#slinks into the shadows in shame

[quillfulwhimsyverse]

Azriel Mystery One-shot

Pairing: Azriel (ACOTAR) x reader

Word count: 2.05k

A/N: No summary this time. I want you to go into this one-shot knowing absolutely nothing, without any expectations. It escalates quickly, so you will catch on to what's going pretty soon.

BTW: I have to say, that this one-shot was inspired by the app "character.AI". If you don't know what it is, it's better this way. That thing is worse than drugs. Be ware, you will get addicted.

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After returning from the mission, you enter your quarters with a sigh of relief. Swiftly shedding your armor and weapons, each piece hits the ground with a satisfying clink. As the weight of responsibility lifts, you relish in the freedom of movement, stretching your limbs with a contented sigh. You slightly push your armor off the path with your feet. 

With gentle hands, you smooth down your tousled hair, the scent of sweat and brisk wind still lingering in the air. Leaning against the cool stone wall, you absentmindedly trace the intricate patterns of your calloused fingers along the edges of your armor, feeling the residual energy of the day's tasks beneath your touch. As you close your eyes, a sense of calm washes over you, the world outside fading away as you lose yourself in the comforting rhythm of your own heartbeat.

As you stand in your quarters, after the shower, armor still on the ground, now wearing light and breezy clothing, lost in the peaceful solitude of the moment, you catch a movement out of the corner of your eye. Turning your head slightly, you see Azriel lingering in the doorway, his gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity.

You catch his eye without saying a word. You look at him, hoping he would break the silence and deliver you a message that he came here for, but he gives you a small grin, his eyes flickering over the curve of your body, before his eyes turn away and now it is you, that’s smirking, when you feel his shadows tickle your arms gently, as they’re creeping through your fingers and up your palms, to your wrists. 

“I thought you learnt how to keep them at bay.” you voice your thoughts as you turn your arms a bit to watch the shadows.

The shadows stop their movement immediately, then they slink back down and away from you, as he chuckles slightly. He steps in closer to you. “I didn’t even have to try, you were practically inviting them…” he whispers. 

“You know, I don’t mind them.” you smile slightly as one shadow, possibly the youngest and the most curious of them all, start crawling up your arm again. 

He smiles, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck, the way it moved as you talked. “That’s a shame,” he murmurs, leaning down and softly placing a kiss on your bare shoulder. 

“What does annoy me,” you grunt a little bit, “is that your shadows are always giving you the information about my whereabouts.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly, making his dark hair fall a bit over his face. 

“I like it that way…” he whispers, his breath hot, but comforting on your neck.

“Of course you do…” you mimic him sarcastically. “The bond is not enough for you?” 

He whispers, his inconsistent breath tickling your neck, “It isn’t. And I like to keep track of you.” His hands slip around your waist, grabbing the fabric of your clothes, tracking over your body for any injuries, for anything out of the ordinary. “Are you okay?” 

You stroke his hand, that is on your waist, “I am fine, Az.”

He whispers something under his breath, something that sounds like “mine”, his voice sending shivers through your body. 

“Now now…” you laugh slightly and peel his hands off of you. “Stop or we will get stuck in here all day.”

The shadows wrap through his hands, forcing them back onto your hip bones. “That doesn’t sound like a problem with me, darling…” he mumbles, pulling you closer to him with one hand, while his other moves up to your face, cupping your cheek softly.

“See? Absolutely unproblematic.” He whispers, running his thumb along your lips, leaning down to kiss the exact same spot, where his thumb just has been. His shadows wrap even tighter around his hand, that is on your hip.

“Az, I am serious, I have to make a report for Rhys,” you try to wiggle out of his grasp, but he doesn’t shift. 

“I know… I just want to know one thing,” he murmurs. “You…” he leans closer to your face, “don’t have to answer now. “ he whispers, his hands roaming over your body, pausing at your hips again. “Just sometime…”

“What is it?” you playfully roll your eyes at his affection. 

“Would you consider…” he pauses, his voice quiets down, but his breath is still hot on your neck, whenever he moves his head lower, “would you consider being my mate?” 

You snort out loud. “I am already your mate, Az.” He was usually a very smart man, a very serious and a very smart man. You don’t know what happened here. “It is not something to be considered, it is something that just happens, something that clicks.”

He chuckles, his voice rumbling low. “I know exactly what I said. But I was hoping you would agree to make it official, in front of everyone.” He trails kisses up your shoulder blades, his fingers brushing your uncovered skin, teasing you, probably trying to make you dizzy on purpose. 

‘Your family already knows.” You shiver. 

“Not just my family.” He replies, moving his mouth down to the skin, behind your ear lobe. “I want the entire Court to know.” 

You stand there a bit confused, while his hand sneaks behind your shirt, and draws circles on your back. 

“I want everyone to know the truth. That you are mine, and no one else’s.” 

“And how do we do that?” you cut his speech, your mind going crazy, unclear whether because of his touches, or what he is trying to say.

He looks at you, light dancing in his eyes. “A ceremony, of course, in front of everybody.” He trails his hand down to your hips again, squeezing them softly.

“But we had our mating ceremony,” you say frowning and Azriel bursts out laughing. 

“Only you could call it a mating ceremony, Y/n,” he is still chuckling. “And trust me, it is not something to do in front of everybody, not unless it’s an official mating ceremony with vows and everything. But we had our mating ritual on our own, didn’t we?” He winks and you blush madly. “I’m asking you to marry me, in front of the entire Night Court. I love you, I love being your friend, your partner, your mate, I love being tied to you by soul.” He leans in closer, his hands reaching back up to hold your face. “You are not just my mate, you are much much more. Something that transcends the bond itself.” 

Your legs almost give up and you close your eyes to keep yourself steady. “You want to marry me?”

He bites his lip. “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He leans in and places a soft kiss on your nose. Something about him being this comfortable with you makes you swoon. 

“Are you sure? I mean, isn’t it just the bond speaking?” you brush the skin next to his wings gently.

His eyes flicker in response to your touch, the shadows around him shift.”What the bond gives me isn’t enough. I need you all to myself, in every way possible. The bond, the ceremony, your heart. All of it.”

You lay your head on his shoulder and laugh. “Oh my god.” he hums waiting for you to continue. “Feyre and Mor are going to drive me crazy when they hear this.”

He grins, “Yeah, I think Fayre will be too busy dealing with Rhys and calming him down to bother you… And Mor, well… I am more worried she’ll try to steal you from me on our wedding day…” he teases, leaning his head on the top of your hair, the shadows gently falling on top of you both.” He rubs your arms gently with his. “Have I told you recently how beautiful you are?” his voice is so soft, you can barely hear him, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. 

“What is going on with you?” you giggle. “If you are about to tell me that you want a baby next, I might have to tell Rhys to check if you’re alright.” 

“A baby? Now?” he shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Though I wouldn’t say no to having one with you someday…” he leans down, placing a soft kiss on your lips. “I do want to spend a bit of time enjoying having you to myself first before we make that decision.”

There is a bit of silence that follows this moment, but you interrupt it. 

“Azriel?”

He smiles, his eyes meeting yours. His voice is soft, like velvet, “Yeah?” 

“If you want me to marry you, you will have to ask properly.” you send a wink to him.

He tilts his head. “Properly?” He asks, while the shadows of his are playing with your hair, diving in and out of your falling hair strands. He speaks softly again, “Are you asking me to propose in front of the court?”

“No, not necessarily, it depends on how you want to…” you trail without finishing your sentence, maybe this was a proposal?”

He smiles mischievously, his shadows coming slowly back to him, while he still holds you close. “Tell me what I should do then.” His voice is hushed. 

“It doesn’t matter what you do,” you giggle and raise your hand a bit higher, just enough that he could see it. “I just..” you wiggle your ring finger, “I just find something missing.”

He tilts his head, looking at your ring finger, the shadows going back to circling you two, slightly pushing you towards him. “Is that really all you want from me…?” he teases you, his mouth less than an inch from yours. 

“How else would I prove to those brainless Illyrian males that I am in love and faithfully connected and committed to the love of my life?”

His lips hover mere millimeters from yours, “So if I were to put a ring on your finger right now, would that answer all their questions?”

“I think it would answer your question.”

He nods. “So you don’t care if I do it in front of the Court?”

You shake your head and brush his hair slightly with your fingers, while your other hand goes back to drawing circles on his wing. “I don’t care, do it however you feel like.”

He smiles leaning closer, until his nose is barely grazing yours. “So I could just..” he trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished, but he is already reaching for your left hand, grasping it in his. 

“Wha-at is going on?” you stutter as he rubs your ring finger with his fingers. 

“I could just…” he whispers, his breath hot on your lips, his hand resting on yours, “Put that…” he trails off, leaning closer and closer, and closer towards you, gently pushing the little, delicate thing, he played with before, when you didn’t see, up your finger, sapphire located in the middle of it catching and reflecting rays of light regularly, “ring on…” he trails off again as you struggle to breathe. 

“This finger…” his eyes flicker over your now ringed hand, and his voice becomes a breathy whisper. He looks back at you. “Would you be happy? Would you accept?” 

“With or without a ring, Azriel, my answer wouldn’t change.” you grab his face and hold it lovingly, feeling warmed up metal on your finger, but paying no attention to it yet, still looking deeply in his eyes. “You had it? The whole time?”

He chuckles. “I’ve had it for weeks.” He looks at your lips and you lean in to kiss him, too eagerly cause the next thing he does, is giggle. “I still didn’t hear the answer, love.” 

“I thought it was clear,” you whisper. “But for extra thick people, it’s a yes.” 

A tremulous smile graced his lips, a rare glimpse of vulnerability that spoke volumes of his love and gratitude. With trembling hands, he reached for hers, fingers intertwining in a silent promise that echoed through the depths of their shared bond.

“So if I understand it correctly, I am not getting that report any time soon?” says Rhys, sanding there in the doorway, smirking at the couple. 

-------

[assexpansion]

Accidentally making your girlfriend's mom grow instead of her and trying to hide/cover it up

You nervously swiped the keycard to the hotel room door. Decently loud music and moving shadows on the bedroom's neat furniture met you.

"Hello? Pam? It's me, just me. You can come out." You called into the room.

Finally, you saw a black curved shape about 5 feet high crest the corner. Dread filled you as you recognized the ball to be your girlfriend's mom's new tits, entering the hallway before she did. Then, there she was in all her glory, smiling beautifully with her extreme porn-star tits and a hand on her hip.

"Just you, huh? Well, isn't that a shame?" She asked in a flirty, sarcastic tone.

She wobbled back into the room, leaving you dumbfounded. She wasn't supposed to look like this! The growth hormones weren't meant for her! You pulled at the uncomfortable stiffness forming in your pants as you tried to figure out just how much trouble you had caused. You followed her into the room. Pam eyed herself up in a mirror, adjusting her top to expose more of the huge, taught spheres. She swiveled around and eyed her figure up with a carnal vanity. Finally, she stooped low and swept her fingers up her exposed cleavage as if savoring just how fucking big her breasts were.

"You know, I don't think my daughter would have appreciated these as much." She said absent-mindedly. "I've been considering a breast-lift for a few years, but this... is so much better."

She emphasized her point by turning to you with a hand under each tit. She removed her hands to let them fall, but the pale globes barely drooped. You gulped as sweat began to form on your brow.

"But... y-you know we have to k-keep it a secret, right?" You questioned her, lining up behind the mirror so you could take in her preening.

Her eyes met yours in the reflection. "A secret? Why would I keep these hidden?"

"Because..." You began.

"Because they were meant for someone else?" Pam asked, smiling back.

You had seen the effects beginning while picking up her daughter for a date, how her shirt was a little too tight over her C-cups. Then, when you went to drop her off, Pam was sporting full-blown, firm F-cups in a red negligee. Now, they looked twice that size.

"Yes." You admitted sheepishly.

Still holding your gaze in the mirror, she carefully pulled down her shirt. More and more cleavage seemed to billow into existence as she stretched the collar. Finally, her swollen nipples, reddish and visibly throbbing, poked out.

"I wonder... if that matters... anymore." She breathed out in pleasure every few seconds while rubbing around the angry tips of her exposed tits. "And what... would my daughter say... if she caught you... and her big-boobied mom... in a hotel room together? I wonder."

You couldn't tell if you were being seduced or blackmailed. Either way, your cock was annoyingly stiff and you tried to discretely hide it by letting it run down the leg hole of your boxer. Her eyes shined.

"And if my flat-chested daughter isn't around to take care of that. I wonder who could?" She asked, turning around to face you, still teasing the ends of her huge tits.

"This whole... debacle has gotten me so... pent up. So if you promise... to let me drain you." Her eyes flickered to your poorly hidden cock. "I'll stay inside, wear whatever sweaters can hide these. I'll even fake sick so no one will know... for however long that'll last."

Pam continued, slinking toward you and fondling her now-pointed nipples. "I'll do it all. Hide these... from the world. For just... a taste."

Your member was practically popping out of your pants, so it was a no-brainer to free it, especially when she made an offer like that. She unceremoniously dropped to her knees, tits wobbling like hell, and greedily mouthed the tip of your cock. Spittle hung from between it and her lips as she pulled away in delight. Pam looked up at you.

"Our little secret, right?" She whispered, hefting her breasts up so your penis was squished between the two spheres.

You nodded in submission as she began to suck your tip and work your cock with her tits. You were already so close, but she kept going.

"Our little secret." You whimpered as you came.

[diejager]

Reunion Cw: fluff, self-hate, slight angst?, possessive behaviour, worshiping, tell me if I missed any.

Previous

He never knocked or rang the bell when he was back, he’d unlock the door and slip in, like a quiet shadow passing under the door and into your small two bedroom apartment in some part of UK, where you moved after some trouble back home. He can’t remember the time you met, at least not with clear and intact images, only small glimpses and shattered glass that made up his mind, but he remembered you. You were a mosaic of vibrant glass, the sheer material coloured in velvet red, bubbly blue, shy pink, peachy orange, lively green, royal purple and gentle yellow, you were the touch of colour in his bleak life, one of black, white and greys. 

He slinked from shadow to shadow, sticking to the walls of your apartment, doing his habitual surveillance of the area and secure it, it was something he never forgot, a routine check whenever he came back. Despite all his gear, thick and suffocating, his kevlar mask and the plates in his vest, the collection of knives he kept stocked and at hand, strapped to his hips, legs, arms, feet and body, he moved fluently. His eyes moved across the hall, peering into the open archways of your kitchen and living room, then into your bathroom and the few closets you had, and finally your bedroom. 

You were sound asleep, vulnerable and unprotected in your loose shirt and pretty, cotton panties, hair crowning around your head and blanket falling off your hips. You were a beautiful sin, something to crave and protect, he felt unworthy of being in your presence, a monster like him shouldn’t be anywhere near you, but you insisted, you cried and begged for him. How could he tell you no? How could a broken man like him not surrender to a being like you, angelic and holy in every sense? You were a taste of heaven, a slice of paradise that he wouldn’t dare touch - dare ruin - but you wanted him to, and he let you indulge in whatever you liked, however long you wanted.

Working meticulously, he silently stripped, knife after knife, then his vests and armour, followed by any rough and thick fabrics that would irritate your skin if you rubbed against it. Stuffed into his duffle bag, he slid behind you, the thin straps of his top straining around his broad shoulders as much as they stretched over the span of his abdomen and chest, he quietly pressed himself against you: spooning you with an arm around your and you back to his chest, warmly cuddled into his unbridled heat. Just the way you liked it.

Where he feared and hated touching people and being touched, a result of both his upbringing and the treatment he was delt, you adored it, a loving and affectionate person he grew to worship like an apostle would wit their deity. You were the perfect opposite to him, open, welcoming, charming and gentle. The strange dichotomy of your relationship was something he feared would ruin you, he - for all his stoicism and coldness - was terrified that he’d shame you, becoming something shameful, a black mold growing within your perfect world. He feared he would corrupt it as it ruled his with ruination and chaos. 

But you… loved him. Or so you’d whisper. At nights where he was eerily quiet, a large slump against your wall while you sang and chirped like the pretty bird you were. You’d see past his blank expression, past the dazed yet unarmed gleam in his eyes, past the tense muscles and his grunts. You’d see him not as a shell of a broken man, but as someone you loved and cherished just as much as he knelt to you, kissing the rough scars of his palms with your gentle lips and peppering his body with sweet praises and reminders that you were here for him. 

Whenever he wanted. Wherever he was. Whatever he needed. You would be there the moment he called. And if you needed him - if you’d still want him after he came home covered in blood and filth - he would heed your call, kneel at your feet and kiss them. Despite all his flaws and insecurities, he coveted and protected you, he was too possessive of you to simply let you go because of his shortcomings —of course, as long as you’ll have him.

