#u do NOT need to match length

[petitmortes]

a plotted starter for @sunfyred

for   the   longest   time,    sansa   had   thought   this   day   would   never   come.    her   position   in   the   north   had   changed   the   day   her   father   was   imprisoned,    her   freedom   no   longer   a   matter   that   rested   in   his   hands,    but   rather   in   the   hands   of   her   cousin,    cregan.    bennard   stark's   plotting   had   not   ceased   at   just   holding   onto   the   lordship   of   house   stark,    but   rather   had   extended   far   greater   than   his   nephew   could   have   ever   imagined        –       a   matter   that   had   been   kept   quiet   and   secret   still.    long   had   he   sought   power   and   glory,    long   were   the   lengths   he   was   willing   to   go   to   achieve   it,    even   if   it   had   meant   sending   his   only   daughter   from   winterfell's   halls.    she'd   been   raised   as   was   befitting   a   highborn   lady,    prim       –       proper,       exceptionally   well   -   behaved   when   her   brothers   were   not   teasing   her   or   drawing   her   ire,    made   into   the   perfect   offering   of   a   wife   to   viserys   targaryen's   firstborn   son. 

it'd   taken   an   extended   effort   to   free   her   from   winterfell,    a   jointed   effort   between   sansa's   own   lady   mother   and   the   hightowers,    a   planned   trip   to   visit   her   mother's   family   in   karhold,    wherein   sansa   and   lady   margaret   had   boarded   a   ship   and   sailed   from   the   shivering   sea   to   blackwater   bay.    it'd   not   been   an   easy   journey,    so   many   days   on   board   a   ship   that   she   swore   her   stomach   had   turned   as   often   as   the   tides,    but   she   had   survived   it.    had   survived   the   uncertain   eyes   at   the   port        –       and   had   been   far   more   thankful   than   she   had   ever   been   when   her   feet   had   touched   sturdy,    dry   land. 

but   if   she   were   meant   to   feel   less   nerves,    her   stomach   had   not   received   the   memo;    freshly   bathed   and   fed,    dressed   in   a   soft   grey   gown   of   lace   and   velvet,    sansa   had   been   directed   into   the   throne   room,    directed   forward   to   stand   underneath   the   watchful   gaze   of   far   too   many   eyes.    she   hadn't   known   much   of   her   husband   -   to   -   be;    rumors   from   the   south   did   not   oft   travel   well   north,    and   save   for   what   her   father   had   allowed   her   to   know   of   aegon        –        that   he   was   a   handsome,    targaryen   king,    named   after   the   conqueror   himself        –        she'd   come   into   the   room   as   uncertain   and   unsure   as   one   could   have   possibly   been. 

good   manners   dictate   that   she   sink   into   a   bow,    a   graceful   curtsy   with   steel   grey   hues   downturned   to   the   floor;    she   counts   seconds   in   her   head,       soft,    delicate   numbers,    until   she   finally   exhales   a   breath   and   stands   tall   once   more,    allowing   her   eyes   to   flicker   up   from   the   floor   to   land   on   the   man   who   sits   the   throne   before   her.    her   heart   skips   a   subtle   beat,    a   gentle   flush   of   pink   settling   across   the   apples   of   her   porcelain   cheeks           –        the   letters   hadn't   been   wrong   about   aegon   being   handsome.    his   eyes   a   shade   of   purple   that   sansa   longed   to   get   lost   in,    the   expression   on   his   features   one   she   cannot   precisely   read,    but   one   she   finds   herself   all   the   more   intrigued   by. 

a   smile   curls   onto   her   lips,    warm   and   sweet,    as   her   hands   smooth   out   the   skirt   of   her   gown.        “   it   is   a   pleasure   to   meet   you,    your   grace.       although   i   fear   my   father's   words   may   have       .   .   .       downplayed   certain   aspects   of   the   capital.   ” 

[elijahfalvey]

— LOCATION: The Labyrinth.

— CHARACTERS: Elijah & Dee ( @deexkaplan ).

Elijah could always tell when Leon was particularly bored, even when the grumpy barman who he’d consider one of his closest friends wasn’t around to torment him with his thoughts in person; his phone vibrated in his pocket so many damn times he felt nothing but compelled to answer, or at the very least check to make sure that it wasn’t something actually important. There were plenty of scenarios where glancing down at the device proved to be incredibly inconvenient, like when he was busy — which, not for nothing Leon, he quite often was — or like right now, when he was tucked away in a booth at the Labyrinth across from Dee, mindlessly chatting and sharing a few drinks. He’d agreed to come out with her in order to actually spend time with her, not to be distracted by the incessant buzzing of his phone. However, the frequency of notifications was becoming harder and harder to ignore by the minute. Regretfully interrupting her, he pulled the damn thing out from his clothes and said, “Sorry, Dee. Sorry, one second. Someone keeps fucking . . .” His tone teetered on light frustration as the brightness of the screen illuminated against his face in the dim lighting of the bar, and there it was: several new messages from ‘Leon Woz do not answer 💔’ staring back at him. He huffed out a breath and decidedly put off answering any of them, setting his phone to the side on the table they shared face-up. “It’s not important. Sorry — I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

His eyes found their way to Dee’s as the screen turned on again, and low and behold, ‘Leon Woz do not answer 💔’ was calling him. The impatient bastard.

[g1bsongirl]

𖤐⋆.˚  STATUS  ... open .ᐟ 𖤐⋆.˚  LOCATION  ... anywhere outside baybee .ᐟ

what was the saying — music on, world off ? certainly applied to iris. the girl was in a trance, fully encompassed by the ‘smooth’ sounds of 100 gecs frying her eardrums. one notch up and crimson would’ve no doubt dripped from her ears. a grimace contoured her features as soon as her playlist shuffled. who the hell snuck ‘sail’ by awolnation into her rotation ? before she could even hit next, the wheels of her rollerskates swept up from beneath her. blunt force caused her body to stumble back. looked like something out of a cartoon, had it been, a giant text would’ve appeared in a decorative bubble … ‘ boing ! ’ headphones lay beside her, the obnoxious beat blaring. perhaps the song was a warning sign ? should’ve listened. instead, she accepted defeat, laid there and took a gander at the sky. “ s’nice day — huh ? ” head tilted as she squinted, trying to catch a better glimpse without mutilating her pupils. “ is it just me or does that cloud look like billy the puppet ? ” wasn’t her first time falling and it certainly wouldn’t be her last. “ y’think you could spare me a hand ? ” she extended an arm out, fingers splayed, and offered a lax grin.

[nobully]

@castilium

Left to his own devices by the familiar hole, it takes Wang Yi a couple minutes to process that he's back. Back in a city he'd written off as a dream at first, because none of this had popped into his head when Sao Ling restored his memories. Waving away the taxi that offers to drive him, Wang Yi sets off for the city on foot, using the time to reorganize his thoughts amidst quasi-familiar surroundings.

He's younger now, on a technicality—stronger too, with better reflexes and new skills. A little shorter than he used to be, slightly thinner but with more muscle. He tries to form ice crystals but the Stars have locked that skill for now, though his physical body is in top form from years of sword-training.

