#thank you again odd for this!!! :D

[kate-bot]

commission for @oddpizza !!!!!! THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO DO!!!!

[chuluoyi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄

- zayne x reader

everyone knows dr. zayne is cool as a cucumber, and it's a given for him that you're known as his wife, but when a fresh-faced new resident seemingly makes a move on you... what will he do?

genre/warnings: very suggestive, jealousy (a very jealous zayne, in fact), making out in his office, crack, fluff, hunter!reader, you and zayne have a daughter

note: inspired by that one kim min-kyu scene in business proposal :D this is actually an extension for nocturne of twilight and dawn's first light but can also be read as standalone

You hadn't seen your husband for two weeks.

There was a spring on your step when you entered Akso Hospital right after your long intercity mission. You had acquired some bruises and they weren't anything serious, so you figured you’d just have Greyson treat them. Besides, it gave you the perfect excuse to hand him some cookies as a souvenir.

And, of course, ask him to ring for Zayne to meet you once he had the time.

"Miss, do you need help?"

But a curious voice addressed you when you loitered around in the lobby, and you turned around to find a bright-faced young man with red hair and wearing doctor's coat.

"Ah, yes, I want to meet Dr. Zayne," you smiled. "Or Dr. Greyson will do."

The young doctor perked up at the names you mentioned. "Oh, are you a patient? Do you have an appointment already?"

"Hmm, no, actually I am—"

You halted mid-sentence before the words his wife slipped out, rethinking your choice. You knew of Zayne's infamous reputation in the hospital, and while almost everyone in his floor knew you, this new doctor didn't, and you thought it was best to leave it that way.

"Yeah, I already have an appointment," you nodded, plastering an thin smile. "Just tell Dr. Greyson that Y/N wants to meet him."

"Right, right, I'll page him now..." he mumbled, pulling out his pager and his phone. "I'll text him too..."

"Thank you."

"O-oh, Miss! Wait!" the young man called after you in a hurry when you turned around. "I've noticed it for a while, you have a cut on the side of your lips..."

"Ah, this..." Your fingers instinctively brushed the dried blood on your lips. You hadn’t thought the small cut was noticeable. "Yes, it’s from earlier—"

"Actually, I’m an ER resident!" he interrupted with a bright grin. "Let me treat you first!"

Caught off guard by his enthusiasm, you barely had time to react as he gently but firmly guided you towards the emergency room.

"Dr. Zayne! Dr. Zayne! Your wife is here~!"

Zayne had barely stepped into his office after a grueling surgery when Greyson barged in, all too casually, delivering the news with a grin. "She’s waiting in the lobby!"

He blinked, slightly taken aback. "Oh?"

You're back? He pulled out his muted phone, checking the notifications. Sure enough, you’d sent him a message an hour ago, letting him know you’d safely landed in Linkon.

His little, snarky wife. For the past two weeks you had been away, the house had felt lonelier. Sure, his daughter��who resembled you in personality, no less—was a bundle of sunshine and adorable beyond words, but without you, there was always that subtle void in the air.

Or maybe it wasn’t the house at all? Maybe it was just him���utterly, hopelessly whipped.

"Why isn’t she coming up to my office?" he asked suddenly, noticing the odd detail.

"Hmm, yeah, and it’s weird... why did the new resident say she’s asking for me?" Greyson mused, turning toward Zayne. "Don’t you want to meet her instead? Whatever she needs me for, I’m sure you could handle it."

Zayne promptly left his office and took long strides toward the elevator. As the doors started to close, he even half-sprinted, calling out to the person inside to hold it for him.

Okay, maybe he was a little too eager, but was it really so wrong to be this excited to see his wife again when the two of you had been apart for two weeks?

...then again, you didn't need to know. You would roast him to bits should you know he missed you this much.

Zayne got off at the lobby, expecting to find you there— only to find the usual flow of hospital staff and visitors. He was about to call you when he wandered past the emergency room and turned the corner—and that’s when he got his shock of the day.

There you were. But not alone.

With a guy.

Whose hand is touching your lips.

"It must be tough being a hunter, huh?"

The red-haired resident carefully tended to your bruised arm, wrapping it in a fresh bandage as you sighed, thinking back to the mission. "Yeah, there are definitely some hard days..."

"But despite all that, you still keep yourself in shape!" he remarked, eyeing your toned arms with a hint of admiration.

You let out a sheepish laugh, remembering those pull-ups sessions with Zayne. "Haha, that's because my husband makes sure I'm getting enough exercise..."

"You're married?!" His voice was filled with disbelief, and it caught you off guard, yet he grinned afterwards. "Wow! Is he a hunter too?"

You would've never guessed, boy. This resident doctor was cute, you thought, ever so curious at everything. You could only imagine the look on his face if you told him that the Dr. Zayne was your husband.

You were about to refute it when his fingers brushed against your lips. "Oh, sorry, let me apply some ointment here first..."

His touch felt cool to your lips and you were momentarily stunned at the contact— but then a gruff cough startled you so much you almost jumped.

The towering figure of your husband behind him. Zayne's dark gaze was fixed on the man in front of you, like he could murder the poor guy with just a look.

"Z-Zayne...?" you squeaked against the ointment on your lips, and the resident quickly turned behind him in surprise, hastily greeting him, "Oh, Dr. Zayne!"

Zayne shot the poor man a single, pointed look before his gaze shifted to you, clearly unamused.

He suddenly grabbed your hand and, without sparing the resident another glance, swiftly pulled you away. The other guy was left standing there, speechless, as Zayne led you off, leaving him in the dust.

. . .

"Zayne!"

Oh, how he actually missed his name coming out from your lips.

"Are you done with your schedule?" you asked as he pulled you into the elevator, confusion evident in the way you tilted your head. But when he didn’t answer, you glanced down at his firm grip on your arm, suddenly realizing something. "Wait, no... are you angry?"

Sigh. It irked him so much, actually. Because, how could you, after weeks—

No, he actually knew he was being irrational. He shouldn’t overreact like this just because someone else touched you. But why is he so annoyed, still?

"Wait, why?" you kept asking, wide-eyed, as the two of you stepped out and made way towards his office. "I'm not injured! I'm fine! It's just some bruises—"

Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his office, swiftly locking the door behind him. Before you could say another word, he cornered you against the wall, and you fell silent instantly.

It had been a while since he’d seen you this way—stunned, caught off guard, and utterly silent under his gaze. He studied your face closely, watching the way your breath hitched as the tension between you both thickened.

It sparked something inside him seeing you like this, a sense of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite explain, but one he welcomed nonetheless.

That was when he saw the blood on your lips. "Did you get punched in the face?"

"Y-Yes, but— it's nothing severe!" you defended, trying to convince him. "It's such a small cut anyway!"

He frowned. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"What? Hey, I was about to ask Greyson, but—"

That got him frown even deeper, even irate. "Why Greyson? When you come home with any injuries, you come to me, not anyone else."

You let out a resigned sigh, slumping your shoulders in defeat. "Because I know you'll fuss over me, duh."

"I don't fuss," he retorted.

"You do," you shot back, pursing your lips. "You try to act like this cool, calm robot all the time, but you always drone on and on whenever you patch me up. You're worried, it shows."

Zayne huffed, shifting his gaze away from you as he felt his face burn. Was he that obvious? How could he not, though, when you managed to get hurt so often and yet acted so innocent about it?

Then as if inspired, you caught on immediately. Your eyes sparkled, and a mischievous smirk tugged at your lips. "Wait, just now... don't tell me... Are you jealous?"

Damn.

"Heh, Dr. Zayne, really?" Your voice was playful now, mocking him. "Whoa, how can this be?"

How had you figured him out so easily?

You continued in a sing-song voice, putting both hands on your chest, "Ah, my heart flutters! My husband is apparently—"

Enough. This time, his patience snapped.

He didn’t hesitate even for a moment. A low growl escaped him, and in one swift motion, he crashed his lips against yours, silencing you with the most effective method he could think of.

"Mmph!" You gasped in surprise, the teasing words at the end of your tongue completely forgotten. His gray eyes gleamed. Been too long, he thought, and now he was making sure you knew just how badly he craved this.

The kiss was searing as he deepened it, his tongue seeking yours with urgency. "Hngh!" You let out a feeble whine when he teased you by biting your lips.

Zayne held back a snort. One of his hand then strayed inside your hunter uniform, unclasping your bra with a flick.

"—?!" Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening, and before you could process it, he pulled away. But you were far from right in thinking it was over. The dangerous gleam in his eyes kept you tense as he swiftly removed his glasses...

...before he pulled you back towards him and claimed your lips once again.

With a swift, commanding motion, he guided you toward his desk. His papers scattered at the sudden movement, but he had you bent over it regardless, forcing your body to arch. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, while his right hand fondled your breasts, repeatedly squeezing, palming and switching between them.

"Mmm...!" You let out a strangled moan, instinctively holding onto his shoulder, feeling the way how he groped you ignited your core. "Ahh..."

Your body was tantalizing as always. Hardened and sometimes bruised from your work it may be, but to Zayne, you were still beautiful as ever.

When you gasped for air, he decided he was done with your swollen lips. His lips then trailed down to your neck, sucking hard on it, creating a squelching sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"W-what's... gotten into you...?" you breathed out, tangling your fingers in his hair, hyperaware of his hands still roaming over your nipples.

In response, he nibbled at your skin and flicked your breasts at the same time, causing you to freeze and draw a sharp, hitched breath. "Haah...!"

Unbeknownst to you, his lips curled wickedly at your reaction, and he continued to pepper your neck with series of wet sucks as if to mark you altogether. You writhed under him, whiny and sighing, relishing his hot breath on your skin.

You were utterly at his mercy, pliant and helpless in his hands. There was a deep satisfaction in knowing he was the only one who could bring you, his lawfully wedded wife, to this state—

Still, he wouldn’t allow you to be indecent in a place like this. When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, eyes dark with lust, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of your jaw. "Don’t tempt me," he muttered, voice low and raspy.

You gazed up at him, your heart pounding. "Zayne..." you whispered, a whine broke through the heat on your flushed face.

His expression softened just enough, a flicker of tenderness cutting through the intensity. Pretty. That’s what you were, undeniably so. How he had missed out on you so long once was his greatest regret.

Carefully, he helped you sit upright, his touch gentle as he clasped your bra and began buttoning up your uniform, disheveled from his earlier ministrations.

The gentle way he touched you was a stark contrast to how it was earlier. "Is that a new way to treat busted lip?" you nudged his collar, feeling a little braver now.

"For bad wives, yeah."

"I'm not a bad wife! Just disobedient on some occasion."

Zayne's fingers brushed your face as he finished with your uniform, his dark-gray eyes steady on you. You pouted.

"You're the one who's bad," you accused with slight resentment, not missing a beat as the heat between your legs started to dissipate. "Leaving me unfinished like that."

"Hmm? Am I?" he murmured, the faintest amusement in his tone.

"You have to take responsibility tonight, you big meanie," you mumbled, your pout deepening as you avoided meeting his gaze.

Zayne snorted at the sight of you—so precious in his eyes, his thumb lightly grazing the corner of your lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart skip, before whispering in your ear:

"Well, if your voice won't wake our daughter, that is."

Epilogue

Not long after, just as you had gathered yourself and were preparing to leave the hospital to head home, a sudden knock at the door of his office startled you both.

Quickly, you moved to sit on the patient’s seat, feigning nonchalance as you braced yourself for whoever was on the other side. Zayne reached for the door, but before he could unlock it, a familiar voice called out.

"Excuse me!" the resident's voice sounded a bit hesitant but firm. "Dr. Zayne, the miss left her handbag earlier!"

Zayne let out a low, irked sigh. You glanced at him curiously, watching as he opened the door and came face-to-face with the redheaded resident.

Without a word, he extended his hand, and the resident blinked before handing over the bag.

"I-is the miss still here?" the young doctor asked, almost intimidated by his unfriendly gaze.

"Ma'am," Zayne corrected, his voice flat.

"Huh?"

"Call her ma'am. She's someone's wife."

"O-oh, and her husband is—"

"Me. I am her husband."

Your eyes widened in surprise at the matter-of-fact exchange, heat rising to your cheeks as Zayne’s words hung confidently in the air. He curtly thanked the poor resident before slamming the door shut in his face.

Your jaw practically hit the floor. "Zayne!" you gasped, staring at him as he turned back towards you, entirely unbothered.

Your husband was as cold as the snowman he often made, but somehow the way he boldly declared he was your husband was just so him that it made you so giddy.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms with a playful smile. "You’re really jealous, huh? How?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, most definitely trying to save his dignity.

You chuckled softly, stepping closer to him with a teasing sway. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, turning him to face you, and you winked at him mischievously.

"Well, I’m all yours. But if it makes you feel better, maybe I’ll stay away from any ER residents for a while~"

[strwbyoons]

DIRTY CASH

STARRING ... HAEGEUM AU!M. YOONGI X READER

WORD COUNT ... 7.5K

SUMMARY ... when survival means keeping your head down, you make the mistake of looking up.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slowburn. enemies2lovers. gang!au implied crime. explicit language. cigarette use. alcohol use. mild physical intimidation. reader is stubborn but out of her depth. yoongi is even worse. ft jk.

playlist : dirty cash (stevie v). haegeum (agust d). blood on the dancefloor (michael jackson). god's gonna cut you down (johnny cash). blackout days (phantomgram). you should see me in a crown (billie eilish). castle (halsey). buried in water (dead man's bones). dirty harry (gorillaz).

you try your best to live check by check. you spend your days shopping for necessities at the local market, work a quick closing shift at the drycleaner's, catch the minibus home, unpack your tiny plastic bag's worth of groceries, and then have dinner—which usually consists of a cheap pack of ramyun and whatever fizzy drink was left over at the convenience store.

your nights, much less excitingly, are spent cleaning the bath house beneath your apartment.

you work alone. the bath house is old, and grimy. the kind of place people come to when they have nowhere better to go.

the walls are stained with years of steam and sweat, the grout between the tiles permanently darkened no matter how hard you scrub, and the air is heavy with the scent of damp towels and something chemical. likely whatever cheap cleaner your boss seoyun buys in bulk.

your job is simple. mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty out the lockers. take out the trash. repeat.

you don’t think much while you work. you can’t afford to. thinking makes the nights feel longer, makes the silence settle too deep in your bones. so you move on autopilot, dragging the mop in slow, steady strokes, watching dirty water pool in the grout before it’s wiped away. you crouch down, scrubbing at a stubborn stain near the edge of the bath, fingernails scraping against the tile.

someone left behind a half-empty cigarette pack in one of the lockers. someone else forgot a wet towel, balled up and sour-smelling.

you throw it all away.

by the time you finish, your hands smell like bleach, your back aches, and your clothes cling to your skin, damp from the lingering heat. it’s late. the city outside hums with a different kind of life—motorcycles revving, laughter echoing down the alleys, glass breaking somewhere in the distance.

you lock up, head upstairs, and try not to think about doing it all again tomorrow.

seoyun herself is nice enough. you only really see her once a week, when she hands you a wad of cash and thanks you for your work. maybe every now and then when she comes in late, bringing in someone else before disappearing into her office.

at some point, you start recognizing a few of the faces. not regulars, not in the way normal bath houses have them. these men don’t come to soak in the water or unwind after a long day. they slip in at odd hours, always in pairs or small groups, always looking over their shoulders before they disappear down the hall.

you offered a wave once, just to be polite. the man had barely looked at you, but seoyun had. she pulled you aside after your shift, voice low and cold, asking if you had a death wish.

“you work here. you don’t see anyone, you don’t speak to anyone, and no one speaks to you.”

the next payday, your envelope was lighter than usual.

you learned your lesson. keep your head down. do your job. don’t ask questions.

it’s easy enough, you tell yourself. you’re not curious. you don’t care what seoyun does behind that office door or who these men are. you just need the cash, and as long as you mind your business, you’ll keep getting it.

so you mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty the lockers. take out the trash. you get paid, and you go home, just to do it all over again.

you’re not stupid. you know what kind of city you live in. the type of people that roam the streets.

this isn’t the kind of place where people walk home alone at night without looking over their shoulder. it isn’t the kind of place where the police show up when they’re called, either.

you hear things—stories whispered between neighbors, rumors passed down the halls of your apartment building. who got jumped. who went missing. whose body got fished out of the river last week.

this city is not kind. it never has been.

so no, you don’t ask questions. you don’t stare too long at the men who slip in and out of the bathhouse, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods and cigarette smoke. you don’t wonder why seoyun has a new car every few months or why she doesn’t seem the least bit bothered when some of her guests leave blood in the water. you just clean up after them.

but there’s one.

you noticed him because he was different. because unlike the others, he walked in alone. no pair, no group, no low murmured conversation at the door. just him, stepping inside like he belongs there.

seoyun is with him, though. she holds the door open, says something you can’t hear, tilts her head just slightly in his direction.

you should’ve looked away, should’ve gone back to your mopping without a second thought. but for whatever reason, you linger just long enough to catch a glimpse of him.

he’s wearing a shirt you’re almost sure you’ve seen at the dry cleaner’s before, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. he’s not big, not particularly imposing, but there’s something about the way he moves—calculated, slow, precise—that makes your stomach tighten. a warning you don’t quite understand.

for a brief, split second, you make eye contact. no more than a flicker. but it’s enough.

you don’t know what you see in his eyes, but your grip tightens around the mop handle. you drop your gaze, focus on the streak of dirty water smeared across the tile, and pretend you never looked at all.

seoyun disappears into her office. the door shuts behind them, and you keep mopping. keep your head down.

but you see him again. and again.

at first, it’s easy to pretend it’s nothing. just another man passing through, another face you shouldn’t recognize. but he comes in more than the others, often enough that you start expecting him. never at the same time, never on a schedule, but always the same way. alone, with that quiet, deliberate ease.

it makes your skin itch.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s the way he looks without looking, like he sees everything without needing to turn his head. maybe it’s the way seoyun lets him through without a word, without a second glance, whatever business he has clearly above questioning.

whatever it is, you don’t like it.

so you start adjusting. changing your rhythm. shifting the way you clean, where you are, when you’re there.

if you know you have to mop the floors, you do it earlier, long before he might show up. if you have to take out the trash, you drag the bags out back before the bath house even closes. if you hear the front door creak open, you find somewhere else to be. out of sight, out of the way.

it’s not fear, you tell yourself. it’s just caution. just common sense.

you don’t need to be in the same space as him. you don’t need to see whatever it is he does here. and most of all, you don’t need to risk catching his eye again. one glance was already too much.

you manage to avoid him for a while. weeks, maybe. long enough that you start to think your paths won't cross again.

but then, one night, on his way out, he drops something.

you don’t notice at first, too focused on wiping down the front desk. but when the door swings shut behind him, there it is; a pack of cigarettes, scuffed at the edges, half-full.

you hesitate. you could leave it. pretend you never saw. but something about it gnaws at you, a sharp little itch between your ribs. before you can think twice, you grab it and push through the door.

he hasn’t gone far. just a few steps down the alley, hands back in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. he doesn’t turn when you call out, doesn’t even flinch, but when you catch up, he slows.

you hold out the pack. “you dropped this.”

he looks down at your outstretched hand, then at you. for a second, there's nothing. just the distant hum of the city, the faint burn of smoke in the air.

then, he exhales, shaking his head. “keep it.”

his voice is low, edged with something unreadable. before you can respond, he turns, disappearing around the corner without another word.

you stand there a moment longer, fingers tightening around the pack. then, without really knowing why, you slip it into your pocket and head back inside.

the market is crowded, voices overlapping in a steady hum, the scent of fried food and fresh produce thick in the air. you shift your basket to your other hand, adjusting the phone against your ear.

“so you’re still working there?” jungkook’s voice crackles slightly, the distance stretching the signal thin.

you glance at the vegetables in front of you, turning a tomato over in your hand. too soft. you put it back.

“yeah,” you answer. “still working there.”

he exhales, something caught between a sigh and a laugh. “you always sound like you’re about to quit.”

you don’t respond. instead, you reach for an onion, give it a quick squeeze. firm enough. it goes into your basket.

“you could come here,” jungkook continues. “i could help you out, just until you find something better.”

you switch your phone to the other ear, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “i can’t.”

“why not?”

you don’t have a real answer for that. not one that makes sense. instead, you look down at your basket—onion, one carrot, a single potato. it’s not much. maybe enough for something warm, something that doesn’t come from a packet.

your old plastic bag is tucked under your arm, creased and thin from too many uses. you’ve had it so long the logo is starting to fade, the once-bright letters cracked and peeling.

“i just can’t,” you say finally, adding a head of cabbage to the basket.

jungkook makes a noise, something skeptical, but he doesn’t push. “at least tell me you’re eating properly.”

you pick up another tomato, hesitate, then set it back down. “of course.”

“liar.”

a faint smile tugs at your lips. you don’t bother denying it.

you move to the next stall, phone still pressed to your ear, fingers grazing over vegetables you know you can’t afford in bulk.

“what about your place?” jungkook asks. “your landlord still giving you shit?”

you shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “haven’t seen him in weeks.”

which isn’t necessarily a good thing. rent is still due whether he comes knocking or not.

jungkook hums, unconvinced. you can hear movement on his end, the faint clink of a glass against a table. probably at home, probably somewhere clean and warm, not in a market where the floor is damp and the air is thick with the scent of too many bodies packed close together.

“you sure you don’t need���”

“don’t.”

you hear him sigh. it’s an old conversation, one you’ve had too many times before. he offers. you refuse.

you balance your phone between your shoulder and cheek, reaching for your plastic bag.

“just let me know if that changes,” jungkook says, softer this time. “i mean it.”

you nod, even though he still can’t see you. “i know.”

a pause. “are you safe?”

the question catches you off guard. your fingers tighten around the bag’s handles. “yeah,” you say. “i’m safe.”

you can almost hear him frowning through the phone.

“promise?”

you swallow. glance around the market, the crowded stalls, the hunched shoulders and hurried steps. somewhere, not too far, a siren wails, cutting through the noise.