Tagist: @warenai @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @cutiecusp @ladyof-themoon @yourdaydreamerfan @blackhoodlea @daisychainsinknots @under-the-dirt @moansteur @iamnotfinedaddy @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @katzarantos @danielle143 @bubbletae7 @artemeow @nes-kopi @notspiders @waves-against-a-cliff @brokenpieces-72 @princessboogaloo @petwifed @craxy-person @aldis-nuts @randominstake @yanderestory @jggykhug09090 @haven-1307 @shironasumi @redeveryflower @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @cummunistcat @fangirlformaskedmen @cod-z @sweetnanah @uhd377 @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @nobilitando @marriedtoeddie @elaemae @mxblobby @kaoyamamegami @desiray562 @cassiecasluciluce

[silentium-symphony]

A Lamb in Wolf's Clothing (Link x Reader) SMUT

(a/n) hey ya'll! i'm so sorry for going MIA for a few months--as some of you may know, I have just recently graduated from college, so there are a lot of big changes happening in my life right now! i appreciate your continued patience with me :) this fic was commissioned by the lovely @mistressofdeathsblog! thank you for giving me such a fun prompt, I had a lot of fun trying smth new and I hope you enjoy it too!

before you start reading, please take special note of the cw below. also, please remember that this is not a healthy relationship you want to emulate and is written for the sole purpose of entertainment. if you are in a relationship that strips your autonomy and you feel unsafe bringing this issue up to the offending party/parties, please reach out to someone you trust. there is no power in staying if there is no freedom to leave. stay safe out there.

and ofc, since this is smut, minors do not interact with this piece.

cw: dubcon, afab!reader, ooc!link since i highly doubt Hylia's Hero would be so life-alteringly possessive of their lover, tp!link, reader being chased, reader being held against their will, blood, tight spaces, swearing, name-calling, dumbification kinda??, cunnilingus, doggy, mirror/standing sex

wc: 5k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Sweat and blood dribbled down your forehead, stinging your eyes with a salty, metallic bite. Thorn-kissed hands grasped and blindly waded through thick patches of bramble. The dark, bristling whips that surrounded you worked every exposed piece of skin into a raw, bloody mess quivering from the forest's cruelty.

You couldn't care less.

The birds overhead guffawed at your efforts as splotches of pale moon danced mockingly, titillatingly along the cold earth. You chased every moon patch with the frenzy of an escaped convict a morning away from freedom.

Because that's what you were, really.

The beginnings and ends of thoughts knotted and frayed into each other, flurrying your head into a cohesive garble. Just how big was this forest? It looked like a sprawling mess from the fortress you were locked up in, but it was absolutely impenetrable now that you were in the thick of it. It was as if the very woods were enchanted to keep you from ever escaping.

A ring of pain hooked the topside of your foot, propelling all of your momentum downwards and towards the forest floor. You couldn't even scream before you bashed your cheek through a thin layer of crusted mud. The cold soil caked your flushed cheeks--the only shred of relief you've felt since your mad sprint to freedom.

Your spine slinked up into a curl--a pathetic attempt to get up, to begin your chase again, but your battered body refused to endure further abuse. (E/C) eyes flitted about you, trying to interpret the shadows that danced and weaved through the trees.

Running in this state would be pointless. You dug your forearms and elbows to crawl towards an ivy overhang that promised hidden refuge and curled into as tight of a ball you could muster. The silky white dress he gifted you had been ripped past recognition. The airy fabric that once brushed your ankles now clung tightly to your blood-laced thighs, soiled from the toils of flight. You pulled your legs closer; your lungs fought for precious breath against your pounding heart.

What a shame. If only it weren't beating so fast, you might have heard the crack of a single twig located too close for comfort.

From several paces into the unseen was a pair of blue eyes misted over with sinful hunger; your quivering, shorn form was scintillating to watch and feasted his mind with imaginations more heart-racing than the last. Your blood, sweat, and tears mixing with your natural scent proved to be the most tantalizing olfactory cocktail, scattering his thoughts into overdrive.

He hated the rush he got from seeing you like this--lost and confused without his guidance through these nested thorns, yearning for warmth and safety he knew he could provide (and had been providing since you stumbled into his castle that fateful day).

Why did you leave him? Was he not enough for you? But he'd given you everything! Everything! Freshly made home-cooked meals, tailored clothes that hugged your form, a bed warmed by him, his body...

He could still feel the soft plush of your flesh sinking and dimpling in his hands as he thrust into you with the faux tenderness of a starved man. Your beautiful eyes locked with his own, only leaving to disappear into the back of your head. Your mouth agape to let the cutest sounds escape...

If you were happy with him, why were you leaving him?

Not waking up to your face smooshed into his pillows, not beholding you in all the pretty silk and ribbons he had lying around, not fucking you in every position you could possibly think of, not spending every waking moment with you...

Why, he'd rather die.

If it made you happy, he'd allow the ambrosial drippings of freedom to bead your lips.

If it made you happy, he'd let you delude yourself into thinking you were far enough from the castle to be away from him.

But only for now. Link prided himself on his chivalry and patience, but even that was growing thin from your incessant attempts of escape. He was going to have to show you why it was such a good idea to stay here with him, forever and ever and ever.

You were nodding off now, it seemed. The way your head kept dipping and rising in a futile attempt to stay wary was so adorable, he just had to ravish you right then and there! He had barely managed to stave off his intrusive thoughts as he stalked closer to you, still clinging closely to the dark cloak that hung off twisted branches.

You saw something shift from the corner of your eye; your neck snapped up and a croak clawed out of you.

"Who's there?!"

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Why was it so quiet?

Had it always been so quiet?

Where have the birds gone?

A familiar silhouette emerged from the trees.

"L-... Link..." Your throat, parched and scratched from heaving the cold night air, rang a voice unfamiliar to you.

Azure eyes that once beheld you with all the love in the world now stare back with deadpan coldness. Words need not be exchanged here; his presence alone blew any hope of escape in the next breeze that ruffled his fur.

A calculated step towards you retreated you further into your little alcove, a prayer that the ivy could take you in as one of its own on your lips. There was no telling what he was thinking, or how close to the edge he was. But that look, that hunger.

That familiar, craved look your body knew too well pulsed anxious tingles through your fingertips.

Another step.

Then another.

Another.

Finally,

He was here.

You could feel him, all of him--his hot breath against your arms, his fur bristling against your thigh, his warmth freezing your blood where it ran. You hadn't realized how much you were shaking until you heard the rhythmic shifting of ivy buzzing into your ear.

He pressed his head into your lap, prying you open to make way for him. And you sat there, obeying him like the perfect little doe you were. As he lazily dragged a tongue across your thigh, lapping at the dried blood that crusted your flesh, he looked up. Relief, adoration, love. That stifling comforting, possessive protective obsession love that he had so readily wrapped you in the moment he met you. For a moment, he looked like a lamb in wolf's clothing.

So many thoughts swirled inside you, your brain numbing to prevent overstimulation. But amongst the chaos, a single thought backdropped every complicated emotion you were feeling.

He had found you.

Had it not been for the blood drumming through your ears and temples, you would have thought time had frozen in this purgative state. He was splayed atop you now, seeming to rest from his hours-long stalking; he wasn't crushing you, but it was clear he had all the control in this dynamic. Any undesirable shift away from him, to preserve your own personhood, would most certainly have led to a 'gentle' nudge toward him.

A single cobalt eye lazily cracked open after a million years ticked by. His piercing gaze, though fringed with some life, made it abundantly clear that your race to freedom was placed at an indefinite standstill. He had never once snapped at you, but the fear lodged in your chest informed you not to test him further.

He hauled himself up, joints locked from inactivity popping to life as he arched into a long stretch. His carefree pose hinted at obliviousness--borderline forgiveness--to your impertinence, but you knew better.

Link never forgets.

He eyed you again with a sort of child-like excitement that twisted your gut into a sickening pattern. His tail arced to and fro, painting his excitement in broad strokes. He wedged his snout between the small of your back and the wall and firmly pushed you forward, scooting you a couple inches toward your prison home.

You knew better than to anger him.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Link's skillful navigation through the thorns was unimpeded by your clinging onto him. It had taken hours to get to where you once were, but a quarter of that time for the wolf. The gloomy castle you had called your home for months (years?) broadened into view until you could clearly see its spires puncture through occasional clouds. The moon, basking in its celestial sovereignty, jeered at your return.

Link slipped through a tiny crack in the iron-clad door, made by the wolf confident in its tracking and retrieving abilities. You slugged off him with practiced movements; a sound akin to obscene magic asundering flesh preluded your captor's transformation. Grisly black fur gave way to sand-blonde hair; the worn, patchwork shirt which heralded his humble beginnings as a rancher ran taut against the back you had spent several minutes clambering onto.

He continued looking ahead unblinkingly as you idled a few paces behind him, your chest constricting and mind frenzying with murky anticipation. Your nerves, frayed from adrenaline and brain-altering fear, now swam in the heavy nothingness of silence; you were a breath away from weeping before a tenor tone disturbed the still.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

Silently, you both moved through the halls, paying the torchlit shadows the special type of attention one gave to the mundane in moments choked with awkwardness. Worn, freshly torn hands bunched the hem of your dress until your knuckles whitened. A part of you wished to never reach your destination, preferring thickened stillness over the unpredictable inevitable. You rounded a familiar corner and gathered the shreds of your sanity to brace yourself for whatever may come.

The sullen wooden door gave way to the man's heave and you followed him in. A large bathroom decorated only with the essentials filled your view. As Link ran the faucet, your eyes absently glazed over the rickety plumbing he had installed to transport hot spring water to the tub. For the first time since his transformation, he turned to you.

"Strip."

His clear, authoritative tone cut sharper than any thorn that had shredded you. Eyes downcast, your fingers wrought the straps of your dress further, further down your shoulders. Your skin burned from your clammy fingers; you blamed it on the steam that had begun filling the corners of the room and ignored the heavy, heated stare placed on you by the male.

Link followed your dawdling, hooking his fingers under the hem of his shirt and lifting it to reveal a stomach sculpted by years of farm work and adventuring. The straps of your dress coiled close to your elbows before settling by your ankles. Your hands immediately scattered to cover your exposed parts as Link finished undressing himself, his fully erect length blurred by warm mists and (eventually) a deftly wrapped towel.

He reached over to squeak the faucet shut; the comforting, monotonous lull of running water now halted to scant droplets. After pulling out the small basket of rags and soap, he sat on a bar stool and beckoned you with a lone finger.

"Come here. You're filthy."

You shuffled out of the shredded dress and forward, keeping your eyes trained on the end of the tub where he sat.  The wanton desire for a hot bath waived your concerns over the situation, dulling your fears enough to throw a leg over the edge and sink everything but the top half of your face below the water.

The warm panacea cloaked you in an elixir of ease, and a satisfied groan unintentionally lapsed your lips; your hand figuratively slapped over your mouth when the air honeyed into something...

Sinful.

Link dipped a small bucket into the bathwater and slowly poured it over your head, calloused fingers expertly combing through knotted, crusted strands. The hardened skin tenderly brushing the back of your neck jolted heated memories to the forefront of your mind.

You could still feel the harsh, almost desperate grip laced in your hair as he pounded you from behind, panting sweet promises to give you more for the rest of your lives. Your face, buried in his pillows, blindly nodded along to the specifics of what he had said, your mind too blurred to focus on much else aside from your umpteenth high of the night.

The warm water felt like a cold deluge and a noticeable shiver ran through you. Soapy hands stopped caressing your scalp.

"(F/N)?"

"H-Huh?"

"How about we play a little game?" Link murmured suddenly, absently twirling your locks in his fingertips. Had it not been for the taut fingers interweaved through your hair, your surprise would have been more apparent.

"What... What game?"

"A little game similar to hide-n-seek." He started languidly, as if savoring every vowel that lisped his tongue. "If you can evade my capture until dawn, I will guide you to the forest's edge so you may leave. However..."

Rough fingerpads traced up the side of your bicep as darkened ears caught your quiet, involuntary gasp.

"If I catch you... You're mine. Deal?"

Throat tightening and heart palpitating, your mind fought to keep its last ounce of calm as your captor's hand circled to your front to cusp and knead your--

"What's the catch?" You breathed, somehow managing to divert your attention away from Link's sinful reaches.

"There is no catch, but there are rules." He pecked your cheek, his lips curving into a soft smile that thinly veiled iller intents.

"You are allowed to hide anywhere in the castle grounds and use whatever means necessary to hide from me, so long as neither of us gets seriously injured... The moment you step foot in that forest, I will claim you where you stand. Is that fair?"

Was this a trick?

A sick joke meant to dangle tonight's failure in your face?

Surely it was... But what if it wasn't?

His steady stare that peered shamelessly through your soul conveyed a degree of seriousness and sincerity required to make a truthful statement.

"How do I know that you won't go back on your word?"

"I have never lied to you." He gritted his teeth. "Can you say the same?"

The genuine hurt masking his eyes ached your chest, but the tiniest shred of dignity you had left netted the apology that almost escaped your mouth.

"Is there anything else I should know before I make my decision?"

"No. I have told you everything you need to know and will uphold my end of the deal. The final decision is yours."

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Moonlight masqueraded through the gaping windows, streaking drab grey pillars with hints of alabaster. The halls which you have called home for what felt like time immemorial now crowded your vision with a foreign bite, sinking into your flesh an unnerving uncertainty around every corner.

Your neck swiveled on all axes, one eye trained in front of you and the other separating the benign from foe that hid in every dancing shadow. Bare feet pattering against olden stone filled the gaps in between each racing heart beat, drumming your ears in a never-ending symphony of chase.

Legs aching, quaking, begging for proper rest are promptly ignored, outcompeted by the more urgent matter at hand.

Your final gambit for freedom.

You cursed under your breath as you ascended a spiraling staircase, your lungs burning with the rage of a thousand suns from heaving in the cold, arid air. The stone floor kissed knicks into the soles of your feet as you skidded around a corner and madly dashed down the hall, shifting down a narrow crawlspace that branched off from the main hall.

Whispered hisses and curses bounced off the tightening walls as rough-hewn stone jagged into your skin, reopening recently closed wounds from the brambles. You could only pray that Link was far enough away to not pick up on freshly streaked blood.

A familiar carpet--the one from the main hall--filled your view and you slowed your shimmying into a momentary pause. You fought to see through your grimace to peer around the corner and hoped that your heart wasn't beating loud enough to mask the signs of your stalker.

All good...?

You scooted out of that uncomfortable position and ducked towards the exit.

The private gardens opened up to you. Trails of ivy found residence in the cracked grey of decayed walls and the fountain was spewing the most delicious water your parched throat had ever seen. You circled the mini courtyard, your frenzied mind shunting the garden's haunting aesthetics in search of a practical hiding place. To your right was the more open space of the main courtyard, and to your left were the untrimmed topiaries of Hyrulian heroes commemorated only in flora.

Streaks of morning were just beginning to tip the horizon.

Your feet teetered toward the right, but a certain non-human shadow slinked past the threshold. All color drained from your pallor as you scurried around the topiary's wide base and hid behind the cloister's stone pillar. The sounds of flesh ripping and reanimating shot through the air; tears began to freely flow as a carefree whistle ambled closer to you.

"My, my... It's almost daybreak. I must find my beloved soon, or else I'll lose her forever."

The sky was just beginning to tinge a magenta-red.

"Is she... Hiding by the door?"

Boots clicking against stone rang like a departed's dirges. Your clammy fingers dug into the side of your face--a feeble attempt to muffle your whimpering.

"Is she... Behind these topiaries? No? Hm... But I'm getting close, aren't I, (F/N)?"

All strength, all hope, had been sapped from your body; your knees locked and buckled.

"Oh? Have we always had a little walkway back here? What a wonderful surprise! I know my darling would love it here."

Your vision darkened.

Leather nestled softly into your face as the heat of another poured and mingled with the cold stone pressed to your back.

"Guess who?" He sang.

You felt all your muscles simultaneously release their tension; your legs folded in on themselves, but secure arms hooked them under and hoisted you bridal style.

As you were carted inside the dark fortress, the morning sun greeted you in its soft-rayed glory.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

The stale castle air flooded your lungs as your body was unceremoniously tossed onto the bed. A hand tightened around your wrists and hot, agitated lips locked with yours before your brain could register the cotton plush of your sheets. His other hand feathered up your thigh, learned fingers grazing all your tender spots and teasing your thoughts into a foggy mix of want.

Your figure writhed uselessly under him as he flattened you further into the bed, using his full weight to keep you pinned where he wanted. The hand that carried out its sinful ministrations below shot up to seize your cheeks. Rough fingerpads bruised the softer flesh as he craned your neck to make way for his lips, flushed with a feral red and coated with soft proclamations of domination.

"You're mine... All mine..."

Hot breaths ghosted the surface of your neck, tickling a heated whine out of you. Your needy noises hitched into a gasp when you felt moistened lips lock onto your skin, suckling and teething the flesh into discolored patches. Rich vermilion fringed with a sinful violet bloomed below your jawline, trailing down and darkening with each claim closer to your chest.

He yanked the noisome dress down, exposing all of your chest to him. The snaps of cloth ripping from its handles and the sudden whip of cold air across your most sensitive parts pierced a jolt through your body. He pulled away to admire the shades of purple and red marring your fair complexion, a visual reminder to the dust haunting old halls and courtyards lost to time that you were his, and his alone. A lone tongue swirled around an irritated bud.

Trembles quaked through you--from heated anticipation or disgust, you were unsure. He hooked his fingers back into your cheeks and pried your face to look into his own. Sky-blue eyes, which once beheld you in crinkled happiness, had dimmed into a hazy navy clouded with lust.

"So pretty... My gorgeous, gorgeous girl."

Soft lips brushed your forehead, ambled down to your nose, and finally settled on your lips.

"My good girl."

Lips warmed with depraved whispers silenced around your bud. Starved suckling backdropped the more apparent whimpers scratching your throat, dredged in pleasure with a dulling edge of resistance. Scarred skin delicately cusped your mounds, tweaking and flicking your perkiness until it was a rosy red.

