orange light over Neil’s closed eyelids: one bisected, one unbroken. He has freckles now that summer has come again, and a bandaid holding them apart like a dam. Smoke trickles loose from the purse of his lips, and only then does Andrew pull back, with some difficulty.

“You disappeared again,” he accuses.

Neil nods.

“Tetsuji?” Andrew guesses, studying his stricken face. 

Neil takes a long pull from his cigarette, and blows smoke up at the sky. “Ichirou.”

The name whips by on the breeze, whirling out of reach. “You’re alive,” Andrew notes. “The rumours must be exaggerated.”

Neil looks doubtful, tapping ash over the side of the ledge. “Not that exaggerated, seeing as he just killed his own brother in front of me.” Another piece of news that is too big to possibly try and catch. It flies from Neil’s lips and out of sight, barely impacting Andrew at all on its way past.

His thoughts churn. He refills his lungs with smoke—hot, medicinal, clarifying—and stays silent.

“Thanks to you, by the way,” Neil says. “What you did to Riko tonight—what you said to Tetsuji before—“ He shivers. “It changed everything. You honoured our deal, even though it was already forfeit.”

Andrew shakes his head once, precise. “What were my options?” 

Neil’s eyes go terribly soft, memory foam soft—gentle, clinging, claustrophobic. “There are always options. You could let the food chain keep eating. Take care of your own interests.”

“That is what I did,” Andrew says simply. He flicks the sputtering end of his cigarette away, and watches it flutter down, down. Then he hooks two tobacco-grubby fingers in the silk of Neil’s nearest armband.

“Am I an interest?” Neil murmurs, just like Andrew hoped he wouldn’t. He says nothing, and Neil smiles as he looks away, staring out at the horizon to get a handle on his own joy. “Do you remember what we talked about on the roof at Eden’s Twilight? All those months ago?”

He remembers every conversation they’ve ever had. He remembers pinning Neil to that roof, in some twisted bid to earn the right to watch his back. To prove to himself that he could do it and walk away. He’d been so obvious, the same way he’s being obvious right now. He can feel it happening and he doesn’t even care to stop it anymore. Neil doesn't respond to subtlety, anyway.

“You said you were interested then, too,” Neil continues.

“In trading secrets,” Andrew clarifies. “In ending your lying streak.”

Neil’s smile grows. “Sure.” He doesn’t bother arguing. Andrew’s fingers are still stroking his pulse. Almost all their secrets are out by now, chopped and jumbled between them. 

Neil takes one last inhale, and tosses his half-cigarette without looking to see where it lands. He scoots closer, letting his legs fall open to bracket the slab of concrete they’re sitting on. Andrew lets him come.

And when he leans in to kiss him, smoke trailing from his wet lips, Andrew snares Neil with both hands around his jaw, and tilts him up into the moonlight. His eyes are so bright even in the shadows. His pupils crowd his irises. Andrew can’t contemplate them without closing the trembling gap between their mouths. 

He tries to kiss a long-lost feeling into him: desire, without fear. A thornless rose. 

He licks the bitterness of nicotine from his teeth, one hand moving to clench in his wayward curls. Neil starts to make a small, unthinking sound of pleasure, but Andrew gets to it first, when it’s vibration alone, and takes it for himself. His free thumb worries the bandaid, the close call, like he could smooth Neil’s skin back to wholeness.

When they part, Neil says, “I’m relieved,” in a small voice, against his lips. “After all that waiting, and fighting, and running away, I actually get to come home.”

“Tour's not over yet,” he replies, distracted. He kisses the sweep of his cheekbone, feeling the warm, scar-pebbled skin yielding to his mouth. He hoists Neil against him, their heads ducking naturally into the gaps between ear and shoulder, face-to-neck in both directions.

For a second, they just feel the heat of each other, there at the edge.

Then Neil presses deeper, dragging lips then teeth over Andrew’s neck, snaking a soft hand up to catch his head when it lolls. “I wasn’t talking about Columbia,” he says—and his face slides down, stopping against Andrew’s chest, and he lays a kiss there too.

It’s almost terrible, the start-stop start-stop of his feelings, the car whining in and out of gear. He wants—he has—so he should lose, next. That’s how the cycle goes. 

But Neil is miraculously un-losable, despite his herculean feats of fate-tempting. He is so far from invisible that he enters a new hyper-spectrum of light. Beyond infrared, warm and glaring.