“promise,” you lie.

you tip the vegetables into your bag, careful not to let the thin plastic stretch too much under their weight. the handles are already weak, the edges fraying where they’ve been knotted and unknotted too many times. one day, it’s going to give out completely.

you push the thought away and pull out your cash.

the vendor barely looks at you as they take the money, dropping your change into your palm with a muttered thanks. you count it quickly, thumb running over the rough edges of the bills. enough for a hotteok.

you glance toward the food stalls, the scent of frying batter thick in the cool air.

“you’re still there, right?” jungkook’s voice pulls you back, staticky in your ear.

“yeah,” you murmur, tucking the remaining cash into your pocket. you step away from the produce stall, weaving through the crowd toward the vendor with the griddle. “just paying.”

jungkook sighs, something slow and drawn out. “you should eat something real.”

“this is real.”

“not when it’s the only thing you’ve had all day.”

you don’t answer that.

the woman at the stall barely glances up as you approach, pressing the hotteok down against the griddle with a flat spatula. the smell is warm, familiar, syrupy-sweet as the sugar caramelizes inside the dough.

“how much?” you ask, already fishing out the bills.

the woman holds up fingers instead of speaking, and you nod, slipping the exact amount onto the counter. she hands you the pastry wrapped in thin wax paper, still hot from the griddle, grease soaking through at the edges.

you step to the side, balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder as you blow gently on the pastry, trying not to burn your tongue.

“still there?” jungkook asks again, voice softer now.

you swallow down a too-hot bite, sugar sticking to your teeth.

“yeah,” you say. “still here.”

"what about the dry cleaner’s?" jungkook asks, his voice steady but distant over the static.

you chew the inside of your cheek, shifting your bag higher onto your arm as you step away from the food stall. the sun is setting, smearing long shadows across the pavement, tinting everything in dusky orange.

the market’s thinning out now, the hum of conversation dulling as vendors start packing up for the night.

“just finished a shift,” you say, licking sugar from your thumb. “gonna have to pick up extra, though. the ajumma that owns it is sick, and her nephew’s out of town.”

jungkook tuts under his breath. “so you’re overworking again.”

“just for a little while.”

“uh-huh. and how long is ‘a little while’?”

you exhale through your nose, not in the mood to argue. you can already hear the frustration creeping into his voice, the familiar weight of it pressing against your chest.

“until she gets better,” you say, glancing up at the sky. the last bits of sunlight are bleeding out over the buildings, the neon signs flickering on one by one. the bath house won’t be busy yet, but it will be soon.

you shift the hotteok to your other hand, biting off another piece, chewing slow. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you know he’s not done.

“you need to take care of yourself,” he says finally, quieter this time.

you don’t have an answer for that, so you don’t give one. just swallow, adjust your grip on your bag, and start heading home.

you finish the hotteok as you walk, tearing off the last piece with your teeth, the caramelized sugar still too hot where it sticks to the roof of your mouth. you lick the grease from your fingers and ball up the wax paper, tossing it into an overflowing trash can on the way.

the usual minibus sits at the curb up ahead, its headlights dim, the driver smoking lazily by the door. you heard it changed hands recently, some back-alley deal that put it under serpent property.

you don’t get on.

even if you had the fare, you wouldn’t. too many rumors. too many things happening to people who ask the wrong questions, take the wrong ride, end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

instead, you keep walking, already feeling the ache building in the arches of your feet. it’s going to be a long way home.

“you’re quiet,” jungkook says, voice a little fuzzier now, muffled by the wind cutting through the street.

“just tired.”

he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

you reach into your pocket, fingers brushing against crumpled bills, old receipts, and then—thin cardboard, edges worn soft from the way you’ve been fidgeting with it.

you pull out the cigarette pack. his cigarette pack.

your other hand dips into your jacket for the lighter you bought on a whim, despite knowing better. you don’t have cigarette money. hell, you barely have grocery money. but you bought the damn lighter anyway.

you shake out a cigarette, tuck it between your lips, flick the lighter once, twice, until the flame catches.

jungkook must hear it through the phone.

“really?”

you take a slow drag, smoke curling out into the cool air, the faint burn of it settling low in your chest.

“i thought you quit.”

you exhale, watching the smoke dissipate. “yeah,” you murmur. “me too.”

the cigarette tastes cheap, bitter on the inhale, but you smoke it anyway. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a while, just listens to the sound of your breath through the phone, the occasional rustle of fabric as you switch hands, tuck the lighter back into your pocket.

you walk past shuttered storefronts, metal grates pulled down tight, neon signs flickering in and out of focus. the bathhouse isn’t far, but your apartment sits just a little higher, up the cracked concrete steps, past the flickering hallway light that never gets fixed.

“when’s your next day off?” jungkook asks, breaking the silence.

you let out a quiet laugh, short and humorless. “what’s a day off?”

“you know that’s not normal, right?”

“maybe not for you.”

you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “it’s not normal for anyone.”

you don’t argue. what’s the point? this is just how things are. rent doesn’t wait. groceries don’t pay for themselves. you work until you can’t, and then you work some more.

you take another drag, eyes drifting toward the minibus as it idles at the curb. the driver’s still there, flicking ash onto the pavement, his expression unreadable in the low light.

“you sure you’re safe?” jungkook asks again, quieter this time.

you exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night air.

“yeah,” you say, lying through your teeth. “i’m sure.”

the bus doors hiss open. a man steps off, shoulders broad, head tilted slightly downward, dark hair shadowing his face.

you recognize him before you even see his eyes, and you keep walking.

jungkook says something, but the words don’t register, drowned out by the steady click, click, click of boots against pavement behind you.

you don’t speed up. don’t look back.

you just keep moving, cigarette burning down between your fingers, pulse steady, breath even.

long way home, you remind yourself.

you keep your head down, shoulders hunched against the cold, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. the boots behind you are steady, unhurried.

long way home, long way home.

you don’t see the man until it’s too late.

broad shoulders, thick arms, the scent of something sharp and metallic clinging to his clothes. you shove past him too fast, too rough, and his shoulder knocks hard against yours.

your phone slips from your grip, clattering against the pavement.

shit.

you don’t stop.

the cigarette falls from your fingers, embers sparking against the sidewalk. you shove your hands into your pockets, chin tucked low, legs moving before you can think twice.

keep walking. don’t look back.

“hey!” the man calls, voice gruff, irritated.

you don’t stop. don’t slow down. your phone is still on the ground, screen facing up, jungkook’s voice faint through the speaker.

you don’t go back for it. you just keep walking, faster this time.

your feet move before your brain catches up.

the moment you hear the heavy thud of boots against pavement—too fast, too deliberate—you break into a run.

the city blurs around you, neon lights streaking past, the scent of fried food and car exhaust thick in the air. your breath comes fast, uneven. the plastic bag swings against your thigh, the vegetables inside bouncing against each other.

you hear him gaining.

shit. shit. shit.

you take a sharp turn into an alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of side streets, but as soon as you round the corner, you stop.

another man stands at the other end.

not the same one. taller, thinner, but the stance is the same. relaxed, arms hanging loose at his sides, but there's something calculated about it. like he's waiting.

you turn back, but it’s too late.

the first man is there now, closing the distance. not alone anymore.

dark shapes slip out from the shadows, one after another, a slow, deliberate circle forming around you. all dressed the same—dark clothes, quiet movements, faces mostly obscured by the dim light.

trapped.

your heart slams against your ribs. the plastic bag in your grip crinkles under the pressure of your fingers.

“don’t—” your voice is barely steady, your throat too tight, words tumbling out before you can think. “i don’t have anything. if it’s money, i don’t—”

a low chuckle.

“not about money,” one of them says, voice smooth, almost amused.

your stomach twists. you take a step back. your heel scrapes against the pavement, and suddenly it’s real.

you are surrounded, and there is nowhere to go.

the air is thick, pressing down on your chest.

your fingers tighten around the plastic bag, knuckles aching. the vegetables inside shift with every shaky breath you take. useless. not a weapon, not an escape. just something you were stupid enough to care about bringing home.

one of the men steps closer.

you take a step back.

another chuckle, low and lazy. someone mutters something under their breath. someone else shifts their weight, slow and deliberate. they’re in no hurry. it isn’t a question of if, just when.

then, the faint scratch of a lighter. the soft drag of a breath. a flicker of orange glow.

you don’t have to turn to know.

he’s there.

leaning against the mouth of the alley, one foot crossed over the other, cigarette dangling from his lips like he has nowhere better to be. his hands stay in his pockets.

he exhales, smoke curling through the air, eyes flicking over the scene in front of him.

"this really necessary?"

his voice is quiet, but the way the group stiffens tells you everything you need to know.

your pulse slams against your throat, and you don’t dare move.

silence stretches, thick and suffocating. the men don’t move, but you feel the shift, the way their postures tense just slightly. not fear, exactly. not yet. but hesitation.

the cigarette between his lips burns slow, smoke curling lazily into the night air. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even glance your way. just stands there, hands in his pockets, his weight still leaned easy against the brick wall like he’s got all the time in the world.

“didn’t realize we had an audience,” one of the men says, voice clipped.

he doesn’t react. just takes another slow drag, then exhales. “didn’t realize you needed a whole group to handle one person,” he says, just as even, just as slow.

someone shifts beside you. you feel it more than you see it. your fingers tighten around the plastic bag again.

one of them—the first one, the one you bumped into—lets out a short laugh, but there’s something forced in it now, something thin.

“this your business?”

he tilts his head slightly, finally flicking his eyes toward the man who spoke. "not really.” a pause. then, cool, measured, “but you know how it is.”

another beat of silence. you don’t breathe. then, just as easily as they appeared, the tension snaps.

someone clicks their tongue. another mutters something under their breath. then, one by one, they step back, peeling away from the circle, slipping back into the shadows of the alley.

the first man lingers the longest, staring him down, something unreadable in his gaze. but eventually, even he turns, and their footsteps fade.

you don’t move. don’t exhale. can't do anything but stand there.

until finally, “you can breathe now.”

your eyes snap to him.

he’s looking at you this time, head tilted slightly, cigarette still perched between his fingers, gaze unreadable.

you swallow, the plastic bag crinkling in your grip.

he doesn’t say anything else. just flicks the cigarette to the ground, snuffs it out with the toe of his shoe, and turns, like it never happened at all.

you know it’s stupid.

you know it the second your mouth opens, before the word even makes it past your lips. “hey.”

he pauses.

just barely, just for a fraction of a second. then he turns his head, the dim light catching on the sharp cut of his features.

your heart is still racing, pulse thick in your throat. your fingers ache from gripping the plastic bag too tight. you swallow. shift your weight.

“your name,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “what is it?”

his expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. the weight of it presses down on you, heavy and final.

he exhales, barely audible. “i know where you live.” your breath catches, but his gaze doesn’t waver. "stop being stupid.”

his words are clipped, sharp enough to cut, then he turns. and this time, he doesn’t pause. he just walks away.

you stand there, stomach twisting, mind spinning, watching until his figure disappears into the dark.

long way home. long way home.

you force your feet to move.

you get home later than usual, and as a consequence, you have to skip dinner in order to be somewhat on time for your shift at the bath house.

not that it matters. you weren’t all that hungry anyway.

your apartment is the same as always—too small, too cold, too quiet. the overhead light flickers when you switch it on, the bulb probably on its last leg, but you don’t have time to care. you drop the plastic bag onto the counter, the vegetables inside rolling lazily to one side. they’ll have to wait.

you change quickly, stripping off the clothes you spent the day in, replacing them with something less suffocating. your uniform is just an old t-shirt and sweatpants, clothes that have already been worn thin from too many washes, but they’re good enough for the work you do.

you check the time.

definitely too late to eat.

barely enough time to make it downstairs.

you exhale, shoving your sore feet into your shoes, grab your keys, and step back into the dimly lit hallway.

the building is silent. a few doors down, someone has their TV on, the low drone of news reports seeping through the thin walls. the stairwell smells faintly of cigarette smoke and damp concrete.

you take the stairs two at a time, moving fast, not letting your mind linger too long on what happened earlier.

the bath house is waiting. the floors need mopping. the tiles need scrubbing. the lockers need emptying.

same as always.

and if your hands shake a little as you reach for the keys, if your pulse stutters at the sound of footsteps in the alley beside the building, if the cigarette pack in your pocket feels heavier than it should, well.

that’s nobody’s problem but yours.

seoyun is waiting at the entrance when you arrive, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, a cigarette smoldering lazily between two fingers. the sight is unusual enough to make your steps falter. she’s never here when you start your shift—never at the front, never waiting.

but tonight, she is. and she’s smiling.

too wide, too friendly. the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“there she is,” she says, pushing off the doorframe with an easy stretch. the cigarette dangles from her lips as she gestures for you to come in. “was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

you don���t know what to say to that, so you just step inside, brushing past her. the scent of smoke clings to the warm, humid air, mixing with the ever-present tang of chlorine and damp towels.

seoyun flicks ash onto the ground, watching you with something unreadable in her expression.

“long day?” she asks, too casual.

you don’t like this. don’t like the way she’s looking at you, don’t like the way her tone is just a little too light, too knowing.

your fingers tighten around your keys as you shove them into your pocket.

“same as always,” you say.

seoyun hums, dragging another slow pull from her cigarette. “right,” she says, exhaling. the smoke curls up toward the ceiling, lazy and slow. “same as always.”

something in your stomach knots.

you force your feet to move, heading toward the supply closet, keeping your face blank, your steps steady. behind you, seoyun chuckles under her breath, amused.

you don’t ask what’s so funny. you don’t want to know. you’ve barely made it three steps when seoyun calls after you.

“oh—someone left something in the back,” she says, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. “be a doll and grab it for me, would you?”

you pause, turning slightly. “what is it?”

seoyun waves a hand, already distracted. “just a bag. nothing heavy.”

her tone is airy, but something about the way she says it makes your skin itch. still, you nod. “sure.”

you turn back toward the hallway, but curiosity gnaws at you, the weight of the day pressing in, making you reckless. before you can stop yourself, the question slips out.

“who are you waiting for?”

seoyun doesn’t even blink. “investor.”

it comes so easily, so smoothly, that you almost believe it.

almost.

but then she shifts, adjusting the hem of her blouse, smoothing it down with practiced ease, and that’s when you know. she’s lying.

you don’t push. you just nod, keep your head down, and make your way to the back.

the hallway stretches long and dim, the overhead bulbs buzzing faintly. you reach the back door, fingers brushing against the cool metal handle. it’s unlocked, cracked open just enough to let the night seep in. you push the door open.

the duffel bag sits just outside, slumped against the frame. black, unmarked, zipper pulled shut.

you crouch down, fingers curling around the straps. the material is rough beneath your skin, edges worn from too much use. then,you lift.

too heavy.

your breath catches. too heavy.

your mind moves too fast, filling in blanks you don’t want to see. you’ve taken out the trash before. you’ve carried bags that sagged in the middle, that smelled of iron, that weren’t meant to be opened. you know what heavy means.

your grip falters. the bag slips, nearly dragging from your hands before you catch it. your pulse stutters, cold fear lacing through your ribs.

don’t ask. don’t look.

you inhale slow, steady, force your hands to hold firm. it’s just a bag. just a bag...

with effort, you lift it fully, shifting the weight onto your shoulder, muscles burning under the strain. you swallow hard and step back inside.

you barely make it two steps inside before you hear voices at the front. he’s here. you know it before you see him. the weight of the duffel bag is still solid on your shoulder, but now it feels secondary, something you can barely focus on amisdt the slow churn in your stomach.

you step back into the hallway, adjusting the strap, keeping your head down, hoping—stupidly—that you can slip past unnoticed.

of course, no such luck.

“ah, perfect timing.” seoyun. her voice rings out, light, too amused.

you glance up. and there he is.

leaning against the counter, that same easy posture, hands in his pockets, his gaze flicking up just enough to acknowledge you before shifting away again.

seoyun gestures between you both, as though presenting something far funnier than it is. “you’ve probably seen each other before,” she says, feigning innocence. “our little night shift worker here is very good at keeping her head down, but i’m sure you’ve noticed her around.”

your stomach twists.

oh, you’ve noticed each other.

you keep your expression blank, fingers tightening around the duffel strap. 

he says nothing. doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge seoyun’s prodding. just exhales, gaze unreadable, and flicks his eyes back toward her instead.

which would be a relief, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. all that effort. weeks spent avoiding him at work, shifting your schedule, moving quietly enough to never share space with him longer than necessary.

and now this.

“lucky you,” seoyun muses, still grinning, watching the whole thing unfold with far too much enjoyment.

lucky. yeah, you don’t feel very lucky. 

you shift the weight of the bag on your shoulder. “where do you want this?” you ask, voice clipped, pointedly ignoring everything else.

seoyun waves a hand, dismissive. “just put it in my office.”

you nod, turn on your heel, and leave. as you move past him, you swear you feel his eyes flick toward you. brief, unreadable, nothing at all.

but you don’t check to be sure.

the night drags.

you mop, same as always. push the handle forward, pull it back, watch the water smear across the tiles before it settles into the grout.

the meeting—or whatever it was��is over. seoyun left not long after, a lazy wave and a hum on her lips, disappearing back into her office.

he didn’t. he’s still here.

you don’t know when you noticed. a few minutes ago, maybe more. but the weight of his stare is impossible to ignore now, sitting heavy at the nape of your neck, settling deep in your ribs.

you keep mopping. push forward, pull back. the wet slosh of the mop head against tile fills the silence.

then, “are you dumb, suicidal, or both?”

you stop. the words land low, devoid of real curiosity. as though he’s already decided the answer and is just waiting to see if you’ll admit it.

slowly, you straighten. the mop handle stays gripped in your hands, and you turn.

he’s leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. the picture of ease, like he belongs here. like he’s got all the time in the world.

but his eyes, his eyes aren’t lazy. they’re sharp. settled on you in a way that makes your pulse jump, makes you suddenly aware of every single choice you’ve made tonight.

the duffel bag. the alley. the cigarette pack.

you swallow. shift your grip. “excuse me?”

he tilts his head, considering. “which is it?”

you blink. “what the hell are you talking about?”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “if you’re dumb, suicidal, or both.”

your fingers tighten around the mop handle. something slow claws its way up your throat. you are tired. you are sore. you are done.

and this man—who you have gone out of your way to avoid, who you didn’t ask to get involved with, who you didn’t ask anything from—is standing here asking you that? your jaw ticks.

“neither,” you say.

his brows lift slightly, the barest flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “funny,” he murmurs, low, amused. “that’s not what it looks like.”

you click your tongue, annoyed, and turn back to the mop. push forward, pull back.

if he wants to talk, let him talk. you don’t owe him anything—not a response, not an explanation, not a damn thing.

but he doesn’t stop. “why’d you walk home?”

your grip tightens. you don’t answer. 

“you heard about the minibus, didn’t you?” he continues, voice even, too casual for the words coming out of his mouth. “knew it wasn’t safe, so you avoided it. smart enough for that.”

your jaw locks. 

“but not smart enough to notice when a bunch of guys are clocking you from a mile away.”

the mop sloshes against the tile, bristles scraping rough. your shoulders ache from tension, from exhaustion, from everything.

“is your situational awareness always that bad, or were you just in the mood to die tonight?”

you suck in a breath, sharp and slow, force your pulse to steady.

he exhales, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts. mocking now, biting. “seriously. you have the survival instinct of an infant.”

push forward. pull back.

your knuckles are white against the mop handle, fingers aching. you are tired. you are hungry. you are angry. but most of all, you are not doing this. so you keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, and you mop.

because if you stop, if you look at him, if you give him what he wants, you’re not sure what will come out.

the mop barely moves before he does.

one step. that’s all it takes. one step forward, one hand reaching out, fingers catching under your chin before you can pull away.

your breath stalls.

his grip isn’t hard, but it’s firm, unyielding, enough to tip your face up, enough to make you meet his gaze. you don’t want to, but he leaves you no choice.

his eyes are steady, dark, unreadable. up close, the lines of his face are sharper—tired, calculating, not a single ounce of softness in them.

“one day,” he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, “you’re gonna end up just another body on the news.”

the words settle, cold and final, crawling under your skin. you don’t flinch, don’t look away. don’t give him the reaction he’s waiting for.

you don’t give him anything.

his thumb lingers against your jaw for half a second longer. then, he lets go.

the absence of his touch is immediate, leaving behind nothing but the dull, lingering pressure where his fingers had been. he steps back, like he was never there at all.

you swallow down the lump in your throat, force your fingers to unclench from the mop handle, force your feet to stay planted even when every single instinct tells you to run. but you don’t.

you stay, and you go back to mopping.

he’s still there when you leave.

you don’t know why. don’t want to know.

but when seoyun hands you your pay—wad of cash thicker than usual, edges crisp, heavier in your palm—he’s lingering by the counter, hands in his pockets, watching.

you don’t ask about the extra. seoyun doesn’t explain it. she just smiles, too sweet, too amused, blowing out a slow curl of smoke before slipping a glance toward him. “get home safe,” she says, voice teasing, a joke only she understands.

you don’t respond. just tuck the cash into your pocket, nod stiffly, and turn for the door.

he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything. but as you step out into the night, the weight of his gaze follows.

by the time you make it upstairs, you’re ridiculously hungry.

the kind of hunger that makes your stomach feel hollow, makes your limbs feel heavier than they should. you kick off your shoes at the door, not even bothering to turn on the overhead light, just moving on autopilot.

the plastic bag sits where you left it, slumped on the counter, vegetables still inside. you should cook something. throw something together, make use of what little you have.

but your feet ache. your back aches. your head aches. so instead, you reach inside and pull out the carrot.

it’s pathetic, really. sitting at the counter, dim glow from the streetlights filtering through the window, gnawing at a raw carrot like some starved animal.

you don’t care.

it’s food. it’s easy. it’s something.

the fridge hums as you open it, cold air curling around your skin. inside, not much. half a carton of eggs. a leftover rice container you don’t remember putting there. a can of something pushed all the way to the back.

and beer.

you hate beer.

but you need something.

you grab the half-drunk can, lukewarm now—you’d unplugged your fridge a while ago to save on electricity—condensation long gone. the tab is already pulled, so you just bring it to your lips, tipping back a shallow gulp.

it’s just as bad as you remember. bitter, stale. something that settles uncomfortably in your stomach.

you drink anyway.

the beer is awful. the carrot is dry. neither do much to fix the ache in your stomach, but you keep going anyway—small bites, slow sips, filling the silence with something, anything.

your thoughts drift, sluggish from exhaustion.

you need a new phone.

it’s the first thing that comes to mind, the most obvious. jungkook probably lost his mind when you didn’t call back. you should’ve gone back for it, but you didn’t, and now it’s gone. broken, lying face down in the street with a cracked screen and your last conversation still open.

you sigh, tapping a fingernail against the beer can. you need groceries, too. real ones. something you can actually cook with instead of whatever scraps you manage to buy in passing.

you need sleep. a real night’s sleep. one where you don’t wake up to the sound of footsteps in the hall, to the distant whine of sirens, to the feeling that you’re being watched even when you know there’s no one there.

you need a lot of things.

but mostly, you need out.

out of this routine, out of this job, out of this place.

you take another sip, let the bitterness sit on your tongue, let the thought settle.

then you shake it off.

yoongi leans against the counter, cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching as seoyun flips through a neat stack of bills.