Your growing sensitivity stung tears into your eyes. Achy hands, now free from his grasp, grappled onto sinewy shoulders but did little to convey genuine discomfort. A deep groan purred from his chest as Link balanced your sore bud in a soft knead between his teeth. A pop filled the room.

"Let me see those eyes."

Your eyes wedged open to see blown-out blues taking all of you in. Your heart pounded a flush into your cheeks and christened an unholy flame to spread through your core.

"That's it... Now watch me..."

He dragged his body lower and lower, his eyes unwavering from yours for even a second. Steady hands balled into the collar of your dress and tore through the silk, the symphony of rips bouncing off the walls and knocking coherence out of your head. His lips matched the pace of the ragged unveiling and chased progressively exposed flesh with soft kisses, down, down, and farther down. Feverish breaths along your inner thighs sent chills up your spine.

"Watch me as I make you cum for me."

Hands gnarled from knighthood knotted into the delicate lace separating him from his prize, tearing it apart with ease.

"Link, hold--ah!"

Your eyes shot to the back of your head as your mouth gaped into a silent 'O.' An orchestra of colors, conducted by a madly indulgent maestro, symphonized into a crazed, otherworldly experience. His tongue coiled and stretched into you with the practiced precision of many amorous nights while his thumb circled the space around your clit, teasing the nub until agony. It was only a matter of time before your impassioned gasps and pleas competed with the downright sinful wetness Link lapped below.

"Tell me you love this--that you love me."

"Link, please! Just give it to me please, please, please...!" The top of your head rolled further into your pillow when the painful prick of a pinch shot too much for too short a time.

"Don't look away. Don't you dare look away, you filthy slut." Deft fingers plunged into you until pleasure fried your brain. "You'll cum when I tell you to."

Your whines and whimpers hiccuped into full sobs for release, whistled with pleas and promises you both knew you wouldn't keep.

"You'll love me forever, right? You'll be my good lil' cock slut forever, right?"

"Yes! Yes, I promise! Please Link, just let me cum already, please!"

You damn liar.

He pulled away, coldly gazing at the weeping, quivering, gasping mess of his beloved.

"Link...? W-why did you--"

"Your heart may have forgotten, but your body remembers..."

His sweet lips, tinted with a hint of bitter longing, moved with yours in a desperate, crazed dance. Every lust-filled, haggard groan ripped from his lungs masked the quieter crack running up his heart.

The bed creaked from the sudden redistribution of your weight as he spread you on all fours. He aligned himself to your entrance and, in a single motion that he had done hundreds of times, completed you. A wail, colored in pleasure and streaked with pain, contrasted Link's blissed-out groan. Tears brimmed the corner of your eyes; each droplet slipped down your cheek in time with his frenetic pounding until it had thickened into a steady stream.

He wasted no time in his pursuit for pleasure, hitching his pelvis to your ass, pulling away, and slamming back in with the gentleness of a starved wolf ripping into a lamb. His fingers dug crescents into your hips as he adjusted himself, propping one of his legs up to angle himself deeper and faster into you.

He was stretching you past your limits, and every thrust was accompanied by a heated flash of pain. Your upper half sunk towards the bed as he moved your hips higher, closer to him. Helpless (E/C)s stared at the creaking bedpost while your whitening knuckles dug through the sheets clumped in your hands. A salty mixture of tears and saliva pooled on your pillow as honeyed cries haunted your walls.

"What, is my princess not having a good time?" He jeered, reaching over to give your engorged clit a cruel flick and your ass an even crueler slap. "What does my baby want me to do to her? Huh? What do you want me to do to your tight pussy?"

"L-Link, It hurts! It's too--!"

The side of your quivering hips slammed into the mattress and forced you on your back. Your face snapped into the pillow when his writhing tongue replaced his thick cock, tonguing and lapping at your dripping pussy as if your ambrosia would be the last thing he was to taste. He pulled out and spat on your entrance, pressing his tongue flat against your pussy and swiping up towards the clit that he coiled.

"Mmph... Fuck, I love you... Give me more... Gods, give me more."

A bruising ache pressed into your hips as his frenzied circling spurred faster, faster, faster. Pleasure dizzied your senses towards a dark void; the familiar knot in your stomach that ached to unravel popped with the abrupt re-emergence of Link.

"Mm, tight as ever... How're you feeling, my dove?" He husked, ragged breaths encapsulating the shell of your ear.

"Too b-bi--Link, you're too big!"

"Shhh... You can take it. You've taken it hundreds of times. C'mon, squeeze my cock like a good girl."

"It's so--Link, you're stretching me out, I need to--"

"Not yet. I'm not done fucking you yet." He swiveled you back on all fours and pounded you into the mattress, your cries and pleas be damned. Slender fingers snarled through your tresses and strained you away from the pillows that held your screams.

"When I'm ready, I want to watch you cum all over my cock." His erratic pounding slowed for a split second, enough time for a certain thought to come and go. "I want you to see it too."

Your abused cunt finally had a moment to breathe and process; if only your brain had that same luxury.

The bed sighed a relieved groan as Link crawled out and wrapped his arms about your lower abdomen to hoist you up. When it was evident that this pathetically limp curl was the best you could do, toned forearms hooked under your knees and spread your legs in the most vulnerable position you've ever been in. With a huff, Link brought you front and center to the mirror. You both watched breathlessly as he lowered you onto his slicked cock, sinking every inch into your gummy walls.

"Fuck, you're so tight... I need you, (F/N)..."

His crazed pistoning began once more; the sensations that ransacked your body were unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. The tip of his cock so easily, so effortlessly rammed into your sweetest spots; every thrust he slammed into you turned you into a shamelessly shaking, overstimulated mess.

"Look at you," he hummed darkly, "look at all the sin running down your legs."

Link's voice was so far away now. The way he kept disappearing into your sopping cunt and your juices dribbling over your thighs consumed your every thought. The only tangible you could feel was the building pressure coiling in your gut, tightening with each passing second.

"So beautiful... So tight... Don't you want to do this forever? Hm? Don't you want to be ruined by me forever and ever?"

His teeth sunk into your neck, adding to the carnal collection and ripping a hoarse cry out of you.

"You're my good girl, aren't you? My good girl... You're all mine--all fucking mine."

Veins marbled his arms and forehead as he nuzzled into your neck, tongue tracing the edge of every bite. The labored grunts that occasionally wheezed out of him, along with his stuttering hips, signaled that he was teetering closer and closer to the edge. Hooded blues stared piercingly into your own, weighed down by mindless intoxication. His lips brushed a flame through the curve of your ear.

"Look at me..." He purred. "Look at me and confess your lust to me."

A shattered cry, followed by a wave of profane heat, collided with your system. Winced eyes lolled to the back of your head while you spasmed and twitched in still arms. Your violent clenching and knowledge of your release strained a guttural growl through Link's chest as he spurted his cum as deep as it could go. Thin, white threads coated your walls and trailed out your still-plugged hole until drips of sin stained the stone below.

Link tripped to the foot of the bed, his body folding into the sheets the second his foot made contact with the wooden post. With arms wrapped comfortably around you and the familiar presence of your spent lover, you passed out the moment your body recognized blissed finality.

As you commenced your near-immediate foray into the realm of dreams, a familiar voice--soft yet broken--rang through your last layer of consciousness.

"Sleep well, my dove. If eternally precarious possession is the closest thing we will ever have to love, I will gorge myself on it."

[rashoumon-homo]

No Such Tastes In Men (Dazai x Reader)

Dazai x Male Reader, NSFW

-> Content Warnings: oral (Dazai receiving)

-> 750 words

NSFW CONTENT AHEAD - READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

(Request sent in by @suru1990 - Thank you!)

As one of the ADA’s informants, overhearing conversations is literally your job. But somehow, you didn’t expect that one-liner from Dazai would be so jarring. Even now, as you lean against the alley wall waiting for him to arrive so you can give your latest report, you can’t help but snicker behind your hand.

I mean seriously, “I have no such tastes in men?” He’s as bisexual as they come; the statement was so ridiculous it caught you off guard at first.

Fashionably late, Dazai slinks in from the shadows and leans against the wall opposite you. He smiles, that perpetually smug expression of his barely visible in the dim light.

“So,” he says, “Notice anything suspicious lately? Anything the ADA should look out for?”

You shake your head. “It’s been uneventful lately. Although I did hear one thing that surprised me.”

“Oh?” Dazai cocks an eyebrow.

“Apparently you’re not into men,” you say. “Not to your tastes, or something like that.”

Dazai’s ears tinge pink, but you can’t see it in the darkness. “I’m not,” he insists. “I’m straight.”

You can’t help but laugh. When he doesn’t crack and join in, you furrow your brows. “Seriously?”

Dazai nods.

“Shame,” you say, hand trailing down to your crotch. “I’ve always kinda hoped I’d get to hook up with you once or twice.” You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your movements or the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he sees you tease at your zipper.

You straighten and step towards him, closing the few feet between you. Your palm rests against the alley wall beside his head, loosely caging him in. “Speaking of taste…” Your eyes trail down between the two of you. “Got anything against me getting a taste of you?”

Dazai’s eyes widen. For once, you’ve managed to catch him off guard. “Are you offering to suck my dick?” he asks incredulously.

You shrug. “If you’re comfortable with it. Even if you’re not into guys, a mouth is a mouth, right?” You lean in to whisper in his ear. “I promise you I can make it good.”

He shudders, almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” he says quietly. “But this doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” you say with a grin, sinking to your knees. You make quick work of his belt, pulling his pants and boxers to his mid-thighs. His cock is already rapidly stiffening, brushing against the hem of his shirt. You smirk and wrap your hand around it, giving it a light stroke. “Already hard?” you tease.

Dazai tries to frown, but doesn’t really succeed. “Shut up,” he mutters.

“Ooh, dangerous words to say to the guy literally holding your dick,” you say, then before he can get a retort in, you start pumping him for real. He lets out a low moan, more of a sigh than anything. Now that he’s fully hard, you cautiously lick at the precum beading at the tip. It’s bitter, not your favorite flavor by a long shot, but the way Dazai’s spine tenses and he lets out a breathy grunt is delicious.

Without a second thought, you take him into your mouth. The shape of his cock is perfect, like you were made for him or the other way around. You grip his thighs as you start to bob your head. A symphony of grunts and moans fill the air, increasing in pitch.

He seems unsure what to do with his hands, so you guide them to the back of your head. His fingers curl in your hair, tentatively guiding your movements. Then his cockhead hits the back of your throat and yeah that’s good. It brings tears to your eyes and feels a little like choking, but you don’t even care.

How can you care, when he’s downright whimpering; grasping desperately at your hair and moving his hips in little aborted thrusts?

It hasn’t even been five minutes and he’s already gasping and moaning, “Fuck… gonna cum…” It seemed like he was going to try to pull out, but his orgasm hits too quickly.

Your throat is flooded with his warm spend and you’re drowning in it. What a way to go; lost in the salty, slightly bitter taste of Dazai’s cum.

Next thing you know, he’s pulled you off of him and you’re coughing on the dirty ground in the alley.

“Sorry, are you okay?” he asks. It’s the first time you’ve heard him apologize. And you’re paid to listen to his bullshit all day.

“Fine,” you say. Your coughs turn into laughter, a sort of euphoric hysteria. “You’re my exact taste in men.”

Fun fact, I actually had a different plan for this one originally where Dazai would be the one giving the reader a blowjob so if people like this one I might do a part 2 with that plot!

Next Part ->

Back to Masterlist

[fatesundress]

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice because lots of heavy jealousy tropes are misogynistic icks fo me, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that. 

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone. 

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this desperate creature, writhing and panting, trying in vain to satiate herself with a simple finger — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

[dreamy-demons]

Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

Pairing: Charles Lee Ray x Female Reader

CW: rough sex, rough oral (male receiving), orgasm denial, cheating, degrading, lots of insults, bad dom etiquette, slut shaming, kinda sorta dubcon(??? Could be read that way), overall very toxic relationship lol

Summary: Reader ditches Charles on a night out and hooks up with a stranger. This is the aftermath.

Word count: ~2000

He's the first thing you see when you walk through the door.

It's 3am and he sits illuminated only by the table lamp, casting harsh shadows across his face. He stands and slinks toward you and you try to swallow the fear that shoots through you.

"Where the fuck did you go last night?"

Eyes down, you try to push past him. He pulls you back.

"Oh no you're not walking away from me again. You bailed on me, I think I deserve to know where you went."

“I had to get some air, okay? I got some food and stayed at a friend's house. Not that I owe you an explanation.”

Charles had been a prick at the bar last night. You were sick of him flirting with other women and thought it would be fun seeing the look on his face when you gave him a taste of his own medicine. seeing him now, you realise it was not the case.

“Awww you needed to get some air?” He scoffs, “Is that what they're calling fucking some random prick from a bar these days? If you're going to play smart with me you can fuck off and sleep on the streets. I can find another whore like you on any corner of the city.”

"Do you want me to beg, is that what you want? Oh, please, Chucky, how could I ever make it up to you." Anger momentarily cuts through your fear, and you sink down to your knees, hands up in mock prayer.

"You've got to be shitting me." He groans, rolling his eyes. "Get up, you're embarrassing yourself…"

His words trail off as he looks down at you, so fragile beneath him. When his eyes meet yours something stirs within them. A hand grasps your chin and his eyes bore into you. Your heart skips a beat.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do?" You place a hand on his thigh.

"Let's see… You be a good girl and get me off real good tonight, and then maybe I'll forgive you. Okay? Maybe. How's that sound?" You quickly nod, sliding your hand further up his thigh until your hand ghosts over his dick. You feel his body tense.

"Shit, you're eager." He laughs pulling you up from the ground and dragging you across to the couch. Leaning back, he shoves you to your knees between his legs.

You make quick work freeing him from his pants. Spitting on your hand, you give him a few languid strokes before taking him into your mouth.

"God, that pretty fucking mouth of yours." He groans, possessive fingers grasping your hair. You work at his cock, taking him in deep, exploring him with your tongue. Charles is holding your hair so tightly it hurts, and you have no choice but to keep eye contact with him to alleviate the pain. His eyes bore into you, frenzied.

"Did you suck his dick like this too, babe?"

You whimper around him, not answering his question. He pushes your head down to the hilt, nose to his pelvis.

"I asked you a fucking question."

You struggle to let out an "mmhmm" as you nod. He pulls you off, spit dripping down your chin, and leans in close.

"You dirty fucking whore." He tuts. "This is the only cock you'll ever need, ya hear me? Because you seem to have forgotten that."

You're still gasping for air, but he pulls you back onto him.

"By the end of tonight babe, I promise you, you will never forget again."

He uses you like a toy, rutting into your throat, and all you can do is try not to choke and keep your aching jaw slack. Your eyes water with every thrust, leaving streaks of mascara running down your face. A thumb comes up to swipe away your tears, and if you didn’t know him better you’d almost be mistaken in thinking this was a sweet gesture. His eyes darken and his movements become erratic.

"That's. Right. Bitch. Cry. For. Me." He grunts out between thrusts. It’s not long before he spills deep into your throat. Charles pulls your head off him, and you make sure to keep eye contact while you swallow every drop.

He brings you up into his lap. You snuggle into his chest and he pets your hair. You relax, knowing you've satisfied him. He's forgiven you. Everything is okay and… wait. Why is he petting your hair? He sucks at aftercare. Fat chance he'd ever be petting you like this after the fight you just had. You pull back and he's grinning down at you, eyes dark.

"Oh you- you really thought" he can't get through his sentence without laughing. "Come on, did ya really think I would let you off that easily? Cause you really fucked me over back there, doll."

"I'm sorry Chuck, really. I'll be a good girl from now on."

"You think you've learned your lesson already?"

You nod, with the best innocent face you can give him.

"Yeahhh, I'm just not convinced. You need to be punished. And you know what?"

A hand slides between you, fingertips brushing past your stomach causing goosebumps all over your body. Your breath hitches when he slips under your skirt.

"I think you want to be punished."

You blush, averting your gaze.

"Look at how wet you are! I just had you choking on my dick til you couldn't breathe and you're getting off on it. You really are a whore." Two fingers slide into your hole, and he wastes no time finding that spot inside of you that makes you mewl. His thumb makes languid circles on your swollen clit, while he slowly pumps his fingers into you.

"More Chucky, please." You moan.

"More? You want more?"

"Please. I need it." You plead. It's nowhere near enough stimulation to get you close and it's driving you crazy. Instead of speeding up, he stops his movements entirely.

"Sorry doll, I don't think you deserve more right now."

You grip his shirt, whimpering. Your hips grind on their own desperately wanting him to start moving again.

"Stop fucking squirming." He growls, and you will yourself to stop. "Tell me again. What do you want?"

"I want more, Chucky. I love the way you feel inside of me, I want to cum on your fingers. I need it."

His fingers start to resume their motions, back at the same teasing pace.

"Ya know, I think I'm liking taking my time here." He grins.

Against all your better judgement you try again to move your hips, and you're met with a look that sends ice shooting down your spine.

Before you have time to react his hands are around your throat. You try to squeak out an apology but his grip is too tight. Your heart is beating so hard it feels like it's going to burst out your chest. Your life is completely in his hands. 'He could really do it right now.' You think to yourself, 'It was only a matter of time. Why did I ever think I was any different than all the people he killed?'