It feels...weird.

"Um." Hands fiddle with the cell phone in his hand, debating whether to check the contacts list for people he know. But it's been ages now, surely they couldn't be—?

He's a little reluctant to find out. Pink flits past his vision next, and he looks up, startled to see someone he thinks he knows. They met at a bookshop or something? But he can't remember her name.

"Hey, uh....I mean, hey wait!" Light footsteps propel him forward, long sleeves fluttering behind him as he rests a hand on her arm.

"Sorry, I think we've met?"

"You're the uhh...detective girl?" A fan of detective mysteries, more like.

"Can you tell me what date it is today?"

[girlevils]

𖤐⋆.˚  SPECIAL DELIVERY FOR  ... @cherrycursed .ᐟ 𖤐⋆.˚  LOCATION  ... hallway off of the grand hall .ᐟ

she  studied it  —  the  mosaic  glass  stained  and  marred  by  cracks  depicting  the  devastation.  the  son  of  god  nailed  to  the  cross,  anguish  bestowed  upon  his  features,  and  a  slew  of  figures  crowded  before  him.  ten  years  ago  jodie  would’ve  paid  no  mind  to  it,  she  hadn’t,  often  saw  it  as  just  another  gaudy  display.  for  a  place  that  prided  itself  in  being  the  best  they  fell  short  on upkeep. maybe the evening was just a ploy to rack up enough to replace the window ... with an inviting sunrise, no doubt.  clear tape  still  sealed  a  shard  of  the  pane  in  place  —  one  peeled  back  time and time again by the deviant to funnel her smoke.  after  word  got  out  of  an  ‘aroma’  lingering  from  the  restrooms,  jodie  had  to  get  creative.  apparently creative enough  that  even  after  all  this  time  no  one  seemed to notice.  cigarette  sat  idle  between  ringed  fingers,  attention  fixed on  a  woman  knelt  before  the  cross,  head  in  her  hands  and  draped  in  crimson  red.  her  own hand dropped to  smooth  over the  silk slip  dress of  the  same  color.  a  bit  darker,  jodie  never  one  for  flashiness,  and  clinging  to  her  frame  like  a  second  skin.  yet it  wasn’t  the  dress  that  felt  constricting,  no,  but  a crashing  wave  of  realization that rendered her still.  for a moment, she  saw  herself  in  that  woman,  she  saw  her  classmates  in  that  crowd. it  wasn't  a  cross,  it  was  a  flowing current.  like that very scene, they  all watched  chris  die  …  disappear. only he didn't do it for their sins, they'd pay for those. technically they already started to. movement  eventually  pulled  her  from  her  own  head ( thank god ), quick drag from her cig before,  “  you  going  to  sell  me  out  to  the  headmistress  ?  ”  deadpanned  as  if  she  hadn’t  just  grappled  with  an  internal  revelation,  jodie  finally  turned only to be met with a familiar face.  “  nick,  ”  should’ve  known  it'd be  him,  always  was  one  to  catch  her  in  a  moments  of  seclusion.  “  enjoying yourself this evening ?  ” a beat, “  seem to be. you know if i hadn't known, i would've thought you tried your hand at a career in politics. ”

[lgcnina]

✰ ◞ GOOD PARTS. deep dives for two ( ft. @lgchayoung ).

interviews have never been cause for worry in ninas book, structured curiosities being easy asks to answer with thoughtful responses and a steadily growing sense of ease when it came to expression— while, this time last year, nina might have been more stilted, calculated, stoic in a way that some might find odd to watch, offering another version of herself that her current mind couldn't help but think back to with muted pity, she'd still found staged discussions to be quite a breeze.

now, having grown in ways she'd still needed the time to fully process, her future bulldozing forward with a group of girls she found herself slowly but surely falling into pace with, nina is the most relaxed she'd been in a long time.

maybe that had to do with hayoung being by her side, photobook shoots paused for the duo as they'd been whisked away to a shadier patch of greenery. nina was happy with the bond growing between the two of them, her hopeful skepticism no match for hayoungs genuine warmth and acceptance. sat together now, the first question rolls around in ninas mind easily.

"please introduce yourself and your role in the group."

a standard question, one nina takes a moment to ponder before offering the first answer. "hello, my name is nina seo, and i'm one of the three newest members to join fabula." a small grin rests upon her lips, the words leaving her still a rather wild concept to truly grasp, even after all the time she's had. "as for my role . . . i feel like i'm comparable to being the groups stone henge." a light mood calls for lofty tones, ninas gaze turning to meet hayoungs in jest for a moment. "i'm pretty monotone most of the time, don't you think?"

[touyaz]

can i do a 'donate to palestine/afghanistan/libya/morocco & i'll write you a fic' thing . can we do that.

[spidrboots]

the struggling starlet wasn't entirely sure when the shift happened ; when he went from "anthony" to "angel dust". he wished he could remember exactly when it occured -- wished it was important enough to recall, to hold in his head as this monumental occasion that, once he really got big, could be passed down to his adoring fans as the brilliant underdog story that so many craved to see themselves through. in actuality, it probably happened between alleys, in the dimly lit room of shady bars & clubs while he snorted & smoked & placed any tab or pill on his tongue that he could find. he could snort PCP better than all the suckers in those dives. maybe it didn't matter how or when it happened, exactly. the origin didn't mean much. it would still be a name that everyone recognized, preening over, wishing they were him. angel dust: the drag superstar. angel dust: hell's best dancer. angel dust: someone who was better than back alley blowjobs & cheap liquor.

it wasn't like he ever felt close to the name 'anthony', anyway. it was the americanized version of the name his mother gave him ( antonio, he can almost hear her whisper if he shuts his eyes & concentrates ). given to him when his family emigrated to the states. his mother didn't come with them. he doesn't remember much of it, being a young boy at the time. just flashes of activity, suits rustling with movement. suitcases filled with more guns than clothes. a long boat ride. it seems so far away now, the life he took advantage of. for all of its hardships, it had to have been better than the life angel dust now found himself in. he supposed that was the whole point, though. this bein' hell, and all.

the night had started out so well for him. he had managed to book a gig ; it was something small, but it was his. he got to sing & dance on stage. most of the patrons either whooped & hollered at him for all of the wrong reasons or were more interested in their drinks, but the attention on him was a thrill nonetheless. it was a high that didn't come with as much of a price. he performed & it felt damn good. another chance to really get his name out there. it was happening, he could feel it. just . . . slowly. very, very slowly. he had considered doing more mob work. he liked the violence & the deals, & it was something he excelled in. but hell was a hard place to navigate, especially when you die before the rest of your mafia family.

it was after he attempted to leave the bar that shit got nasty. it all happened so quick, too. one moment there's a man he vaguely recognizes from one of his hookups that barely paid enough to go towards his rent, visibly drunk & belligerent. the next, he finds himself surrounded. the man was angry for reasons angel couldn't even begin to comprehend through the slurred speech, & it turned out his friends were angry, too. or perhaps they just got their kicks from ganging up on someone who was outnumbered. angel is on the ground behind the bar before he could even understand what was happening. he tastes blood & his vision swims. he's fighting back with all of his limbs, but he's overpowered, and while he had the height, these men had the weight. he can't recall a time he had been beaten this bad. he distantly hopes he loses consciousness. no, upon consideration, perhaps that would be worse. he couldn't know what they would do to his body until after the fact.

the sound of another body entering the fray is lost on him. he coughs, spits a mixture of saliva & blood across his teeth. if he could just grip his fists & bare it, maybe it would all be over soon.