“she’s gonna be a problem,” he says, voice even.

seoyun doesn’t look up. “she’s an employee.”

“she’s a liability.”

that makes her laugh. short, amused. “you’re dramatic.”

yoongi exhales smoke, watching the way it curls through the air before disappearing. “she’s in the middle of shit she doesn’t even realize.”

seoyun hums, fingers running over the crisp edges of the cash before tucking it into the register. “not everyone’s as paranoid as you, you know.”

yoongi doesn’t react. just taps ash from his cigarette, watching as it scatters across the counter. “she’s going to be a problem,” he repeats.

seoyun finally glances up, tilting her head in that lazy way of hers, the corner of her mouth twitching. “and what?” she muses. “it’s not like you to get distracted.”

yoongi raises a brow. nothing about this is distraction. this is inconvenience. this is an unnecessary loose end in a situation that doesn’t need one.

“nothing’s stopping this deal from pulling through,” he says, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray. the embers smolder before dying out completely. “not even a baby deer insistnent on running in front of freight trucks.”

seoyun snorts. “colorful.”

“accurate.”

her nails tap against the counter once, twice. “is the deal really that important?”

yoongi doesn’t answer immediately. just levels her with a look, slow and pointed, exhaling as he settles back against the counter.

seoyun watches him, eyes sharp. then she hums. “guess it is.”

seoyun props her elbow on the counter, chin resting against her palm as she watches him, expression unreadable.

“you really think the fangs are gonna accept your offer?”

yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “they need to.”

seoyun hums again, not quite agreement, not quite doubt. just considering. she’s always been good at that. watching, waiting, choosing the side that makes the most sense for her.

“big gamble,” she muses.

yoongi doesn’t react. just watches as she straightens, smoothing down the hem of her blouse, adjusting the cash register like she’s closing shop for the night, and not discussing the kind of business that could get them both killed.

“you’ll have the crows on your back,” she says, tilting her head slightly, watching for his reaction. “for as long as it’s convenient, anyway.”

yoongi exhales, slow. “i know.”

seoyun’s lips curl at the edges, just slightly. “then let’s hope convenience lasts.”

she taps her fingers once against the counter, then turns, already moving toward the back. already done with this conversation.

yoongi stays where he is for a moment longer, watching the cash register, the stack of bills, the empty space she left behind. 

then, finally, he pushes off the counter and heads for the door.

taglist : @rpwprpwprpwprw @haru-jiminn @glossdebut @mimi1097 @angellekookie @yooniivrse

[madaboutmunson]

In the Quiet Between Us

For the @strangerthingswritersguild daily prompt: Hugging/Cuddling

Pre-Steddie

Wise cameo from Wayne

W/C: 2710 Ao3 Link

——————————————————-

It wasn’t a big deal for Eddie to be driving around Hawkins late at night. He’d probably be doing it anyway, honestly. But it had been a big deal who the phone call was from.

“Eddie, it’s for you,” Wayne drawled, shoving a piece of toast back in his mouth as he held out the receiver to him and sat back on the sofa on a rare night off.

He frowned in confusion but accepted the call. “Uh, hello?”

“Hey, Eddie,” a hurried voice said, one he didn’t recognise at first, until he added, “Man, I’m sorry for calling so late, but I got in an accident and-”

“Jesus, Steve, are you alright?” he asked, as an unnatural level of worry rose in him.

“Yeah, sorry, should have phrased that differently. Uh, I hit a pothole. My tyre’s messed up, and I kinda unintentionally went off-roading.” Steve laughed lightly, but even Eddie could tell it was forced.

“Just let me know roughly where you are, and I’ll come get you,” Eddie said confidently.

“No, no. It’s cool, but if you could bring me, like, I dunno, a toolkit or some blankets…I can try and fix it, and if not, stay with it until morning,” Steve replied quickly.

“Uh, okay. Sure, man. I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks, Eddie. You’re a lifesaver.”

Steve gave him his rough location and let him know he was at a pay phone a fair walk away, but he should be back at the car in fifteen minutes or so.

After collecting a few blankets and the tools that were currently sporadically decorating his room, he trudged back through their new living room only to be stopped by his Uncle’s voice.

“You going for a DIY sleepover or somethin’?” Wayne chuckled.

“No, it’s Steve. His tyre’s busted.”

“So you’re, what, gonna try to fix it, and if not, camp out?”

“Well, not exactly. Steve wanted the tools and said he’d stay out there if he couldn’t fix it.”

Wayne set down his paper and picked up his cigarette carton, and Eddie knew this was one of those moments where he was gonna have to do some human behavior analysis.

“Steve, the one always haulin’ those kids around? The one who swam and jumped in that hellhole first?” Wayne lit his cigarette, his voice softer now. “That Steve?”

Eddie nodded, waiting for it.

“And he called you. Not any of his other friends, not his folks, not even a towing company. Ain’t that kinda odd?” Wayne asked with a soft kindness.

“Well, his folks aren’t, uh, around much, and his other friends are probably asleep, and maybe all the towing places are closed?” Eddie tried to make sense of it.

“You remember that time you were, what, seven or eight, and you’d been climbing over the fence at your old house? You fell right in front of your pa, but you stayed quiet, went inside, and bawled your eyes out to your mama. Do you remember why?”

Eddie couldn’t remember that far back, honestly, but he knew why. He stared at the floor, Wayne’s words echoing louder than he liked. There’d been something in Steve’s voice. Something familiar. Not the words, but the weight behind them. That aching kind of hope that someone would show up. “Because I knew she’d take care of me and wouldn’t lay into me about it.”

Wayne raised his eyebrows at Eddie, rested his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, picked up his paper again, and leaned back in his chair.

Glancing back at the phone, he realised with a strange rush that Steve hadn’t called just anyone. He’d called him. Then he threw the blankets on the sofa.

“Wayne, could you-”

“Uh-huh. I’ll set up the other camp bed,” Wayne confirmed from the other side of his paper, and that was all Eddie needed to grab his keys, leap down the stairs, and screech out of the trailer park in Steve’s direction.

He got there way faster than he should have. Luckily for him, no cops were staked out lying in wait.

He saw the BMW just on the side of the road, which meant somehow Steve had managed to get it out of wherever he’d ended up.

“Gotta do everything himself,” Eddie muttered as he hopped out of the van with his toolbox.

“Hey, man!” he called out and saw the silhouette on the hood spin around and its shoulders relax.

“Eddie, thanks for coming out. I really appreciate it,” Steve gushed with gratitude as he stepped into the light.

Eddie took him in. The bright red bump on his forehead, the grazes of brambles on his hands and arms. Untypically, he was pale, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. Something about the way he stood, shoulders tensed again, like he was bracing for impact, made Eddie’s chest ache. It felt familiar. He rubbed at one arm absently, like the scratches had only just started stinging because someone else had seen them.

Steve clocked it right away, tugging at his sleeves and smoothing his shirt. He rolled his eyes. “Got in a bit of a tangle with nature, that’s all,” he said to the night sky, shifting his weight before he forced a smile and put his hands out for the tools.

Moving past him, Eddie crouched down to set the jack up. The chill of the asphalt seeped through his jeans as he knelt beside the tyre. “Spare in the trunk?”

Steve motioned toward the back of the car. “I can do it myself,” he said, but Eddie stopped him.

“Either go sit in my van or stand out of the road,” It was uttered with an uncommon firmness. One he used when Hellfire were getting to rowdy, but it was not unkind.

His friend’s gaze dropped to the ground, his lips tucked back like he was biting them together, and he stepped forward and back a few times like he was fighting with himself, like a paused VHS. Eventually, he conceded, but not without some muttered self-deprecation.

“Shit, I’m sorry for waking you up, Eddie. I didn’t wanna be a pain in the ass. I just thought you’d be awake and-”

“Steve, that’s almost as big a lie as you saying you didn’t get in an accident. That huge angry lump on your head says otherwise,” Eddie said as he removed the original tyre.

“The car’s fine, though. It’s just the wheel, I think,” Steve defended nervously.

“The car? The car is fine?” Eddie tutted and shook his head. “What about you? Are you fine? Because you don’t look fine, man.”

Steve’s hand followed Eddie’s eyeline. He winced, then forced a smile. “Yeah, of course I am. Just a little bump. Nothing to worry about.”

Eddie huffed a laugh of disbelief as he rolled the new tyre around and started putting it on.

“Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. I-I won’t bother you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you pissed too,” Steve said with a crack in his voice.

Eddie snapped his head toward him. “You think I’m pissed because you called me?” He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “No. No way, man,” he said, tightening the last of the bolts.

“I’m pissed because I know why you called me out of literally anyone else you could have called, but you’ve stood there and told me lie after lie. Why?”

Steve’s hands went deep into his pockets. “I just, I didn’t want anyone else to think I was a lo…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

Eddie tightened the wheel and lowered the jack in silence, then packed up his tools and threw them in his van. Eddie leaned against the van, hands braced on the cold metal, trying to settle the wild thump in his chest. He could feel Steve’s sorrowful, shocked expression follow him, like the silence between them was another thing that needed fixing. He straightened up, crossed the space between them, and stood in front of him.

Eddie looked Steve right in the eyes, and the guy reached for his wallet, which Eddie batted to the ground before wrapping him up in a tight embrace.

He heard the gasp first, but there was no resistance. Steve’s weight was on him like he’d almost collapsed into him. Like he’d been standing in a posture that wasn’t his for so long, he was relieved to let it go. It was like he had forgotten how to be held and then remembered all at once.

He trembled in his arms, and soon Eddie could feel the dampness on his collar. It wasn’t the crying that got to him. It was the silence. Like Steve didn’t know he was allowed to make noise. That hit Eddie harder than he wanted to admit. It felt strange, holding someone who’d once seemed untouchable. Like seeing the cracks in a statue. Only this wasn’t cold or distant. It was warm and real. Almost like a dam of pain had burst.

Daringly, Eddie put a hand to the back of Steve’s head and stroked his hair like his mama did for him. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I got you.”

The pet name choice surprised him. Sweetheart. It wasn’t unheard of for Eddie to use them, though they were normally reserved for people who annoyed him or inanimate objects he cared about. He couldn’t recall ever saying it like this before. But it felt right. Like something his mama would’ve said when the world was too big. When his heart was too open. A verbal balm to freshly opened wounds.

Eddie felt his T-shirt tighten around him as two fists grabbed hold of the fabric at his back. They stayed like that for a while until Steve’s grip relaxed and the shaking slowed.

“Listen, I got a makeshift tow situation I can rig up to get you home, okay? But honestly, maybe you should come back to mine, huh? It’s no mansion, but we got beers, snacks, smokes, a warm place to sleep, and no one is gonna give a shit about anything except how you’re doing. What’d ya say? Wanna spend the night at Trailer Park Towers?”

He felt Steve laugh and sniffle against his neck and finally nod.

“Okay, go get in the van. I’ll sort this out.”

Steve raised his head slowly, eyes flicking up like he wasn’t sure he had the right to look. “Thanks,” he managed before wiping his eyes and swallowing hard.

“Go on, get,” Eddie smiled and waved him toward the van, rewarded by a crooked smile, before Steve headed to the passenger seat.

Two bungee cords, a prayer, and the world’s jankiest length of rope. That was Eddie’s brilliant tow strategy. He rigged a rope between the van and the BMW. Barely street-legal, but it was good enough to limp home. A few times, Eddie had to slow right down for fear of losing the Beemer to the elements of Hawkins.

But to his surprise, he was completely alone in his worry. Steve was sound asleep under his leather jacket, curled up in the passenger seat.

A few times, Eddie woke him up on purpose just to make sure he was okay because of the head bump.

They got back to the trailer park, and Eddie sorted out the BMW before opening the passenger door to help Steve out and welcomed him inside.

Wayne had set up two camp beds in the lounge with blankets and pillows, the heater already blazing away.

“Made you boys some cocoa. It’s on the stove. I’m gonna head to bed. Nice to see ya, Steve. Make yourself at home, son.” Wayne smiled at them, and Eddie watched the surprise on Steve’s face melt into a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Munson. I really appreciate it.”

“No bother. Rest up. First aid kit’s in the bathroom,” Wayne said before heading into Eddie’s room to sleep.

Eddie showed Steve where the bathroom was so he could get cleaned up and even gave him some of his clothes to wear, which were a little tight, but pajamas and T-shirts were pretty forgiving.

Eddie sat on the edge of the bathtub and helped treat the scratches on Steve’s arms and the bump on his head.

“I can’t thank you enough, Eddie. This was really kind of you. You know Robin and Nancy or Jonathan or the kids would help if they could.”

“I know,” Eddie nodded. “You just needed a different kind of help. And your folks are out of town, right?”

Steve hesitated, then nodded. Hesitated again and shook his head. “No, I just… It’s like I told you. It would have confirmed all my dad’s opinions of me.”

It made Eddie take pause and look up at Steve. He knew anyone was capable of being an ass, but he thought rich people were nice to their own at least, especially their kids, right?

“Shit, dude. That sucks. I didn’t realise.”

“That’s okay. Only Robin knows what it’s like sometimes, but I don’t like to burden anyone with it if I can help it. They’ll just think I’m whining when I should be grateful,” Steve said quietly, his eyes not moving from Eddie’s hands bandaging his forearms.

“Clearly money doesn’t stop parents being assholes,” Eddie comiserated and held his tongue for a second before blurting out what was on his mind.

“He’s wrong, you know. You’re not a, uh, you’re not a loser. It’s fucked up what everyone has been through, and having no support system at home gives you nowhere to turn. My best friend left for college a while back, and everyone else in my friend group is younger than me, too. So I get it can be difficult to confide in them. Not because they aren’t amazing little shits, but because I feel like I should be helping them, not the other way around,” Eddie rambled, and quickly stopped before he said too much. “What I’m trying to say is, I get it. And I get why you called me. You can call me anytime, okay? Well, apart from Friday nights, because that’s-”

“Hellfire Club,” Steve answered with a fond smile. “I’m the chauffeur, remember?”

“Right, right,” Eddie laughed. “Nothing saying you can’t hang out with us, though. I just meant I won’t be home to call, that’s all.”

Steve looked up, examining Eddie’s face.

“When you’re not on a date or at work or with Robin. I know you’ve got a pretty packed schedule. Mr. Popular,” Eddie smirked nervously, pinning the bandage in place.

“I’m, uh, I’m not as busy as you think. And a lot of those dates are a waste of time, energy, and money. Would be much better to spend some time with someone, uh, some people, I mean, that liked having me around to talk to,” Steve suggested quietly.

“I can’t promise too much chatter during D&D or band practice, but I think that would be cool, yeah.” Eddie couldn’t help smiling and raised his eyes to Steve’s.

Something in the eyes looking back at him made his stomach plummet like he was on a rollercoaster.

“Well, you’re all done. Let’s get that cocoa and head to bed, huh?” Eddie said, getting up to leave the bathroom and tidying away the first aid kit.

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” he managed, before two muscular arms wrapped around him and held him tighter than he could remember anyone hugging him before.

“Thank you. I’m here for you too,” Steve said, muffled in his hair, and how Eddie didn’t melt directly onto the trailer floor, he wasn’t sure. By some miracle, he held it together, recognised another soul in need, and got back to the plan. Cocoa. Bed.

They sat and talked about movies, TV, and some of the people from school, safe, common ground, until Steve’s blinking slowed, and they headed to their parallel camp beds.

“Night, Steve. If you need anything, just wake me up,” Eddie said, happily snuggling down under his blankets, looking at the back of Steve’s head.

“Night, Eddie. Thanks for coming to my rescue. You give really good hugs,” Steve said with a yawn, leaving Eddie to drift off to sleep with a happy, warm glow in his heart.

[mammonscheeks]

obey me brothers reacting to a malnourished mc

⤑ a/n: I feel like this is the most canon writing I’ve ever done yet... enjoy! 

⤑ warnings: none 

obey me masterlist | requesting rules 

DEMON BROTHERS REACTING TO A MALNOURISHED MC 

“Hey, MC! You’re lucky because you get to go out with The Great Mammon tonight! We’ll hit the casino n’ leave with our pockets stuffed, and then we can go clubbing! What d’ya say?” 

“...”

“MC?” 

Mammon put his warm hands on your shoulders and shook gently, not used to your lack of response. He furrowed his eyebrows as he caught sight of the dark bags under your dull eyes. 

“Yeesh, MC! Did ya get into a fight or something?” Mammon joked, trying his best to hide the fact that he was worried about his human. 

“Huh?” you blinked as you realized you had just been zoning out. “I, uh.... Shit! I forgot my potions textbook in my room, I’ll see you all later!” 

“Language,” Lucifer sternly reminded you as you haphazardly scurried out of the classroom, your mind "lagging” as Leviathan would put it. The demon brothers watched you leave, shooting odd looks at each other. 

“I don’t think MC’s been getting enough sleep,” Belphie yawned.

“As much as I hate to agree with Belphegor, he’s right. They seem quite fatigued.” Lucifer said, staring intently at his brothers. “Leviathan, did you force MC to play video games with you all night again?”

“Don’t accuse me first,” Leviathan grumbled. “But no, I was catching up on some anime alone last night.”

“Maybe MC needs to eat some more,” Beelzebub said, snacking on some chips despite the ‘no food’ sign in the front of the classroom. “Oh, I have an idea! Let’s get Luke and Simeon to cook a celestial feast.” 

“You obviously only want that for your own self interest,” Satan rolled his eyes. “I’ve read a book on this. Maybe MC’s malnourished? Humans are fragile, of course. Additionally, the Devildom provides little natural light from the sun like in the human world.” 

“I know just the cure!” Asmodeus gasped, pulling up Akuzon on his D.D.D. “Aaand it’s ordered!” 

“You better not have used my Akuzon account for whatever beauty product you bought,” Leviathan raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh hush, Levi. Trust me, this will fix MC up right away!” 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

The package arrived by the end of the school day, thanks to Levi’s Akuzon Prime subscription. 

Mammon held up a colorful piece of gelatin in his hand, inspecting it thoroughly. 

“So this... Vitamin gummy... Is gonna help MC? This tiny little colorful thing? Seriously?” He grunted. 

“Wow... Humans are weaker than I imagined,” Satan frowned, squishing one in his hand. “They have to eat these to stay alive?”

“Beel, don’t you dare think about eating MC’s gummies,” Belphegor scolded his twin. 

“And don’t forget, I also got MC a sunlight lamp!” Asmodeus’ eyes glittered. “Apparently, these provide light therapy by tricking the human body into thinking they’re receiving natural light!” 

“It seems that humans have weak minds then,” Lucifer sighed. “Either that, or we’ve been fooled.” 

You walked into the HOL, stifling a yawn. Your entire body felt heavy from fatigue. It seemed like you had taken the human world’s abundance of sunlight and Vitamin D for granted. Solomon had helped you by casting a energy spell for the first few months you had lived here, but even that was starting to wear off.

“MC!” Mammon basically tripped over his brothers to rush to you. “Take one before you die!” 

Startled, you looked up just in time to see Mammon basically shoving a gummy in your mouth, before you were immediately blinded by Asmodeus holding a warm light in your face. 

You covered your face and squinted your eyes, seeing the eager and expecting eyes of the demon brothers. 

“Guys, what are you doing?” You questioned. This was pretty unexpected, but you were used to the brothers pranks and shenanigans. 

“We just wanted to help! We heard you were malnutritioned because it’s always dark in the Devildom!” Mammon said. 

“So we bought a sun lamp and some vitamin gummies for you,” Belphegor yawned. 

“Aw, guys... Thank you!” You smiled happily. Even though you hadn’t told the brothers explicitly what was wrong, thinking you could take care of it yourself, they had of course, noticed. Your heart swelled with appreciation, until you noticed that the brothers were still staring at you expectantly, like you were about to turn into some mutant creature. 

“Uhh.. You guys do know that it’ll take a few days for my body to recover, right?” You shrugged. 

“Oh..” Satan sighed, as the brothers looked disappointed. “I thought the effects would have been immediate.” 

“Laaame,” Leviathan said. “A power-up type feature would have been way cooler! Like, imagine if MC ate that thing and grew 10 feet in size to defeat the final boss!” 

“That’s fine, MC. Just focus on resting. I’ve excused you from classes for the rest of the week,” Lucifer said. “This is an quality of humans we should have researched more during the planning stage of the exchange program. Diavolo also sends his apologies.” 

"Thank you Lucifer, but it’s no big deal,” you smiled. “Well, I’m going to go take a nap now.” 

"I’ll come with,” Belphegor yawned. 

“Oh no you don’t!” Mammon yelled, running after the two. “I’m the only one allowed in MC’s bed!” 

“Hey, don’t forget about me! I’m bringing the lamp!” Asmo cried, waving it in the air. 

“You know, I also read that cuddling with a partner can help fatigue,” Satan blushed, following behind. 

“I’ll bring some snacks for us,” Beelzebub called after. 

“I’ll bring my TSL movies so we can have some background sound!” Leviathan ran after. “Don’t you dare start without me!” 