You pull at his wrists trying to pry him off you, pleading with your eyes. But he's stronger than you. And he's enjoying this far too much

"I already told you once to stop fucking squirming. You better think real hard before you try doing that again."

Finally he lets you go and you collapse against him. The air burns your lungs as you suck in big gulps.

"What do we say?"

"Thank you. Thank you so much Chucky, it'll never happen again I promise." God, how much more pathetic could you get?

"That was so fucking hot, my dick's already hard again. How are we gonna fix this now?"

Bastard. Of course he got off on that.

"Fuck me, please, I need it. I want to make you feel good. I'll do anything."

He finds his way back to your pussy and pumps quickly, fingers curling into you.

"Let's get this cunt nice and wet." He says, as if you weren't already more wet than you'd ever been.

"And don't even think about cumming without my permission, got that?"

His thumb on your clit moves in exactly the right way, tight circles that send shocks through your entire body. You rest your head on his chest, unable to do anything but let the pleasure wash over you. Your walls flutter around him as he rubs against the right spots with each thrust.

"God, I'm so close! Please, please can I cum now?" You're sure you've dripped all over his lap by this point. You don't think you can hold back for much longer. You're right there you just need- NO!

That asshole! He stopped. Again. The strangled cry of frustration you let out sends him into a laughing fit.

"Sorry babe, want you cumming on my dick tonight. That's kinda the whole point of this lesson. Hands and knees. Now."

You scramble off his lap and get on all fours. Chucky flips up your skirt and smears the wetness from his fingers all over your ass.

You feel his head nudge at you, but instead of entering, he slides through your folds, causing frustrated curses to fall from your lips.

"You look so fucking gorgeous like this." He groans, "This is where you belong. Spread open, dripping, desperate for my cock."

He keeps dragging through your folds, enjoying the way you twitch when he grazes your clit. Then, without warning, he sheaths himself into you in one smooth stroke. Both of you let out a groan as he holds himself deep within you, the feeling of being so full leaving you momentarily breathless. When he starts thrusting his movements are rough, hips slamming against your ass.

"You wouldn't even know what to do without me, you know that, doll? Nobody else fucks you the way I do.”

A stroke hits you in a way that makes you yelp. He takes notice, adjusting his angle so that every thrust nudges the bundle of nerves inside you.

“Nobody else is going to satisfy this needy pussy, and you'll come crawling back here begging for me."

You never understand why it turned you on to hear him talk like this, but he was right. You loved him having power over you. Your little hookup earlier that night had completely paled in comparison to what Charles was doing to you now. You hadn't even come close to cumming with that guy.

Even without him touching your clit, you can already feel your climax approaching. You feel his weight press down on you as he leans to whisper in your ear.

“Fuck, baby. I want to fill up this sweet cunt.”

“Can I cum now?” You whine, tears pricking at your eyes. Please Chucky, I'm so close. I'm yours, baby, please. Let me cum with you.”

Charles lets out a pleased groan and his fingers find their way back to your clit. It only takes a few swipes for you to cum with a strangled cry, arms giving out beneath you. The spasms of your soft walls are enough to send Charles over the edge and you feel the warmth of his seed spread within you.

“That's it Doll, take it all. Good slut.” He rides out his orgasm and then pulls out, slapping you on the ass.

After catching your breath you sit up to find him lounging back, already reaching for a cigarette. Typical. You throw your arms around his waist and lay against his chest.

“I saw you leave with him, that little fucking prick.” He lights his smoke and takes a drag. “I followed you back to his shitty excuse for a home. I know where he lives”

You look up at him, pouting.

“It wasn't his fault, Charles. Can't we leave him out of this?”

He lets out a chuckle and shrugs you off of him.

“Don't play innocent now, sweetheart,” he says, pulling his pants back on. “I know you'd love to tear him apart just as much as I would.”

At that, you flash him a sheepish grin.

“Hurry up and get dressed. You've learnt your lesson. Class is in session for your little friend.”

[sincerelyverena]

the oliver fic section of tumblr is SOOOOO dry rn so I'm wondering if you could write about how you've been friends with ollie since oxford and got invited to stay the summer with felix. then while playing spin the bottle you and him have something? IDK IM JUST RAMBLING BUT YEAH

i enjoyed writing this so so so much. i diiiid take this in a way different direction than i anticipated, but i hope you enjoy this nevertheless. thank u dearly for ur rambles! mwah! 🤍

⟡⁺ SEVEN MINUTES IN HELL

. . . OLIVER QUICK X FEM!READER ‘testosterone boys and harlequin girls.’ @ajs-222 @michael-loves-chickens @surazim @soocore @fedyascoffin

inbox is always open to requests!

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒hate has no bounds. except when you're stuck in a wardrobe with oliver quick.

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒implied sex ﹐fade to black smut ﹐enemies with benefits ﹐dom!oliver ﹐spoiled!reader ﹐reader would’ve probs bullied you in high school ﹐oliverrr you little stalkerrr ﹐felix and reader have a sister-brother connection ﹐ oliver brat tamer arc ﹐farleigh has naturally sharpened canines beware ﹐reader is a homie hopper ﹐YES OLIVERR USE YOUR HANDS ﹐DRUNK N HORNY, DRUNK N HORNYYY ﹐smack my ass like the drum slurp the dick til it cum ﹐forced proximity ﹐degradation ﹐phat exposition beware ﹐the plot is absolutely plotting ﹐implied incest between minor characters

THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA READERS: @sparklehani ﹐@vikwrites

You pushed the frame of your sunglasses upward with the pad of your thumb. The accessory nestled into the top of your hair, positioning yourself to soak up the grandeur of old money that ascended far beyond where the naked eye could see.

Saltburn. A spectacle passed down by word of mouth.

The double ebony archways are considered to be a set of doors shifted in position. Presented to you, the skyscraper-remnant entrance is extended with a gradual creak of effort. Revealing the beauty of the estate’s foyer in the process. 

“Miss Esmeray.” 

You were too absorbed in the elegance etched into every breath that was drawn in the manor alone to notice the suited male positioned behind the doorways. Declan, was it? You weren’t too opposed to not giving a singular shit about the name of a mere, working butler. 

To outsiders, those morals would’ve been doubted in the fashion in which you approached the estate’s employee. 

You inclined forward. The painted maroon of your lips puckered as you scattered lightweight kisses upon either side of the loose, wrinkled surface of the butler’s cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Declan.”

He didn’t seem particularly phased – on the surface at least – apart from the cool hardening of his formerly strained eyes. 

“It’s Duncan.”

You stifled the urge to laugh.

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” You leaned backward with a hushed hue of voice and a poised frown. A frown that didn’t last long as you slipped by with an isolated thrum of your heels along the blemishless, maintained floors. 

The porters that had withheld your luggage followed suit, grasping the attention of Duncan. He continued to clasp his hands behind his back, surveying the situation with a stare that would put a hawk to shame.

“Leave the luggage there. The estate butlers will see to it.” The note of exasperation that tainted Duncan’s articulation caused your personal porters to arrange the stacks of luggage onto the flooring without missing a beat.

The bound of employees hit the open doorways, leaving you to bask in a well-deserved solitude. Or so you had thought.

The hue of your flickery eyes had fixated immensely upon the silhouette which overlooked the foyer. An individual that leaned along the fencing of the plank-relied stairway, slinked in the comfort of the shadows. Even in the limelight of darkness, you could scrutinize the sight of a chiseled jaw and the irises of dusked aquamarine. 

Oliver Quick. Bile slicked the crevices of your throat. That slimy, freakish companion of one of your closest friends from Oxford. The sole reason you were invited to the estate in the first place.

And that sole reason broke out into the foyer before you could’ve mustered a word.

“[Y/N]!”

Felix Catton. Gorgeous, radiant Felix Catton came bounding toward you. Arms sprawled wide open, and a grin of nothing more but graciousness broke across his lips. Devoid of awaiting a response, Felix tossed the base of his arms around your shoulders. The toned muscle propped behind the sleight of your neck, burying himself into you in the process.

“Hi, Fi.” You mumbled around the top of his broadened shoulder, basking in the familiarity of his scent and aura. The tension that had made itself known in the base of your abdomen uncoiled, just the slightest.

You had inclined backward momentarily. The palms of your hands propped themselves upon the sleight of Felix’s jaw. You surveyed Felix closely and blew out a sharp breath. “Felix, you’re looking thinner. What have they been feeding you here?”

“The summer fucks up my appetite, you know that,” Felix grumbled pointedly.

“That’s not an excuse, Fi.” Your forefinger pinched the practically non-existent fat lining his cheeks, reeling a small grimace from the male.

The dense thrums of rhythmic footsteps spliced unnervingly through the moment. You tore the unyielding hue of your stare from Felix toward Oliver, who positioned himself solidly against the foot of the stairway. 

“Ollie!” Felix unraveled his arms away from you, in turn, to acknowledge his self-titled best friend. The male was peacefully oblivious to the glowering irritation that etched itself into your gaze. “You remember [Y/N], yeah?”

“How could I forget?” Oliver quipped the mere intensity of his gaze maintained upon you. You felt as if he was staring right through you, aware of every crook, crevice, and secret of your being. Deep speckles of disgust were blanketed behind hues of feigned interest.

As the moment drew on, he extended a hand. You harshly glared into it. Whilst the remainder of the inner circle Felix had established in Oxford grew to warm up to Oliver’s meek, somewhat awkward presence. You loathed it. 

“Mum has been dying to see you all day, [Y/N].” The strained hues of Felix’s voice tore into the steadily growing silence. His lips curved upward into a thin smile. Felix could virtually feel the tension tighten between his two companions.

“She’s in the morning room.”

You pecked him on the cheek on your way out. “Thanks, Fi.”

Felix’s words of prominence held a generous truth. Lady Elspeth Catton pushed the teacup amid her hands aside the second her eyes had met the radiance of your presence. You mustered a small smile at the sight of the woman you had known for the year prior.

“Oh, darling. It’s been too long.”

The all-too-familiar scent of high-end designer perfumes assaulted your nostrils as Elspeth brought you into a momentarily embrace. You had come to terms with the preceding summer that she had grown to be more of a maternal figure than your mother ever would be. Even if you were inclined to remove your nose ring and settled for a less dramatic false lash to soothe her fear of what she deemed to be ugly.

In those logistics, you had no idea why she hadn’t thrown Oliver out the second she met his acquaintance.

“Come, come, come. Sit down, I’ll whisk up some tea for you…”

“Hot chocolate.” You had a hard time grappling with the concept of politeness.

“Oh, of course! How would I forget?”

As Elspeth handled the hot chocolate-bearing teapot, you were prompted to discuss the prior school year. Conversations flowed from academics to the selection of boys and girls alike who had the misfortune of encountering your diva-like logistics. 

Elspeth indulged in her tea. “Did Felix mention the festivities we’re having tonight?”

You propped a spoonful of whipped cream atop the chocolate goodness, a frown painting your lips. “Not at all. What festivities?”

“One of the annual dinners with the Catton’s family friends is proceeding tonight,” Elspeth explained, tone somewhat bored with the lack of any mentions of gossip present in this crevice of the conversation. The flimsy painted surface of her nail tapped away at her teacup.

“Please tell me it's the Lockwoods.”

“Who else would it be, darling?”

“Thank Christ.”

As Elspeth continued to chatter onward about the newest scandal she observed with the Lockwoods, you pertained to drifting off in thought. Concerning the night ahead. And the dread that followed with the idea of socialization with a bunch of stuck-up acquaintances alike yourself.

And Oliver Quick.

You rolled the base of your fingers around the rounded cigarette Felix had outstretched. Flimsy smoke curled outward from the plumpness of his lips, drifting upward toward the coiling stairs above your heads.

You circulated your lips around the rim of the drug stick, angling your hand backward as you took a hit – brimming with a  buzz of pleasure. The cigarette slipped back into Felix’s hand, which inclined away to pass it toward Oliver. Whom you hadn’t even bothered to glance toward once during the entirety of the night.

The remains of the others flocked behind, the light hue of conversation prominent in the air. The three others you’ve befriended – Wiona, Lincoln, and Valencia – had befriended the Catton children in their younger years. At the annual dinner that commenced the year prior, you discovered that they had developed an annual tradition for Spin the Bottle.

The sole reason why the group of eight traversed up the spiraling stairway in the first place, bottles of alcohol propped in hand.

A prominent part of you wordlessly hoped that the alcohol would loosen you up a tad. Alas, with the sensation of Oliver’s eyes bored into the back of your head. You were bound to feel a tad paranoid. Especially when you weren’t oblivious to how every movement you made was tracked. 

The minuscule smirk when the base of your nail had chipped. The glimmer of distaste when you looked up and down the outfits of the current houseguests. The burn of eyes when you laughed a tad too loudly. The indescribable emotion that blared throughout Oliver’s surveying gaze as you stared into him. An attempt of intimidation that was never accomplished.

The solid front of the bathroom’s tiles was undeniably cool, in contrast to the thin garment that shielded the top of your thighs.

You proceeded to tuck yourself across the minuscule opening between Farleigh and a most currently amused Felix. The glass-spun bottle of the night lay vulnerable in the grip of his broadened fingers.

“Care to make a bet on this year’s game?”

A short laugh stirred itself from the crevice of your throat. You inclined your head over the brink of your shoulder, scrutinizing gaze propped upon the curly-haired male sat inches away. Farleigh’s eyes crinkled with the intensity of his curved lips, tongue tracing the rim of his canines. 

You suddenly grew aware of the sheer amount of certain plastic bags you had smuggled down your bra upon arrival. Ziplock bundles of goodness Farleigh would surely die for. A sentiment visible from the mere spark of interest blanketed behind his eyes.

“You seriously think I’ll say no to a good gamble?”

With a tinge of casualty, Farleigh swung a singular arm over the bridge of your shoulders. His voice grew hushed, but the intention of his words burnt into the crevice of your ear. “One of those pretty bags of yours if it lands on Valencia and Lincoln.”

“They’re siblings, munchkin.” The force of your articulation twisted with a prominent combination of distaste and fluid judgment.

“So what?”

For someone who always had something to say, you hadn’t been rendered this speechless in a long, long time. Alas, Farleigh wasn’t the only soul that expressed his amusement with the fact.

Oliver stared right into you. Twisted amusement circulated within his gaze.

Felix proceeded to illustrate a spectacle of himself, the glass-rimmed bottle set down on the tiled ground before him. Dramatics and flairs. Nothing out of the ordinary for your beloved Fi, who expressed the rules and regulations of the game as if his company hadn’t played for the years prior. 

This excluded a scrutinizing Oliver. A prominent smirk threatened to overcome your lips at the sight of his cockiness. His prior attitude slipped away at the news of having to potentially be stuffed in one of the Catton’s family closets for several minutes – with his luck – accompanied by a total stranger.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to begin.

Felix offered a riveting motion with his hand. The echo of uproar, paired with the creak of the bottle against the tiles bounced off of the thinly-veiled walls as he gave it a fluid spin.

The uproar crescendoed into a screeching halt as the pitcher shook into a steadied pace. Its glimmering tip angled precisely toward a noriette-haired girl, who was in the midst of pertaining her slight nose toward the strip of snow-white goodness laid out on the back of her hand. 

“Wiona!”

“You better hope and pray, darling.”

“Leave your drink with me, Wynn!”

Felix stuffled the broadened nature of his fingers into his mouth. He offered a low whistle toward Wiona, whose smirk was shielded by her bob-length curls.

He inclined toward the glass-rimmed bottle once more. “Right, whose the lucky boy… or girl? We don’ discriminate here…”

Murmurs of agreement followed the winding silence of the spinning contraption. Accompanied by short-circuited laughs, and gambled musterings. Overtaken by shrill yells as the crown cork inclined precisely toward Farleigh, whose curves were still draped over you. 

“Leigh, that’s you.” Felix had confirmed, to the delight of those inclined around the circle. His eyes crinkled, appropriate to the intensity of the sparkling grin that graced his otherworldly face. “The blue room awaits you lovebirds…”

The jangling of cash and the slip of dope occurred.

The game continued as such. And with gradual time, all participants grew intoxicated by the minute with the presence of booze and crack. Two of your tit-coke bags have been ripped out of your disposal with the force of the circle’s gambles, gaining triple the amount in the process. Especially when Lincoln and Valencia slipped into the next room.

You found yourself with the curve of your head lolling atop the pad of Felix’s shoulder. An endearing warmth buzzed throughout you, rooted in the alcohol burning the crevice of your throat.

One of Felix’s broadened palms settled upon the hitch of your scalp. The other claws at the scarcely dented bottle once more, sending it into a tile-searing spin.

Commotion peaked within the room as the pitcher sloped toward Oliver.

Shadowiness engulfed your vision as the wardrobe doors closed in. Bathing in the darkness of mere loathing for two factors in this twisted, twisted equation. For the bottle. And for Oliver Quick, who had never been closer to you than in this moment. Bile rose in your throat for the second time that day.

It was just your luck that the bottle inclined towards you at that moment.

“That’s ironic.”

A slither of outside illumination managed to crack into the wardrobe, lining the crevice of Oliver’s azure hues. Speckled with what was perceived as faint amusement, tightening the knot of tension present in the atmosphere.