@e-m-p-error . / plotted first meeting starter .

[itr0ars]

cady hasn’t missed homeschool in forever, for your information. she doesn’t miss being left to her own devices, of which there were next to none in the matter of gadgetry manufactured after the twentieth century. yes, she had fun making cairns out of broken abaci, but now she has real interests, like keeping up with music that makes her ears cry and going to malls that give her hypothermia. she doesn’t miss extirpating essays and dioramas obsessed with the past and ruining her chances at a normal future with friends and/or loyal followers. yes, she was too busy applying cuticle creams under her desk to pay attention to their analysis the tragedy of julius caesar, but she trusts that mentally homogenising those parties can only end in happiness. she doesn’t miss her parents picking her up. yes, she hates the bus because it’s always late and the driver always has to get out and argue with the owners of pets he almost runs over, but she barely talks to them over breakfast anymore, anyways.

maybe she misses gretchen treating her like a person instead of a sounding board. she can see the lecture hall now as they step out of school; squint a little and she can read the sans serif text tepidly projected onto a screen: why is gretchen wieners so desperate, so voluble, so courageous yet so compliant? are her mating instincts triggered by seeing memes about regina’s pole being thoroughly rocked? does her existence rely on a hamster wheel spun by noise? there’s a voice in her head going stop thinking that, she’s your friend and another going stop thinking that she’s your friend but cady knows that if she stops thinking she’ll have to start thinking about getting her test signed and getting her hair wet because the sky’s turned a deep, dark grey and gretchen must’ve talked herself vacant of saliva an hour ago.

@fetchkitty — ❛ is there anything else i can do for you? ❜ ( accepting. )

that’s better, gretch. use the somewhat pretty head beneath that secret-holding hair for something productive. “ well, i know we’re technically rivals now, but you’d never let that get between our friendship, right? i mean, it’d be totally awkward if you or karen had to dance with any of the nominees for king. “ the smile on her face is totally murdering her zygomaticus muscles. her nails are digging into the crumpled paper that is her calculus test, but her other hand is reaching for gretchen’s and she hopes that’s enough of a distraction. “ i was thinking we could update all of my social media accounts. wouldn’t want someone digging up my linkedin and deciding i care too much about the degradation of nairobi national park to be cool. ” she clears her throat before she can start citing the university of hawaiʻi. discussion for another time, with another time meaning when she’s lowered into her grave. “ for example. “

she attempts to retrieve her water bottle from her backpack, dislodging even more of kevin’s business cards. the wind sends them soaring to the quad, the bus stop, wherever the cady who cared too much about pollution went. “ when are you getting picked up? maybe we could spend some time at a restaurant or your house or whatever. “

[mambosfive]

@stapcs ♡’d for a starter (still accepting) !

she played her part well –– she had done for as long as she could remember. rita was just a simple bar manager, or so the world was meant to believe. granted, mambo number five was in a category of its own when it came to the sorts of services you could find there. winding corridors, private rooms, all hidden away from the general club atmosphere that most visitors to the bar came to know. you had to know where to look, when it came to mambo's.

granted, it was rita's office that held the most secrets. plans hidden with books, others right in plain sight, the details of some of most notorious crime' in the city right in the place where they were thought up –– not that she got any of the credit. perhaps she liked it that way. gave her more time to think.

but this wasn't a thinking day for rita. no, this was a playing the part day, spent on the floor of the club, overseeing tasks such as inventory, as any unsuspecting patron might expect at this time of the day. it was quiet, only a couple of staff, with a few of their well known customers slinking off to back rooms, either to meet with one of their dancers or engage in some other sort of illegal activity. the deals made within those walls were enough to make your toes curl. she didn't like to think on how many breaking news stories had started right where she stood.

"can i help you?" she asked, clipboard coming to rest on top of the bar surface in front of her. "i hope you don't mind me asking, we're just in the middle of a bit of a clear out, so you might not get the five star service you might have heard about." a charming smile and a laugh followed, in true rita style. she'd perfected that, over the years. "i don't think i've seen you in here before. first time visiting mambo's? we're a lot more lively in the night time, i can assure you."

[fanflames]

"S - Sorry! Didn't mean to stare..." (Awkward Kiana noises as she meets a Fox Girl)

AN EXPECTED LETTER, for @stalwartembers .

        another day,  another planet.  she swore that these long travels would never stop being exhausting.  something about traveling via starskiff seemed to sap all the life out of her.  tingyun wondered if perhaps another means of transportation,  like a train or a ship,  would be more pleasant.  her fan flipped open just in time to conceal another yawn as she walked along the roads of this new world.  goodness,  she was tired today.  thankfully the matters of trade and commerce had already been dealt with in the morning.  now,  her priority was finding some place with proper tea.

        phone in hand,  tingyun scrolled through the applications in an attempt to look up nearby shops.  it was just her luck that her device wasn't yet synced to this world's broadband.  ugh.  another thing to deal with.  she looked up from her phone with a soft sigh,  looking onward to the buildings ahead.  just to the side,  she caught the gaze of a girl who quickly scrambled to apologize.

        "  s-sorry!  didn't mean to stare  …  "  she said,  evidently ashamed of being caught in the act of gawking.  tingyun was more than used to the stares-  most places she visited had never even heard of foxians.  it was the frantic,  awkward response that caught her attention.  how cute.

        "  please,  don't apologize.  it's no bother.  "  she gave her a smile in an attempt to soothe the girl's worries.  "  actually  …  while i have you here,  do you mind if i ask you a question?  —oh!  my apologies,  i haven't even introduced myself and i've already tried asking something of you.  my name is tingyun.  and your's?  "  she bowed her head in greeting.  names first,  tea shop later.

[g1bsongirl]

𖤐⋆.˚  SPECIAL DELIVERY FOR  ... @unlimbed .ᐟ 𖤐⋆.˚  LOCATION  ... the boardwalk .ᐟ

what better way to spend the day than sprawled across a bench probably built by jesus christ himself fixed on a structure one wrong step away from singlehandedly reigniting a reboot of the final destination franchise ? iris’ bet on the first blood bath, the opening scene to really reel the viewer in ? the merry-go-round. classic. one loose bolt would no doubt send some poor citizen flying and from there ? carnage. she’d like to think she’d survive, be the one with the prophetic visions and hoped to hell julian would too. fan fuckin' favorites. despite their potential dance with death, it was the ideal place to scope out the new stars of their hypothetical films. “ that guy over there, ” tip of her bendy straw swung to the man in question, “ def an oswald. goes by ozzie with an -ie not a -y. never oz, he’ll tear your teeth out with his hands if y’call him that. ” she glanced over at her companion and bared her own teeth with a chomp, “ couldn’t get a girlfriend in high school so he made a fake facebook using a pic of some site model with, like, ” despite an occupied hand, she still managed to cup the air around her chest. “ huge tits to trick his friends into believing he ‘met her on vacation’. the two broke up very dramatically after a month because he got caught by his sister who got pissed he’d hog the family computer which prevented her from playing barbie horse adventure and was scared she'd rat him out. he says he’s into heavy medal, but you know he’s got a secret norah jones playlist, cries to come away with me. went to college for library science because he’s heavy into reading and information systems, lowkey about it though. couldn't get a job so he works from home as customer support for like, bath and body works. has a collection of collars even though he doesn't own a dog. probably here waiting on a tinder date, which he planned, because he's under the impression it'll score him some puss if she sees how good he is at tossing darts. unclear whether or not she'll show up — but he's going home to his one bedroom with a corndog either way. ” her free hand slipped into the vat of fries scorching her upper thigh, teeth sinking into a grease grabber to conclude her spiel.