Lucifer sighed, looking after his brothers scrambling to get to MC. From having spells backfire on you, battling unique health concerns, and getting preyed on by lower-ranking demons, your acclimation to the Devildom had faced many obstacles. However, Lucifer knew that he and his brothers would do anything to ensure you had a support system. 

As you fell asleep with the weight and warmth of your favorite people around you, you couldn’t help but feel loved and cared for. 

[alexiroflife]

"mesmorized"

choso is a simp, fluff

choso kamo x reader

Synopsis: choso has a staring problem

to sum it up: he's whipped with a captiable W

WC: 2842

Warning(s): itty bitty tiny bit of suggestive themes

Choso has a problem. A problem he has harbored for quite some time and yet is not inclined to fix. 

And that problem would be his astonishing habit of staring at you. 

He doesn’t know himself if he’s so obvious about it because he feels shamelessly guilt-free when doing so or if he physically can not bring himself to tear his eyes away from you. Perhaps it’s a combination of both, he decides, his eyes catching you from the other side of the room with ease as he drowns in his thoughts. 

He recalls that this problem of his first started the moment he met you, his eyes doing a double take when he catches you walking by, an air of gentle confidence about you. His violet eyes, dull and tired moments before, seem to catch the rays of sunlight as his irises glimmer in the wake of your beauty, his heart skipping a beat or two in panic when Yuji calls out your name from beside him. Choso glances at his brother in swift alarm, curious as to how he knows you and suddenly rattled by the idea that you are heading his way.

When his eyes travel back over to relocate you, you’re stopping in your tracks, turning over your shoulder to find the owner of the voice that had called out to you, revealing a curious expression on your gorgeous face. 

Choso’s eyes grow wide as you walk over, a smile creeping onto your face when you see Yuji. The brunette himself doesn’t know what’s coming over him. He can’t look away though he wants to hide behind his hands, hide away from your brightness. His eyes glue themselves to you in an instant, deciding upon themselves that you are the only thing of true interest that keeps their gaze unwavering, unapologetic, curious, and open. 

You stop before the siblings, keeping your eyes on Yuji first, and Choso is thankful, for he does not want you to catch wind of his presence so quickly for fear that your attention may spring him into cardiac arrest. “Hey, Itadori.” Your voice is light and airy, soaked in benevolence and springful youth. “How’s it going?” you ask him, and you sound like you’re truly interested unlike those who pose the question out of polite obligation, neither seeking out or caring for a positive or negative response. 

Choso watches timidly as Itadori delves into a conversation with you, chatting brightly about how well his training has been going lately and filling you in on some new skills that he has acquired. The half-curse stares, observing how your eyes train on the pink-haired teen with engagement, head nodding occasionally and smile curling when you catch something Yuji says that inspires a reaction. You’re so attentive when you listen, allowing Yuji to know that he has your full focus though you don’t have to verbalize much to display so. Choso wonders how it must feel to be the center of focus under your gaze, mind slipping into a trance.

He doesn’t have to ponder the notion long, however, before Yuji is excitedly changing the subject and bringing your attention to him. “Oh! (Y/n), have you met my brother Choso?”

Choso can feel the blood drain from his face and his heart pang in that odd fashion again. He shifts, tensing when you turn and look at him. He’s horrified to imagine you noticing the way he has been blatantly staring, but when your (e/c) eyes encounter his, the world goes quiet and time stops.

Specs of light surround you through Choso’s vision, kissing your hair and skin regally as you look his way, sparks flying. You remind him of a star, shimmering brightly and numbing all other senses that come in your wake. You’re beautiful, breathtaking, and Choso’s losing air before he can think to speak. 

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” you say with pleasant surprise in your voice, eyes bouncing between Choso and Itadori to find a resemblance that certainly is not there. Nevertheless, you don’t seem to let that sway you as you turn back to flash Choso a pretty smile. “Nice to meet you, Choso,” you extend a hand. “I’m (Y/n).”

The brush of your hand into his vicinity sends a breeze shifting through the loose strands of Choso’s hair, eyes stuck to your face as though he is in awe. You’re patient, awaiting his response as he breaks his eyes away from you for a split moment to glance at your hand. Your nails are painted with clear polish and your small fingers are decked in gold rings. Your palm, your skin, looks soft to the touch, like the whisper of a cloud.

Choso can suddenly hear his heartbeat in his ears, looking back up at you carefully. Your smile only brightens, hand still offered out.

He musters up the courage to raise his own and clasp yours, wrapping his fingers gently over yours, connecting your hands. He feels electricity jolt up his arms from where you are joined and over his chest, down his back, up his neck, and trickling over the expanse of his body. Your touch, softer, sweeter, and somehow kinder than your eyes consumes him, and he’s floored, taken, done. His eyes are on yours again, locked in a stupor and he can’t look away. 

Choso was doomed the moment he saw you, his life turning upside down and the trajectory of his world spinning on its heels. He did not know someone could be so mesmerizing, so captivating without the tricks of cursed energy or any other supernatural form of manipulation. Instead, you are simply you, breathtaking upon glance, rushing the blood in his body to his face and making his heart pump loudly before he can control it. You’re always so nice to him though he often does not know what to say to you when you come around. You ensure that he’s included in conversations, included in the focus of your eyes, and he is a goner, captured completely by the whim of your interaction.

He can’t help but stare at you when he thinks you’re not looking, at all of you. His full eyes study the way your hair sits atop your head, how it brushes against the nape of your smooth neck, tickling your skin sometimes to the point where goosebumps spread over it. Your hair is such a pretty color, a pretty texture, pretty length, and it compliments you so well, enhancing the already remarkable frame of your facial structure and features. 

He likes to look at the curve of your brow when you talk too. Occasionally, it twitches when you're vexed, curling downward or pointing up to dent the middle of your forehead, emphasizing your stress or frustration or confusion. The skin around your brows crinkles, then smooths out slowly once you have calmed. Your lashes have a tendency to brush against your brow when they’re drawn down too, fluttering against each other with blinks or touching a scrunched cheek like the graze of a feather when you smile, and your smile is one of his favorite things to capture.

Your lips spread wide and the corners of your mouth pinch your cheeks upward, teeth bearing with all their beauty when you beam or laugh at a joke you hear. Sometimes your smile does not reach your eyes, but when it does, they’re shining with the brilliance of a comet, creasing until they’re almost closed as your nose wrinkles and your radiant laughter graces the air. Choso likes to watch as you tilt your head back in amusement, too hysterical to keep it sitting upright. 

His eyes then travel to your throat, stretched under your chin, smooth, slender. He imagines his lips shyly touching the flushed skin there, the pulse of your heart beating against his mouth, and he’s flushing violently, turning his head away and resting his chin in his hand with his palm shielding his mouth, but he can’t keep his eyes off of you too long. You’re too addicting, like a drug he can’t quit, a craving he can’t satiate, so he’s staring at you once more, glancing lazily over your collarbones peeking out from your shirt, the teased sight far more sensual than it truly is in actuality.

He does not even know where to begin when it comes to looking at your body, his eyes unsure of where to focus because all of you is just too perfect. You could be sitting across from him, scrolling through your phone, and his eyes devour the way your shoulders slump and your arms tense, fingers dancing over the keys of your screen as you type a text and send it. Or when you’re walking beside him with Yuji, the outline of your breasts rubbing against the fabric of your shirt, bouncing almost unnoticeably with each step you take. Choso, his height serving to his advantage, can happen to see down your shirt every now and then, depending on your choice of clothing for the day. With sharp eyes and pink cheeks, he’s glancing over you and landing a peep of your cleavage. He tries to force himself to look away in shame when he catches wind of the sight, but now that he’s aware of it, his eyes continuously wander.

Then there’s your stomach, which he catches a glimpse of all by accident one day. You’re playing football with the teens, leaping around and sprinting with impressive agility, clad in a loose white tank and shorts. Choso, not much of a fan of sports, sits on a bench at the park and watches you all play. You’re on offense, squatting with an intense look of concentration on your face in front of Yuta, who’s quick to toss you the football and set the next round into action. You catch it to your chest, rounding Yuji who runs to cut you off, but before you can run into the opposite direction, Todo is slamming into you seemingly from out of nowhere and knocking you off your feet.

Choso stands, worry flooding him immediately when you hit the ground, and Itadori’s calling a timeout, turning to ask the burly man who tackled you what the hell he’s doing. You’re lying on the grass on your back with a pout, pride wounded by the fact that you were taken out by a teenager. Choso prepares to march over and help you up when he sees that your shirt has lifted up, revealing your sweaty glimmery abdomen rising and falling heavily. The pale skinned man’s eyes twitches, freezing in his path. His mouth runs dry, pupils blown wide at the sight of your dewey bare skin. 

Yuta reaches down to pull you up in the next few seconds before Choso can make it, and you march over to Todo to punch him in his hardened arm, demanding to know just how old he truly is because you find it hard to believe that a high school withholds such aggressive strength and mass. Choso has to excuse himself to the bathroom to douse water over his burning face, the image of you laying there with your stomach exposed burned into his brain. 

Along with your abdomen are your hips, hugged tightly in that damn pair of sporty shorts you chose to wear, the curves of your legs emphasized by the fabric, and, jesus, your legs. How can he forget those? He was practically drooling over the sight of them for hours as you played, the jiggle of your thighs when you run, the flex of your quads, and the glisten of your plump flesh under the baking sun hypnotizing him…

Choso splashes his face again, water dripping from his chin and into the sink as an uncomfortable tightness in his pants stretches. He looks down to discover his print poking aggressively against his sweats, and he’s groaning in agitation, in arousal, in humiliation. You’re going to end him one day, he’s sure, for every piece of you that his eyes greedily consume is more perfect than the last, more enticing, more captivating. 

He is utterly smitten with you, with the vision of you. It’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning and the last thing that stays with him before he goes to sleep. He’s helplessly taken by you and so he stares, every day, all day, refusing to allow you out of his sight when you are nearby.

And the day you run into him alone, accidentally stepping into his path and catching his eyes, he stammers, so damn nervous to be around you yet dreading the thought of you out of touch. You look up at him intensely, (e/c) eyes swimming in his own, and it’s the first time he can’t keep his eyes steady. He’s looking everywhere, at the sky, the ground, his feet, before they can stay on yours. 

His heart is hammering in his ears again, his face a tomato, and his brows knitted as though he is troubled. You continue to look at him closely, an unreadable emotion in your eye that draws you forward, that motivates you to grab his face abruptly, palms holding his cheeks as you pull him down to press your lips to his.

Choso’s eyes go wide, hands shaking as they hover over your hands in shock, thrown completely by your sudden contact. You pull away just as quickly as you kiss him, cloudy, blown pupils boring into his to search for some sort of reaction. He’s looking at you now, as he always does, but only this time, he’s up close. His lips are parted as he processes what has just happened, cold due to the re-established distance from you. He’s breathing heavily, your proximity to him and touch on his face threatening to burn him with how hot he’s getting.

He can’t think, flustered, but then his body is moving before his mind and his hands are grabbing your waist, the very same waist he has spent months gawking at from afar. He feels your hips within his palms, his dream manifesting into reality, and pulls your lips back to his. 

He’s moaning softly when you kiss again, allowing you to take the lead as your sweltering lips swim intoxicatingly against his, your arms winding around his neck as you tug him into you, mouths molded in sloppy connection. Choso’s a mess, hands massaging all over every part of you he can find, bunching your shirt up into his hands then soothing his palms beneath the fabric, rubbing gratefully over the curves in your bare spine. You curl into him, tilting your head, breaking away momentarily to breathe heatedly against each other’s mouths before crashing back in, pressing deeper, grasping harder.

Choso’s messy, grunts of desperation sinking into your mouth as he kisses you, chases and savors the taste of you that he never believed he’d get to experience. He doesn’t know what he’s doing himself, but his body seems to understand as he steps you backward blindly and presses you harshly against the brick of the nearby build, smothering you with his weight as your fingers tangle into his hair. 

You bite gently at his bottom lip and he groans, your tongue slipping eagerly into his wet cavern and tangling against his, rubbing tenderly and intertwining as if your souls are meant to touch. Choso’s body is aching with desire, skin balmy and face scrunched with intensity as he sinks into you, feeling you, holding you, relishing in you. You’re everywhere, in his hair, against his chest, your scent on his skin, and you kiss him like you need him to breathe, a nasty clash of teeth and tongue and saliva mixing into each other. He didn’t realize you could feel like this, so hot and assertive in your attack on his mouth when you’ve always been so tame. 

He loves it. He loves it, he needs it. He needs you. He loves you.

When you pull away, he’s chasing you, your head knocking back against the brick and his half lidded eyes opening to reveal heavy violet hues. You look over his face, stroking the back of his neck as the two of you breath heavily against each other, noses brushing and spit glossing your lips. You break into a breathless grin, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy with passion. Choso can’t even think, for the only thing on his mind is the vision of you in his arms, the feeling of you against him, and he’s mesmerized.

You bring your hand to swipe a thumb over his bottom, red, kiss swollen lip. He gazes at you fondly, hands sliding up and down your sides. You giggle softly, eyes lighting with the same light he saw in you upon first encounter.

“I was hoping you had been staring at me so much for a reason,” you whisper with an exhale, eyes creasing with a beam.

[velarisdusk]

Velvet Whispers, Midnight Truths

Eris x Reader, Azriel x Reader

<- part 1 word count: 9.6k content: [ explicit sexual content, unprotected PIV, eris does pull out!, casual sex, hurt/comfort, jealousy, unintentional ghosting after sex, avoidable misunderstandings ] summary: After Azriel vanishes on a mission the morning after your first night together, the silence between you grows unbearable. A reckless encounter with Eris in Autumn cuts deeper than intended. author's note: finally finally got around to this!! quite excited >:) thank u to these two lovely anons <3 <3 and thank u @halo-hanging for the beta read :D ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The memory stung more than you wanted to admit. It had been early morning when Azriel had slipped from the bed, his movements practiced and careful not to disturb you. His whispered explanation of a scouting mission had barely registered in your half-asleep haze, and by the time you’d stirred fully awake, he was already gone. No goodbye kiss, no lingering touch—just the faintest trace of him left in the sheets. You’d told yourself it was fine. That he’d come back, and everything would… shift. Settle. Finally align. 

Except it hadn’t.

When he returned a week later, you spotted him almost immediately. The heavy oak doors of the River House had swung open, and there he was, stepping through with his usual lethal grace, his shadows clinging to him like a second skin. Relief had surged through you, but instead of rushing to him, you’d chosen to wait. You’d stayed where you were, lingering near the wide windows in the sitting room, pretending to read while stealing glances toward the main hall. You wanted him to find you. Wanted him to seek you out. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he disappeared into Rhysand’s office for what felt like an eternity. When he emerged, his steps didn’t carry him to you. No, they carried him to Cassian and Feyre, who were chatting in the dining room. You could only listen as the tension from whatever mission he’d been on melted away with easy laughter. It wasn’t a hurried reunion—it was leisurely, calm. He didn’t look like a male in a rush to be anywhere. Least of all with you.

You’d waited until the knot in your chest grew unbearable before retreating to your room. Maybe he’d needed more time. Maybe he’d come to you later. But “later” had turned into another departure, another week, and still, no words had been exchanged between you. 

By the time he returned again—two weeks this time—you weren’t even there to see it. Your emissary duties had taken you to the Autumn Court. Beron’s pompous attitude grated on your nerves, but the work was important, and you were good at it. At least it kept your mind off him. For the most part. 

Your task with Beron had been routine: negotiations, discussions, nothing out of the ordinary. But as you left the meeting room, your feet carried you to the kennels. You weren’t sure why, only that the thought of seeing the hounds felt… grounding, in a strange way. The hounds, you told yourself. Definitely the hounds. 

That was when you saw him. 

Eris stood among the dogs, his polished appearance at odds with the unruly creatures surrounding him. The hounds bounded toward you the moment you stepped inside, tails wagging furiously, their excitement a stark contrast to your hesitant mood. Eris turned at the commotion, his golden-red hair catching the light, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to something softer when he realized it was you.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his usual cockiness evident, though there was a flicker of genuine warmth beneath it. “To what do I owe the pleasure, emissary?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the hounds’ boisterous antics interrupted, doing nothing to ease the anxiety knotting in your chest. Eris’s sharp whistle cut through the air like a blade, silencing them in an instant. 

“Out,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. They trotted out with military precision, their obedience almost unsettling. The space fell silent, save for the distant rustle of straw and the faint, earthy scent of hay carried on the cool air. Something about the way he held himself—the confidence, the control—made your spine tense. You tried to ignore it, but sharp eyes caught the way you stiffened. He didn’t miss the subtle change in your scent, either. 

“Careful, (y/n),” he murmured, a wicked smile curling at his lips. “You’re giving yourself away.”

Your denial was quick, but flimsy at best. “I came to see the hounds, Eris. That’s all.”

He tilted his head, studying you with a knowing look. “The hounds,” he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. He stepped closer, the hay crunching beneath his boots, and gestured toward the empty space where the dogs had just been. “Well, you’ve seen them. What now?”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “I… wanted to talk.”

“Talk?” His brow lifted, but his smile didn’t falter. “How rare.”

His teasing made your resolve waver, but you pressed on. “I need to… step away from this, Eris. From us.”

The smile vanished. For a moment, he said nothing, his sharp features unreadable. Then, as if savoring the words, he let out a low hum, laced with something between amusement and disbelief. “Step away, is it?”

Eris’s words hung in the air, heavy with challenge. His eyes—sharp, assessing—didn’t waver as he stepped closer, leaving only a sliver of space between you. 

You should leave. The sensible part of you screamed it, begged you to turn on your heel and go. But his scent—woodsmoke and something faintly spiced—clouded your judgement. Or maybe it wasn’t his scent at all. Maybe it was the knowing glint in his eyes, the cocky tilt of his mouth, daring you to deny what you wanted. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” you muttered, though the conviction in your voice wavered. 

“Maybe not,” Eris said, his tone maddeningly smooth, “but you are.” His hand rose, brushing a strand of hair from your face, the lightest of touches that made your skin hum. He studied you in the silence that followed, his gaze dragging over every subtle shift in your expression. “If you’re going to leave, do it,” he said. But his voice softened on the next breath, low and knowing. “But don’t pretend you don’t want this one last time.”

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs as you stared up at him. His gaze was sharp as ever, the faintest flicker of amusement still lingering beneath the undeniable hunger. 

“You’re insufferable,” you said finally, the insult more breath than bite. 

“Mm.” He smiled, sharp and wicked. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away.”

The silence stretched between you, taut and expectant, before his gaze flicked toward the back of the kennel. Without another word, he turned, heading toward a pile of hay nestled in the farthest corner. You stayed rooted in place for a moment, watching as he crouched and ran a hand through the golden strands as if to inspect them. When he glanced over his shoulder at you, his expression was almost bored.

“Well?” he drawled, arching a brow. “Unless you’d rather the floor?”

You scowled but followed, your steps hesitant. The pile of hay looked clean enough, but still, your nose wrinkled as you neared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Eris turned, settling onto one knee as his lip curled into that smirk again. “You think I’d lay you in used hay?” His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, as though the mere suggestion was absurd. “I might be insufferable, but I’m not a brute.”

Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the way his eyes locked onto yours made the words falter. His hand extended, beckoning you forward with a confidence that left no room for doubt.

“You can’t winnow us somewhere less… rustic?” you muttered, even as your hand slipped into his. 

“And miss the chance to make this our grand finale?” Eris drawled, his lips curling into a sly, teasing smile. “No, this will make a far better story.”

When he guided you down beside him, the hay was softer than you expected, its faint scent of sun-dried grass mingling with smoky spice and a crackling fire. Eris leaned closer, his breath a soft caress against your ear as he murmured, “Clean enough for you?” he asked, his tone low, laced with that infuriating edge of mockery.

His voice rippled through you, and any complaint you might have made dissolved the moment his lips captured yours—firm and deliberate, each brush of his tongue commanding your focus entirely.

You breathed him in, fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a confidence that left you reeling. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a teasing nip that sent a jolt of heat through you, and the low hum of satisfaction in his throat told you he’d felt it too.

“Still thinking about leaving?” he murmured against your mouth, his hands settling on your waist with an unyielding possessiveness that felt both infuriating and impossible to resist.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your chest heaving. “You think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

He smirked, that infuriatingly arrogant smirk. “Only because you prove me right every time.”

Before you could deliver the retort burning on your tongue, he shifted, guiding you to lie back against the hay with maddening ease. The golden strands cradled you, the faint crackle beneath you a reminder of how absurdly reckless this was—and yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

His fingers traced your jaw, trailing down the column of your throat with deliberate slowness. “You know,” he said, his voice like silk, “there’s a certain poetry to this, don’t you think?”

You raised a brow, feigning disinterest despite the way your pulse quickened under this touch. “Poetry?” Your fingers tugged at his collar, your knuckles brushing the smooth, pale skin of his neck.

He tilted his head, his smirk small but sharp. “Or maybe just irony.”

“Irony,” you repeated flatly. 

His thumb brushed the hollow of your throat, and his eyes flicked to yours, gleaming. “You, wrapped up in me. Here.”

A beat passed before you rolled your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks. “Only you could ruin this with your talking.”

That laugh that rumbled from him was low, molten. “Then stop me.”

Grabbing the lapels of his jacket, you tugged him down, crashing into a kiss that was nothing short of fierce. He met you with equal intensity, his hands steadying at your waist as if to ground you. The hay crinkled beneath you as you shifted, your grip tightening on his jacket before you pushed, rolling him onto his back. The surprised sound he made was swallowed by a chuckle as you followed, your thighs straddling his hips, pinning him down. 

The smug glint in his eyes as you settled atop him only spurred you on, your fingers threading into the fiery copper strands of his hair. You tugged, just enough to make his breath hitch, and his hands slide from your waist to your thighs, gripping with a firmness that set your skin aflame. Pressing further into the makeshift bed of hay, your breaths mingled between kisses that were nothing short of bruising.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you murmured against his lips, voice low and teasing though your own pulse raced. 

“And you aren’t?” he shot back, his voice roughened by desire, though his smirk faltered as you ground your hips down against his. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging in as if to keep himself tethered to some semblance of control. 

“Careful,” he warned, though there was no real menace in his tone—only the sharp edge of barely-held restraint. 