The sleight of your back strained as you stumbled toward the clanky side of the closet, desperate to discover an escape. To no avail. The faint ghost of a scoff reverberated from the hollow of your throat. “What’s ironic, huh?”

For some reason. For whatever reason at all, Oliver inclined toward you. The slightest indeed, but it managed to send your heart hammering between your ears. Nothing more but pure loathing pulsated throughout you with the sudden proximity. It was the alcohol. Booze does funny things to the mind, right?

Olivcr’s alcohol-tinged breath mists upon your lips. His words slurred somewhat. “For som’one that gets everythin’ she wants, you seem pretty… helpless right now.” “Anyone that finds themself in a closet with you would be.”

“I’m jus’ sayin', it’s pretty pathetic.”

A gradual grin seeped onto Oliver’s face at the undeniable loathing that flared within the depths of your eyes. You looked as if you were a tick away from murdering him with your bare hands, and it brought him nothing but pure amusement.

“Pathetic…” The word dripped off of your lips with slow, taunting articulation. A twisted of taunted tipsiness. With the fiery force of each syllable, you leaned forward and clasped a sloppy hand toward the center of Oliver’s chest, an attempt to shove him further away. 

“Pathetic?”

You had made your intentions very clear to extend the distance between you and the male. To your luck, you had found yourself even closer.

Oliver didn’t appear phased, gaze carving holes into you. “You think the complete world of yourself, I’d say that’s pretty pathetic.”

Your stare narrowed down further. Silence draped over you momentarily with the intention of cold-shouldering Oliver until the seven minutes eventually ticked by. You adverted your eyes, purposefully scrutinizing the slight gap between the worn closet doors. The illumination blurred amid your intoxication.

 “Look at me.”

A roughened palm tore you back toward reality. Accompanied by a thread of fingers that pressed into the curve of your cheeks. Your once inclined head had surrendered into Oliver’s grasp, involuntarily meeting his gaze.

“Whoa… he’s finally thinkin’ for himself for once.” You spat out around the mere brute of his hands. Even though they radiated a certain chill only Oliver could possess, a prominent warmth glowed in every patch of skin he had clutched onto.

“Instead of bein’ Fi’s little hound…”

Oliver’s grappling hand seemed to tense with every batter of your words. “Shut your bloody mouth before I do it for you.”

“Wooow… so scary–”

You barely possessed the will to blow out another sharp breath before Oliver’s lips were interlocked with your own. The breath you had been holding hitched upright into your throat. Your chest constricted. In replacement of the disgust you preempted, velvety warmth pulsated throughout your entire being with a singular brush of the male’s mouth along yours.

With the fashion in which Oliver devoured your lips, you wondered if he wished to eat you alive.

You blamed it completely on the booze and the crack.

He was the first to pull back from the embrace, hands still tucked immensely around your jaw. A glow of succession is prominent in Oliver’s aquamarine stare, a glow that brought forth a sleight of irritation to overcome you.

“I believe you liked that.” 

“Your ego is as big as your head, Oliver.”

He inclined his head, a smile wandering upon his lips. “That wasn’t a denial, now.”

The palm that cradled the sleight of your jaw loosened the slightest. It moved toward the back of your neck, utilizing the position to guide you toward him further. His lips. So close. Nearing with time. The curve of your abdomen burned with a newfound desire, christening your inner walls with its molten warm goodness.

But you couldn’t care. You just couldn’t. 

“You’re completely… fuckin’ mad.”

The seven minutes must be up now, wouldn’t it? Your ears strained themselves through the momentary silence as you processed tidbits of laughter from the next room over.

You reminded yourself to beat the everliving Christ out of Felix Catton the next morning.

The palm still collared around your neck dug downward into the base of your shoulders. In the same leering motion, the edge of a heel curved into the density of your legs. Before you can even process the situation, the rock-hard surface of the wardrobe is felt underneath your suddenly aching knees.

“Now, now…”

You inclined your head upward. The twisted hues of Oliver Quick bored down upon you, like wood to an already brewing fire engulfing the inner workings of your womanhood. The hollow of your throat bobbled as you gave a dense swallow.

An even denser zip of Oliver’s dress pants sounded throughout the wardrobe.

“How about I teach you a lesson on how a brat should behave?”

WORD COUNT: 3K MASTERLIST REQ ME!

[theworldisadumpster]

I wish that there were enemy specific taunts for Vicious Mockery.

For instance:

Raphael -

"You're looking fat devil, lay off the souls"

"Seems the cat's been declawed"

"in the battlefield or the bedroom, this won't take long"

"Now, now, what would daddy say?"

Cazador -

"Lazy vampires don't get treats"

"All powerful yet you hide in the shadows"

"Centuries of dishing out punishment, it's your turn to face the whip slaver"

"7000 souls and you're as lonely as ever"

Balthazar -

"Would be a shame if someone knocked your mother a-jar"

"Surrounded by ghouls and zombies yet you're the most hideous thing I've seen"

"Don't go falling to pieces, you're out of thread"

"Flesh artist or glorified butcher?"

Ketheric -

"Which god's teet are you latched to these days?"

"Daddy can't bear to share his little girl"

"You brought Isobel back just to drive her away. Pathetic"

"Once a fierce general, now a slave to the absolute"

"What would your wife think of you now?"

Orin -

"Behold, bhaal's favorite little failed abortion"

"All that blood, and it's still not enough"

"How ironic one so steeped in gore could be so gutless."

"Slinked through our camp like a child sneaking sweets. We'll you've been caught Orin the red handed"

"Chosen of Bhaal, a glorified title for a glorified pawn."

Gortash -

"Poor unwanted Gortash, the shoemaker's son given the boot"

"A child sold to a devil by the one they trusted most, now where have I heard that before?"

"A caricature of a ruler hiding behind tin soldiers and larger minds"

"Tut tut, one shouldn't cast nether stones in glass houses"

"That's what happens when you play with fire Gortash, you get burned."

[ddarker-dreams]

A Chance Encounter.

Yan Scaramouche x Reader.

Loosely based on this concept.

Warnings: Only light yandere themes since Reader doesn't know about Scara's Harbinger affiliation. Word count: 1.1k.

Scaramouche could succinctly describe this assignment as a pain.

Some whistleblower whose conscience got the better of her in retirement, realizing now that she’s living off a measly pension instead of a steady stream of income that perhaps experimentation on unwitting subjects is actually not so dandy. How convenient. Moral epiphanies have the best timing. Or in the Harbinger’s case, the worst timing, since this trip to Mondstadt was supposed to be for pleasure, not business. 

He occupies a space beneath a sizable canopy. Shadows swallow him, occasionally chased off by shy sunlight wriggling through interstices born from the steady wind. The weather is fair compared to the everlasting winter that wrings all life from Snezhnaya. This nation is perfectly idyllic, perfectly boring, save for a single inhabitant who is notably exempt from his criticism. 

If it weren’t for the invisible yet no less present Fatui agents slinking about, he’d give in to the urge to quirk his lips upward. 

At least when this is wrapped up, he can see you. 

The matter shouldn’t take much longer. In written correspondence with the would-be traitor, he played the role of a bleeding heart, successfully blindsiding her into thinking he shares her plight. Now all that remains is to meet up with her and discern if the supposedly damning documents hold any weight or not. The rest can be left to his lackeys, he’d rather not waste any more time when he could be engaging in far more enjoyable activities. 

This is about as cut and dry as it gets. 

Except… 

Rapid footsteps approach. 

Foliage crunches beneath the heel of an exuberant individual, smothering leaves and snapping twigs. 

“Kuuuuuniiiiiii!” A voice he knows very well calls out. 

There is but a single entity throughout all of Teyvat who actively runs toward him, not away from him, and this entity so happens to be you. The concept of shame is a foreign one, you’re far too concerned with utilizing various flourishes to capture his attention. The fanfare is without reason. The instant you enter the scene, Scaramouche scarcely remembers the rest of the world exists, it becomes as inconsequential as the ground he treads on. 

You are a fallen star streaming through the sky, an answer to a wish he never had the courage to make. 

Unfortunately, you’ve happened upon him at a tricky juncture. The Fatui swarming like sharks in the water are prepared to tear into you at his command. From their perspective, you are an unknown variable running full force at their Lord Harbinger. Never in their wildest dreams could they fathom the notoriously spiteful Balladeer has a sweet spot for you, this is by his design. He’s painstakingly taken measures to ensure his little ball of sunshine can’t be used by his many enemies. 

The wave he gives serves two purposes — to greet you and signal his men to stand down. 

As if he wasn’t already thrown off-kilter by your abrupt appearance, when you’re at the appropriate distance, you launch at him with arms held wide. He catches you with an ease unfitting of his slender demeanor, his strength far surpassing that of any mortal. You’re content to wrap your arms around his neck while he steadies you. 

“I knew it was you! The hat gave it away. It always does,” you explain in between breaths. “And here I was thinking that you wouldn’t be in for a few more days.” 

Slowly, he helps ease you back down. You sway a bit, clutching his shoulders to maintain your balance, to which he snickers. “Were you so desperate to see me that running at a reasonable pace slipped your mind?” 

“I thought if I exerted more force, I might be able to tackle you to the ground this time… so much for that.” 

“Hah. As if. What strange fantasies you entertain without me around. The loneliness must rot your brain.” 

“Who says I’m lonely?” You challenge, tilting your head to the side. “I’m more than capable of making and maintaining friendships. That’s what happens when you’re a likable person.” 

He’s quick to reply so as not to betray his irritation at the idea. “You? Likable? The mental deterioration is worse than I feared. I hope it isn’t irreversible at this stage.” 

You shrug. “I dunno, you seem to like me well enough. I consider that my crowning achievement. If I can win you over I’m capable of anything. Maybe I’ll aim for world peace next.” 

Scaramouche is so quick to be swept up in the wild tide that is you that his bumbling underlings temporarily slipped his mind. Lately, there’s been one in particular who seems keen on proving himself worthy of a promotion. He goes out of his way to do extra work Scaramouche never tasked him with. It’s been a minor nuisance yet nothing major has come from it. 

However, in his purview, he senses this sycophant taking a position that’d be advantageous to strike at you from. 

Scaramouche’s retaliation is immediate. On a perfectly sunny day, a vicious bolt of lightning strikes mere inches from the spot he occupies, effectively communicating his lord’s displeasure. The white-hot flash earns your attention. You turn your head in the direction it came from, then shoot him an inquisitive glance. 

“... What did that bush ever do wrong?” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

The warning must’ve made it through the agent’s thick head, for he backs off like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

“Hey. I have some business I need to finish, then I’ll treat you to dinner,” Scaramouche knows you well enough to be confident that the idea of delicious food will successfully distract you. It’s as he predicted — he can practically hear the gears turning in your head as you form plans. He can only hope he doesn’t have to encounter that slovenly excuse of a god who once serenaded you with the story of an abandoned doll, claiming it to be a ‘cautionary tale’. The self-restraint he exercised that day is second to none. 

“Alright, but try to leave some nature standing, this is a trail I enjoy walking. I’d rather you don’t eviscerate it.” 

You begin to part ways, before loudly proclaiming ‘oh!’, like you’d forgotten something important. Then you’re back by his side. He processes the feeling before anything else, the soft sensation of your lips on his cheek renders him speechless. A crimson hue dusts against his pale cheeks as he subconsciously raises his hand to touch the still-tingling spot. Content with yourself, you depart, waving as enthusiastically as you had earlier. 

When his coherency returns, he sighs. That was a bit more than he’d prefer any Fatui-aligned person to see.

He’ll have to get creative to explain the deaths of all his men on such a low-stakes mission. Before that, however, he needs to ask one to hand the appropriate forms over, lest it disintegrate to ash as they’re fated to. 

It’s a pain, truly, but you’re worth the extra effort. 

[lili-of-the-wildfire]

okay fine, u all forced my hand in this one. these are MY azzie headcanons, mostly based on what’s canon in the books but i’m nothing if not a woman who would have been forcefully lobotomized so there’s also some delusion sprinkled in. enjoy 😙 (not proof read or correctly punctuated or even coherently arranged, we die like men on this blog)

* he may be a bit quiet in some situations, especially when meeting people who’s intentions he hasn’t quite figured out yet, but if he does nothing else, he’ll offer up a small smile in greeting. he’s not just going to sit there aloof in a corner, sans introduction.

* he’s a total vibe reader tho, his line of work has made sure of that. like he just knows when something is off about someone even if there is evidence saying otherwise. and he’s right every time, damn him.

* he tucks his hands behind his back out of habit, not necessarily shame. he used to be far more insecure, but as the centuries dragged on, he’s become less and less ashamed of what was done to him as a defenseless child.

* that’s not to say he’s fully healed and moved forward, just that time has given him some perspective and wisdom.

* (btw he loves hand massages with your lavender and lemon verbena lotion and he is not afraid to admit it)

* when he gets himself into trouble he tries to slink off into the shadows slowly, instead of disappearing all at once. nobody has a problem calling him out on it, but sometimes he honestly does get away with it.

* he has TASTE! he took one look at cassian and feyre’s gods awful decorating and didn’t even remove his outside clothes before he was fixing it.

* he and his mate’s house would look like something out of a Williams Sonoma holiday catalog.

* the two of you would put up lebron numbers on a joint pinterest account in a modern au.

* he’s quick as a whip with his dry humor and comebacks, and while cassian may be his main target, the two of them combined?? Mr. your mother and Mr. two hundred years at least TOGETHER? jesus it’s a wonder rhys came out of Illyria with the ego that he did.

* he differs from his brothers in that PDA is not his jam. he’s not getting blowjobs at the dining room table or fucking in tents while people die outside. he’s definitely not fingering you for the first time in a shabby inn, either. he’s more publicly reserved than that because he favors romance more.

* you know how rhys/feyre and cassian/nesta fucked before they were in any sort of relationship? azzie’s not doing that with someone he genuinely wants to pursue a relationship with.

* consider the following: does a man who’s spent centuries pining after the same woman come off as anything other than a romantic? no, lovely reader, not in the slightest.

* he’s got the softest heart, i just know it. while he’s kind, he has his reserved exterior, but i think once you get past that as a relationship develops, he’s so tender and thoughtful.

* his gift to nesta was so personal and thoughtful despite their superficial relationship, and he expected nothing in return. imagine what he could come up with for someone he knew on a more personal and intimate level!!

* his gifts may not be as over-the-top extravagant as Rhys would prefer, but they’re so well-planned and personal because he actually listens to you! and he watches you! and he takes the time to actually think about what would be useful and meaningful for you (Mor could NEVER, luv u tho baby)

* while he’s not overtly sexual, Azriel is a FLIRT! a shameless flirt! he doesn’t need to resort to poetry because when you exasperatedly tell him “stop trying to distract me, I’m busy!” he just arches a thick brow, looks you up and down and says “make me.”

* BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

* And your cheeks heat a bit because he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you’d taste like and he’s starving for it and then he just laughs and you realize you’re a fly that got stuck in those honey-trap eyes again

* So you huff and roll your eyes, turning to leave the room but a hand on your wrist tugs your momentum backwards and suddenly there’s another hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking along your jawline.

* A deep hum rumbles from the back of his throat, his gaze dragging from your mouth up to your eyes, “Do that again, I like watching your eyes roll back for me.”

* ladies/theydies i am PROFUSELY sweating !!!!!!!!!

[lunarmoves]

you were being followed.

you're not sure for how long. you only realized because you'd brought your phone out of your pocket to check the time and had noticed something behind you through its dark screen. you hadn't been able to get a good look—there was only a flash of blue before it had disappeared as you whirled around. desolate streets surrounded you. something thick had formed in your throat and stayed there.

you're starting to think that maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to go out for a walk in the evening—as the sun kissed the horizon in a burnt mandarin haze. but you'd wanted to. you'd wanted to walk past the remains of the pizzaplex—if only to see for yourself that it had truly been destroyed.

call you sentimental—maybe crazy was the right word—but something had just spurred you out of your house and down the road until you'd found yourself standing at the caution tape that blocked off the pizzaplex. the fire hadn't been too long ago. fazbear entertainment hadn't gotten the chance to clear anything out yet.

you stood there, hands in the pockets of your jacket, and stared at the dilapidated ruins before you. the signature 'fazbear' sign was a mess on the ground, spare electricity weakly running through it in a way that made the 'b' flicker somewhat sporadically.

good riddance, was your first thought, reminiscing about your stint at the pizzaplex before you were fired and replaced by one of those fucking s.t.a.f.f. bots. but then you sighed and kicked aimlessly at the ground. it had been a cool place, you had to admit. overpriced, yes, but the technological advancements made through the animatronics alone was something you'd thought was impressive.

and now they were nothing but melted scrap. a shame. you'd rather liked them.

you spent a few moments simply gazing at the charred brick and steel of the pizzaplex. then you sank further into your jacket and turned to slink back down the road. it wouldn't do well to linger. you sated your curiosity. time to go home.

only—you were starting to regret ever stepping out of your house.

a chill ran down your spine—from the air or the feeling of being watched, you would never know—and you found yourself pausing in your steady stroll to look around. you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. the houses that lined the streets were aglow from within, trees swayed gently in the breeze, a car passed by leisurely along the road. and yet... you felt on edge.

maybe you had just imagined it, you thought. or maybe it was nothing—light reflecting off glass, perhaps. but something in your stomach prevented you from relaxing entirely in the face of your internal reassurances. something that seized your insides and refused to let go.

you continued on, trepidation lining your footsteps.

the streetlamps flicked on as you walked, the sky settling into a navy gradient as the sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon. you kept your eyes on the ground, watching as your shadow elongated and shrank as you passed underneath each light. you kept your ears strained for any footsteps other than your own. you clenched your phone tight in one hand and your keys in the other.

and faintly, so faintly that you could pass it off as a breeze, you heard the jingling of bells.

you whipped around as though you could catch whoever (or whatever) was following you in the act. but there was nothing behind you. nothing but a dark street lit up dimly by the lamp posts that dotted it. you clenched your jaw and turned back around.

immediately, you gasped and stumbled back, having not expected the thing standing right in front of you.

it was—a robot. one that was covered in soot and grime. the metal of its lithe body was cracked and broken, burnt black in some areas. it was wearing torn clothes that were a mismatch of red and yellow, and navy and gold. part of its endoskeleton was exposed on its lower right leg, the metal gleaming in the dim light from the streetlamp.

its face was the worst of it, you thought, as you stared at the bright yellow light that came from one eye and the blood red light from the other. triangular protrusions lined its head at the sides, and there was an absolutely filthy nightcap that rested at the top. you blinked and felt your fright sink deeper into horror.

you knew this robot.