[chillpills]

“ you got me there, ” a hesitant pause as teeth grazed her tongue, stained a purplish hue from a handful of skittles. while she might’ve appeared collected, inside her head an imaginary rope was being pulled to-and-fro in contemplation. should she say it ? no. yes. no. yes. a back and forth for what seemed like eternity despite only seconds being lost to silence. “ rommanibal lecter. ” instant regret at the quick-witted wordplay might’ve been expected from others, but jude embraced it with a chuff of a laugh. short-lived given the immediate shift in tides. she was skirting somewhat uncharted territories now, an innocent attempt to peel back another layer to the onion of a man. complex, stoic, a touch stand-offish. truthfully, he reminded jude of shrek — which, essentially, made her donkey. it wasn't a wrong assessment either. she could be annoying, she could be a bit much; but she liked to think it was just persistence. if she hadn't attended that initial meeting and sat beside him, she probably never would've been sitting across from him now. granted it wasn't an easy triumph. would've hit him with a 'it's good to talk about these things', but she'd rather not exhaust a statement spat like a broken record during meetings. instead, she simply sat back and listened. 'have ... had' — his slip-up didn't go unnoticed, but all jude could do was offer a soft smile. “ you. ” she finally chimed in, finishing the statement roman left to linger, with a playful roll of her eyes. “ yeah, yeah. i get it you were a catch back in the day. ” obviously she knew who he meant, but she wasn't going to force it out of him and she definitely wasn't about to have a heart-to-heart while somebody told me by the killers softly played in the background. now if angel by sarah mclachlan was queued up then it'd be an entirely different story. “ so, d'you have a favorite song ? of your own, i mean. or in general too, m'always eager to scrutinize. ” she teased.

When Jude first wandered into the support group, Roman had — like with everyone else — kept his distance. He listened to people’s stories, he shared what he felt comfortable with, then he was out the door by the time the group-leader said ‘see you next week’. However, it was like the younger woman just knew that Roman wasn’t keen on group conversation, and slunk around him like a cat who's next target was someone with severe animal dander allergies. And at some point, he must have gotten soft, soon not telling her to fuck off immediately, reluctantly accepting gas-station junk food and thus her into his life. Roman rolled his eyes, catching the Snickers bar with just a slight fumble — the right hand laid out as dormant as ever, the left hand not used to being used actively — and after holding his glower toward her for a moment, began to unwrap it purposefully, not ripping it into shreds. “Isn’t the whole point of that character is that he’s an American psychopath? Surely a better comparison to me is Hannibal Lecter or Sweeney Todd?” Whilst he didn’t appreciate her dramatic flair for cleaning up her rubbish, at least she did it so he bit his tongue, though he let out a groan as Jude’s questioning led back to the band. “You know I don’t enjoy talking about that stuff.” A beat. “We have…had one song, ‘idyllicynism’ like a composition of idyllicism and cynic? That a few people moshed too, if we ever bothered playing it, but supposed most people were just lusting after —,” He waved his hand, unable to say Harrison’s name.

[voxslays]

NSFW ALPHABET — THE SALESMAN

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

✧ Very doting. Is calm, but not in the psychotic way he usually is when recruiting. Will go run a bath while you lay on your shared bed trying to catch your breath. After that, he will just hold you in his arms as you fall asleep.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

✧ For Gong Yoo, it’s his hands. He loves the way they wrap around your neck during steamy time. On you, Gong Yoo can’t choose. He just loves all of you too much to pick. However—although he will never admit it—it’s probably your eyes.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

✧ Pretty average amount wise…and he prefers to not pull out. He just likes seeing his seed spill inside you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

✧ He so desperately wants to see you pregnant and carrying his legacy (possibly the next salesman). He’s been hinting at it for months, but you just haven’t gotten it yet.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

✧ This man is VERY experienced. I just get that vibe from him. He’s attractive and he knows it, and he knows how to make his partner feel good.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

✧ Doggy or any other position that lets him bend you over a surface that isn’t a bed. When he’s feeling Vannilla though, probably the breeding press or missionary.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

✧ Like in his every day life, the recruiter is pretty calm and focused, although every once in a while he will make a corny dad joke—which he will straight up deny once the morning comes.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

✧ Perfectly groomed. What more must I say?

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

✧ I don’t think he’d put your needs before his, per se, but he will definitely make you feel good. Will kiss you and hold your hands above your head as he pounds his length into you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

✧ This man doesn’t jerk off. He has you, so why bother? Even before he met you—he is attractive enough to basically have anyone he wants.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

✧ Breeding and bondage kink. He really wants to have a child (which he will train to be the next recruiter from a very young age) and he just loves seeing you all overstimulated and tied to the bed posts.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

✧ The bed or over his desk.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

✧ I don’t think he minds either way, but he is pretty skilled with his tongue (and long fingers).

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

✧ 99% of the time, Gong Yoo is fast and rough, mercilessly pounding into you, but the other 1% (usually during weekend mornings) he isn’t opposed to going slow to wake you up.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

✧ Absolutely not.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

✧ Oh boy…he can go for literal hours. Maybe 6-7 rounds if he’s extra energized.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

✧ The salesman is such a damn tease, it’s quite unfair. He will edge you for hours, not letting you come—before he finally does anything.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

✧ Not loud, but not quiet either. He will make little grunts as he plows into you.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

✧ Bro could go every night if he wanted to, but usually once or twice a week.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

✧ He does not sleep. This man is a light sleeper and you cannot convince me otherwise.

[mills-73]

Ok first off I love love love your writings like it just hit the g-spot u know LOLOLOL

ANyway I wanna request you for a Ford x Reader fic where the reader sneaks under his desk as he’s writing / reading smth and gives him the gawk gawk 3000. Absolutely devouring him and Ford just losing it slowly like his hand writing slowly losing it’s curves / getting harder to focus on the paragraph 😋

Thank you so much for this hehehe

i got ya

Ward Willing

Ford has a tendency to overwork himself some nights. You’ve been horny bored all night and he’s been down in his lab, so you do the only thing you can think of to get his attention.

Stanford Pines x reader

TAGS: 18+!! MDNI, smut, blowjobs, gender-neutral reader

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Ford Pines is probably one of the most hardest working men you know.