You leaned down, your mouth grazing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Make me.”

For a moment, his restraint seemed to snap, tension giving way to something raw and unapologetic. In one fluid motion, he reversed your positions, his strength evident in the ease with which he pinned you beneath him. Hay scattered around you, and the rough texture of it prickled against your back, but you barely noticed. His weight settled over you, his hands bracing on either side of your head, and his darkened gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that stole your breath. 

The world narrowed to the press of his body, the heat radiating from him, and the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare. 

“You look good like this,” he said, the gravel in his voice nothing short of smug. His weight pressed you into the hay, and though your wrists weren’t pinned, the way he leaned over you made escape seem impossible—not that you wanted one. 

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curled in a smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

His brow arched as if you’d just laid down another gauntlet. His grip on your hip tightened, the curve of his fingers possessive despite the casual tone. “I think I could.” His voice dipped lower, thoughtful. “And we both know you’ll be back—whatever this sudden need to end things is about.”

You shifted beneath him, deliberately dragging your knee up the inside of his thigh just to watch his composure slip. The sharp intake of breath was reward enough.

“That’s cute,” you said breezily. “But you’ve got hay in your hair.”

He laughed then, low and rough, as he looked at you with awe in his eyes. There was no hesitation, just a shift of his hands toward the edge of your dress. The fabric bunched beneath his fingers, and he didn’t bother with care as he tugged it upward, exposing your legs inch by inch.

You arched slightly, just enough to help him along, and his eyes tracked your every movement. There was no reverence in the way his hands skimmed your thighs, no tenderness in the way he worked the dress higher—only efficiency, only intent. 

Your hands weren’t idle either. You dragged them down his chest, nails catching briefly before reaching his belt. The buckle gave easily under your fingers, and you pulled at the leather with an impatience that matched his own. 

The dress tangled around your hips as he settled over you again, his weight pressing you into the hay. The rough texture was easy to ignore, however. Your focus narrowed to the feel of his hands and the sharp, heated pull of his mouth against yours. 

There was nothing gentle in the way you worked against each other, no lingering touches or soft gasps. Just the rustle of fabric and the scrape of hay as layers were peeled away with single-minded determination. 

His jacket hit the ground with a careless thud, and he made quick work of his sleeves, rolling them to his elbows before his hands were on you again. One skimmed up your thigh, firm and intent, while the other hooked into the neckline of your dress.

The fabric protested as he tugged it down, exposing bare skin to the cool autumn air. You exhaled sharply but didn’t stop your own hands, busy undoing the buttons of his shirt. The thin material parted beneath your fingers, the edges hanging loose as you shoved it aside just enough to splay your palms against his chest.

His mouth dropped to your neck, sharp and insistent, while your nails scraped down his torso. Every movement was quick, impatient—clothes pushed aside or pulled down just enough to clear the way,

There was nothing tender in the way his teeth grazed at your collarbone, nothing considerate about the way your fingers twisted in his hair to pull him closer. 

This was just how it always went between you. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. And it didn’t. Not really. That was what you told yourself—though it became harder to believe each time his touch lingered a moment too long.

Eris’s mouth only moved lower, lips dragging over the swell of your breasts, teeth catching just enough to make you gasp. He finally slipped a hand beneath the bunched fabric of your dress, fingers finding the thin fabric of your underwear and pulling it aside. You refused to look at him as he worked you over with maddening precision, fingers finding the spot he knew all too well. 

You bit down on a sharp sound as his thumb brushed over you in tight circles that had your hips bucking despite yourself. His laugh was soft, almost smug, as his mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw. 

“Thought so,” he muttered, and you had half a mind to shove him off you just for the audacity. But then his fingers curled, dragging another sharp gasp from your lips, and that thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. 

Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, but if it bothered him, he didn’t let on—never had. He was focused, relentless, his pace unyielding until you were arching against him, his name slipping from your lips before you could stop it. 

It was only then that he pulled back, just enough for you to see his red, kiss-swollen lips in an infuriatingly satisfied smirk.

“Still think I’m cute?” he asked, his tone light, but the tension in his body betrayed the casual air he tried to keep. 

Your answer was a growled, “Shut up,” as you hooked your leg around him and dragged him back down. Your mouths clashed once more, the kiss all teeth and heat. His hand was braced against your hip now, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. His other hand worked between your bodies, undoing the rest of his belt and shoving at the fabric just enough to free himself. 

You felt him, hot and heavy against your inner thigh, and your lips curled against his when you reached between you. Wrapping your hand around him, you gave a tight tug, earning you a sharp intake of breath and a stifled groan that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight through you. 

“Don’t stop there,” he muttered against your lips, his voice edged with need. 

“Oh, I won’t.” Your tone was sweet as you stroked him again, slow and teasing just to watch the Prince of Autumn unravel beneath your touch. Eris’s hips twitched, his jaw tightening as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. 

One hand threaded through his silk-soft hair, tugging just enough to hear him groan. The other slid lower, guiding him into place. His hand moved to squeeze your thigh, holding you steady as he pressed forward, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs. 

It wasn’t slow—neither of you had ever been good at taking your time. A low, rumbling groan escaped him as he buried himself fully, his fingers digging into your leg as he drew back slightly and thrust again, setting a quick pace. 

There was nothing gentle in the way he moved, nothing careful in the way your lips attacked his neck. It was messy, frantic, and everything it had always been. He thrust again, the movement harsh and fast, and you couldn’t help the breathless gasp that tore from you. Your nails dug into his shoulders at the sounds of your bodies meeting, the frantic rhythm between you. 

Eris’s muscles flexed as he brushed his forehead against yours, and his words came in a low growl that sent your pulse racing. 

“You sure you don’t want this anymore?” His voice was thick with need, the edge in his tone unmistakable. He shifted his hips, pressing deeper as his lips trailed from your temple to your ear, from your jaw to your collarbone. “You don’t think about how good it is, how good we make each other feel?”

You bit back a moan, the heat building in your core as he fucked into you with relentless precision. You could feel the tension in his body, his restraint, but you could also feel the hunger—raw and desperate. The pull of his hips, the weight of his body above you, it was all consuming. 

You held his gaze as best as you could, the fire in your eyes matching the one you saw flickering in his. “Don’t make me laugh,” you managed to rasp out, hands sliding down his back to grip his ass, urging him closer. “This isn’t about feelings, Eris. You know that.”

He grinned, but it was feral, teeth flashing in the low light. “Is that so?” His pace didn’t slow—if anything, it picked up, and the change made your body jerk beneath him. “You keep saying that, but you keep coming back. You keep begging for it, same as me.”

You met him thrust for thrust, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the space between your heavy breaths. His name escaped your lips in a breathless moan, and the corners of his mouth curled into a dark, satisfied smile.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you want this.” 

“I want this,” you hissed, voice thick with need, and the satisfaction in his eyes deepened. 

His lips found your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “Good girl,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. And in the next moment, he increased the pace, thrusting harder, drawing shamelessly loud gasps from your lips. 

Your back arched as you fought to catch your breath, his words unraveling you further. “I want you,” you choked out, your body responding to every sharp thrust with mounting urgency. “Fuck, I want you so bad.”

His lips found your neck again, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin there as he quickened his pace, forcing you to meet him with every sharp, punishing thrust. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding the spot that made you shudder and gasp his name like a prayer. 

“Come on,” he urged, voice rough against your ear. “Let me feel you.” The coil in your core tightened, heat flooding through you as his fingers worked in tandem with his hips. 

“Eris,” you gasped, barely able to form the word as his name caught in your throat.

“Right here,” he growled, his lips brushing your jaw, his voice raw with need. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Now.”

His command tipped you over the edge. Your body tightened around him, pleasure crashing through you in waves that left you gasping and trembling beneath him, pulsing around him. The sound that tore from your throat was unrestrained, raw, as every nerve in your body seemed to ignite at once. 

He didn’t stop moving, riding out your climax as if to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. The smirk tugging at his lips was victorious, but there was something deeper in his eyes—a flicker of something that made your chest tighten before you could shove it aside. 

“Good girl,” he murmured again, his pace faltering slightly as he watched you fall apart beneath him. 

You barely had time to recover before his movements grew frenzied again, his control slipping as your body clenched around him. His head dropped to your shoulder as he thrust one final time, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. He pulled out in a rush, his release warm against the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies tangled and slick with sweat, the only sound the harsh rhythm of your breathing. 

And then, like it always did, reality began to creep back in. 

When you returned, the River House was silent, the darkened corridors empty, and you prayed to the Mother that it stayed that way. Each step was careful, your senses heightened as if the mere sound of your heartbeat would give you away. You moved through the halls like a shadow, avoiding the main staircase in favor of the back ones, the lingering scent of Eris on your skin and clothes enough to have you holding your breath. 

Once in your room, you locked the door behind you, your pulse finally beginning to slow. The shower was hot, almost scalding, as you scrubbed at your skin with a focus that bordered on obsessive. Soap, then lotion—anything to erase any lingering trace of him from your body. 

By the time you slipped into clean clothes, the thick scent of perfume clinging to your skin, you deemed yourself prepared. You straightened your shoulders, smoothed your hands over your sleeves, forced the tension from your face. And, noticing your soiled dress and underwear on the floor, buried them deep in your hamper.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

The walk back toward the grand staircase was steady, your destination set in your mind—Feyre, you thought. Surely she’d be in her studio or curled up somewhere with Nyx. That felt safe. Comfortable. Normal. 

But as you strode past the library, the low hum of voices stopped you in your tracks. You froze, the faint echo of a familiar cadence prickling along your senses. Azriel. 

Your pulse stuttered as you stepped closer, pressing yourself against the wall beside the door. His voice was muffled through the thick wood, but you could tell he wasn’t alone. 

“...and why shouldn’t I? You think she tells me everything?” That was Nesta, her voice sharp and unyielding. 

Azriel’s reply was quieter, a low rumble that barely carried through the wood, but it was tight—restrained. Whatever they were talking about had his temper on edge. 

You told yourself to keep walking. That whatever they were discussing wasn’t your concern. But… his shadows weren’t spilling into the hallway, weren’t warning him of your presence like you’d half-expected. 

“No right?” Nesta scoffed, and you could picture her now, sitting in one of those armchairs, spine straight, arms crossed. “I wasn’t aware she was yours to command.”

“She’s not–” His voice faltered, rough and uneven. Then, more forcefully, “That’s not the point.”

A heavy silence stretched, and you edged closer to the crack in the door, your breath caught in your throat. 

Nesta’s laugh was dry, almost mocking. “No, Azriel. That is exactly the point. You don’t want her to be with anyone else, but you’re too much of a coward to tell her to stay.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. 

“Well I didn’t tell her to go fuck other people, did I?” he ground out, his voice quieter now but no less tense. 

“No,” Nesta said, and her words were a whip crack in the stillness. “You didn’t tell her anything. Not after that night. What the hell do you expect her to do? Wait forever?”

The library went still, save for the faint crackle of the fire. 

Nesta didn’t wait for an answer. “You can’t blame her for trying to find someone who actually wants her.”

“They don’t want her, they want her body! And I never said I didn’t–” Azriel cut himself off, a sharp exhale filling the space between them. “I never said that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nesta said evenly. “Actions speak louder than words. Or in your case, inaction.”

There was no mistaking the fury that radiated from the library now. You could practically feel it bleeding through the door, but you couldn’t make yourself move. 

“Eris doesn’t deserve her,” Azriel finally said, his voice cold as stone. 

“I agree. But he’s there, and he’s made it clear what he wants. Unlike you.”

His footsteps echoed softly, pacing, before they stopped. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Nesta.”

“Nor did I ever ask you to,” she said, tone light but edged with steel. “But maybe you should explain yourself to her before it’s too late. If it isn’t already. I heard she was in Autumn today.”

Another silence followed, heavier this time, pressing against your ribs like a weight. 

You didn’t wait to hear his reply. Turning on your heel, you slipped down the hallway as quietly as you could, your pulse hammering in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or anger—or both—twisting in your chest as you hurried toward the stairs, desperate to put distance between yourself and that conversation. 

The week dragged by, a slow crawl of silence that you tried your best to ignore. After overhearing that conversation in the library, you told yourself you didn’t care. If Azriel wanted to avoid you, fine. Two could play that game.

You’d spent most of your days deliberately busy. Tasks that usually took an hour stretched into two or three as you found yourself obsessively focused on minute details. The work helped, even if it left you drained by the end of the day. It was easier than sitting still, easier than letting your mind wander back to the familiar hum of his voice murmuring through the door, or the way his shadows hadn’t so much as twitched when you’d linered just outside. 

At first, you thought he’d come to you. Surely, he’d realize how cold he’d been when he’d returned and not spoken to you—how his silence was as cutting as any sharp-edged blade. But as days turned to nights and the distance between you remained, your hope turned into something thornier. Resentment, perhaps. Bitterness. 

If he noticed your avoidance, he gave no indication. You made sure of it, slipping out of rooms the moment he entered, steering clear of shared spaces, timing your comings and goings perfectly. It felt childish, you knew that, but you weren’t going to be the one to break the stalemate.

Still, there were moments—fleeting and fragile—where you thought you caught him watching you. When you’d laugh at something Cassian said, or linger too long in conversation with Rhys. You’d feel the faintest prickle of awareness, like his gaze was brushing against your skin, only to find him turned away when you looked. 

And at night, when the house was quiet and there was no one left to distract you, your thoughts inevitably circled back to Azriel. To the way he’d ignored you when he’d finally come back that afternoon. To the ghost of his scent lingering in Rhys’s office when you’d gone to discuss the standstill you remained at with Beron. To the unshakable feeling that you’d done something during your night together that turned him away entirely. 

It wasn’t just hurt that gnawed at you now, though. It was just the nagging curiosity of why. Why had he avoided you so thoroughly, not just after his mission, but even after you’d heard him in the library? What was keeping him from seeking you out, from addressing the sharp, growing rift between you?

The question twisted in your chest, unresolved and unspoken, as the week wore on. By the seventh day, your bitterness had hardened into quiet determination. If Azriel wasn’t going to come to you on his own, then you’d make him want it, and work for it. Let him stew in the silence he’d created. Let him wonder what you were thinking, what you were feeling. 

Because even though your heart ached to make the first move, your pride demanded otherwise. 

On the eighth day, the balance shifted. 

You’d been in the kitchen, slicing bread for your breakfast, when frustration finally bubbled over. The jar of preserve in your hands was stubborn, its lid refusing to budge no matter how hard you twisted.

You huffed, gripping the jar tighter as you braced it against the counter for better leverage. Still, the lid didn’t give. 

“Here.”

The deep voice, so close and unexpected, made you flinch. You hadn’t even heard him enter the room. Before you could protest, Azriel reached past you, plucking the jar from your hands. His fingers, long and sure, twisted the lid once. The seal popped with a soft, infuriating click. He held the open jar out to you with a straight face. But you knew better—knew him better. Beneath that practiced calm, he was undoubtedly biting back a smirk, emanating a smug and quiet assurance that he’d impressed you without even trying.

You met his gaze briefly, your expression cool, before taking the jar from him without a word. Setting it on the counter, you began spreading the preserve over your bread with a feigned intense focus. You didn’t hear him leave, but the weight of his presence shifted, his shadows curling away. All except one, which lurked in the doorway. With a sigh, you waved a quick hand through it and watched it dissipate like smoke in the air. 

It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Later that day, he tried again. 

You were at the flowerbeds, pulling stubborn weeds that had crept into the soil after the last storm. You heard him approach before you saw him, the soft crunch of boots on the path just loud enough to catch your attention—unexpected, coming from someone who usually moved without a sound.

Azriel crouched beside you, his wings folding neatly behind him as his shadows pooled at his feet.

“Need a hand?” he asked, his voice careful—too careful.

“I’ve got it,” you replied, keeping your focus on the weed in your grasp.

His eyes lingered on you, heavy with an unspoken question, but you didn’t offer him anything more. You didn’t even look at him. When he eventually stood and walked away, a pang of guilt twisted in your chest, but you buried it beneath the same resolve that had kept you away all week. 

Three days after that, the tension was palpable. 

Rhys winnowed you to the House of Wind at your request once you’d finished in the flowerbeds that day. Now, you were on your way to the training ring, your steps purposeful, when he appeared at the end of the hallway. He was leaning casually against the wall, but the tight set of his shoulders betrayed him. 

“Heading to train?” he asked as you drew closer. 

“Mhm.” You didn’t slow. 

“I could join you,” he offered, falling into step beside you.

“I don’t need a partner today,” you said, keeping your gaze ahead. “Thanks, though.”

The words were polite but dismissive, and you didn’t miss the flicker of frustration in his eyes as he slowed, letting you walk away without another word. Nor did you miss the shadow peeking through the door when Cassian joined you some minutes later. The faint shadow retreated, followed shortly by the sharp crash of what sounded like ceramic shattering inside. 

It became a rhythm—a dangerous, unspoken dance. 

Each attempt he made to close the distance between you, you met with calm indifference. Every small effort to bridge the silence, you countered with a measured response that kept him just far enough away. 

And as much as it pained you to keep him at arm’s length, you couldn’t deny the satisfaction in watching him falter, his control slipping as he struggled to understand the rules of the game you refused to explain. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The reports were endless. 

Azriel’s desk was a battlefield of parchment, the weight of correspondence from his network of spies pressing against his temples like a vice. Every time he completed one, three more seemed to take its place. Hours had passed unnoticed, the only signs of time’s passage the ache in his shoulders and the faint hum of the city below. 

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he pushed the papers aside and stood. Coffee. He needed coffee if he was going to finish this tonight. 

The halls of the House of Wind were silent as he made his way to the kitchen, newly purchased mug in hand. The cool stone beneath his bare feet was grounding, a relief against the tension coiling in his chest. But as he passed her door, his shadows stirred, rising like smoke around his shoulders, tugging insistently toward her room. 

He paused mid-step, jaw tightening. 

They’d been doing this for weeks now—restless, insistent, always leading him toward her. He didn’t need them to remind him where she was. He knew. He always knew. 

Still, the pull lingered, stronger tonight, their whispers curling in his ears. He stood there for a moment, staring at her door, his grip tightening around the mug in his hand. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. Sure, there were her curt responses to his failed attempts at conversation, but that didn’t count. Not really. 

Azriel closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. The memory was as bitter as the now cold coffee awaiting him downstairs. He could still see her face that day, the cool indifference she’d leveled at him. And now? He could feel her icy distance in every glance, every word she refused to give him. 

It’s what you deserve.

The thought came unbidden, a sharp pang in his chest. He deserved worse, probably. For the things he thought, the conclusions he’d jumped to. For the way he’d avoided her instead of facing the storm head-on. 

The shadows tugged again, more insistent this time. His wings shifted in irritation as he shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Not tonight.”

They twisted at his ankles, reluctant to let him go, but he forced himself to move, stepping past her door without another glance. 

The kitchen was dimly lit, the faint hum of faelights casting a soft glow over the counters. Azriel barely had time to set his mug down before he noticed the figure rifling through the cabinets. Cassian, shirtless, with a grin so smug Azriel wanted to throw something at him. His hair was a mess, his chest littered with fresh hickeys. 

Cassian turned, two pastries in hand, and smirked. “Don’t start.”

Azriel sighed, moving to the coffee pot. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m fed.” Cassian leaned against the counter, clearly in no hurry to leave. “What’s your excuse for still being awake? Don’t tell me you’re still working.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response, pouring his coffee in silence.

Cassian shrugged, still grinning. “Suit yourself. But if you’re going to spend all night brooding over reports again, maybe spare a thought for (y/n) before she leaves.”

That made Azriel take pause, his grip tightening on the mug. He turned slowly, shadows curling tighter around him. He had to force his hand to relax—this was the second mug he’d nearly crushed in as many days. “What do you mean, before she leaves? Where is she going?”

Cassian raised a brow, stuffing a bite of the pastry into his mouth. “Told me she was heading to Autumn tonight.”

Azriel’s shadows surged violently, a cold fury igniting in his chest. His voice was sharp, cutting through the kitchen’s quiet. “Why?”

Cassian swallowed before responding. “You didn’t know? Some spymaster you are.”

He didn’t stay to hear the rest, his coffee forgotten as he stormed toward her room. Azriel’s steps echoed through the hall, his shadows whipping violently around him. The calm he usually wore like armor had shattered, fury burning hot beneath his skin.

What the hell was she doing? She hadn’t told him she was leaving, hadn’t said a word. Not a glance, not a hint. Who the hell did she think she was? His shadows surged ahead of him, eager, insistent. He should have stopped, should have thought this through. But the image of her in the Autumn Court, of her with him… He could practically see it—she’d show up to the Forest House in the dead of night, meet him at some poorly illuminated side door, and he’d guide her inside with a hand far too low on her back. They’d speak in hushed voices all the way up…

It twisted in his chest like a knife. Eris. The name alone was enough to send a fresh wave of anger coursing through him—even without considering the history between Night and Autumn.

He didn’t knock.

The door slammed open, and there you were.

You froze, standing by the bed, your hands mid-motion as you smoothed down a deep red gown. You wore nothing but a black bra and matching underwear, the soft glow of the room’s faelight casting golden light over your skin. 

Your lips parted in shock, but you recovered quickly, your expression hardening into cool indifference. You straightened, your gaze cutting as you regarded him. “Do you mind?”

Azriel jerked his head to the side, his jaw clenching as he forced his focus on the wall. His wings flared behind him, agitation rippling through every inch of him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting dressed,” you replied smoothly, your tone infuriatingly calm as you turned to your wardrobe to find some shoes.

“You didn’t think to tell me you were leaving?” His voice was a growl, his shadows whipping around him in an erratic storm. “Not a word?”

Your hand stilled for just a moment, but you didn’t look at him as you resumed your task. “Why would I? It’s none of your concern.”

“None of my–” Azriel’s voice rose, the incredulity in his tone making you glance at him from the corner of your eye. He shook his head, the anger simmering in him threatening to boil over. “Do you have any idea how this looks? After everything?” His voice dropped, hard and cutting. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

You let out a soft scoff, picking up a pair of heels and setting them aside. “I’m not doing this,” you said coldly. 