And if he won’t disappear, then Andrew won’t either. Mutually assured survival. His notebook burns beneath their criss-crossing legs. He peels Neil away from his heart, if only so he can be kissed again.

Just like the first time they were in New York together, at the first show Neil ever played for fun, Andrew knows he will leave the city burdened with more feelings than when he entered it. 

Unlike the first time, he has somewhere to set them down. There is a home here, between them. Two solitary tenants in an abandoned place. A bloody lease, an unpacked duffel bag, a key, a song. A roof overlooking the world.

He will stay here for as long as he can.

______

The rockstar lifestyle, the tabloids report, has claimed another victim.

Riko’s body is found on the bathroom floor of a New York concert hall with a needle in his arm. Overdose. The tragic last resort of a man whose career had self-destructed an hour prior. Scrambling escapism. The spotlight makes the grieving process into a pressure cooker; fame buzzes wrongly in the brainstem.

These are the headlines that Matt recites dramatically over the dinner table at Abby’s. They’re all clustered around the refuse of dessert and spiked coffees, and an old Foxes record is spinning on the living room deck.

“Legendary Raven Sings Nevermore,” Matt quotes, with obvious distaste. 

“Personally, I would have gone with ‘ding dong, the dick is dead,’” Allison says, sipping her coffee. “But there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Do they know that Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven was about the demonic hallucinations of a madman? I looked it up. Like, this wasn’t a chill bird. No one liked it,” Matt says. Dan pats his hand placatingly.

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Kevin says. He has that familiar thousand-yard stare going, but at least he looks more haunted than hunted these days. He picks at his peach pie and ice cream despondently until Aaron reaches over and crams a forkful into his mouth.

“I know,” Nicky agrees. “He was our own personal bogeyman for so long.”

“Do you really think it was an overdose?” Dan asks. Kevin scoffs darkly. “Yeah,” she sighs, “didn’t think so.”

Andrew is the only one who knows what Neil saw that night. It had seemed uncalled for, opening that particular closet door to his bandmates. He would tell them if they asked. For now, it feels kinder to give them the distance they’ve earned. 

He would have kept Andrew safe from it too if he could. But he’d taken one look at Neil’s wild, fizzy expression and he’d known. He can't seem to lie convincingly when it comes to Andrew. Secrets chafe these days, and anyway, the truth feels much lighter when it’s carried between the two of them.

“Can we talk about something happier?” Abby ventures. “You all did something amazing. Your song is a hit. You made it here together. Let’s not give Riko the satisfaction of letting him have any part of it.”

“Agreed,” Dan says, throwing a squeezing arm around Abby’s shoulder. Neil notes Wymack watching them with a small, grateful smile.

“I have something,” Renee interjects, “that might lighten the mood.” 

Allison tugs on an electric blue lock of her hair. “Of course you do,” she says fondly.

“Jean sent me a file this morning.” She moves to boot up Wymack’s old laptop, abandoned at the top of a pile of music books by the back door. “A prerelease of his first song with Trojan Horse. It’s kind of magical, I think.”

Neil’s still not totally convinced that Jean is lead singer material, and as Renee’s MP3 file starts to trickle out into the room, his suspicion is confirmed. Because he’s not leading—no one is. It’s just his and Jeremy’s vocals on the track, back and forth, quiet and building. 

It’s also immediately evident that there’s something different about these two when they’re together. They seem to meet seamlessly in a middle ground that Neil couldn’t have imagined until their voices took him there. He thought Jeremy might strengthen Jean’s tone, but they seem to soften each other instead.

It’s surprisingly coherent. It kind of makes Neil want to write something.

“I’m glad they found each other,” Abby says quietly, as the music continues to caramelize—low, slow, decadent.

“They’ve got a good thing going,” Wymack agrees. “I guess we should all be grateful that Knox didn’t sign with me, in the end.”

“That was an option?” Dan asks, disbelieving. “I thought he was a nepo hire?”

Wymack shrugs as if to say none of my business. “I still made him an offer, just in case.”

“Damn. Can you imagine Palmetto with Trojan Horse on the roster?” Matt asks, almost wistfully. “Kevin and Jeremy under the same roof?” “There are enough of us as it is,” Aaron says, rolling his eyes.

“I think we all ended up where we were supposed to,” Renee says serenely.