He’s always cooped up in that damn lab of his, day or night, and it’s never really bothered you up until recently. He’d always come to bed a decent time—and if he was feeling up to it, he’d take care of you. Lately, he’s been working late into the night, and sometimes you didn’t have the energy to wait up for him.

Tonight, however, you need him. But he’s still working.

You toss and turn in the bed, slipping your hand down between your thighs to try and get yourself off, but it doesn’t work. You want him, right here, right now.

You groan into your pillow, looking up at the door with an idea a minute later. You smirk to yourself, crawling out of bed and hurry to the vending machine, punching in the code.

Ford doesn’t notice that you’re standing at the doorway, completely engrossed in writing. He started a new journal after the summer was over and he’s determined to fill it with all kinds of fascinating research. Usually, you’d be curious, but right now all you can see is him, those fingers, that wonderful thing between his thighs…

His hair is messy, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose, and his fingers impatiently tap at the table. His pen is stuck between his lips, lightly chewing on the end of it. (You don’t know how many pens he’s ruined since you’ve met him, but you know it’s a lot).

You walk up behind him, hands reaching out to rest in his shoulders. He jumps slightly, but slouches into your touch when he hears your voice. “Stressed, baby?”

He moans lazily in response but continues to write. You dig your thumbs into his shoulder blades, applying a small amount of pressure, just enough to see him falter a little, but his attention is still strictly on his task.

You roll your eyes, stepping around to the side of him. “Are you coming to bed soon?” You note the amount of coffee cups pushed out of his way. He had a weird thing about reusing cups, which resulted in his desktop having multiple ones scattered about at all times.

Ford gives you a nod but you know he’s running on autopilot right now.

Your gaze falls to his lap, then to the space under the desk, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across your face.

Dropping down to your knees, you quickly crawl underneath his desk, settling between his thighs. You push them open a little so you can be a bit more comfortable, your hands coming up to rub him.

“W-What are you doing?” Ford breathes, rolling back in the chair. His eyes are wide and his face is flushed.

You flash him your teeth, your fingers deftly playing with the zipper of his jeans. “Go back to writing, Ford,” you whisper.

“What? No. You know I can’t focus when you’re touching me like that.”

The bulge in his jeans is already becoming more apparent by the second, your stomaching fluttering in anticipation. While you’re able, you unbutton his jeans, dragging them down his hips with a little help from him and letting them pool around his ankles, his underwear following suit.

Your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s not entirely big length wise, but he’s thick, which makes up for the lack of a few inches. The tip is a shade of pink that matches his lips perfectly, and you lean forward to press a delicate kiss to it. He shutters from above.

“I don’t care. Go back to your work.”

He gives you a curious look, but does as you say. You hear him click his pen a couple times, the soft sound of ink meeting paper, and you giggle softly.

You poke your tongue out again, licking a long stride from base to tip. His thighs tense at the friction, but settle again. Your mouth wraps tenderly around the pink skin, the salty taste of precum exploding over your tongue. You moan quietly, the vibrations causing him to drop his pen for a quick second.

His breathing becomes audible, the sound of a soft whimper reaching your ears. You grin around his cock and sink lower, taking more and more until your nose is pressing against his navel. You hold your position there for a moment, popping off with a small gasp.

From above, Ford hasn’t been able to write more than three words.

You grin, wrapping your hand around the base as your mouth wraps around him again. You bob your head slowly, running your tongue against the underside of his cock in ways you know drive him crazy.

His leg twitches, hand reaching below the desk to burry it in your hair. He plays with the strands, pushing your head down slightly, silently begging for more. You can’t help but keen in response to his touch, obliging the request.

You flatten your tongue against the frenulum, curling it just enough to draw another whimper from the man above. Your ego blooms, prideful as you continue your ministrations.

Ford groans. “Doll, I-I can’t—” he cuts off with a moan when you suckle at the tip.

You lean back a little, gathering all the spit in your mouth and slowly letting it fall out of your mouth over Ford’s cock, the substance rolling over the tip and down his length. Your hand pumps him once, twice, a third time before you swallow him to the back of your throat.

He rolls his hips upward, causing you to gag at how deep he is. His fingers tangle in your hair, grabbing at your head and pulling up and down.

“I’m—fuck, dollface,” he groans.

You hear the sound of his pen falling, his journal snapping shut, before he leans back in his chair, eyeing you from your position. His eyes are glossy, glasses crookedly hanging on his face, and his cheeks a beautiful shade of cherry. He always looks so fucking sexy when he’s needy for you.

“I need more, baby. Please give me more.”

You nod weakly, your jaw slack as you bob your head. Spit dribbles down your chin, another moan muffled by the intrusion in your mouth.

It’s quite obscene, really. But you enjoy it nonetheless.

His quiet whimpers turn into rough moans, waves of iron-hot pleasure dripping down your spine as you work your mouth over the sensitive flesh, your own sounds a little garbled by the sheer amout of spit building under your tongue.

You flick the tip of the flesh, your teeth grazing softly against the underside, adoring the way Ford shivers beneath you. It’s vulgar; you enjoy it a bit too much, your own arousal causing you to lose yourself in the blissfulness of it all.

You pop off with a throaty moan, a string of spit connecting your bottom lip to the tip of his cock. You meet his hungry gaze for a moment, smiling sweetly at him.

“I want you to start coming to bed at a decent time. Or I’ll be down here every night to interrupt your work,” you say, lazily stroking his cock.

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, doll.”

You roll your eyes at him, slipping him back into your mouth. This time you pick up your pace, jerking him off in tandem of your tongue rolling all over. He preens at the friction, his head lolling back on his chair, mouth parted to allow a plethora of whimpers and moans to escape the back of his throat.

His chest heaves, all six of his fingers grabbing at your hair. “Fuck, fuck. I’m gonna cum, doll. Please don’t stop.”

At his confession, you go harder, slurping and sucking, his grip teetering on the edge of blatantly painful. He catches your eyes again, the sight alone making him explode in your mouth, whimpering softly.

The taste of his cum is salty yet sweet and you swallow it all, a generous smile on your face as you pop your lips off the sensitive tip. He shutters, moving his hand from his hair to the side of your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

“That was amazing, baby. Your mouth never ceases to impress me.”

You blush. “Thank you…”

You slide out from underneath the desk, the man fixing his pants before standing up as well. In a quick motion, he has you pinned against the edge of the wood, his mouth on yours, devouring you whole. You whimper into his mouth.

“Now,” he nips at your bottom lip, “your turn.”

~

hope you enjoyed, ty for reading!!

[utterlyazriel]

an eternity, my love

eep! this is a bit longer than the last at just over 6k forgive me... but thank so much for all love on the first piece 🥹 and thank u for all your lovely ideas! i hope this does sum justice to the nonnie who asked for further miscommuncation... <3 part one here but u don’t need to read it to read this :)

How does one even begin to decide what to wear to dinner with a person, the person, who matched your soul perfectly?

When your friend had hunted her way through clothing stores of Velaris and stashed away a custom dress — far fancier than anything you owned — for the first date with her mate, you had laughed at her.