“Fucking listen to me!” Azriel roared, the sound echoing through the room like a thunderclap. His chest heaved as he finally forced his eyes to you—lingering on bare skin for only a breath too long before snapping to your face. His fists clenched at his sides as he took a step forward, his wings twitching with barely contained frustration. “You’re not going, not tonight, not ever. And you sure as hell aren’t–” He cut himself off, his teeth gritting. “You’re not doing this.”

“Doing what, Azriel?” you challenged, your voice like ice.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His voice dropped, rough with anger, and you realized he couldn’t hold your gaze for long before his eyes flicked to the wall behind you. “You think you can just–”

“Oh, please,” you interrupted, your tone mocking as you strode to your bed and picked up the gown. “You’ve already seen far more of me than this. Face me like a real male, Azriel.”

His gaze snapped to yours, golden eyes narrowing in fury. “You really don’t get it, do you? You think you can just waltz in there and–” 

His words faltered when you lifted the dress, stepping into it. His chest tightened, but not from anger. The fabric slid over your hips and settled around your figure like it was made for you, clinging in all the places he didn’t want to notice.

“–and come and go from here as you please?” he forced himself to finish, though his tone lost some of its earlier edge.

You turned your back to him and gathered your hair. “If you’re going to stand there and yell at me, at least make yourself useful. Fasten this.”

Azriel hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze drawn to the smooth line of your back. His fingers twitched at his sides as the memory hit him—weeks ago, pressing his mouth to that very spot, dragging his tongue along your spine as he thrust into you. 

“Go on,” you prompted, your voice sharp enough to cut through his reverie. 

His jaw tightened, his shadows curling around his wrists. “No.” The word came out low, quiet, but final.

You turned your head, frowning over your shoulder. “No?”

He stepped closer, his wings shifting, his voice a low rasp of barely restrained anger as he gripped your shoulder and turned you to face him. “You can’t seriously expect me to tie you with a bow so you can look pretty when he tears into you.”

You blinked, your frown deepening as you searched his face. “I’m sorry, what?”

Azriel’s composure cracked, frustration and something sharper spilling into his words. “You’re not leaving this room, let alone this Court. You’re not going to Autumn. And you’re definitely not going to fuck Eris.”

The sheer audacity of it stole the breath from your lungs for a moment—but only a moment. The tension of the past weeks, every unspoken word, carried over through the poison in your tone.

“You’re right about one. I am leaving this room, I am leaving this Court, I am going to Autumn.” Your voice held steady. “But I’m not going for him. You think this is about him? That I’d go through all this to, what? To punish you? You don’t even know why I’m going, Azriel. You didn’t even ask.”

His jaw clenched, shadows writhing like smoke around his wrists. “Why would I? So you can tell me all the things he’s going to do to you?”

Your chest heaved as you sucked in a sharp breath. “No!”

“Then tell me.” His words were a growl, his gaze burning into yours, daring you to deny him. 

“Beron called for a fucking meeting in an hour,” you shot at him. “He’s got us by the balls with this godsdamned trade agreement, so I don’t really have a choice but to go.” You crossed your arms, shifting your weight. “Not that it even matters! You don’t get to stand there and act like you have any say in my choices just because we fucked one time.”

Azriel flinched, the words striking deeper than you’d intended—or maybe exactly as you had. His shadows recoiled, curling tightly around him, but his wings flared slightly, tension rippling through every line of his body. 

“You think that’s all this is to me?” His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “That you’re just another–” He broke off, shaking his head as though to banish the thought. 

“You’ve made it very clear that’s all it is,” you spat back, your voice kraken under the weight of the weeks of silence and thoughts unspoken. “So don’t you dare stand here and–”

“It’s not.” The words ripped from him like a confession, his golden eyes blazing as he stepped closer, the distance between you vanishing. “You think I could stand here and watch you leave—watch you walk into his arms—without wanting to burn that entire court to the ground?”

His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, the weight of his admission hanging heavy between you, the room charged with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. But the anger bubbling beneath your skin boiled over at that, and you let it loose, the dam breaking. 

“Oh, don’t you dare try to play the victim here!” you snapped, your voice shaking with rage. “Do you even hear yourself? You think I want this? You think I wanted to be standing here, screaming at you, because you couldn’t be bothered to talk to me for over a fucking month?”

His eyes widened slightly, but you were too far gone to stop now. “I waited for you, Azriel. After you left, after everything that happened—I waited. Days. Weeks. I thought, surely, when you came back, you’d at least have the decency to fucking acknowledge me.” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to keep going, every word a sharp blade aimed at him. 

“I was home. You had to have known. I wasn’t hiding, if that’s what you think! I was waiting. For you! And what did you do? Nothing. Not a word. Didn’t even call out for me. But you had all the time in the world to talk to Feyre and Cassian, didn’t you? So don’t you dare stand here now and act like you care where I go or what I do, because clearly, you didn’t care enough to do anything when it actually mattered! Gods, we talked about this that very night!” you exclaimed, dragging a hand over your face in frustration. 

His jaw worked, the muscle ticking as though he was struggling to find words, but you didn’t let him. “And now, now, you want to burn courts to the ground? Where was this a month ago, Azriel? Where was it when I was waiting for you, wondering if it had all been some horrible mistake? If I’d done something wrong?”

Quietly, timidly, “No, you could never–”

“You don’t get to pick and choose when you care—you don’t get to swoop in now and act like I’m yours, when for weeks, you made damn sure I knew I wasn’t!”

Azriel’s lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, he looked like he’d been struck, your words hitting him harder than any blade raised against him. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands fisting at his sides before he dragged them through his hair. 

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice rough, like the words had to claw their way out. “I should have come to you. I should have said something the moment I got back.”

“Then why didn’t you?” you demanded, your anger unrelenting. “Why couldn’t you have just–”

“Because I was terrified,” he snapped, his voice rising enough to make your pulse stutter. His eyes locked onto yours, raw and unguarded. “I’ve never had this, whatever this is, with anyone. And I didn’t know how to… I didn’t want to ruin it.” He exhaled sharply, his wings shifting. “So I convinced myself I’d wait until I’d figured out the right thing to say, the right way to… to explain how I feel.”

Your brows furrowed, your anger giving way to confusion. “And that somehow took over a month?”

His jaw worked. “No. The day you got back from Autumn, I was going to talk to you. I’d made up my mind.” He hesitated, his expression hardening, though there was something broken in his voice when he said, “But then I walked toward your room and the closer I got, the more I fucking smelled him.”

For a moment, you could only stare at him. “You scented him and what? Assumed I brought him to Rhys and Feyre’s house to screw him?”

Azriel flinched, but he didn’t back down, his voice sharpening once again. “It was so strong; I couldn’t think. All I could imagine was him touching you, having you, and I–” He cut himself off, pacing a few steps before rounding back on you. “Did you?”

“Did I what?” you snapped, your voice dripping with exasperation.

“Did you fuck him that night?” His eyes bored into yours. 

The air between you crackled, thick with the weight of his questions. You inhaled sharply, your pulse hammering in your ears. 

“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin defiantly. “I did.”

His breath hitched, a flicker of something indescribable passing over his face—hurt, anger, confusion—before his features hardened back into that mask of his. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious,” you bit out. “You want to know why? Because you weren’t there, Azriel! You left. For nearly a month, I heard nothing from you. Not a single word, not a single sign.”

“I was on a mission,” he shot back, his tone defensive, but his eyes betraying the storm within.

“And I don’t blame you for that,” you said. “But when you came back, you didn’t come to find me. You didn’t say anything. You left me waiting, wondering if any of it even mattered to you.”

“It mattered,” he said, his voice cracking, but you were too far gone to stop now. 

“So yeah,” your voice trembled with anger and pain. “I slept with him. Because at least he didn’t make me feel like I wasn’t worth the effort. At least he didn’t make me feel like I was nothing.”

Azriel reeled, the shadows around him seeming to droop. His wings shifted restlessly. “I did come to you,” he muttered, so quiet you almost missed it. 

“What?” you demanded, brows furrowing. 

His gaze flicked to yours, a flash of guilt shadowing his features. “When I scented him… I went into your room.”

Your jaw dropped, a combination of fury and disbelief coursing through you. “You went into my room? What the fuck, Azriel?”

“I thought he was there,” he said defensively, dragging a hand through his hair. “I thought—I thought he was there, with you.”

“Well, he wasn’t!”

“I know that now! I barged in, ready to…” He trailed off with a sigh. “But he wasn’t. And you were in the bath. So I left.”

“You didn’t think to, what? Knock? Speak to me?”

“I couldn’t. Not when I was ready to tear him apart for even thinking about touching you,” he admitted, his voice tight, his shadows twisting violently. Some darted forward, flickering toward you, before he sharply reined them back. “I stormed past the library and Nesta…” He paused, rolling his neck. “She called out to me, asked what had me so worked up.”

You realized this must have been the conversation you’d partially overheard, but you gave no indication. “And?” You asked him, eyes narrowed. 

“And I asked her if she knew you were still seeing Eris,” he said, his voice self-loathing now. “Because clearly, that’s what it seemed like you were doing.”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I don’t tell her everything, Azriel, for the love of the Mother–”

“I know,” he interjected. “I already heard it from her, I don’t need it again. I know how it sounds now, but at the time, it felt… justified.” His gaze met yours, blazing with intensity. “The idea of him anywhere near you, let alone touching you…” He trailed off, shaking his head. 

You stared at him, caught between wanting to scream and laugh. “So let me get this straight. You thought Eris was with me, and instead of asking me, you stormed into my room? Then asked Nesta?”

His mouth opened as if to argue, but then he closed it again, exhaling heavily. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, his wings drooping slightly in defeat. “Yes, I did. I barged into your room that night. I had to know if he’d been with you. If I’d…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “If I’d lost you.”

Your eyes widened again, but the understanding of his actions sent a pang through your chest. Not anger, but a deep, aching sadness. “And?” you prompted once again, softer this time. 

Azriel’s gaze lifted, his eyes locking with yours. “And I realized it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d still want you. Even if it killed me.”

You reached a hand out, your fingers tightening around his arm as the weight of his words crashed over you. The room felt smaller, the air thick with the tension and longing neither of you could suppress any longer. 

“What am I supposed to do with that, Azriel?” you asked, your voice trembling, tears threatening to spill. “What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

He stepped closer, his hand lifting hesitantly before it cupped your cheek, his touch featherlight. “Let me prove it,” he murmured, his voice a quiet rasp before he cleared his throat. “Let me prove I’m not going to lose you again.”

For a moment, you stood frozen, caught between the anger that still simmered somewhere deep inside you and the pull of the male standing before you, raw and open in a way you’d never seen before. And then, slowly, you leaned into his touch, letting yourself believe that maybe he was telling the truth. 

Azriel’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped free. The tenderness in the gesture only made your chest ache more fiercely, a tangled knot of emotions you couldn’t begin to unravel. 

“You think you can just say that and fix everything?” you whispered, your voice breaking recalling your conversation at the family dinner. “We already–”

His hand trembled slightly, the only betrayal of the storm of emotions raging behind his steady gaze. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t expect that. I know it’ll take more than words. More than this.” His thumb stilled, his hand falling away, leaving your skin cold in its absence. “But I’ll spend every day proving it to you if you let me. I’ll fight for you, even if you never let me close again.”

You took a breath, a sob threatening to escape before you swallowed it down. The sincerity in his words tore at you, but the weight of your pain and anger still held you firmly in place. 

“What if I don’t know how to let you back in?” you asked, barely audible. “What if I’m too scared to even try?”

His expression softened, the hard lines of his jaw at last easing. “Then I’ll wait,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering. “As long as it takes. I’ll wait for you to be ready, even if it’s years. Even if it’s never.”

You couldn’t stop the tears this time, couldn’t stop the way his words cracked something open inside of you. It wasn’t fair—this male who had shattered you offering to piece you back together again. But there was something in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen in so long: hope.

And it scared you as much as it comforted you. 

“I don’t know where to start,” you finally said, your voice barely audible. 

Azriel’s lips curved into the faintest, softest smile. “Then let me.”

And, with infinite gentleness, he reached for your hand, his scarred fingers brushing against yours, tentative and warm. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let him thread his fingers through yours, his touch grounding you even as your heart threatened to break free of your chest. 

His fingers brushed yours, tentative, and for a moment, all the noise in you stilled. Not in resolution, not in some grand, sweeping relief—just quiet. Heavy and unyielding, like the space between breaths. You didn’t reach for him, and he didn’t push. You stayed there, caught in a fragile uneasy balance, and for now, it was all either of you could offer. 

[yourstrulynobody]

"[...]escape EAPS angst[...]" I said in my post earlier, acting like I didnt have the motivation to make a contination of this post because of what Eclipse said to Henry in EAPS newest ep

[FAKE EAPS EP] "RETURNING THE FAVOR in VRChat"

No story for this (discarded), BUT I do have a letter written in Henry's POV to Eclipse under cut :3

(MAY BE OUT OF CHARACTER, SO I DO APOLOGIZE! PLEASE DO CORRECT ME IF IM WRONG. THANK YOU :D)

" To Eclipse,

I doubt you'd ever get this letter knowing what has happened, but I write this in case you ever were to be released from that prison once Ruin completes the cure. Hopefully that would be soon as your kids have been isolating themselves for weeks straight, not even bothering to play with Charlie or FC out of their sadness because of you. You being gone from their life.

( I wonder if this was what Charlie felt when she first became what she is now and I had refused to acknowledge her. Then again, the situations are different. )

Andrew has been acting more mature, same goes to Andy and Jake, and I don't know how to tell them that they don't have to be knowing you want them to be the kids they were again. I know you left letters for them but I can't seem to find a single one yet, but I hope it contains something that tells them they can be kids again even if you are gone.

On the contrary, Charlie and FC made them a plushie of you. FC may or may not have stolen a Sun plushie from a pizzeplex near here for the base... but all that really matters was that 1) he wasn't caught doing it, and 2) it was remade with love and care.

Today was the first time the three have gone out of their shared room, and they all took turns just holding that plushie for a bit. I haven't seen them even let go of that thing even when we ate dinner.

Did you know how much they would miss you, or did you think you didn't make much of an impact to them, Eclipse? Because from what I can see, you meant a lot to them.

Other than that success today, I have began making their bodies. You have nice blueprints, by the way—easy to understand, although your cursive writing made me pause a lot, but I managed either way.

The kids were interested in the thing when night came, so I had to stall for an hour or two just to get all of them to bed. Yours were pretty easy to get to sleep, but Charlie and FC? Not so much, but I managed. (Still, it was hard to. I know how to get Charlie to bed, but I struggled a lot with FC for some odd reason.)

Thank you, again, for putting your trust in me to take care of your kids. I never would've expected it until you said it to me directly. You're a good person, Eclipse, even if you can only view what you see in your shadow—the monster you were then and made to be now.

From your friend, Henry Emily. "

[lilacxquartz]

beneath the murky depths;

octoman sukuna x f!reader

plot: your vulnerable state catches the attention of an oceanic god — themes/warnings: tentacles, smut, monster fucking, orally & in v, painful sex, dubcon — w.c: 1.4k • ao3 • masterlist

a/n: by request, hope this is what you were looking for! <3 keep the warnings in mind before clicking in.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep on the beach, but you couldn’t help it. You were so tired and it was so warm—how could you pass up such an opportunity?

You supposed that the problem was that, when you came around, the shores were now empty and devoid of seemingly everyone. It was dark in such an odd way too, with the skies looking more blood red than the usual dark blue that blanketed over the horizon.

At first, you thought that you were dreaming but the longer that you lay awake, the more real it all seemed. Something in the air tasted bitter, almost metallic—while the ground beneath your body gently trembled—the sand flittering around without a cause. You sat up in a flash, trying to make sense of what you were experiencing, only to be met with the otherworldly sight of what appeared to be rising tides, somehow paused at a standstill.

“What the…?” you murmured to yourself, your voice coming out as a hoarse whisper as it was still thick with sleep.

The waters, so void-like and foreboding, parted at the center like two liquified curtains separating at the seams, giving entry to a tall and imposing figure beyond your comprehension. Your eyes locked onto the impossible sight, taking note of his robust frame adorned with muscles; showcasing four large strong arms sprouting from his body alongside a set of tentacles spearing from his back.

Instinctively, your first course of action was to back away as far as you could, even though it seemed like you had nowhere to run off to. There was a strange feeling of some sort of ambient pressure, like this being’s presence prevented you from moving very far, if even at all.

“You’re a curious thing, aren’t you?” he purred in a deep voice.

You stared at the monster, blinking a couple of times as your mind raced for a potential response. Something like him shouldn’t exist—there was simply no way—and yet… this didn’t seem to be a dream nor a nightmare, so what on earth were you looking at exactly? His face didn’t make sense either, with the parallel half boasting something resembling barnacles with shells alike, peering out what appeared to be another set of eyes.

“W-what are you?” you finally managed to sputter out.

He smiled slightly, yet there was nothing warm about the gesture. “The mortals know me as Sukuna,” he introduced himself, eyeing you down with fixed contempt, “you should be thankful to be in the presence of a god.”

“A-a god?” you replied.

Sukuna hummed, retaining his stoic demeanour, although a hint of arrogance crept into his eyes. “Depends on who you worship, some might call me a demon…” he trailed off, letting the implication linger in the air before continuing, “now, who might you be?”

You just barely muttered out your name to him.

Addressing you personally, he took a step closer, his figure looming over yours, casting a dark shadow over where you were sat. “And what do you offer me?”

You blinked. “H-huh? Offer? I-I didn’t pray to you… d-did I?”

Sukuna rumbled out a low, deep-bellied laugh. Despite his reaction to your confusion, he didn’t seem to be amused in the slightest. “I won’t ask you again,” he warned, addressing you personally once more, “so tell me, what do you offer me?”

“I-I don’t have anything?” you nervously asked.

“Everyone has something to offer,” he corrected you, branching out a finger to tweeze at your chin, tilting your head up to meet with him directly. You froze at the sight, your eyes wide with fear. “How about… your lust?”

Your words failed you for a second before you were able to even respond.

But then you finally managed something, “I…I— What?”

Sukuna hovered over you, his scarlet gaze locking onto yours, daring you to oppose his suggestion. You were too terrified to reject him and ultimately wanted to live through whatever this was, so you found yourself apprehensively nodding in agreement.

“O…kay…” you just barely choked out.

Sukuna didn’t need to be told twice, immediately moving over you. The tentacles that rooted from his back snaked over towards your body, capturing your limbs in a tight, wrapping embrace. You gasped out at the bizarre sensation, feeling the tugging weight of them spread your legs apart while keeping your arms locked in place.

“You should be able to take me after this,” he lazily murmured, coiling a tendril over your now-spread sex, placing a fleshy suction cup just over your clit. The pleasure was immediate as soon as the connection was made, the sucker vacuuming over the bud.

As the motions continued to spread a surging sensation of warmth, a sweeping tingle simmered through your core. Almost instinctively, your body lifted itself to lean into the spike of the muscle, letting slip of needy—almost whining shuddered out whimpers.

“Such an obedient girl,” he almost praised, seeming to approve of your reactions.

There was no time to reply to his condescending flattery as the blissful sensation rose, pushing your body above and beyond its capable threshold. An exhilarating peak formed in between your legs, boiling over to overflowing ecstasy as your eyes rolled back and your toes tingled and curled.

However, it didn’t seem to be over just yet. Sukuna plucked the limb away, guiding it slightly lower to meet at your entrance instead. You were slicker at this point, with your heat glistening in your sopping release. He then speared the tentacle into your sex without warning, impaling you with the tentacle, moving another to swim through your slightly ajar lips, feeling overwhelmed as he simultaneously fucked the tendrils into your body, keeping you perfectly well filled.

Quickly flustered, you unintentionally rolled your hips to match the momentum of how he moved within you, finding that he was able to slowly bulk out the swelling girth of the boneless limbs, leaving you completely stuffed as you were forced to adjust around the size, left perfectly distracted as he slowly eased the feelers out of your body.

Thinking it was over, you wrongfully relaxed, as once again without warning or any chance to recover, Sukuna moved forward in his plan to have you fully take him, positioning the tip of his heavily thick cock into your cunt, pushing himself fully inside.

Regrettably, you weren’t quite as ready as he thought, so he suffered your teeth sinking into one of his tentacles that hovered nearby, seething out a pained hiss in response. Quickly retracting it, however, he half laughed, half scoffed as if amused by your little slip-up. “You’ll take me,” he warned or rather, promised, “and you’ll take me well.”

Once again, he eased himself into your core, his eyes fluttering in pleasure from the sensation of your walls swallowing around his length. Slowly, he drove his cock through you, taking note of how your legs widened out of necessity before settling in as far as he could realistically push.

At first, it felt like a punch to the gut, almost, as he started to move. The thudding impact of him hitting your cervix over and over, was nothing short of excruciating, feeling unlike any other pain you had experienced before. Repeatedly, Sukuna stole your breath away as he rutted into your hilt, his creeping tentacles returning to maneuver around the contours of your body, wrapping himself tightly around you—all the while he slammed himself into your soon battered and bruised apex.

And as you let yourself go, your mind blanked. It felt like your orgasm was closer to killing you, than anything else as he continued to brutally penetrate you. He too, was caught up in an almost violent body-wide rolling shudder—filling you up with the flooding aftermath of his peaking climax—with trickling residue that sept out of the cusp of the tentacles, coating you in a sealing pact of something left unspoken.

Your eyes drooped shut after that, but rather than waking up safe and sound on the beach, praying to something else that this was all part of some bizarre nightmare—you found yourself plunged into the dark waters along with him—unintentionally promising yourself to be kept until the end of time.

After all, Sukuna didn’t quite tell you one little detail of the pact.

An offering was a promise, and a promise was forever.