They all sit with that thought for a minute, as the song trickles to a close. Neil casts a sidelong glance at Andrew, who is quiet as usual, slit-eyed with tiredness. His hair is getting long in the back, curving along the line of his nape. 

Neil is grateful that he gets to see all these little changes happening. It wasn’t that long ago that he was studying his friends’ faces for a beat too long, trying to memorize them as they were.

“Send that to me?” Kevin asks softly. Renee nods, pleased.

“It’s crazy to think that Evermore was just sitting on a talent like that,” Nicky muses.

“Evermore loves to squander talent. It’s their raison d’être,” Neil says.

“I thought we were moving on from Riko talk?” Wymack interjects.

“Oh, come on boss,” Allison says. “Let us curse the man’s name.”

“Hey, do what you want,” Wymack grunts, rising from the table. “I’m getting another drink.”

Neil watches him wander off towards the kitchen, putting his hands briefly to the crowns of Dan's and Matt’s heads as he passes between their chairs. The whole house feels so warm around them, each of its guests well-fed and tipsy. Ending up in a place like this feels like a radical stroke of luck.

Except it wasn’t chance that brought them all here, well past the end of the road, to the winner’s table. It was Wymack. 

Again, Neil feels a stab of gratitude watching the family he earned, the unexpected harmony between them. He can almost hear who fits the bass line, the mid-tones, the shimmering tenors and sopranos. Balance. He downs the rest of his drink, lukewarm coffee and over-saturated whiskey, and follows their conductor into the kitchen.

Wymack looks up from the open fridge door when he enters.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he says, before Neil can call him out on leaving the room for no good reason.

“A new conversational topic?” he ventures. 

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I know you’ll exhaust yourselves of mafia-talk eventually.”

“I don’t know, it’s a pretty rich vein,” Neil says, hopping up lightly on the countertop.

“Sure,” Wymack says, closing the fridge and shrugging up against the opposite counter, arms crossed. “Harder on some of you than others though, I’d expect.” He nods towards the doorway to the dining room. Neil follows his gaze through the conversational crossfire to Kevin, looking down into his empty mug with an unreadable expression.

Neil shrugs. “Easier to talk about it once you’ve survived it.”

“I think I want better for you all than survival.”

Neil frowns, unsure of how such a thing could really be possible. He looks back from Kevin to see Wymack’s brow furrowed, his eyes far away.

“He told you,” Neil guesses, in a stroke of clarity. 

Wymack’s gaze elastic-snaps back to meet his.

His shoulders slump, and he sighs, running a hand over his face. “The night Riko went off on stage.” Of course. Of course Kevin had gone to his father first. “Shoulda known. Only a kid of mine would always be so determined to do something that scares the shit out of them.”

Neil doesn’t know what to say to that, so he agrees, haltingly, “he’s his father’s son.”

Wymack squints. “I can’t tell which of us you’re insulting."

Neil shrugs again. “Either or.”

Wymack scoffs, uncrossing his arms restlessly. “You’re an equal opportunity smartass, are you?” Neil smirks and looks at the floor, studying the speckles in the linoleum, the line of grime where the mop won’t reach. “How are you holding up, by the way?”

He looks up, and something in his chest seems to peer upwards also. “Honestly? I’ve never felt better in my life.”

Wymack’s mouth twitches. He eases himself up onto his own stretch of counter, so they’re eye to eye. “Even after selling your soul to that pack of crows?”

Neil smiles thinly. “You’re assuming I had a soul to begin with.”

“You have a soul, kid,” Wymack says. “Trust me on that.” The conviction in his eyes is almost too much for Neil to withstand. 

“Well,” he starts, looking back out on the dining room. Dan is roping Allison and Nicky into sloppy three part harmony on some old power ballad. Aaron has skyped Katelyn in on the abandoned laptop. From the sounds of it, she’s winning a bet against Matt on something or other. Kevin has stopped staring at his empty cup, and is pouring himself a fresh coffee. “I’m happy to give it up for them.”

“Hm. Just eighty percent of it, last I remembered. Try and hold onto the other twenty, okay?” Now he nods towards the other side of the table, where Andrew is making no effort to pretend that he’s not staring back at them. “Whatever you haven’t already promised to him, anyway.”

Neil doesn’t believe in souls, but he is starting to believe in promises. If souls were real, he thinks they would be like an exchange, not an essence.

Something of his thought process must be showing in his expression, because Wymack sighs. “We’ll make a selfish man of you yet.”