Now, staring at your closet in only your undergarments, you were beginning to envy her preparation.

Seriously, how are you supposed to choose?

You pick up your latest addition to your closet, a glossy dress the colour of red wine that reveals the length of your legs and planes of your collarbones— perfect for a night out dancing.

With a grimace, you place it back on the hanger. It was far more scandalous than you would want to be on a first date, even though — well, you’re sure that, being mates, Azriel would like anything you wore.

You heave a sigh. An uneasy prickle beneath your skin has you crossing your arms; it was almost alarming how badly you wanted to impress him. But… mating bonds were rare and powerful.

Almost as if you had summoned it — in fact, maybe you had — there’s a soft shimmer in your chest. Your beautiful glow, the bridge between you and Azriel humming to life. In a way you can’t explain, it’s as though you can feel him soothe across your mind, his soft touch full of assurances.

He’s comforting you. All your emotions must be shooting down the bond without your permission. Gods, that would take some getting used to. You wonder if he can feel your resounding pang of embarrassment as well.

You do your best to push back something less nervous, more of your excitement for the night to come — and you know, without even seeing him, he’s smiling.

After another moment of fussing, you decide on something simpler than your glossy night dress.

Comfortable black slacks with plenty of flow to them and a shirt you thought was one of your nicer ones. With the slightest touch ups to your makeup, you rush yourself out the door before you convince yourself to change all over again.

The Sidra keeps you company, a rush of water beside you as you wind through the streets of Velaris, eyes flicking up to take in the darkening sky. The sun was sinking below the mountain tops, rays tickling across the ridges.

And while you could admit that Velaris was very beautiful in the daytime, you were a true Night court citizen— and believed its true beauty came out at night.

Somehow, despite the lack of concrete plans made as you had ushered the male out of your office, you knew resolutely that you would be able to find him. You weren’t even worried about the timing of it all. It was… what was the word? Absurd. Insane. Utterly, breathtakingly incredible.

Sure enough, as you exit the alley and round the corner, your eyes falling on the sage green building you reside in for work, there he is; waiting for you.

You inhale a sharp breath. A thousand cells in your body fizz, hum, and glow, at the mere sight of him.

It's easy to understand just how he had garnered his dark reputation, the image of him every bit of the Spymaster of the Night Court — a title like Shadowsinger has never been so fitting for him.

He’s blurred at the edges, a thousand tiny wisps that blend him into the shadows of the nighttime. His wings stretch up behind, towering over his already tall frame, black as ink, and beneath his darkened attire, you can spot his tan skin. Your eyes drag up his neck, tracing his adam's apple, along the scruff of his sharp jaw until you reach his hazel eyes.

Your heart burns.

In the depth of it, you know, if he doesn't love you, he will undo you completely.

It's wholly terrifying to come face to face with — the intensity of the mating bond scorching through your mind like a fierce wind, burning embers left in its wake.

It's enough to make you pause, the definitive thought that doing this, offering him your heart and trusting him, could very well lead to your ruin.

Your chest squeezes tightly. You let your eyes drink in the Illyrian, the Male who waited so patiently for all those years and was prepared to wait years more, if you had asked.

Focusing, you pluck up that golden thread in your chest and hold it tightly. It heats and melts, hotter and hotter, and you know that any fear you have, you can conquer to be with him.

Ruination be damned.

—

Azriel notices you the moment your frame exits the alley, notices the moment you pause — has been able to feel you drawing nearer to him this whole time. Your every emotion is transparent to him through the bond between you, whether you’re aware of it or not.

You must not have the tightened mental shields he had come to be so familiar with over all his years. It makes sense; you are no warrior. Mental walls over your mind are not something you have ever had to concern yourself with.

Azriel vows it to be one of the things he teaches you. You deserved the privacy of your emotions, at the very least.

But... for now, Azriel can feel them all. It's why, as you round the corner, Azriel can feel your eyes on him and then, then he feels it.

The wash of fear that spills over your bond like icy water.

An old enemy rises within him. He grits his teeth, even as he feels the fear from you slide away and he tries to ignore the sting from an unhealed wound. But self-deprecation never seems to drown, no matter how much he tries to suffocate it within him.

He shifts his hands, relieved suddenly to have them covered up beneath gloves. His wings tuck in tighter, if possible, and he wills his shadows sternly to contain themselves. Something in the slightest baring of his teeth has them obeying. They shoot to his sides and make themselves scarce.

All this in time to greet you pleasantly as you bounce into view, sidling up before him with a shy grin. It's only been a few hours since he got his proper look at you and yet, you're every bit as breathtaking as you were earlier. More so, in fact.

It feels as though Azriel has never seen the sky before and you before him, are the first sunset of his life. You look so pretty that Azriel could probably gaze at you all evening if you so allowed him to.

And then, he remembers the pang of fear.

He doesn't waste time mulling over which detail of him had made you afraid — only that he would dim or change or hide any part of himself to stop it from happening again.

"Hello, again," You say, your lips pressed together to contain your smile. You have to tilt your head back to look up at his handsome face. His shadows swirl around him and despite his strict instructions, one still slips away to touch you.

You don't notice it circling your ankle, tentative and shy.

"Hello, again." Azriel echoes your words, unable to help his own glimmer of joy.

He wants to offer you his arm, his hand. Can feel it within him, down to the very marrow of his bones, the craving to be closer to you, to touch you, however he can.

Azriel swallows heavily and does what he has done over decades, over centuries; he takes the wanting and pushes it down, down, down.

The two of you begin to walk, side by side, with no destination in mind. Aimless and content at the same time.

Azriel doesn't need the bond to see the flittering of nerves hidden in your expression. The shadow still circulating around your ankle climbs higher, like it wants to comfort you too.

Azriel wills it to still, desperate to not scare you again. He drops his shoulders from his usual warrior posture in hopes of making himself a little smaller.

“You don’t need to be nervous.” He says reassuringly.

You steal a glimpse at him, your smile breaking into a grin. Your nerves are still potent but less so.

“Who says I’m nervous?”

Azriel smiles gently, his eyes dancing across your face as he reads your lie easily. “I do."

There's a scrunch between your eyebrows then, like he had seen during his time in your office earlier. Azriel places a hand on his chest, over the place where the glowing tug is strongest.

"I can feel it.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you stare at his gloved hand, the cogs in your brain spinning and turning at a rapid rate. Still strolling, your hand rises slowly and touches to the same spot on your own chest. Azriel can feel his heart stutter at the sight, you holding the spot that connected you to him undeniably.

"You can?" Your gaze lifts to his face, puzzlement adorning your features. You frown and focus for a moment, staring hard into the distance — and Azriel feels a sudden twinge of disgust through the thread.

"Did you feel that?" You ask, eyes wide and curious.

Azriel nods wordlessly and he can't help but ask. "What is it you were thinking of?"

You look embarrassed for a moment, eyes averting to the ground. You chuckle awkwardly and tuck your hair behind your ears, glancing back up at the Male with a sheepish smile.

"Brussels sprouts."