[ozzgin]

Hi!! Your writing it truly lovely 😭<33 If i could request anything with Zzy? Thank youuu

Yandere! Demon x Gloomy! Reader (II)

Featuring the goat-legged boy Zzy and a gloomy, newly employed detective Reader! By the way, his name is a little tribute to a series I like. Can you guess who inspired it? Hint: it's Jhonen Vasquez's first comic :D

Content: female reader, perverted goat demon yandere, dark/crass humor!, monster romance, mildly NSFW

[Part 1] [Monster masterlist]

The detective man, at the very least, kept his word. The pay is good, and you barely have any work to do. The jobs themselves are similarly not too challenging: so far you haven’t had to deal with any murder mystery out of an Agatha Christie novel. Rather, most of the time, it’s someone asking you to investigate their cheating partner, or sending you to do a background check for an employee. Every now and then you’ll get the odd client, but that’s something for another day.

Your boss isn’t all that bad either. You were initially quite hesitant to be alone in the room with him. He always seems to be surrounded by an eerie, dark aura, and you’ve only seen him smile in a menacing, villainous way. Now you’ve gotten used to his strangeness. In fact, it’s almost comforting. There’s something refreshing about another human being honest about their misery. He seems to be just as uninterested in this job as you are, spending most of his time reading at his desk. Despite his unkempt, scary appearance, he's pleasant enough and looks after you. Which, now that you think about it, is a little suspicious. You've seen him act around other people: curt and to the point, disinterested, even potentially rude. With demons, he's ruthless.

"Have you had lunch yet?" the man asks, standing up and dusting his knees. "I can get us something."

You nod and flash him a flaccid smile, although you can't help but ask:

"Listen, aren't you being a little too nice? I mean, I'm not complaining...but I've seen how you behave in general, and I have a hard time coming up with a reason for my special treatment."

He ponders your question for a moment, before his sunken eyes look ahead, somewhere behind you.

"Well…If I’m being honest, you’re kind of pathetic, aren't you? I’m just a little worried that if I’m too harsh, I’ll find out you hanged yourself in your apartment or something. Not that I’d care, but if you’re gone, I’m the one stuck with…that thing.”

Ah. That’s what it was. Almost immediately, a shiver runs across your spine.

“(Y/N)! Are you done yet? I’m booooooored”, a prolonged whine erupts from the neighboring chamber.

“I’m about to have lunch, actually. Do you want any-”

“You know I do! Spread those legs and I can start”, the goat demon declares with a grin, clacking his hooves in your direction.

You sigh.

Of course. Months ago, you were tricked into signing a lifelong contract with Zzy. It was the detective’s way of washing his hands off the matter and warmly welcoming you into the agency. It makes sense that he'd treat you with utmost care, otherwise he'd have to deal with this pest from Hell once again.

How's your life with Zzy going?

You've since found a way to seal your bedroom, in order to avoid waking up with his groping hands under your sheets. Sadly, the stubborn creature keeps finding ways to bypass your safety measurements. Who would’ve thought that lust is such a powerful driving force?

On top of the nightly shenanigans, you obviously have to deal with him during the day, at the agency. “Listen, it’s like…one of those fidget toys. It helps with stress”, he explains fervently while pointing at your chest. “You want me to do my work properly, don’t you?” He concludes theatrically. “You’re not holding my boobs. This is the end of the conversation.”

If you’re having a bad day, it won’t go unnoticed. “Boy, what a smell, what a delicacy. You’re even more miserable than usual”, Zzy will exclaim, throwing his hands together in a graceful prayer. “You know what the best medicine is? A quick fuck. Let me pound that sadness out of you, eh?”

Despite his constant clowning, the demon does have moments of clarity. He becomes particularly serious when jealous. “What have you done?” You shout in despair, gawking at the client - now morphed into a pig - foaming at the mouth and running around the room. “He was staring at your ass. Only I can do that.” The horned man stands proud, arms crossed, nodding at his own courageous act. His most treasured belonging has been defended once more.

As expected, the jealous curse has gotten both of you into time-out. Zzy because he cursed the client in the first place, and you - despite your protests - because you didn't stop him in time. "Can't you wear something easier to take off? It takes two business days to unbutton this crap", the demon complains as he fiddles with your shirt. You're laying on the sofa, hands behind your head, gazing at the clock on the wall and counting the minutes passing. Unbothered, compliant. The peacefulness of someone who's given up. "Zipper is to the left", you add, aiding the process.

Another irritating detail is that the damned beast can detect the slightest arousal coming from you, and will make sure to announce it loudly, regardless of who is around. "Someone's horny! Whew, getting me all worked up, too." You slap a hand over his mouth, a deep red blush rapidly spreading across your cheeks. You turn to the detective and apologize profusely, but he remains unconcerned, flipping another page. "Let me take care of her first, Mr. Detective", Zzy manages to mumble through your pressed fingers. "As long as you get the task done", your boss responds plainly, never bothering to look up from his book.

"You should visit me down there sometimes", the horned creature suddenly mentions, his head resting in your lap as you idly browse your phone. You stop to glance down at him. "In Hell, you mean?" He snickers at the thought. "No one believes me when I tell them I have a human girlfriend. I need concrete proof, ya feel me?" You raise an eyebrow. "Girlfriend?" He disregards your inquiry and continues: "At least give me a pair of your panties to take back home." Absolutely not.

"Were you this much of a menace before I showed up?"

"What's that supposed to mean?! You can't blame a demon for being in love."

You sigh once more and roll over.

"Does that mean we can go for round two~?" Zzy is grinning at his own suggestion.

"Just go to sleep. Or something."

[froggyplanet4269]

thank you, from the bottom of my heart to weevildoing and the entire tptm fandom for this journey. As of writing this, tomorrow the last girl will come out.

Tptm has become one of my favorite albums by far, and every song and character is as fun as relatable and beautiful in so many ways.

It's a bit odd to think that we will no longer have any new album songs to expect; we have been doing so for long (or at least in my case) that it will be strange to just... have it complete.

Again, thank you so much. I love xiomara's design :D

[fraugwinska]

Since @chefskjssart's artwork that I commissioned was such a BANGER, I felt like I needed to do something to show my gratitude. So, I messaged her and gave her free choice over a little One-Shot I'd gift her. And that's how we ended up here :D Where are my little TV Sluts at? You can thank Chef - and I hope you all have fun ;>

NSFW - Explicit Sexual Content - Minors DNI - 5.7k words

"Gotta say, Val, the revenue of your movies really skyrocketed this quarter, fuck me."

Vox flipped through the quarterly reports, eyebrows raised and a grin on his face while Valentino, very pleased with himself, lounged on the chaise next to Vox's desk, smoking.

"I told you I've made a good investment." He grinned and blew out a puff of smoke. "All the horny bitches out there are eating my movies up."

"It's more than that, you're even making headway into other rings, holy shit! We've even got a foot in the Lust Ring market, which is almost impossible with that kind of competition..."

Valentino hummed approvingly.

"And the best part: I didn't have to do much." He added and let the tip of his cigarette rest against his lips, his grin widening. "My newest author is a kinky little genius."

Vox turned his attention to the papers again, his smile slowly turning into a frown as he scanned the declining sales in Voyeurscopes.

"What are you talking about? All of your authors write pretty much the same shit, what could be so special about-"

Valentino laughed and shook his head. "That one is - believe me, carino. Poor bitch has the mind of a succubus on crack but she can't get off."

Vox looked up, an eyebrow raised in skeptic questioning.

"Can't get off?"

"Can't feel anything. Can't cum for the life of her." He replied, leaning back and spreading his arms. "Numb like a fucking dead fish."

"Or maybe she just hasn't found a good dick." Vox mumbled, returning back to the reports, skimming over the numbers.

"Mh, you be the judge amorcito. Because I tried." Valentino growled, taking a drag from his cigarette. 

Now that got Vox's full attention. The TV demon stared at his partner for a few seconds of silence, then laughed maniacally, almost falling off his chair while Val rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Fucking weird little thing, she is. She can write the craziest shit, the hornier the better. Writes like a damn porn beast, but has no clue what good sex actually feels like."

Vox heaved, wiping his screen as if in tears.

"Ohoho, Christ on a Cracker Val, maybe you've been out of the business too long… are you maybe losing that golden touch?"

Valentino sneered. "Ay, and you think you would've been able to get that bitch to cum? Be my guest, I'll gladly watch you fail."

Vox grinned at the moth, his eyes dangerously teasing. The reports were long forgotten - this was too entertaining, and Vox loved to be challenged, because he loved the feeling of superiority he felt when he succeeded. And that feeling would be so much more satisfying when he'd beat his long time partner and porn prince of pride at his own expertise.

"Wanna up the ante? Make a little wager out of it?"

Valentino scoffed, then chuckled deviously. He took another drag from his long cigarette, his cerise teeth glistening with red saliva as he began to drool in anticipation.

"You know I like to play, Voxxy. Especially if the odds are so much in my favor."

Another script done.

Your best one yet, if anyone asked you. But you knew no one asked ever, so why bother?

You stood up from your desk in your private office - being Val's favorite pen pet had it's perks afterall.

You skipped the stage of employment where you'd be cramped in one of these horrible cubicles together with the other overworked, caffeinated and tired writers, typing another outdated secretary-fuck-fest-plot while the other employees complained about their last bad lay and the shitty pay.

At least you didn't have to deal with any of that. Your room was quiet and peaceful, the door able to be locked shut and the walls soundproof. No distractions, no chit chat, no loud coworkers or malfunctioning printer noises. Just the humming sound of your computer, and the whirring of the A/C Val had granted you - a luxury that most of your colleagues bitched about behind your back.

You stretched, your tired bones popping into place and you sighed. You were done for the day. Finally.

With the deadline looming over you, you had been a bit late with the last part, and the thought of being late with your work made you sick. But Val pressed for another banger (pun intended) like your last one, 'Dante's Infern-Hoe' and you didn't want to risk the benefits you were offered so temptingly by being sloppy.

But the script for 'The Devil wears Nada' sat now, freshly printed, next to your laptop, the file saved locally and in the cloud, with about an hour to spare still. You smiled, content and relieved. An hour of paid slacking off was nice, and you checked with a glance that the electric door still was set on LOCKED before you flopped down at the two-seater by the window, grabbing the remote from the small side table and turned on the TV.

A familiar voice spoke through the speakers, and you relaxed into the pillows with a small sigh, eyes closed.

As shitty as the program in Hell was, one thing it had going for it was Vox. That smooth, hypnotizing voice of the overlord that held pride's media empire in his claws was a delight to your ears, and even the mindless, overplayed commercial jingles were pleasant enough if he was the one narrating them.

For the millionth time, it seemed, your hand wandered under the hem of your pants, fingers rubbing lazily at your cunt, as you listened to him talk, advertising the latest angelic protection device that didn't do what he promised it to do.

It was insanity at this point, doing something over and over again expecting a different outcome. Every night your fingers were cold and wet with your slick and your clit bloody and raw while you felt nothing of even your most violent and feverish touches, trying for minutes to hours to experience a sensation you wrote daily about without the satisfaction of any remarkable buildup or release.

It was no use, you knew it was a fruitless attempt, just like all the others. The most you got out of your endless tries was a slight tingle one time where you were so desperate you fucked yourself with an electric rod on its highest setting, resulting in a power outage in your apartment and a big fat fine from your landlord a few days later.

Still, you craved it. Craved to one day feel at least something. After the disappointing One-Night-cannot-Stand-the-thought-of-it with your boss, the literal porn mogul you were ready to just give up. If the face of pride’s sexdrive couldn’t get you over the edge, was there any chance at all?

Valentino had been the last in a long line of desperate attempts, paartners ranging from incubi, paid whores, porn actors to even sexbots made by Asmodeus, costing you a pretty penny just for the hassle of trying to get through the return hotline to get your money back, explaining No, you don’t know how it was possible that the cock of the ‘Fuckboy 3.0 XXL’ broke into pieces after one time usage. 

You chuckled humorlessly at the memory - It was truly a pathetic time in your eternal existence, filled with you masturbating alone in bed like a sad porn star, yearning to experience sex like you wrote about in your scripts. Maybe this was hells way to punish you for your sins, your personal plan of torture - To never experience the very thing that possessed you on the daily.

The television droned on in the background, Vox advertising his latest technological developments; new features on your phone that you really could not care less about. Despite his unusual appearance, Vox was one of your absolute go-to Stand-in's for your plot protagonists. Charming, suave, depraved when called for and a dominating, thorough lover that took what he wanted, but with so much skill that his partner would cum threefold before he'd even begin to think about finishing. Cocky and yet sensual. Aftercare included. All the things your colleagues were too dumb to include, no wonder their scripts were a bust.

Yes, it was hell and therefore tastes were more... depraved than in the living world, but that didn't mean the populus secret wishes for some sort of common sexual decency was out the window, goddamn.

Your mind wandered away from your depressive ruminations, your hand never stopping its circular pattern around your swollen clit as your thoughts started to wander to its usual place, the only way that came close to what you longed for and what was the source for all of your best-selling porn scripts. Your boundless realm of fantasy.

'Come out, come out, wherever you are...'

Vox is standing in your doorway, his silhouette prominent against the bright white neon light coming from the corridor of the empty floor. His suit, neatly fitted to every curve of his slender body, is showing just how thin his waist really is, but that does not come even remotely close to describe his broad shoulders and firm, wide chest, contrasting it deliciously. His navy blue skin reflects the harsh lighting in the hallway, his screen sharp and clear, digital eyes never leaving you as he closes the door behind him, dipping the room you're in in darkness, the only source of light his brightly illuminated screen where his digital, mismatched eyes are solely fixated on you, hiding behind the long backrest of your couch.

'Found you, babydoll.' he says with that god forsaken sultry voice of his as he reaches for your throat, long fingers wrapping themselves around your neck as your breath hitches and he pulls you up from your crouched position, his long tongue running over your collarbones, the wet trails feeling as cold on your skin as his appendage feels hot. 'Now remember what I said? Ready or not...'

He presses you into a wall, his big, hard erection rubbing teasingly through the layers of fabric on your already wet core as you whimper with want. '... here I cum.'

You moan his name, the imagined feeling so painfully surreal, and you wished once more that your working fingers would elicit some sort of real, bodily response.

A cough makes you freeze in your movements. Your fantasy shatters like a mirror shot with a bullet and your eyes fly open, expecting to see maybe a dumb segment of a rerun of 'Vox2Nite'. Instead, you see the actual, real TV demon overlord, standing live and in color just a few strides away with an expression that was a mixture of confusion, curiosity and slight annoyance.

"I'd ask if I am interrupting, but it seems you already had me on your mind, huh, doll?"

Realizing that you weren't - in fact - hallucinating, you immediately whipped your hand out from under your panties, sitting up, flustered like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. How did he get in? Did you forget to lock the door? No. Did he unlock it?! You must have missed his opening and closing of the door over the voice in your fantasy. The same voice that is now echoing in reality. Oh what a shameful ending for a perfectly good fantasy orgasm.

"Um... shit, sorry, Mr. Vox, sir. I was just, you know..." you scrambled, getting nervous under the actual gaze of him as he folded his arms, waiting for you to end that sentence with a pitiful smirk. Jesus Christ, those arms are slender and muscular…

"Thinking! Just thinking, making script... scenarios..."

"Uh-Huh. And how is that coming along?" He asked, seemingly unfazed by the display before him as he took a few steps towards you.

"Oh, uh, haha, I didn't really... finish..."

He stopped directly in front of you, shutting you up with a low chuckle and his hand around your wrist, the one attached to the hand that had been in between your folds just literal seconds ago, lifting them up to look at the still shimmering wet residue on your fingers with a sneer.

"Mhm. Yeah, I've heard you have some problems with that."

Now that was embarrassing as it was alarming, and you ripped your hand out of his grip. Or better, you tried to do so anyway. It was a pointless exercise, his hand had an iron-tight grasp around your wrist as he pulled you up with one swift motion, so fast you stumbled into him, face to chest, breath caught in your throat as you were made suddenly aware how huge he really was compared to you.

"W-wow, my kinda pathetic reputation precedes me it seems. That's..." just great is what you wanted to say, but all words failed you when he lifted the hand in his grasp to his face, his thick, long tongue slithering out of his mouth just to wrap itself around your digits, lapping up the sticky residue of your arousal, watching you as your pupils widen and you squirm in his grip, mortified and turned on at the same time.

"Eh. Not as pathetic as my business partner's failure to provide something he's built his reputation on, sweetheart. Unusually smart of him to get you under contract before you shout it from the rooftops." He hummed as he tasted you, sucking in the pads of your finger hungrily and without hesitation, and all you could think of, frozen stiff like a deer in headlights, was: What the fuck is happening?

"But Val never had the kind of mindset I have... I don't do failure... or better said: I always finish what I start." His low rasp vibrated in the air around him, echoing in your head, and the heat his voice had brought to your skin left your mind racing. You asked yourself panicking if you had written too many dumb porn plots or if he was really implicating what you thought he was implicating.

"So, whaddaya say, doll..." His breath tickled your cheek as he leaned in closer, pulling you flush against him, a soft grunt of content as his hard dick pressed into your soft belly, his mouth right next to your ear, one of his hands running teasingly down your sides as he licked your ear shell. "...care to see if I can end your unlucky streak?"

'Fuck, yeah.' You thought, and almost moaned out loud as you let your head fall back to make room for his waiting mouth, when suddenly you stopped in your tracks. His hands were already groping over you greedily, squeezing your ass, your thighs, your breasts as he looked down on you, surprised to see your conflicted face.

"W...Wait. What's in it... for you?"

"Mh, you're clever. That's a new one." Vox laughed, his hand running up to the side of your face to cup your cheek, his thumb rubbing small circles on the corner of your lip. "Me and Val made a little bet, you see, and well... Let's just say: I want this to work out just as much as you do, since my success depends on yours."

"Oh.." So Val was talking about you, that bastard. He had you sign an NDA when he hired you, given that you had been unwilling to make a soul contract with him, but you guessed that that had been naively one-sided. Asshole.

Vox stroked your bottom lip, parting them before you opened them slightly on your own accord, his dark blue tongue languidly tracing the edges, waiting for your decision, coaxing you to decide in his favor. And even though you were kind of pissed at Valentino for running around telling people about your... situation - you couldn't deny it was tempting, turning fantasy into reality. And what was another overlord trying to do the impossible? Worst case - he'd try and fail, just as all the others did before, like the stupid moth pimp. At least you'd have some leverage for maybe another good deal for your silence on it. And in the highly unlikely best case…

With your decision made, you flicked your own tongue against his, humming at the unfamiliar taste and the sizzling static electricity on your tongue. Vox grinned, his sharp teeth pressing onto your lips, nipping at the sensitive flesh and growling with approval when your lips parted.

"Ohoho, baby, this is gonna be fun."

Vox ran his claws through your hair, loosening your already messy bun until your hair fell free with his playful pulls as he explored your mouth, deepening the kiss with every lick, until he could push his whole tongue into your mouth, moaning and grabbing the back of your head tightly as you let him fill you without the slightest hint of protest, fighting a desperate losing battle for air.

"Fuck, don't you need to... breathe?" you whispered after he finally pulled back, a wet trail connecting his tongue to yours, grinning down on you while your lungs burned for oxygen.

"Perks of being state of the art, sweetheart." he watched your swollen, drool covered lips - parted to catch your breath - for a few seconds longer before he inquisitively tilted his head. "Did you feel any of that?"

You contemplated lying, but figured honesty would probably be the best in this situation, shaking your head and giving him your most pitiful attempt at an apologetic smile, already bracing yourself for him to give up or get mad. "My lips tingle a little."

"Mh." He huffed as he pushed you back into the two-seater, your back hitting the cushions with a soft thump, and unceremoniously pulled on your very not-sexy-at-all sweatpants and slightly-more-sexy-but-not-quite panties until they slipped over your legs.

"How about this then?" He pressed his knee in between your legs to nudge them apart. "Can you feel any of this?" He spread your already wet slit open to run a cold claw over your hole, softly dipping first one, then two and lastly three of his fingers inside to stretch you further open and push it back in, repeating the movement slowly while keeping his eye contact trained on your face.

You hummed non-commitally, closing your eyes and pressing yourself into the cushions, trying to feel for any sensation that should come with every slow drag of his digits pumping inside of you, and not finding any of it was so fucking frustrating. You felt like you were not only disappointing yourself, but him, as stupid as that sounded. But with every added finger and still a lack of response, you saw the progression of frustrations in his face that you knew all too well - eyebrows furrowed, irritated twitches of the corners of his lips that turned into a snarl with the third added digit. You frowned, sighing and bit your lip - nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and fucking nothing again, just another wet hole, the clenching of your walls a habit and reflex only, no pleasure whatsoever.

"It's no fucking use..." you whined, pressing your hands to your face in frustration and fear of looking back into his eyes, "I can't feel anything at a-aaAAH...!"

Your back arched at this strange jolt running down your spine, forcing you to grind down on his hand as a strong electric current buzzed from his claw tips right through your cunt, curling in your stomach in a hot wave of wanton need and knocking the wind out of you. Your eyes flew open just in time to see the flash of victorious satisfaction on his screen before his face turned fuzzy as you began to tear up.

"There's some reaction. There we go, sweetheart." He cooed and curled his fingers in that deliciously sinful way again, making your breath catch in your throat. For the first time since you can remember, you FELT. You dropped your hands from your flushed, hot face onto the plush of the couch, fingers desperately digging into the fabric, and stared at Vox with wide eyes. He winked, nudging his head to his buried fingers, and with a shattering gasp you could see neon blue bolts of electric sparks traveling down his slender arm, crackling around the soft flesh inside of your pussy that had never felt so sensitive.

"How are y-aaaa.... aaa-AAah...." he silenced any questions you might have had or possible retort with another shock wave traveling through his hand as he dragged his fingers in and out in an agonizingly slow pace, it had your ears ringing with white noise and your eyes water with unknown, strange pleasure.

You were shaking, and though it should have frightened you a lot more than it did to be electrocuted while doing something that could be considered borderline treason to Valentino (And it still had your cunt dripping on a whim), but there was nothing left for you to think of other than the sharp shocks making every nerve inside of you buzz, your thighs already trembling in anticipation of the possibility of an unknown, but oh-so-wanted climax. Yet it was somehow still out of your reach, out of your range of senses.

"I feel like we are getting closer, babydoll." The TV demon chuckled darkly, his voice over amplified, the electrical buzz reverberating loudly in the soundless room. "How 'bout we kick it up a notch, huh?"