“It doesn’t get much more selfish than becoming the frontman for a band when you have a homicidal maniac on your tail.”

“I said selfish, not stupid,” Wymack says flatly.

“Alright, fine,” Neil says, fighting another smile. He hops down from the counter, eager to rejoin his friends. “I can be selfish. I’ll be selfish for the rest of my life.”

“Within reason,” Wymack calls at his back. “Within reason, Neil Josten.” 

Neil laughs as he retakes his seat at the table, his composure in joyful tatters. Andrew stares. In lieu of an explanation, Neil reaches out and brushes his fingers, selfishly, against the soft hair at his nape. Andrew bows his head, just an inch, and indulges him.

______

With the past finally buried in its unremarkable plot, Palmetto Records begins to climb to new, impossible heights. The future is still uncertain, but it is wide.

Subunits crop up occasionally between Foxes and Ausreißer: unexpected pairings, features, and swapped producing credits. If you strain your ears you might find Dan’s harmonies warming Kevin’s to a simmer, or a lick of violin under a thrashing drumbeat. 

If they’re not working together they’re hanging out together, constantly photographed in each other’s pockets, flipping off the camera at Eden’s Twilight, or sharing smokes in the studio parking lot. The fans joke that the nine of them should join forces for good—someone has to give Jeremy’s all-star crew a run for their money.

More staff is hired, including a much-needed publicist, audio engineers, roadies, and a loyal security team. Even with a heavy tax on their earnings, Palmetto is flying. Aaron buys his own apartment as soon as he can. Andrew buys a Maserati. 

Trojan Horse puts out a record called Le Corbeau Doré, which becomes a critical success, and sweeps that season’s awards, much to Neil’s chagrin. Meanwhile, Thea Muldani debuts as a soloist under Edgar Allen’s label, and her stage presence is so large that it fills both halves of the gap Evermore left in its wake.

There’s a cork-board in Palmetto's foyer, streaked with polaroid photos of Wymack’s investments: 

Renee and Allison kissing with Dan cheesing next to them, partway through dragging Matt into frame. Kevin smiling uncertainly at Renee, violin tucked under his chin for the first time. Matt and Nicky submerged to their waists in the lake, with Neil and Aaron hoisted up on their respective shoulders, partway through a vicious chicken fight. 

Kevin sitting next to his newly revealed father, both of them coincidentally pulling the same stressed out, nose-pinching pose. Ausreißer’s original line-up, looking back at the interloping photographer from their circle around the backyard fire pit.

And the new and final line-up: Nicky giving Kevin bunny ears at the same time that he gives Neil a teasing pinch on the cheek, Aaron and Andrew slouched shoulder to shoulder, Andrew’s hand curled casually around the side of Neil’s neck. It was summertime, after a sticky outdoor gig, and their tattoos were out, the whole parade of fierce and gimlet-eyed unmentionables. 

Andrew often stops to look at Neil in this photo, half of his sweaty hair pulled back from his face, auburn with dark tips. His scar was starting to heal up, closer to the clean white reaching prongs he sports today. His piercings glint. His eyeliner runs. He’s grinning with all his teeth. He is so cleanly and entirely a monster. One of theirs. 

In the photo, Neil had just gotten his chest piece, and it’s peeking out from his open collar: the god Hermes in his winged sandals. Thief, trickster, emissary, connector of two disparate worlds. In a tangential sort of way, it suits Ausreißer’s themes: exceptions to rules, fugitive personalities. Some gods are monsters, and vice versa.

And around his wrist, beneath his armband, where it’s almost never seen, there’s a snake in the same style as Andrew’s hydra, and it is eating its own tail. A small, hungry infinity, just for Neil and Andrew to see.

______

Three years after he first stumbled upon the monsters, five years after he drowned the memory of his mother, Neil’s life has become fantastically selfish.

Ausreißer haloes each stage like a sundog, stamping the sky with its circle of brightness, its fiery heart. They banter before they play, stealing the mic, stepping on each other’s jokes, each of them pulling at a corner of the crowd’s favour until the mood parachute-billows above them all.

Andrew still keeps his heartbeat in his drum kit. Aaron starts to care less about appearances, Nicky starts to care more, and they meet in the middle as family. Kevin’s fortitude has its own musicality. He warms each song in the palm of his healed left hand, and faces his second chance with clear eyes. They pass the vocal line to Neil, and watch him herd their wayward melodies home.