Azriel blinks once, twice, and then has to turn to hide his smile. He tries to cover his laugh with a cough. It doesn't work, given how you make a small noise of indignation. He turns back, his politest expression on.

"Don't laugh at me!" You whine, reaching out to poke him in the shoulder. Your touch radiates through his body like a drop of golden sun, blazing warm.

"You're right," Azriel hums, his lips twitching as he presses back his smile. "My apologies, my lady. This is important knowledge I should be filing away. I swear on my life I will feed you no brussels sprouts this evening, or any in the future."

He wants to nudge your shoulder with his own, just to touch you, wants to reach out as easily as you had. But his shadows slip before his self-control does, skittering out along onto your shoulder and giving you a small shock and Azriel remembers himself. His fists clench tightly at his sides.

You walk side by side all evening, like two planets in orbit — close, oh so close, but never quite touching.

—

The first date you share is nothing short of… wonderful.

Resolutely and overwhelming good, the entire date you can't help but feel as though your very soul is singing, a thousand particles blithesome at the nearness you get to share with Azriel. He's surprising in a manner of ways.

Firstly, he's terribly quiet.

Next to him, you look quite the blabber-mouth, no matter how much he insists he enjoys it. His dark eyes are intense as they watch you closely, soaking in every word that passes your lips, and yet, beneath it, his dry sense of humour comes out to play. There's the occasional tease, almost as if just to see if he could make you flustered. (He could, easily).

With a Male as beautiful as him, suited to your very being in every way, it's nearly unbearable how much you ache for him. How much his very attention creeps down your neck and makes every nerve along your spine tingle.

You know it will take some time to get used to his unwavering and devoted attention.

There’s… just one small, itty-bitty, tiny problem.

He doesn’t touch you.

Throughout that whole first evening, you had noticed it somewhat— a flex in his gloved hands, a moment where his wing strayed too close only to be pulled back in a flash, even his shadows, darting out to be near you but never quite touching you as they had on that first meeting.

His hands reach out but they do not find you.

At first, you believed it was a first date thing. Azriel was, first and foremost, a gentleman, and you thought perhaps, his skirting touch, like his hand lingering over the small of your back but not touching it, was to be polite. Courteous and gracious.

Then, you had seen him just two days after that date, all bundled up in your giddiness that it had managed to slip your mind.

The two of you had spent the day together, traversing through the market — before you quickly found a quieter space for your mate as it became clear that large bustling areas, such as the Palace of Threads and Jewels, were not so suited to his tastes.

As you had tugged him out of the crowd, laughing over your shoulder at how he fought to keep his broad wings from knocking into anyone else, the thought suddenly snapped back into you.

Though you yearned to link his arm with your own, to interlace your fingers with his, you remembered his hesitance. Remembered the hover of his gloved hand.

And so, you dropped his arm the moment you cleared the crowd.

A hurt warbled deep within you to so do and knowing you were not the deftest at schooling your expressions, you hid your face so you could contain your childish reactions. You huffed at your own upset. What matter is it if your mate has no affinity to touch?

Truly, it was a miracle to have found a mate at all, you tried to scold yourself. You would not take him for granted for a moment, not even if it was not quite the picture of perfection you had envisioned.

Rooted deep in you was a truth; you could abide by this, abstain to his level of comfort for years, for millennia, if it made him happier.

The fabric of the mating bond, connecting the two of you intrinsically, made it so you would not want it any other way.

It's a decidedly Azriel thing.

He always wears the gloves, he never touches you more than he has to, and he's got... this really specific look when you're doing a terrible job of hiding your emotions.

As he had vowed, Azriel had set about teaching you how to build the mental walls up within your mind, brick by brick by brick. While it would help you hold against daemati if that loathsome situation should ever arise, it would also shield you from your mate.

It would protect you from having your emotions ripped out for him to see, no matter how much you held back — if it was in your mind, it would travel down the bond.

So, the wall had to be built. It had been tedious, tricky, and tiring work. Yet every time you would feel yourself ready to throw in the towel, Azriel would lean in closer, his hazel eyes softened, and his hand resting upon your arm, thumb swatching up and down, to encourage you.

"I know it is tiresome," He had mused, that faint smile twitching at his lips as you scowled at the ground. His thumb was still moving, still drawing light circles on your bicep. The skin beneath it blazed with warmth. "But it is worth it, that I can promise. You deserve this privacy, my dear. I would never wish to take it from you."

My dear, my dear, my dear— the words had sunk into your sternum and bloomed, bright and golden.

It's enough to hold onto, his kind affections. The sweet shape of his mouth when it says your name. The way his lashes kiss in the corner when he can't hold back his smile.

It's enough to soothe yourself over. To take the lack of touch on the chin and swallow down your desire for more.

It's why— why you can't help yourself— why you couldn't tear your eyes away from Azriel's hand where it touches Cassian's arm.

You're meeting his family today, which you've quickly realised doesn't mean his mother or father but instead means... the literal Highlord of the Night Court.

There are several warriors crowded around the cramped entrance room to the River House. Each of them is taller than you, and two of them with the very same huge wingspans that you've come to revere on your own mate.

Your usual talkativeness has been dimmed in your shock, though, really, it shouldn't be such a surprise. Azriel is a force to be reckoned with, honed over decades, and the Spymaster of the Night Court. You know these things. The company he keeps makes sense.

Somehow... still, seeing them all together leaves you strikingly speechless. The legion that protects your home — a family.

Rhysand greets you first, dapper in his dark attire, his violet eyes equal parts calculating and welcoming as he steps forward and offers his hand.

Despite the fact you have never bowed to him before, you still have to repress the urge. His power is overwhelming, the very night lapping at his edges and you're suddenly very grateful to be meeting him as a friend and not as a foe.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Rhysand's voice purrs out, soft as silk. When you place your hand in his, he brings it to his lips and presses a polite kiss to the back of your hand.

"Any friend of Azriel's is a friend of mine."

You can feel your own heart thundering in your chest. Azriel hovers behind you, his presence soothing in itself. You can't see it but his wings are outstretched towards you, cocooning around you ever so slightly. A shadow hovers behind your shoulder, just out of sight.

"I— the pleasure is mine, my Highlord." You manage to make yourself speak.

You almost wish you hadn't when your words inspire a burst of laughter from one of the others behind Rhysand, the other Illyrian. He's tall, his hair dark but longer than your mate's own.

As your hand is dropped, Rhysand turns to scowl at the Male laughing, and you only grow further perplexed when he gives a whack against the other's shoulder. They begin to squabble for a moment — and you don't even hear Azriel move until he's speaking, his lips right by your ear.

"You'll have to forgive Cassian." His voice is low, raspy in a way that sends a zing down your spine. You shiver lightly. "He can be well-mannered at the best of times. But I promise he isn't laughing at you."

The two Males seem to tune back into Azriel's words, even though they had been whispered for you specifically.

"It's true!" The Illyrian, Cassian you now know, pipes up. He brandishes a devilishly handsome grin at you, with his hands held up in defense. "I apologise. It just still makes me laugh to see someone address this one so formally."

You blink. "But... he is the Highlord."