"f-friend!" it warbled out through a voicebox coated in static. you swallowed thickly and stepped back as it loomed over you, permanent, disfigured smile stretching further at the edges. you did not like this at all—cowering in its shadow. "y-you're here! we— we've been l-looking e-e-everywhere for you!" then, like a switch had flipped, it started talking to you in a much deeper, raspier voice. "it's late. past your bed-bed-bedtime. c-come heeeere."

you took another step back as it stepped towards you, its clawed, metal hands coming up at its sides as though to grab you. bells jingled faintly with the motion. eyes wide, you did the only thing you could think of to distract it—talk to it.

"sun?" you nearly whispered out, then kicked yourself internally for the voice crack. "or... moon? is that... you?"

it didn't respond to either calls of their names, only stared down at you and tilted its head as a rattling whirr started up in its torso. but you knew this was the daycare attendant. maybe not sun nor moon, but a combination of the two, if its looks were any indication. had they followed you from the pizzaplex this whole time? goosebumps lined your skin under your jacket.

and before you could even think to lurch away, their hands suddenly clamped down on the sides of your arms. their face pressed in closer to you, smile widening in a way that made you bite at the inside of your cheek. their head rotated to the side in an inhuman way, the steady tick-tick-tick of the mechanisms behind it breaking through the quiet air. and not for the first time that night, you wished you'd never went on this stupid walk.

"w-won't you st-st-stay, friend?" eclipse asked—voice thin like a blade. you didn't have the strength within you to pull away. their hands pulled you closer to them and tightened as though unwilling to let you escape. "it's been s-so lone-lonely without y-y-you. won't you f-follow us home?"

[evolutionsvoid]

During Canadian winters, it is advised to stay indoors and avoid spending too long outside, especially in the more remote regions. Certainly the snow and cold are dangerous things, and folks want to avoid hypothermia or getting lost in the chaotic frigid weather. However, there is another danger they warn about out there, one that arrives with the winter season and can be just as invisible as the insidious chill. When the ground and trees are blanketed in white snow, and the wind dies down, it can seem tranquil out there in the wintry wilds. The scene may look peaceful, with not a single soul around, but there is a chance you are actually not alone out there. A creature stirs while others may sleep, and those who tread upon the snow know well enough to do so lightly. Winter brings the snow and cold, but it also brings the Snow Wassets.

Northern folk know Snow Wassets quite well, sometimes referring to them as "Arctic Weasels." They do appear to be a mustelid, though their length and size can put other members of that family to shame. The species is known as a stealthy and deadly hunter, but only during the winter season. They burrow their long serpentine bodies beneath the snow, and slither below undetected. With sensitive ears and whiskers, they sense the sound of prey blundering across the snowy layer, and strike with unnatural speed. The hunt of a Snow Wasset is over in seconds, as they explode out of the snow and sink their long teeth into their meal. They typically aim for the throat, crushing the wind pipe and then dragging them down. When a kill is scored, they pull their prize into the snow, then use their long bodies to brush more snow over top of it, so they may dine in peace. With a layer of white disguising the hunter and the hunted, there is less of a chance of scavengers stealing from them.

Snow Wassets are incredible hunters and masters of ambush, and they are capable of taking a variety of prey down. It can eat simple rabbits and grouse, but can also feed upon the likes of wolves, deer and even man. When winter is in full swing and food is scarce, they are not likely to pass up any tempting morsel they come across. And for this reason, Snow Wassets are feared out in the wintry wilds by both man and beast. There have been a number of stories where witnesses saw a wolf pack's hunt being interrupted by an emerging Snow Wasset, taking advantage of their distraction to grab one of the canines. This same tactic is why hunters are warned about chasing blindly after prey, lest they stumble right into the jaws of a wasset.

Though the Snow Wasset is seen as a vicious winter beast, it is not always a ravenous monster. When spring time comes around, and the snow begins to melt, their hunting method ceases to work and they flee north. As the weather grows warm, their white coat grows green, to better hide themselves in the new foliage. Not only do they change color, but they grow simple limbs to help them crawl across the ground and slink through the shadows. They continue to ambush food from the underbrush, but their prey is much smaller and the wasset is far less bold than it would be in winter. Eventually, when the summer heat cranks up, the Snow Wasset will find a marsh and dig itself a burrow. There it will hibernate through the peak summer season, only waking when cooler temperatures arrive. It is when the first snow comes when the wasset will change its coat back to white and shed its crude limbs. These appendages fall off much like how a lizard may drop its tail. The Snow Wasset will head south, and soon the winter hunt will be on.

Due to their aggression and wide variety of prey, the Snow Wasset is seen as a danger and a maneater. They are often blamed for any disappearances that occur during the winter whenever the missing person had gone out to the remote woods. In the early days, the Snow Wasset's hunts were attributed to ghosts and frigid spirits, vanishing those who dared tread into the cold dark forest. In time, though, the natives of the land learned of the Snow Wasset's existence and crafted new tales and purpose for this beast. They would develop ways to confuse the predator and avoid a terrible fate, with the main method being a special way of walking across snow. The Snow Wasset relies on vibrations and sound to detect prey, and is smart enough to memorize the patterns of food. However, the natives found that moving with irregular rhythm and breaking up their sequence of steps would prevent the wassets from catching on to their presence. The resulting movement comes out very dance-like, and has been incorporated into a few of the tribe's celebrations.

While the natives were able to avoid being eaten by the Snow Wasset, their efforts didn't stop there. They figured out a way to hunt them, with the use of bait and logs. The method calls for setting up dead falls around an area, with each log aimed to roll inward once the signal is given. In the center of this ring would be live bait, whose movements would attract the wasset. When the creature attacked, the signal would be given and the logs would be released, rolling inward atop the beast. Because the Snow Wasset's long body is obscured by the snow, there is no telling where to set the trap. Thus the use of many logs to cover the area so that one may succeed in pinning its hidden body. Once the massive weasel is trapped, the hunters rush in to finish it off. Snow Wassets were rarely hunted for food, and more so for their valuable pelts. In their wintry form, they lack limbs and thus their furs come with no holes. And since their hide is designed to keep out the cold and wetness of snow, the natives found it made for excellent winter wear, sleeping bags, as well as canoes! By stretching the head across a wooden frame, a one man canoe could be easily crafted. The technique of building one, as well as hunting a wasset, is taught to every member of the tribe as a lesson in survival.

Eventually, loggers and trappers would make their way to these cold remote forests, and have their first encounters with the Snow Wasset. The natives made an attempt to warn these newcomers of the hidden beast, but their words were often brushed aside as "superstition" and "ghost stories." When folk started vanishing, then the lumberjacks started believing these tales. They attempted to learn the walking technique as a way to avoid attacks, but would screw it up most the time. Instead, their way of escaping a hungry wasset was to put spurs on their boots, which would let them scramble up trees when a wasset was around. Up there, they would simply wait til the creature got bored and left, which only worked for so long. Snow Wassets are clever beasts and can memorize sounds and patterns, and a falling tree was a noise they started getting used to. A toppling tree usually meant animals fleeing amidst the din, which meant easy pickings. And now they would learn that this noise also meant other morsels were nearby, ones that were responsible for starting all the ruckus. In time, the Snow Wassets would lurk around winter logging operations for better hunting opportunities, which also meant eating a couple lumberjacks as well. Since warding them off was a problem, and spotting them in the first place was near impossible, logging companies soon took to using poisoned bait to kill local wassets. The result was a drop in nearby populations, until only those in the remote wilderness remained.

In more recent years, with the scaling back on mass logging of these areas, the Snow Wassets have slowly returned to some of their natural ranges. However, the fear and reputation of them still lingers. The same warnings given decades ago hold true to remote towns and villages, where one should be wary about wandering through the snow. Cross country skiers and snow shoe enthusiasts are common victims, especially when many winter time tourists ignore the warnings. Some parks and alpine areas have created "Snow Wasset proof" trails and barriers to keep travelers safe, but those only protect the people who stay on them. No matter how many signs and fences you put up, someone is going to get the bright idea of pretending they don't exist. Snow Wassets have also become a popular target amongst hunters and trappers, who see them as an impressive trophy. While deer are turned into mounts and bears into rugs, hunted Snow Wassets tend to be crafted into things like fur curtains, scarves and even body pillows. While their meat isn't seen as anything special, wasset legs are viewed as a delicacy. When the time comes for the beasts to shed their limbs, folk scour the countryside to collect them. They are said to make an incredible stew or chili, while some people prefer to eat them off the bone.

Though they are feared, Snow Wassets do show up in various parts of culture. They make excellent mascots for winter sports teams, especially for bobsledding and hockey. Their green spring time versions show up at cranberry farms, as the wassets tend to hibernate in such bogs. Stuffed animals of them are also made as either toys or charming scarves. They are used as a sign of the changing seasons, be it their color shifting fur or shedding limbs. The saying "still got some green on its fur" is used when winter is not quite here yet, while "wasset finally got its shoes" is for when spring at last arrives. And of course who could forget Snow Wasset Day? The time honored tradition when folk gather around a Snow Wasset burrow and watch it emerge. If the wasset comes out and sees its shadow, it will retreat back inside and cause summer to go on for six more weeks. If they emerge without issue, then fall and winter are soon to come. Towns in the Labrador province have made a whole ceremony out of this superstition, to the point where everyone now knows Wabush Will, the famous Snow Wasset that decides how long summer lasts. Every year, people watch the event either in person or on live stream, to see the famed wasset do his thing. The tradition has gone on for decades, requiring for there to be multiple Wabush Wills. In time, each one retires and a new Wabush Will is given the official burrow for them to hibernate in and emerge from. However, it should be noted that "retired" and "too old to do the job" is the language they use to make things sound all nice and happy. One has to remember that once the wasset has left their burrow, they vanish into the wilds and go hunting. No one can control what ol Wabush Will does at that point, or who he eats. Quite a few Wabush Wills were "retired" when they were snagged by a trapper or shot in the head when they had their teeth in the throat of a skier.

While the Snow Wasset population has grown from its previous slump, many fear that their numbers may be in trouble once more. As climate change continues, the weather gets warmer and the winters more mild. Snow is not as plentiful as it once was, which means harder hunting conditions for the wassets. Spring seems to come much faster, and hotter summers call for longer hibernation. Since they have to sleep for longer, they need more food to gorge on. And with less snow in their typical ranges, they need to either move elsewhere or become more bold in their hunting. As a result, Snow Wasset attacks are slowly starting to rise, as they become desperate for food. There have even been encounters during spring, when the Snow Wasset should be more timid. But their need for food means they need to be more aggressive, and not pass up on any meals. If things don't change soon, the wasset warnings won't only apply to winter anymore....

-------------------------------------------------

"Snow Wasset"

Fearsome Critter time! I chose this one because I thought the entry would be shorter to write but oops!

[monsterfuckerconfessions]

I have one fantasy that I will always fall back on if I have a hard time… enjoying myself. Picture this.

You live in a village tucked far away in the mountains. Your home is surrounded by a dense forest filled with dangerous and ravenous beasts, phantoms used to fill children’s nightmares and offer caution to rebellion. There are very few defenses in place against this threat, but one manages to be the most efficient. Whenever someone comes of age, they must leave an offering for the woodland monsters in order to secure their safety for another year. And it must be valuable.

So you wait, watching as time moves up until your 21st year when you are considered an adult. And you are terrified. You barely manage to make ends meet with work produced by your hands and the generosity of other townsfolk. But you can’t rely on them for this. It has to be your offering. But what can you give when you have nothing?

With no more time to spare, you come to a disheartening conclusion. The most valuable thing you have to offer is yourself. So you take the gamble. After all, the worst outcome is death and without protection, it would happen anyway. You spend the day making yourself presentable, dressing in something to highlight your tasty features and dowsing yourself in some sweet fragrances. Of course you don’t know what forest dwelling beings like, but you do your best.

Finally, the hour is upon you. Not wanting people to look into you too closely, you bundle up and bunch up a blanket to act as your “gift” and make your way out of down and into the darkness of the woods.

You jump at every chirp and crackle that echoes around you. You know your imagination is rather active, but you could swear there are a host of eyes tracking you as you follow the dirt path towards where the “alter” lies. You see the trees part in an unusual circular clearing with the massive stump of an ancient tree at the center. You can feel your legs shaking beneath you as you approach. Unfurling the blanket, you lay it down across the smooth wood as your (potential) last bed. With another breath, you unclasp the cloak and let it fall to the ground before crawling onto the platform and settle on your back.

You don’t know how long you lie there, staring at then canopy of leaves framing the starlit sky. It’s anxiety inducing to imagine what will happen to you and how stupid this whole plan is. But it’s better than locking yourself away in fear and shame. Might as well look at your death head on. Despite the nerves in your veins, you manage to close your eyes and drift to sleep.

Somewhere in your slumbering consciousness, your imagination steers your dreams. You see tall shadows emerging from the tree line to approach you. They examine you curiously, sniffing and prodding you with long taloned fingers. Slowly their curiosity gives way to boldness while they nuzzle against your skin. Tongues and hands covered in fur and rough scales caress every inch of you, marveling at your body.

You jolt as you feel something wet and firm press between your legs. The shock pulls you out of your sleep and you look around to see multiple creatures surrounding the stump. Muzzled mouths lick your fingers and an unidentified face nuzzles against your sex, devouring you with hungry fervor. You gasp, leaning back into strong arms that cradle you through the pleasure.

The night continues and one after another, new hands and appendages exploring you in ways no man ever can. They are at least merciful, allowing you to breathe in between intense orgasms for a few minutes before the next round begins.

When the sun finally rises, your body has been wrung dry and you are left a trembling mess atop the stump. A few of the friendly beings remain behind, assisting in your recovery before slinking back into the woods.

More than happy and satisfied yourself, you tidy yourself up and walk back to the village, waving to the eyes watching you. You know what your gift will be next year.

.

[separatist-apologist]

Lying In Between The Memories

You could call it paradise but it looks just like hell to me

Summary: Following the blood rite, Gwyneth Berdara can't shake the memories of a life long-gone.

The shadowsinger can't seem to move on after five centuries of loving the same woman.

Together, they'll have to carve a new path forward.

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter

[ongoing TW for Sexual Assault]

Lucien slander incoming

Gwyn was up before Azriel in a scene fairly reminiscent of just two days earlier. The shadow singer was on his stomach, face turned toward the closed blinds, body blanketed in shadows. She’d forgotten to pull a blanket over her naked body which was just as well given his massive wing covered her with far more warmth.

She had to be careful where she touched lest she rouse him. One wrong touch of his wing and he’d pounce, and Gwyn didn’t think he’d let her out of the bed for the rest of the day. Shivering with desire, she managed to get out from beneath him, watching as one strong arm reached outward blindly for him.

In his exhaustion, he didn’t realize the pillow she slid beneath his armpit wasn’t his mate. She’d be back—she wanted to surprise him with breakfast and  track down some clean clothes so she didn’t have to slink around in one of Azriel’s strange, over-sized, button-up tunics. 

Gwyn didn’t dare let herself feel an ounce of shame as she made her way back into the library. It had once been her sanctuary—her home. 

And she smelled of a male. Clotho turned to look, brows raised before returning to what she was reading at the desk, but Gwyn caught the way her nostrils flared. Her stomach sank ever so slightly, though she kept moving. Had Merril replaced her, she wondered? Gwyn was too much of a coward to track her down and find out. 

Instead, she quickly gathered some of her clothing before changing into a familiar, soft blue dress, and made her way back out with the kind of stealth she’d employed in Montessere. As to how stealthy she was, well.. that was debatable, given the Day Court scholar was waiting for her just outside the library, arms crossed over her chest.

Eris Vanserra’s mate. 

That wasn’t an enviable position as far as Gwyn was concerned. She was better off hidden here than trapped with Eris, who had never once demonstrated himself to be anything other than a two-faced liar. Maybe his mate was, too.

“You stole something from me,” Gwyn said by way of greeting, holding her stare. 

Arina shrugged. “And?”

I already don’t like her.

“I want it back.”

Arina shrugged a second time. “Maybe I lost it.”