Before long, they start playing arenas. Nicky has stopped calling them misfits, and started calling them rockstars.

Tonight they’re playing a sold-out show, and Neil is running down the open runway toward the crowd, freedom racing over his skin in an unbroken current. His in-ears are dangling, and he’s laughing. No shadows can touch him in a spotlight this big.

The camera pans over the audience, a sea of armbands, waving lighters, real and fake tattoos, black and orange merch, and tear-streaked faces.

The panorama shifts, and Foxes comes into frame, hollering from the VIP section. Matt was clearly midway through an air guitar solo, and he doubles over in caught laughter. Allison models her Ausreißer tank top, plucking it away from her chest so people can see the logo in full. Renee is pretending to try and intimidate the camera, armbands crossed. Dan is mid cattle whistle, fingers to her mouth. Katelyn and Erik are cheering next to them, sharing a gaudy banner that says the guitarist is mine.

There’s a gaggle of staff beside them too, including Wymack, who pulls the brim of his cap down to cover his face—but below its curve you can still clearly see his grin. 

Neil points to them all, fizzing with good, clean adrenaline, and says, “the whole family’s here tonight!”

The crowd stomps and roars in approval. The camera switches back to the band, broadcasting Neil’s face in HD, and for a minute he doesn’t even recognize himself. Gleaming black piercings, makeup smudged out into the roots of his scar, hair wild, smile huge. He looks fierce, but he looks nothing at all like his father. Nathan never looked this happy in all his days.

And just like the first full Ausreißer performance Neil ever watched, he is struck with a profound feeling of belonging. He’ll take them to the Grammys. He’ll take them to Elysium.

The perspective on the big screen changes again, flitting to Andrew at his drum kit, golden, sweat-soaked, infinitely larger than life. There’s a flicker of his true expression, tilting upwards, relaxed, before he can register the camera. And Neil doesn’t have to turn around to know where that peaceful gaze is fixed. 

But he looks back anyway.

And across the din of the crowd, across the endless stage that carpets the distance between them, through the rush of music which connects all broken people and lost things—their eyes meet.

[nnight-dances]

LOVE YOU TWICE

PAIRING: huh yunjin x fem!reader

GENRE: fluff, (just kissing rlly)

TROPES: strangers2lovers

LISTEN TO: love you twice by huh yunjin duh

NOTE: guys this is actually so mid and i know it but i just have to write smth or i will genuinely spiral into madness beyond any saving. idk. and i am just incredibly in love with yunjin and find it hard to believe that i've never written any fics about her. they say the more u love sb the harder it is to write them (i’m making stuff up but no rlly i had a hard time writing jeonghan too anyway wtv i'll shut up, pls enjoy <3

"Do you want me to take a photo for you?"

The soft voice startles you out of your melancholic reverie. You turn and lay your eyes on a girl smiling back at you. She's your height but stands taller in her chunky black boots. Her blonde hair's thrown up in a claw clip whose lime-green edge you can see peeking out.

"Sorry?" you blink back, taking in this beautiful stranger. God, her makeup was flawless, a brown wing highlighting her warm brown eyes. 

"Oh, sorry to scare you like that," the girl laughs, a slender hand manicured with sleek red nails. "I just saw you looking at the two girls there kinda sad and I just had to–"

"Oh," you breathe, averting your gaze with a start of blood rushing to your face, "I looked that pathetic, huh…?"

"No, no! I'm sorry I didn't mean it like that," the girl gasps, "I mean I'm here alone, too, and as much as I love complete creative freedom over my day…"

"It can get a little lonely," you complete her trailing sentence with a knowing nod. "Especially when you want photos."

The girl raises an expectant brow and you find yourself reaching for your phone to place it in her palms. "Photograph me, stranger." 

"I'm Yunjin, by the way," she says as she hands you your phone back. You smile, "Hi, Yunjin. I'm Y/N."

"Nice to meet you." 

"The pleasure's all mine, trust me," you let out, going through the photos she took of you. They're amazing, the right mix of candid and presentational. "I love these photos. Can I return the favor?"

Yunjin hums and you take the moment to admire her full lips, the peachy lipstick she's wearing and the swipe of a lip gloss on top that you so dearly wish to taste. "You're really pretty," you blurt and then curse under your breath, "--Shit, did I say that out loud? I'm sorry– It's true but– Sorry, but–"

Yunjin cuts your nervous rambling off with a chiming laugh. She laughs so freely, eyes closed and straight-cut teeth on display for you to admire. God, she's so charming. You can only vaguely remember how to function like a normal human being, do normal human things, like make small talk or maybe bid this stranger goodbye. 