He pulled out his fingers in a quick, cruel movement, making your pussy clench around nothing as you already mourned the feeling. Before you had the time to voice your loss however, he had your thighs already in his hands, pushing them back to almost fold you in half and spread them apart as wide as he could get them without hurting you. With a smirk he stuck out his tongue, inhumanely long, thick on its base and pointed at the end - and let his electric energy visibly spark around it. Holy Shit.

The moment his head dipped down and his appendage swiped through your puffed, red folds, you could feel your insides buzz in sync to his delighted moan. He began eating you out feverously and obscenely, not holding anything back, just like you wrote your most popular protagonists to do - NO, this was so much better than anything you've ever written or fantasized about, his tongue twisting in patterns that felt like nothing you've ever even came close to imagine before. It was like he powered your whole nervous system, overriding every strand of nerve with his own electricity, amplifying any touch, any lick and any suction that would normally not even register a thousand-fold.

"O-Oh my g... F-fffuuuuhhh-ck.. meeee..." you moaned in confusion and amazement, your legs shaking helplessly on either side of Vox's rectangle head as he fucked his tongue into you, switching between the deep, long, thorough thrusts and fast, small, teasing flicks into the wet heat of your cunt, coating his screen in a shining mix of your natural juices and his blue neon saliva. He sucked at the protruding of your swollen bundle of nerves, your sensitive clit twitching under his attention - it was maddeningly unreal. You felt like a complete, utter sham - if this was sex, you've never written it anywhere correctly.

"I'm working on that, sweetheart."

Vox smirked against your pulsing core, humming with satisfaction at your wet, gaping slit begging for him to push back in and fill you up again, making you ache for his tongue deeper and deeper, forcing every shred of sense you had to leave your mind as you bucked into his grip in desperation, chasing another intense jolt he held just out of your reach as he laughed deviously at your hungry reaction to his teasing antics.

You didn't care how pathetic you looked, how undignified or desperate you sounded. This was nothing short of fucking fantastic, this all new, unknown sensation that you deemed impossible to ever experience and an real, tangible orgasm so close you could almost grab it. You felt a violent greed, you needed more of this, more more more, you needed to cum and you knew exactly that only Vox was able to do it - but you needed him inside of you, pushing you into oversensitivity, no matter what was required to get you over the edge. Fuck all dignity, that ship had sailed the moment your back hit the couch.

You shook your head vigorously, choking down sobs of grateful pleasure that racked your body with every curl of his tongue inside of you and a guttural moan, high pitched and broken.

"P-Please... ah, Pl..please..." you panted and Vox felt for your thighs to hold you steady. His claws sank in with such force into the soft meat of your legs he drew blood. "F... Fu..Fuck me.. please." you stammered and he smirked, a look of pure joy in his digital eyes as he stared you down.

"Oh, I will, baby." He smiled against your core, curling the tip of his tongue around your clit with just the right amount of pressure that your entire vision went blank with a broken cry and the strongest wave of static he'd managed to work you up to so far. "Don't worry about that, I'm not nearly done with you."

He fucked his long, slippery tongue back into your quivering pussy, his thumb taking the place on the sensitive bundle of nerves where his pointy tip had been and you cried out again as he found that one spot you've always read (and written) about. You had questioned it's actual existence, believing it to be one of those wishful myths girls dreamt and you by proxy wrote about - Until Vox and his fucking talented mouth and miraculous tongue brushed right up against it with expert accuracy. It made your eyes roll to the back of your skull, mouth open to cry out as your back arched like a bow string.

"Yeah, there? F-Fuuuck..." The overlord growled, watching your blissful face twist with a new kind of overwhelming pleasure. "You gonna cum for me baby? Come on, let go, good girl..."

You knew the reader-pleasing phrase by heart. You used it a hundred times and fantasized about it even more - It shouldn't have that effect on you, but yet it was that comment of his, spoken in a raspy low rumble directly into your cunt that finally pushed you over the edge, leaving you panting helplessly and cumming.

Hard. Harder than you've ever dreamed about. Every nerve ending on overdrive, every hair standing on edge - it felt like getting struck by lightning, the static electricity sizzling through your blood vessels like a thunderstorm as he was still thrusting that goddamn magic tongue into your spasming hole through the clamping of your muscles, taking you through it with small, measured licks to keep you on the edge a little longer, whines and hiccups mixed with breathless laughs leaving your raw throat as you slowly returned to reality.

This was it, what you've always longed for, you realized after your vision came back to you, staring down at the smug looking TV demon who was still settled between your legs, his glowing screen painted with the remains of your climax. You managed to give him an exhausted smile, blowing a stray strand of wild hair from your face with a quick puff before dropping your head back in the pillow, absolutely spent. Vox pressed a toothy kiss on your thigh and pushed himself back to his feet.

"You've got quite the gushy orgasm, doll, damn..." he wiped a thick blotch of your arousal from the corner of his screen, the neon blue stained fingertip disappearing in his mouth as he hummed appreciatively and licked it away. Then he looked over you, slumped lazily on the sofa, your face flushed, your hair all tangled and the exposed pieces of skin covered with a shiny layer of sweat.

"Shit, sweetheart, you look goddamn good when you're all messed up like that..." He eyed you intently and leaned down, his heavy frame caging you in underneath him, one hand trailing a line from your still heaving chest, between your breasts and up to your throat.

"T-That was.. wow. Just... wow." Clearly illiterate and 50 IQ-points dumber post-orgasm, you cleared your throat, trying to compose yourself. While you were a little disappointed that you still hadn't really fucked, he did what he promised to do. Got you off - and how. You were grateful.

Sad that it was over, maybe even sadder that the chances of a repetition were likely zero - Vox was a goddamn overlord, and who were you other than a nobody with a hard-to-please cunt?- but grateful nonetheless. And you felt the need to let him know that.

"I don't know how to than... w-what are you doing?"

You sat yourself up on the elbows with a dumbfounded expression as Vox began to undress himself, his jacket, bow tie and undershirt discarded within seconds onto the ground and he practically pounced you as he began to undo the belt of his slacks, trapping you in between his legs and under the very prominent hard-on he sported.

"What, you really thought that was it? Make you cum once, win my bet and ding-dong-ditch like a fucking amateur?" Vox laughed as he pulled his massive length out of his pants - Words were your bread and butter but they would ever fail you to describe the gloriousness that was his cock.

Almost as thick as your underarm, smooth and almost shiny, glowing with built-in LED lights along the underside of his shaft and practically weeping with precum. He knelt down on the sofa, taking your hand to run it over its full length, smearing the sticky residue along your fingers, his almost bioluminescent cum dripping thick and slowly from the angry swollen tip. "Fuck no, sweetheart. In case you forgot, let me remind you..."

He leaned down to your ear, a violent electric bold jolting from his cock through your hand right into your overwhelmed, disbelieving brain as he guided you to line him up with your still throbbing entrance.

"I always finish what I start."

Vox had never been in a better mood.

His phone - finally surviving for more than just a few days, since his win against Valentino prevented the moth pimp from smashing it, even in one of his many temper tantrums - buzzed again. A notification of another upload into the cloud. He smirked when he saw the name of the user.

The whole conversation after he fucked Val's writing savant into Limbo and back had been a fucking blast for Vox - he reveled in the morbid joy of cashing in his stake while teasing Val that he'd have to wait another eternity for the chance to make Vox star in a double length porn with him - a fantasy of the moth Vox has been always against. Not to mention that Vox had accomplished what Valentino with all his 'mighty dicks and porn mastery'-aura couldn't. Which (rightfully) sent him into his biggest hissy fit yet, so enraged that, in lieu of Vox's phone to throw against the wall, he threw his newest Robo-Assistant Kitty out the window.

Although Vox had been certain he wouldn't lose the little bet against his partner, he still felt a little relief that his ass wasn't on the next new load of crappy porn DVDs. Granted, that would've surely caused sales to skyrocket - but with his revived and improved little star author that was more than just unnecessary.

Val's fears that a good dicking with a Happy End would sort of break the little writers 'Sex-Spell' and her scripts turn into shite like the rest of Val's useless crew produced proved to be the exact opposite. Ever since Vox made her cum - on his fingers, mouth and cock for multiple times that fateful night - her scripts improved even more, resulting in stellar sales reports, a major spike in cashflow and a personal inquiry letter for a meeting from Asmodeus himself (which Vox contemplated to frame and hang over his fucking bed like a medal of honor).

And since Valentino, in his hurt pride and childish, stubborn pettiness refused to speak or fuck with him, Vox had no qualms of paying his little writer a few more visits. Every time he found impish joy in finding new ways to make her cum, and after one shag-date where he actually stayed long enough for an after-sex-cigarette and some smalltalk, he discovered that she wasn't just a kinky, but also an interesting bitch with great taste in whiskey and a crude sense of humor that was just up his alley.

"I'm curious doll." Vox said as he took another drag from the cigarette before he handed her the bud, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her onto his bare chest as he lounged on the new, bigger sofa he got for her office (more space and much more versatility) "What the fuck did you do to end up in hell? You don't seem like the ax-murder type."

She chuckled mischievously. "I was a pretty popular crime author back upstairs. I hit a pretty bad writer's block, and decided to get in some field work to inspire me for more creative ways of murder. No axes, but I did have a fable for knives." She grinned, inhaling the thick smoke as he laughed and the way her tits pressed into his skin had him almost hard again. "You know what's the most ironic part?" She asked, putting the bud out in the ashtray on her side table and glanced back over her naked shoulder to him, a devious glint in her eyes. "I got the electric chair for that." That woke his cock fully up again, and he couldn't help but take her for another round.

His assistant babbled something about his schedule, but Vox didn't listen. Instead, he planned on visiting her office again, maybe he'd even stay after and order sushi for two, who knew? The media Overlord smiled smugly as he opened the database and looked over the newest script you had uploaded to the cloud. It was when he read the title that he burst into ringing laughter.

'Electrocutie - One Big Cock Shock'

[moneypowerglorymiddleofmiami]

— trickentine જ⁀➴♡ pt.2

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!reader

summary: after lord eros' silly little trick, you're now forced to deal with the consequences— more specifically, in the form of a lovestruck luke castellan.

warnings: tons of corny pick-up lines

genre: still very much a romcom

part 1

note: thank you, thank you! all your support for pt.1 means the world to me! really, i couldn't be more grateful 𖹭 i hope you think this brings justice to the first half 𖹭

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

“What do you mean you can’t do anything?” You suppressed the urge to shriek, settling for gritted emphasis instead. You crossed your arms across your chest, your foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floorboards of the Big House.

“Exactly what it means.” Chiron responded, looking at Luke with more amusement rather than concern.

“But he's under a spell,” You reasoned in disbelief. You might have spilled over your words while you explained the rundown to Chiron, but they were coherent enough to at least get that point across.

“It’ll wear off eventually, kid.” Mr. D downed an entire can of diet soda in one go before procuring another one in his outstretched hand. He snickered at the intent puppy eyes Luke was giving you. “That type of love magic won’t last long. Best to let it run its course than tamper with it.”

“But–” You wanted to argue before Mr. D stopped you. He pushed his feet up on his desk.

“Look, at least this proves that your boyfriend actually loves you.” He gave you a pointed look. What does that even mean? “Now, leave.”

You huffed indignantly, but decided against speaking further. You begrudgingly turned around and pulled Luke up by his arm, guiding him towards the narrow hallway that led to the foyer.

“When did I become your boyfriend?” Luke huddled closer to you, whispering as you made your way to the front door.

“You didn’t.” You told him plainly. You shook your head. “You aren’t.”

“Yet.” He responded, his tone a bit mischievous but his gaze sure and determined.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

You leaned your elbows against the table of the crowded Arts and Crafts Center, your chin resting against the pad of your thumbs. You studied Luke with a contemplating gaze.

“I hit you with one of Eros’ arrows.” You told him. This was hardly the proper place to have this conversation, but the rest of the Aphrodite cabin practically hauled you to the building to begin Valentinkering? Valenmaking? (whatever in Tartarus they decided to call it this year).

“Well, I guess you could say I’ve been lovestruck by you.” He said, giving you a stupid little wink as he mirrored your posture.

“Gods, Luke. That was corny as hell.” You flushed almost as crimson as the container of beads in front of you. “Also, I’m serious.”

“And who said I wasn’t?” He challenged. He smirked against his fist, wiggling his eyebrows.

You snorted. “The fact that you’re under some valentine voodoo makes all your intentions questionable.”

“You wound me.” He feigned offense, pouting as he clutched at the fabric of his shirt above his chest. “To be fair, my train of thought has always been questionable when it comes to you.”

“Again: unimpressed.” You buried your face into your hands, the second hand embarrassment of his poor attempt at flirting was overwhelmingly potent. Besides, it was difficult not to react when he looked at you so intently, like he was trying to memorize every minute detail of you.

“On a more serious note, I do remember the whole arrow thing.” He told you, his lips pursed. “I don’t blame you; it was a complete accident. It just feels… odd.”

Your ears perked up, worried. “You feel odd?”

“No,” He shook his head. His expression was perplexed, maybe a bit incredulous too. “That’s the thing. I feel completely normal.”

“That is weird.” You agree. You wrap the string in between your fingers around his wrist, measuring it to his size. "Maybe it was just a prank?"

“No. If anything, it’s more like I can’t hold my tongue.” He shrugs. “I can’t help but say what I think.”

“Would that explain the flirting?” You tease. All cheeky, but with a hint of curiosity hidden beneath the humor.

He leaned in, smirking. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You stare at him, tilting your head. He returns your gaze just as intensely, brown eyes fixed onto yours. He raises an eyebrow as if to question your silence. There was something magnetic between the two of you, pulsing and pulling you closer— maybe not physically, but definitely in other ways unbeknownst to you.

“Woah!” Percy exclaimed with an accusatory edge to his tone, his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief and his palms raised as if to distance himself from you. “Respect for the children, maybe? Consider shielding my young impressionable eyes from this trauma?”

“Percy!” You squeaked rather uncharacteristically. Annabeth trailed behind closely, pushing a leg over the bench to sit beside you. You smiled at her, tugging her closer by placing your arm around her shoulders.

“Annabeth,” Luke called. “Trade places with me.”

Annabeth furrowed her eyebrows in confusion before narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “No.”

“Come on.” He persisted. He leaned in, almost conspiratorial. “You know, the Stoll brothers have an extensive archive, and I think I may have heard word of them having that Rem Kolhaas book you've been raving about."

Annabeth stopped to consider the offer before ultimately conceding. She stood up from her seat. “That’s a big bribe for a small favor.”

“Know what prices to pay to win your battles.” Luke muttered as he sidled up next to you, grinning triumphantly. His fingers played with the hem of your weathered camp shirt. “Sacrifices aren’t much in the face of victory.”

“Did you just use a bad battle strategy as a flirting tactic?” Annabeth scrunched her nose in distaste. “Gross.”

"Done." You finish tying up the ends, letting the red bracelet dangle in Luke's line of vision.

"It looks so pretty, baby." He compliments you, holding out his wrist. You proudly put it on for him. "Not as pretty as you though."

You scoff. Both Annabeth and Percy imitate gagging noises.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

The only time you ever truly left each other’s side were the few moments of reprieve before dinner where you’d returned to your cabins. The older campers insisted on making the meal a whole affair, complete with a romantic candlelit set-up and a string quartet to serenade everyone. Chiron decided to indulge the request and sent everyone back to freshen up.

“Have fun with your boyfriend?”

“Christ!” You jumped in your spot, turning around to see Eros laying on one of the bunks. His arms were tucked underneath his head, his smile suggestive and knowing.

“Lord Eros,” You bowed.

“That is not your shade.” He tutted, pointing to the tinted gloss in your hand. “Too summery for your complexion this time of year. Go for the pink one. He’ll go berserk.”

“Thanks.” You muttered, facing your vanity once more. You dabbed the product against your lips. You sighed as you inspected your make-up. Once more, he was right.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He shifted to his side, looking at you expectantly.

“Yeah, I guess.” You grumbled. You looked down, pretending to look for something in your drawer so he wouldn’t notice the blush creeping up your cheeks. Luke refused to leave your side the entire day— his fingers hooked around the belt hoops of your skirt in one way or another. He made a whole spectacle of it too: his big brown eyes tender, his wistful sighs, his shy grins, his playful winks.

“Good.” He clapped his hands. “Gods, the boy has had a crush on you for forever, you know. It was torture watching him pine over you. I can only take so much longing.”

You froze, staring at him through the mirror. He stared back at you.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” He sounded shocked; he was shocked. “You’re a daughter of Aphrodite, how could you not know?! That's like our thing!”

“Well, he hasn’t been obvious, has he?” You rebutted, flicking your wrist.

“Sis, I don’t know what reality you’re living in,” He sat up on the bed, “But that boy wouldn’t know subtle even if it hit him in the face.”

“But surely it’s just because of the arrows.” You rationalized.

“Nuh uh.” He wiggles a finger in the air to deny the accusation. “The arrows you used just accentuate pre-existing feelings. Not make new ones.”

A knock interrupts your conversation. You hurry to fix your hair, brushing it out of the way. Your hands begin to shake with giddy excitement. You feel your heart thrum strongly against your chest, almost wanting to burst out from the confines of your body and find its other half in Luke. Your smile eventually becomes hard to contain.

Eros beams at you, his pupils dilating into hearts again like it did this morning. He opens the door for you and pushes you out. “Have fun with lover boy. Mother sends her regards.”

Luke spins around at the sound of the squeaky hinges. He can't help but pull a hand out of his pocket, his palm lightly grazing his chest. He whistles. “Call me favored by the gods because I think I’ve just entered Elysium.”

“You’ve been with me the whole day.” You responded pointedly, breathless and in love.

“And yet you still manage to take my breath away.” He gasps when you rush into him, wrapping your arms around his nape.

“This is new.” He looks down at you, your noses touching. His hands fall naturally to your hips, his thumbs rubbing against the fabric of your dress. “But definitely welcome.”

You gaze into his eyes before pressing your lips against his. They felt pleasant and pliant against your own. You tugged Luke closer, your fingers twirling through his curls. His hands squeezed your skin. The kiss burned sweetly, almost as if it’s been waiting in anticipation to happen.

When you both separate for air, Luke gently grabs your hands from behind him. He wraps his fists around yours, placing soft kisses on your knuckles. “I’ve been waiting so long for that.”

“So I’ve been told.” You hum. “I figured I might take the first step.”

“Don’t worry.” He presses another kiss against your lips, short and sweet. “I promise to match your pace the rest of the way.”

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺

taglist: @ace-spades-1 @patitotodd @fandomthings-blog @bugcuti3 @liv1104 @mindflay3r

[wackywatchdotcom]

also as someone who has met/worked w multiple professional entomologists theyre all weird. if you think any of them are relatively normal youre wrong. queenie was 100% very VERY weird in a great way

what intrigues me is how kinger and queenie are written by people who clearly dont know a lot about entomology

[shepscapades]

37. GUY.EXE — Superfruit

Okay so this song started as a joke, because I wasn’t originally going to have Skizz be an android; I thought it would be really funny if this Normal Guy was just always surrounded by his robot besties and the Perpetual Odd Guy Out. But, the more I listened to this song, the more I realized how much funnier it would be if the narrative/this song was basically “Doc, Impulse, Tango, Etho, and Mumbo all set out to create the ~perfect android~ together but are ridiculously silly and gay about it, and also the perfect android ends up being Skizz, and also also the design elements suggested by our fellow hermits here are uh. Not indicative of anything at all. Nope!” And the concept was just way too fun not to run with :]

Again with this one, you really won’t get the vibes here unless you know or listen to the song— the second shot is actually a redraw from the music video, so kudos if you got that reference LMAO I was SO hoping someone would request this number, so thank you joi >:D Incredible opportunity for me to draw these guys with ridiculous poses and expressions alongside finally getting to share Skizz’s spectacular origin story <3

[dcxdpdabbles]

Can you please tell some dcxdp fanfics on ao3 . It's tagging system is confusing me.

It can be with or without relationships .

Thank you .

You bet!

Now, I will be honest: recently, I've been really into HP fan fiction and online comics, so I haven't read any of the newest Ao3 fics. I'll the ones I think about a lot for you.

If you like, I can also explain how the tagging system works in a separate post. (I've been on that site since I was fourteen, and I'm still learning new features.)

1.Vertical Limit by hppjmxrgosg

Romantic Potential Tim/Danny (Dead Tired)

Danny gets accidentally summoned by the Justice League and uses this chance to get their support for Ghost rights, but he is struggling with depression and his own issues.

2. Wait, I'm a what? by Atiya_Blackcharm

Gen fic

Danny is thrown into Gotham by Clockwork. While surviving, he makes choices that convince people he's a gang leader, and he is unaware that everyone is convinced he is one.

3.Wanted: Dead and Alive by Astereae

Romantic Tim/Danny (Dead Tired)

Warnings for this one: This is Dead Dove: Do Not Eat (on Ao3 this means that the author intended to make the fic dark, and don't be surprised when it turns out to actually be dark) Transphobia, Hurt/Slight comfort, Torture, Medical emergency done on screen, slight gore,

Danny gets kidnapped by the Guys in White, is torn apart in the name of "science," and escapes after he is cut open and runs into Tim. Tim helps him out by snitching him up after pushing back his guts inside his body and then loses Danny when he runs again. It's a mystery from the Bat's pov, who are trying to figure out the string of kidnappings.

4. The curious case of D. Grayson by brothebro

Romantic ships: Danny/Sam/Tucker (everlasting trio),

This is a recent fiction someone recommended to me. Basically, Danny and Dick are twins, but neither they nor the Waynes know it. So when Danny gets a job at Wayne Enterprise using his birth name (He changed it from Fenton back to Grayson), they all think it's Dick that got secretly married.

5.GLXY:PSSNGR by socraticat

Roamtic ships: Danny/Tim (Dead tired)

Warnings: Implied/reference child abuse

Danny wakes up one day to find that he has taken over the body of a version of himself in a parallel world where he's Vlad Master's kid after his parents' death. Danny attempts to get home without letting anyone know he's not this world's Danny. He accidentally catches the eye of his classmate Tim Drake, who thinks Danny is acting odd.