How mad would the High Lord be if she strangled her, Gwyn wondered. Would he be angry over a little light beating? A casual amount of stab wounds if they didn’t kill her? 

“You didn’t.”

Green eyes flashed with defiance. “Prove it.”

Gwyn couldn’t help the low, frustrated noise that escaped her. “What do you want, then?”

“The book.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Arina crossed her arms over her chest, hip jutted outward. Did she not understand she was a prisoner? This wasn’t the time to negotiate. Gwyn’s temper was going to get the better of her, and if she got caught fighting just outside the library, there would be hell to pay from everyone. 

“You can help me, if you’d like,” Arina suggested.

“I could also call Eris Vanserra to come get you,” Gwyn retorted. He was her…what? Cousin? Uncle? She hadn’t asked a lot of questions, to be fair, and didn’t intend to. The blonde before her wrinkled her nose, confusion written all over her face.

She didn’t know.

Oh, how fun. Gwyn could ruin everything simply because it amused her—could torment Arina, could hold it over her head. 

“Why would you call him?” Arina demanded, some amount of alarm in her gaze.

“You’ve angered a lot of courts.” Gwyn decided that for now, secrets were better kept just that. “Give me the cipher—”

“Even if I gave it to you, you wouldn’t know what you were reading,” Arina snapped, her patience at an end. “I am a scholar in the Day Court and you are, what? A soldier who got lucky? Another Night Court spy?”

That stung, though Gwyn understood why Arina thought so. “I know enough.” Arina snorted. “Your type always thinks so—as if wielding a blade makes you an expert in everything.”

“You can’t wield a blade?” Gwyn asked curiously. Arina didn’t look defensive, didn’t seem bothered at all.

“No.”

She was going to Autumn. Gods help her, Gwyn supposed, done with the conversation. “I’ll speak with the High Lord,” she said, hoping the mention of Rhys might change Arina’s mind. The scholar merely shrugged again, tossing strands of that golden hair over her shoulder as if to say, you do that. 

Gwyn left her, bag slung over her shoulder and pride wounded. Bitch, she wanted to scream. She swallowed it, frustrated, and made her way back into the House of Wind. Angry, Gwyn yanked open the door just as the person on the other side approached. Azriel stood here, eyes as wild as his sleep mussed hair.

Ah right. Mate, her blood sang at the sight. “You were gone,” he said, voice still thick with sleep.

Gwyn lifted her bag, offering what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I needed clothes.”

“For what?”

Gwyn held his gaze, the air filled with the salty tang of his desire. Wasn’t he exhausted? She still felt sore between her legs and though she couldn’t prove it, Gwyn was fairly certain she was walking bow-legged. 

“I thought it might be nice to walk through the house without giving Nesta and Cassian a show.”

“They’ve earned it,” Azriel mumbled, pulling the bag from her shoulder as though it offended him to see her carrying it. Gwyn couldn’t deny that she didn’t like the way the muscles in his stomach tightened, revealing abs just beneath his warm, scarred skin.

“You look unhappy.”

They fell into step, and Gwyn marveled at how easy it had become to talk to him. To be around him. So much had changed—she hadn’t had a chance to truly take it all in. The realization slammed into Gwyn hard, nearly knocking her backward. Azriel noticed—he noticed everything—eyes narrowed.

“I’m not unhappy,” Gwyn said slowly, her mind racing. “A lot has changed.” Fear flitted over his expression, squashed into careful neutrality. 

“Ah.”

“I see the ghost of myself, unaware of what’s coming,” she continued, chewing her bottom lip. “I wonder what she would make of all this.”

Azriel only nodded his head, dropping Gwyn’s bag on the floor of his room. There was a question there—as if he wondered if that was too presumptuous. It wasn’t. Gwyn wanted him to push her back to the bed, but instead he tucked his wings tightly against his back as he pushed further into the room, sliding a shirt over his head.

“I need to speak with Rhys,” he told her, not meeting her gaze. What was wrong? “I’ll see you later?”

There was some other question lingering, one he didn’t vocalize as he moved out of the room again. Gwyn stopped him, hand on his chest, to lean up on tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. She didn’t know how to ask him to stay without it feeling too forward, so she only said, “I’d like that.” Relief shuttered across his expression.

“And you will.”

Azriel was gone then, glancing one last time over his shoulder as if he needed to be sure she was actually there. Gwyn, too, liked the sight of him from behind almost as much as she liked the view from the front. It took her a moment to shake the thought—to resist the urge to chase after him, tackle him to the ground, and have her wicked way.

Later, she reminded herself. With Azriel gone, Gwyn’s mind cleared enough to let her think. Arina. Eris’s stupid mate—what a match made in the hells, she thought grimly. She wasn’t sure who she disliked more, though she did understand, on some level, why they’d been paired together. 

Nesta and Emerie were up on the roof with Cassian, dressed in their leathers as they continued to train. Gwyn hadn’t seen them since the previous day, and Azriel had taken over their reunion for penis related activities. 

“I thought you’d be busy—hells, Nesta, what the fuck—”

“Stop talking,” Nesta breathed, pulling out of a stretch to see Gwyn. Emerie came, too, bouncy and full of smiles. From just behind her, Morrigan helped Cassian back to his feet, her brown eyes dipping down Emerie’s back.

What was that about? 

“So…” Nesta began, rocking on her heels, “how was last night?”

“You were so loud,” Emerie added, eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“How could you possibly know that over in Windhaven?” Gwyn demanded.

“Oh, Em wasn’t in Windhaven, she was—”

“Nesta!”

“Secrets?” Gwyn asked, trying to swallow the small twinge of hurt. She’d been going, but Nesta and Emerie had been here, together. They’d bonded over things and Gwyn would have been lying if she said she didn’t feel a little hurt. It wasn’t their fault.

“It’s not a secret,” Emerie said, shifting on her feet. “I just want to talk about it somewhere more…private.”

That led to the three of them turning right around with only a casual wave at an indignant Cassian. Gwyn peered over her shoulder to look at Mor again, who didn’t seem to notice at all. Her eyes were, once again, lingering on Emerie’s hips. Gwyn swallowed her questions as they made their way back down to the house. Once they were alone in a den, doors shut firmly behind them, Gwyn said, “Spill. From the beginning.”

Emerie’s cheeks immediately went scarlet while Nesta’s sharpened like a cat with a mouse beneath her paw. “Emerie and Mor are courting.”

“It’s not—you make it sounds so formal—”

“She came all the way up to the house with flowers and asked to show you the city,” Nesta argued, smile wide. “What do you call that?”

Emerie looked to Gwyn for help, but Gwyn wanted to know the answer. “Is she the one who fixed your wings?”

Nesta’s smile widened. “Not technically. She ah…she asked Rhys to talk to the High Lady and she did.”

“It’s become a whole thing in Illyria,” Nesta told Gwyn, lowering her voice as if the Illyrian’s might overhear. “No one realized the healing magic in Feyre’s blood could fix broken wings, so 

Emerie was the test subject.

“Once it did, we opened it up to any female in Illyria,” Emerie added, cheeks still bright red. “Twice a week, the High Lord and Lady go up to Illyria with Cassian and myself. We were doing it by sign-ups, but realized the males were keeping them from coming. Now Cassian rounds them all up.”

Nesta’s smile slipped, her gaze icy. “It’s not going well. A few of the females had their wings re-clipped, and rebellion broke out further north and every time Cassian quells it, another pocket pops up.”

“That bad?”

“I offered to go in,” Nesta said, eyes glowing softly. “Feyre, too. But Rhys wants to try and preserve as much as we can—diplomacy is, frankly, annoying.”

“What kind of diplomacy would even work?” Gwyn mused, wondering how you convinced a culture that pre-dated the Night Court itself to change their practices. 

“Killing the most vocal, outspoken leaders and installing people the High Lord can trust,” Emerie said softly, her face burning with satisfaction. “There have been whisperings of Dark Bringers coming in to enforce the new policies, too. I know it’s wrong, but…it’s kind of nice seeing some of the males who have hurt us face the wrath of Cassian’s sword.”

“Do you remember Balthazar?” Nesta added, as if Gwyn had ever forgotten him. He’d helped them during the Blood Rite—they all owed him a life debt. “He’s been helping change minds, especially among younger Illyrians. It’s the older ones that are the most vocal, the angriest. They think if females are made equals, they’ll turn around and punish them.”

“I wish,” Emerie mumbled. 

“Feyre held a town hall to let them voice their concerns but it turned into a bloodbath,” Nesta continued. 

“One male drew his sword and pointed it at Feyre and every dissenting voice in the room was gone like that,” Emerie said, snapping her fingers to demonstrate. “The High Lord was so angry.”

“Why are you laughing?” Gwyn asked.

“My brothers were among them. They should have known better than to threaten the High Lady,” Emerie said with satisfaction. 

“So you found a partner and started a revolution in the span of a month?” Gwyn questioned, impressed. 

Emerie beamed. “I guess I did.”

“Now tell us about you, so when I have to answer to Feyre later for going behind her back, I at least know what it was all for,” Nesta said, dropping onto the sofa, her smile returned. Emerie took the chair by the fireplace, leaving Gwyn to curl her feet beneath her on a little two-seater and explain, in depth, everything that had happened.

It was well past dinner by the time she finished talking—Nesta had asked the house for food at some point, though Gwyn couldn’t quite remember when. It was like old times, though—it felt like a lifetime had passed between the last time she’d really talked with her friends and leaving for Montessere. She wished they’d been there with her—that she’d been part of everything just as they, too, could have helped her navigate everything with Azriel. 

“So she stole your cipher and is holding it hostage?” Nesta demanded, outraged. “In my house?”

Emerie was already on her feet, reaching for the door. “We’ll get it back—”

On the other end stood Azriel. The three of them went silent at the sight of him, eyes wide. His lip was split and bloodied, left eye swollen and purple. Blood had dried over his cheek, standing his otherwise beautiful skin.

“Tomorrow,” Emerie whispered, sliding out past Azriel. He moved to let Nesta past, too, his eyes practically burning. 

“What happened?” Gwyn demanded angrily, walking toward him to lightly touch his face. Azriel hissed, turning away from her. 

“It’ll heal.” “Who did this to you?” she pressed, her anger bubbling beneath her skin.

“Would it help if I said I deserved it?” Azriel asked, a hint of humor in his voice. 

“No! Would you feel good if I looked like that and all I’d say is that I deserved it?” she snapped. Some of his amusement slipped. 

“It’s over,” he told her. 

“Was it Rhys?” she pressed, vowing that she’d tell the High Lord exactly what she thought of him if he’d hurt Azriel, regardless of being High Lord.

“No.”

“Az—”

“It was Lucien,” he told her, voice low. “I didn’t hit him back.”

“Who?” Gwyn demanded before she remembered, vaguely, Lucien had come by once or twice. “Why?”

“I pissed him off,” Azriel ground out. He wasn’t going to tell her, and in her mind, Gwyn just knew this had something to do with Eris. Everything going wrong had something to do with Eris. Lucien was a Vanserra, and Gwyn just assumed his loyalty was to his brother first. 

“Fuck him,” she said softly, her voice laced with venom.

“Fuck Lucien?” Azriel questioned, arching a brow. “No, fuck me.”

“You’re hurt—”

“Not that hurt,” Azriel murmured, reaching for her face. “I think seeing you undressed might help me heal faster.”

Gwyn couldn’t help her laugh. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” she murmured, though she left him take her by the hand to lead her down the hall.

“Only one way to find out, Berdara.”

Indeed.

—

Azriel hadn’t expected to run into Lucien first thing in the morning. There the male was, though, striding up the steps toward the River House only a few paces in front of Azriel. Gods, he didn’t want to talk to another fucking Vanserra. Azriel intentionally slowed his pace, deciding if Lucien was there to see Rhys, he’d take Nyx off Feyre’s hands and waste his time teaching the baby swear words.

Maybe he’d take him up to the House of Wind and show him to Gwyn. And she’d take the baby in her arms and he could pretend—

“You know,” Lucien had stopped, unnoticed by Azriel who’d been lost in his daydream. “You’re a piece of shit. Do you know that?” Azriel blinked. “How have I offended you?”

But he knew. He knew the moment he saw Lucien’s clenched hands that Elain had ratted him out—had told him what occurred last Solstice and Lucien was out for blood. Azriel wanted to show his teeth and beat Lucien into the ground simply for being a Vanserra. Everything about Lucien offended Azriel. The fact that he was granted a mate he ignored for years on end, content to do nothing while he figured himself out, or that he bounced from court to court with no show of loyalty irked Azriel. He wouldn’t abandon Rhys, even if the decision’s his brother made were outlandish and horrible. 

Deep down, though, Azriel knew he hated Lucien because they were the same—born to fathers that didn’t want them and to mothers who couldn’t help them. Azriel didn’t like Lucien, but he’d never thought himself better than the seventh son of Autumn. Lucien did, though. He had that air about him, as if his good breeding and status as a High Fae somehow made him better than everyone around him.

“You had no right to touch her,” Lucien snarled, stepping closer. They were matched for height, but not strength and Lucien had to know it. Don’t pick this fight, princling, Azriel warned silently, holding his ground. “No right to go anywhere near her.”

“Did she have the right to touch me?” Azriel heard himself saying. It was the wrong response—something powerful slammed into his chest, throwing Azriel down the drive before he could catch his breath. Lucien was on top of him a moment later, hitting him in the face. 

Once.

Twice.

Three times. 

It was like when he and Rhys sparred—the force rattled the bones in his jaw, punctuated with magic Azriel couldn’t just barely argue with. That didn’t mean he couldn’t get a lick in…though some part of him wondered if maybe he deserved this. After all, if a male had touched his mate, knowing she belonged to him…Azriel might have done the same.

He would have done worse.

“Lucien!” Feyre’s voice cut through the early morning air. A second later, the two were separated as Feyre blew Lucien across the lawn, her face both radiant and irate all at once. Rhys hung back, arms crossed over his chest in the doorway, expression ripe with amusement.

What did you do? Rhys’ voice ribboned through Azriel’s mind.

That bullshit with Elain during Solstice.

While Feyre chewed Lucien out, hands on her hips, Rhys threw his head back and laughed. Didn’t I tell you.

“Yeah, yeah,” Azriel mumbled, ignoring the way his face ached as he pulled himself to his feet. Lucien looked as if he wanted a second round but Azriel was still a male and still had his pride. 

“That’s the only time I won’t hit you back, lordling,” Azriel snapped, ignoring how Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “Next time there’ll be nothing left for that mate of yours to kiss—”

“I’ll kill you—”

“That’s enough!” Feyre snapped, ending the pissing match before Azriel could have his second round. “There will be no killing of any kind!”

Azriel ducked his head as he made his way into the house, hoping he looked appropriately mollified. He certainly felt it. Rhys followed behind Azriel, a smile still dancing across his features.

“I could listen to her yell at him all day,” Rhys admitted, closing the door behind Azriel. “Music to my ears.”

“What’s his fucking problem?”

“Mating bond is riding him hard,” Rhys replied, sinking into his chair. “I need to get them out of this fucking house before I go insane.”

“They accepted here?” Azriel asked, surprised. 

“Feyre begged him to stay for just a week, unaware they were in the middle of the frenzy, and now its all I hear. Day and night, waking up Nyx, keeping me up when they drop their mental defenses…” Rhys’s expression was one of frustration. “I told Feyre to buy Elain a house just to get them out of my hair.”

“And you sent Cassian away,” Azriel mocked, dropping into the leather chair across from Rhys’s desk. “Perhaps you like Lucien better than us.”

“Cassian and Nesta would have burned this house to ash. You remember that mating ceremony, right?”

Azriel would never forget—the smell of Cassian’s arousal was forever lodged in the back of his throat. Azriel had spent a month up in Illyria while Cassian and Nesta made up for lost time, and even then sometimes he still heard them.

“I suppose you’ll be next?” Rhys questioned. Azriel hoped, certainly, though he hadn’t let himself think that far ahead. He shrugged, instead, deciding silence was the best course of action Rhys knew him well enough to guess what worried Azriel—that Gwyn was going to realize she could likely do better and then leave him.

He knew Rhys just as well as Rhys knew him. That had always been Rhys’s fear about Feyre, after all, even after she’d accepted the bond. Azriel wondered when it had changed for Rhys. When did he let himself believe she wanted him, and would remain, regardless of what she saw? 

Azriel didn’t ask. 

“I assume you didn’t come all this way to let Lucien hit you?” Rhys asked. This would be a joke for the next century, if not longer. 

Azriel scowled. “My magic. Where does it come from?”

Rhys arched his brow. “You know I don’t have the answer for that.”

“I think I do.”

Azriel dropped his mental defenses, trusting Rhys wouldn’t go digging for anything other than what Azriel pulled to the surface. It was a supreme act of trust between them—Azriel had guarded his secrets closely like a dragon hoarding gold. And though there was nothing Rhys couldn’t see, it was more that Azriel didn’t want him to. Rhys was allowed his secrets.

Azriel should be allowed his, too. 

Rhys did exactly as Azriel allowed, his presence dipping into Azriel’s mind to watch it all play out. Rhys withdrew a moment later and Azriel slammed the walls back up, ensuring every last stone was in place before truly looking at his brother.

“Well?”

Rhys steepled his fingers in front of his face, sighing deeply. “I’ve heard that voice in Elain Archeron’s head, too.”

Azriel’s blood ran cold. “And?”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. If your magic is derived from Koschei, it’s just that. Derived, but clearly not controlled.”