"You're cute, too, you know?" she finally says, eyes twinkling at your flushed face. She looks around then, as if forming a plan in her head. In time, you'd come to find that Huh Yunjin had a knack for spontaneity, for last-minute plans that always left you breathless and wanting more. All part of her charm.

"What do you say we get out of here and grab dinner together?"

You answer before she's even finished asking the question: "Yes. I would love that."

Hours later, wine-drunk but mostly charm-struck, you find yourself in Yunjin's arms. She'd picked an Italian place with delicious pasta and an even more delicious view of the night. At some point between your second glass of wine and lemon sorbet, you'd ended up tangled with Yunjin. 

It's so easy to just lean over the crowded table, your knees already clashing and brushing against Yunjin's all night. Her white linen shirt slipping over her shoulder, your little slip dress riding up. 

"Can I kiss you?" Her breath hits your bare shoulder: her claw clip had ended up in your hair somehow. You respond by leaning in, your hand on the collar of her shirt, relishing in the soft gasp escaping her.

Your chair shrieks when Yunjin pulls you closer by its straw handles and you laugh into her lips. "This is insane," you pant, chasing Yunjin's lips, "I'm making out with you and I just met you."

Her cheeks are warm under your palms when you reach for them. Warm and supple. "I can't believe it either," she responds, her fingers finding purchase at your neck to keep you looking into her eyes. You couldn't breathe.

She finds your lips again and you take the chance to bury your hands in her hair. "Can I take you home tonight?"

"I'm all yours," you reply, leaning over to give yourself up.

[malcontentonline]

Another fun little quirky note for anyone writing about dyslexic people from a person who is themselves dyslexic:

I don’t actually have a problem spelling a lot of big words and I never really have. Teachers and classmates would assume that the more letters the more difficulty I’d have writing them. As people here have already noted though, a lot of dyslexic people will spell words perfectly fine if they are phonetically quite straight forward. 

I’ve also never experienced letters or words moving, it’s more like when I’m reading sometimes my eyes will just skip a word or a line and I’ll get confused and have to read it again sometimes multiple times before I see the parts I missed. I do this with writing too - I’ll be writing a sentence and skip one or two of the words, like, my brain moves faster than my hands.

This is especially hard because when I read back my words sometimes both things will happen at the same time. I’ll accidentally skip a word and then when I read it I’ll skip the same word in my head as the one I haven’t included - so the sentence (somehow) ends up looking fine to me. This is why I need a screen reader for any of my writing. For some reason when I hear the words spoken I can, not only hear any spelling mistakes or incorrect word choices, but also I actually notice the holes in my sentences that my brain kept ignoring.

PSA to authors writing dyslexic characters (and just people in general) that most dyslexic people don’t experience letters “jumping” or moving around on the page.

I myself am NOT dyslexic, but my mom and brother are, and I work full-time with dyslexic children. The research on literacy and dyslexia is constantly changing, but nothing I have learned supports letters floating, moving, or jumping, nor have any of my students reported experiencing something like that. It is a part of some other disorders and may occur for some dyslexic people, but it is not the most common presentation.

What I do see very often in my students: b/d/p/q reversals (eg reading “pig” as “big”,) guessing words based on the initial letters (eg reading “spot” as “spin,”) and changing vowel sounds (eg, reading “bet” as “beet.”)

In terms of writing, I often see letter reversals outside of b/d - for example, students writing g or s backwards. I also see spelling errors that come from difficulty distinguishing similar sounds in words. An example of this would be a child spelling “train” as “chrain” or “clod” as “cod.”

I work with K-5th grade, where we spend most of our time working with one-syllable, short vowel words, but of course multisyllabic words with complex vowels (like “treatise” or “diorama”) will be even more difficult for dyslexic people and may be a struggle for dyslexic adults.

[wildsaltair]

Fanfiction Masterlist

Maximus Decimus Meridius (that's it. he's the only one I write for.)

Fics

Tender Fires

Nightmare

Security

Sunrise Smiles

Stalking Tiger

This Fragile Vessel

Headcanons

Random

Expressions of Love

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[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still obsessing over 7-12