“We’re missing something,” Azriel murmured, though he didn’t know what. “I think I should return to Montessere.”

“We should,” Rhys amended softly, eyes cutting toward the closed door. “And soon. With Beron Vanserra gone, whatever deal he’d struck with their king should have died with him. Eris bought us a little time, though who knows how much. Did Gwyn ever manage to figure out what was going on?”

“No—a Day Court scholar stole her cipher and she’s been able to read the book she was translating without it.”

“She’s upstairs with the priestesses,” Rhys mused, rubbing his chin. “Both Helion and Eris are asking for her. I suppose I could negotiate for it…or you could simply steal it.”

Azriel’s shadows slithered around him, suddenly paying attention. 

“Find it,” he murmured, watching as they vanished into smoke. 

Rhys took a breath, waiting until they were truly alone. “Once you know where it is, get it back without making a fuss. I don’t want Eris claiming I harmed his mate any more than he already is. 

When we know what the book says, we can decide our next steps. We need to move quietly, though.”

“What are you thinking?”

“You get me through the door, and I rip open Gunnar’s head,” Rhys said with a relish. It was treason to suggest—could start a war if they were caught. Azriel didn’t care—diplomacy was Rhys’s job, at any rate—but he raised his brows all the same.

“And then what?”

Rhys shrugged. “His son is dead, his court in shambles…I’m sure the vipers are circling. A stroll through the palace will tell me who is sympathetic and who might be willing to sign a treaty agreeing to look elsewhere for their expansionist ambition, should it come to that.”

“It’s risky,” Azriel said, unable to suppress his grin.

“Sounds like fun to me,” Rhys replied, settling back in his chair. “Let me think it through a bit—give me a week. In the meantime, help Cassian with Illyria.”

“What’s going on in Illyria?”

Rhys gave Azriel the rundown of their latest project, speed running through a plan that had originally been meant to happen over the course of several decades. Nesta was human, and Emerie young, and he supposed to them, it was simply all too slow. He didn’t blame them for pushing for stronger measures, for wanting stricter punishments. Feyre, too, seemed frustrated by the lack of progress being made in the region and the loss of yet another generation of females while the males pretended to implement the changes they outwardly ignored. 

“Looking for resistance leaders?”

“And quickly,” Rhys agreed with a sly look on his face. “They’ve forgotten how it feels to go against us and I think a little reminder is in order.”

“Maybe it’s time,” Azriel murmured.

Rhys’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Say the word.”

“It would cause more problems than it would solve,” Azriel reminded Rhys, knowing damn well that Rhys didn’t care about problems when it came to his brothers. So what if the other nobles balked—let them see what happened if they refused the authority of the High Lord they were sworn to.

“Is there someone we could install in their place?” Rhys questioned.

“I could find out.”

“Do it.”

And that was that. Azriel spent the rest of his day with Feyre and Nyx, seated on the floor while the pair tried to convince the toddling baby to pick his favorite. Azriel cheated twice, pulling a piece of candy he’d swiped from Rhys’s desk to intice the child over while Feyre declared he was the absolute worst and she’d never forgive him. 

Azriel knew she would. She spent the afternoon fussing over his face and begging him to let her fix it before he went back upstairs, but Azriel had made peace with his wounds. This was his penance, besides. He’d gotten what was coming to him, he supposed.

Even if he stood by what he’d said all those months ago. He was glad Elain wasn’t his mate…but still thought Lucien was an unworthy male he could easily take in a fight if it ever came down to it. Besides, Azriel reasoned it might give Gwyn a reason to fuss over him, which he thought sounded rather nice.

He’d forgotten how violent she could be. Even with his head in her lap, wings draped around them, Gwyn explained in detail all the things she’d like to do to Lucien while scratching his scalp. Was this how cats felt? 

“We could psychologically torture him,” Gwyn said, still musing all the ways she could get him back.

“Oh? How would you do that?” he questioned.

“I’ll ask Nesta,” she decided, earning a chuckle. 

“She’d know.”

“Arina still has my cipher,” Gwyn informed him after a moment. Azriel opened his eyes to look up at her, finding her pretty face twisted in a frown. 

“I’ll find it,” he said, wondering if his shadows already had. They wouldn’t intrude while he was with her, and he couldn’t sense them nearby. It didn’t mean they weren’t—just that he couldn’t feel them. 

“And deny Nesta the opportunity of scaring it out of her?” Gwyn asked before her expression shifted. “Did you know Mor and Emerie were courting?”

It should have been a punch to the gut. Azriel waited for that familiar wave of hot jealousy to fill his throat like it used to. Every time he’d heard whispers of Mor being intimate with other people—males, usually—Azriel hadn’t been able to swallow it. Rhys had often taken him out to let him burn out his anger in the form of physical violence.

There was a beat. And then another. “Oh?” he finally heard himself say in a placid tone. He meant it, too. It was pleasant, that feeling. He only wished her well. 

“Surprised me, too,” Gwyn admitted after a moment. “But Emerie is the best.”

“She is,” Azriel agreed.

“And Mor is…nice?” she questioned.

“She is,” he promised, reaching for Gwyn’s free hand to press a kiss against the back of her skin. “You’ll like her.”

Gwyn hummed a non-committal sound as the pair lapsed into comfortable silence. Azriel had questions he didn’t dare ask her—not yet. Maybe not ever. He wanted to know if she was genuinely happy and if she had regrets. If she was accepting their bond out of obligation or because she wanted to. Cassian and Rhys knew their mates wanted them because humans didn’t have the concept—they had to decide on the merits of their feelings rather than the expectation of the bond. 

Gwyn had grown up as one of them—she knew what it meant to have a mate. And she’d accepted the whole thing so easily, so quickly, that Azriel caught himself second guessing everything at times. 

“Are you hungry?” Gwyn asked, reading Azriel’s mind. His heart raced at the thought—he knew what she was offering. Yes! The word nearly bubbled out of his throat, leashed only at the last minute.

“I am,” he replied, rising upward with what he hoped seemed sultry and not avoidant. He had her on her back in a moment, gazing up at him around a halo of reddish brown hair. “What are you offering.”

“I thought…” she breathed, but he was sliding her dress up over her thighs. That's it. Forget you offered, he thought silently. Pressing a kiss to her thigh, Azriel decided this was better, at least for now. Let her get used to it—they’d revisit accepting in a few years. Decades, maybe. 

It was easy to pretend it didn’t hurt him.

Mostly.

[katsukikitten]

Zodel only has patience for you. Everyone else is a stepping stone to reach the Heavens and drag them down to Hell himself.

What others call junk you call treasure.

Fingers smoothing over threadbare blankets or jackets, mange looking faux fur on old stuffed animals. Smooth flat metal of scissors until rust begins to eat at the edges making them jagged.

Useless.

Garbage.

But it was all jinki to you.

Pieces of people's souls could be trapped in items, embedded into the very atoms that made the item smooth or rough to the touch. As if woven into the fabric itself and if you were a Giver, which you were, jinki was all that much more valuable.

So here you stand with your sewn together backpack, black velveteen fabric well worn, eyes replaced with loving x stitching and one of the cat ears long since gone. It's belly swollen and full of treasures clinking together, whispering their thanks to you as you shift through the garbage in the contaminated zone. Spiked gas mask snug against your face as it filters the rancid air while you fixate on the items in the pale moonlight.

No need for you to be too vigilant considering no one was ever out this far, at least no one with half a mind. Trash beasts, raiders or vandals would be the most company you'd get and even then that was few and far in between the major cities of the Abyss. You spent the majority of your time under the haze of the stinking trash listening out for the loudest jinki, the most angry, resentful, growling thing before your ears perked.

Body on instinct dropping to the ground before you hear the footsteps and then the voices.

But most of all the jinki.

“Boss…”

“Don't.” Sharper than any knife you've held, gaze sharper still as it turns onto the goon that follows. You can't see from this distance, everything mostly a blob and their voices barely carry out to you. But even if you could hear them all you can focus on is the loud humming coming from the poorly sewn together jacket on the man's broad shoulders.

I can help comes the soft whisper from the pile of trash, your fingers digging into the heap, dark power snaking from one piece to another as if being passed along before you finally land in a doll. Hair burnt off and ripped out, missing both arms, a leg but thankfully she still had one good eye.

The doll lies close to the two men, unblinking gaze fixated on them as you close your left to see better.

One is skinny, lanky and with long tightly woven dreads, fingers covered in claws that retract to rings as he falls into step behind the much larger man with dark midnight hair.

Dreads’ jinki are loud, hard to ignore, muttering endlessly between themselves in gravely rasps. Hissing, agitated sounds over one another as it morphs into a quickening slurred babble, almost as if paranoia drives their conversation.

The second is wrapped around the broader man, dark black and filled with so much power it hums. Loudly, to the point it begins to drown out the rushing blood in your ears, drown out every thought as the buzzing continues to grow. He adjusts the jacket and it preens before back to the constant almost nauseating drone.

You want that fuckin jinki.

“Boss I couldn't get the sky person but-” Dreads attempts again to get a word in edgewise before he's interrupted by another pointed tone.

“You failed did you not?” Cold dark eyes look over his shoulder as they continue to walk along the tall trash heap, much taller than them as the duster jacket held together by large staples and stitches steadily hums.

Dreads doesn't answer, crazed eyes dropping to the junk underfoot in shame.

“Twice.” Dreads flinches as if struck but the broad man doesn't move an inch. Nothing more than a turn of his head as a shadow slinks from the jacket, up his throat and cheek trying to snake over his eye before a portal opens up in front of the boss. Illuminating them both in a washed out ethereal glow before he steps through.

Dreads waits outside, gritting his teeth until bone grinds against bone, tick in his jaw that creaks before the voice in the swirling void calls out.

“Come.” And Dreads obeys like any good dog.

The portal disappears in a matter of seconds leaving you to count all the way up to sixty before you will the doll to move. Legs of inky black jutting out where plastic limbs once were, slinking towards where the portal appeared. Lurking around what looks to be a base now that you're really paying attention only to come up empty in your search for an entrance.

Tapping your fingers as you think. Whoever had the portal jinki couldn't always be available right? Plus the big scary boss man didn't seem the type to rely fully on one person especially since one of his goons already proved a failure so there had to be a hidden entrance somewhere.

The doll wanders aimlessly for hours by your command until you spy it, the smallest flutter of a breeze coming from the pile. Kicking your feet as you think of just how good that jacket will feel swallowing up your frame even more so than the stocky build it sat on.

Having the doll wait idle until you see yourself approaching through its dingy glassy eye. The plastic lid and long singed lashes flutter shut as you come to squat near the item. Let your fingers curve over her skull feeling the fuzz of worn down faux hair.

“Thank you.” A breathy whisper before you release the item, letting it rest against the wall where it would surely blend in with all the other discards from Heaven. Sharp claws slipping under the metal pulling harshly waiting for the hinges to whine from the strain of resisting the lock.

It's up high, well above your head before you're pulling your bag off of one of your shoulders. Digging around for the perfect tool, an old ornate letter opener. You use your gift to sharpen the bread to a deadly point, reaching on tiptoes before the blade connects with the lock. Yanking it towards your body and it slices through the metal with ease and the door yawns open. You return the jinki and your mask to your backpack before you wander around the base.

Following the sound of the hum and ignoring the loud slow beat that faintly reminds you of a heart beat. Ignoring the pacing, the clinking of tools, the hiss of pleasure, the electric charge as a comb brushes through hair because all you can hear is the all consuming hum.

Sneaking into a dark room, pitch black and giving your eyes a moment to adjust to the tiny flecks of moon light let in from the small holes in the walls. Holding your breath as you listen, pushing down the hum to hear the deep slow breathing of the man who owns the jinki. Once you've determined he's asleep you tiptoe into the room in a rush spying the dark item hanging on the back of a chair.

“Hello.” A breathy whisper to the jacket as your fingers brush over the fabric, the feeling vibrates in your very marrow and it makes you smile manically. It's heavy even if it is half stitched and stapled together, thick and yet you think you wouldn't overheat under the sun.

Lifting it gently from the chair slipping one arm through makes you a little light headed, the shadow sneaking up your throat in a curious purr. Crawling up your jaw as you go to put your other arm through and when the jacket is fully over your shoulders you sigh slowly. You can smell the previous wearer, a mixture of musky sweat and well worn leather warmed by the sun, it makes you feel good. Relaxed. So you nestle deeper and the shadow comes out further. Caressing over your lips as it starts to work its way up to cover your other eye, slowly, so slowly, the jacket begins to wear you.

Large rough hands slip under the shoulders of the jacket, smooth over the thin fabric of your t-shirt as the coat is pulled away from your body. The shadow retreats.

For now.

You turn to look over your shoulder, face half shrouded in shadow darker than night, the jacket still trying to cling to you. But your focus isn't on the purring from the fabric, it's on the tall broad man who stands behind you. His dark midnight hair is messy from sleep, more strands falling over his forehead than before, eyes dark and cold as they bite into you despite the gentle touch at your back.

He's shirtless himself, clothes mostly discarded at the foot of the bed, only the jacket was placed with care.

You reach around you, grabbing onto his thick forearms with sharp claws, nails hardened with a razor's edge. For whatever reason you hesitate, let it barely poke his skin and only small droplets bead to the surface.

“Careful.” His voice is deep and dark from disuse, having been in a deep enough sleep, it gives him even more of an edge. He leans closer, face impassive and frozen like any marble statue you'd seen in books discarded from the heavens. It is as if he's studying you, pulling the coat away from you gently, slowly and the shadow whines as it returns to the black fabric it came from, “What are you doing here?”

“Your jinki called me.” A half truth, mostly it just hummed from its own great power but the way it whispers to you now, to pull the fabric back up and have the high collar protect your throat gives more truth to your statement. Moving your hands from his skin to avoid a fight, fisting the opening of his jacket almost nervously.

Even after a long stretch of silence he doesn't reply, if he's dissatisfied or pleased with your answer you cannot tell, face still stone cold as his unblinking eyes stare down at you.

“I just love well worn things.” You unclasp your hands from around the opening of the jacket and let him peel it from your frame, “They have so much to tell me.”

The sound is soft and breathy like a confession in mass and it stills his movements. His hands stopping at the crook of your elbows now with the jacket half on and the shadow fully gone. You freeze, pulling in a shallow breath to hold.

You expect to be taunted, laughed at or struck, since that's what normally happened when you claim you could actually hear what the jinki said. Because even among the rejects you didn't belong. Too sharp, too quick, too loud, too cruel or too much. Always always too much until only the jinki liked your company.

Or maybe they just tolerated you since they couldn't move, it's not as if there was anyone else to hear them.

He cradles your jaw, tilting you up to face him instead of looking at the floor.

“There is no shame in that.” His tone and intense gaze soften minutely, missed in the dark as you stare back up at him.

“There isn't?”

“No.” He allows his hands to move on their own, allows his thumb to swipe over the apple of your cheek, “Is that not how jinki becomes jinki?”

Sliding over your throat, fingers slipping under your collar to notice you don't have a com necklace, that you acted alone, tracing your smooth skin. Engulfing and squeezing at the tender column before slowly grazing your cheek and palming the curve of your skull.

“How things and people become precious? Because they are loved?” Monotone as he delivers his lines and you're still too mesmerized to move, “Even if they are discarded by the Heavens and the sky people.”

“What's a sky person? I heard you two earlier. Is it that boy with the cleaners?” You blink up at him owlishly and he sighs deeply. Returns to his task of taking his jinki off of you, following down your exposed skin with his rough palms before gently placing it in your lap for now. You wrap your arms around it like a hug, bringing it to your chest as you watch him. He picks up a clean white button up, leaving a few open at the top before his muscular thighs slip into dark pants.

“No one saw you slip in, little stray?” He asks, holding out his hand towards you, reluctantly you place the heavy duster in his hands. He flips the dark fabric around as he slides his arms into it. Adjusting it just so and now the high collar of his jacket frames his jaw.

“No.” He helps you to your feet from the chair, “I heard them. They're noisy.”

“Hmm.” He hums, fingers slipping under the straps of your backpack earning a jolt from you when he tries to remove it, “Don't worry. You want to stay right?”

You take a step back and like a patient predator he doesn't move.

“Be close to my jinki? Since it loves to hum such sweet songs to you.” He stands as if there were a rod in his back, speaks with little to no emotion and if you were being honest he scares you a little.

Yet at the same time, when he lifts his arm in a silent invention, you step forward. Slipping your arm under his to press your face into his chest. His shirt smells like clean linen and his skin still smells like well worn leather in the sun with that bit of sweat that you hope clings to you.

The jinki purrs its approval before going silent when his arm wraps around you, pulls you closer in an uncharacteristic notion. A part of you thinks this is a farce, that he has other plans for you, that he knows affection, false promises you'll fall for, and patience are how he can trap the feral cat that is you.

“Would you like to be mine, stray?” He's tilting your chin to look into his eyes again, fingers tight on your jaw as he stares down at you with dark rich eyes. Even with your suspicion of ulterior motives your tongue moves all on its own.

“Yes.” Breaking free of his grip to hide your face in his chest again, his heart rate is slow, unhurriedly, and soft while yours roars. This attraction is odd and magnetic when you usually shoved people out of your life, yet here you stood stepping into his shadow most likely becoming just another one of his disposable goons.

“But only for a little while.”