Azriel speaks again, bent over still to talk in your ear, but much less of a whisper this time. "Rhys is our Highlord but he does not bother with such formalities."

"And," Cassian interjects, lugging a punch into Rhy's shoulder, much like the other had done to him not a moment before. "Before he was the o'mighty Highlord, he was our friend."

Cassian says the word o'mighty with such an air of sarcasm that you can't help but glance at Rhys, sure he wouldn't take such disrespect. But around you, there are only easy grins.

"Might we move to somewhere more comfortable than the doorway," Azriel speaks up from behind you, his voice dry. "Unless that is, you're all hoping to do one-on-one greetings with her?"

There it is, the dry sense of humour you've come to adore. The group before you seems to grumble, as if they were quite keen on the one-on-one meetings but begin to move through the house.

One of the group dips back to walk beside you and you do your best not to repeat your past mistakes, even as your eyes widen almost comically. Azriel chuckles silently to himself, feeling your polite astonishment down the bond.

"It's so great to finally meet you.” Feyre, your Highlady greets you, her pretty face rife with glee. She seems genuinely very happy to make your acquaintance. "Azriel has told me all about you."

You stumble in surprise, your eyes casting back to Azriel behind the pair of you. His eyes are fixed on Feyre, narrowed at her blatant betrayal, his shadows swirling around him. She sticks her tongue out at him playfully and you smother a laugh.

When his eyes shift over to you, you're positively delighted at how his cheeks have turned the lightest shade of ruby.

"Feyre is very persuasive when she wants to be." He murmurs, almost grumbling. You turn back to the Highlady and she grins at you, devious and captivating all at once.

It’s a whirlwind once you reach one of the many living rooms, each member of Azriel’s family all very eager to shake your hand.

Cassian grips it firm, his grin still on the side of wicked as he tells you he’s been waiting years to find the woman who could contain Azriel. Nesta, his mate as you find out, is a fierce kind of pretty with a grip as strong as Cassian’s. She tells you welcome to the family with the smile of a shark.

Morrigon is next, breathtakingly gorgeous, and every bit as charismatic as Azriel had described. You don't catch the glimpse between Mor and Cassian, not the beat of relief they both feel at your arrival in their lives— in Azriel's life.

It's swallowed up in her words, going a mile a minute. She jumps about, like popcorn in a pan, overly keen to finally speak to the one whom the Mother deemed worthy of Azriel’s heart. Where are you from? What do you do? How did you meet?

“Mor,” Azriel warns, after her twelfth consecutive question about your life. He hasn’t moved from his protective position behind you, close enough you can feel the heat of his body. His wings had brushed your shoulder just once.

“Yeah, Mor,” Rhys jeers. He nudges his cousin in the side playfully and Cassian snickers behind the group. “Give the girl some time to breathe.”

Even with all of Azriel's masterclass on who you would be meeting, it's still terribly overwhelming just trying to keep track of them all. They're each such strong spirits, each with seemingly a thousand battles in their past and far more years with Azriel.

On top of this is the fact you met both your Highlord and Highlady so casually in one single afternoon. It's difficult to not be daunted by the group that is so clearly intertwined with each other on a deeper level altogether— bonded by devastation and choosing each other through love.

Try as you might, you can feel the seed of doubt, of insecurity, make a home between your ribs.

You clamp down the shields you've spent the last few weeks learning, building the wall up and holding it tight. It's silly to feel dismayed because these Fae, these friends, know your mate better than you do.

Azriel had told you he had been waiting for you for five hundred years. For the first time since you've met him, you wonder if he was ever disappointed.

And then— then, you see it.

Azriel's hand on Cassian's arm. Then the half embrace they share, a hand on each other's neck as Cassian grins, wild and fierce, and presses his forehead against Azriel's own; brothers, sharing a moment of euphoria at the other finding his long-deserved happiness.

You should be soaking in the smile Azriel hides from you too often, showing his teeth and crinkling his eyes. But instead, you can't see past it, can't stop the loop in your own mind as it prints a fact over and over and over.

It isn't an Azriel thing; it's a you thing.

He doesn't touch you.

The mental walls in your mind feel paper-thin as a fresh kind of agony ripples through your chest. The soft rejection of a mate stings, a papercut on your very heart. You can feel it warble through you and know, terribly, the exact moment that Azriel feels it too.

His head whips around, his dark shadows that surround him suddenly spinning and flitting faster than before— a couple dive across the room to you.

You stand up and the chair scrapes noisily beneath you.

"I—" You say before you realise you haven't planned an exit or an excuse in the slightest. Azriel's gaze burns into you. You turn to Feyre instead, who had been talking across from you when you rudely stood up.

"I'm so sorry, I just—" Some excuse, any excuse! "I think I— left the stove on."

It's a lie. A complete utter lie that fools no one in the room as you retreat from it hastily. None of them try to stop you though, which you're thankful for. Each of them watches, every expression slightly concerned as you hurry out of the room, your feet walking backward rapidly until you bump into the door frame.

You pass through it with your eyes on the floor, knowing that all of the eyes are on you. You know the ones you can feel searing into your soul are Azriel's.

You leave the River House. You walk along the Sidra, your steps hurried and your chin tucked low. It hurts. It hurts the feeling inside you. A tear streaks down your cheek, unbidden, and collects on your jaw. You wipe it away meanly.

The sight of your apartment door is an overwhelming comfort, one that has you sighing aloud as you rush up to it, your fingers already digging around in your pockets for your key.

And like always, you never hear him coming.

"What happened?" Azriel asks, his voice almost pained.

You give a little yelp of surprise and whip around, remembering half a second later that there's still evidence on your face of your tears. Azriel grows characteristically still, his hazel eyes fixed on yours as you sniffle for a moment, aggravation beginning to creep in.

He could feel everything from you and you got... what? Whatever he deemed fit to offer? How is that fair?

His usually wispy shadows are inkier than usual, almost tornado-ing around his shoulders. They keep leaping out towards you before being caught in an invisible net, a barrier between you and them.

Even as Azriel remains motionless, his eyes are the opposite—they jump around, searching, hunting, begging to find the cause of your pain. Had it been one of his friends?

"Please," He tries his words again.

His heart throbs painfully when you finally find your key and turn your back on him without a word, unlocking your door and pressing your way inside. He follows quickly, wings tucked in tight, unable to keep his shadows at his side this time. They whiz to you, circling your ankles protectively.

"Please," Azriel says, an anguished growl to his words. "What hurt you? I will— my friends, if they said something— if it was someone, I hunt them down and make it right for you."

You inhale sharply and when you speak, your tone is cold in a way you have never used before with Azriel. You say the words without thinking.

"It would be impossible to hunt yourself, Azriel."

Regret howls through you like a hurricane the moment you say the words. You don't mean to be mean, jealous, or whatever unseemly emotion you can't stop from sprouting in your chest, growing in size, tangling into your heartstrings like twisted gnarled vines. It hurts.

You turn back to him, mouth open. No words come out.

Hurt is slashed across his face, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, his shadows tucked in tight. It's as though he's blended into the very air, the wispy edge of him threatening to retreat into his own shadows.

All his emotions on display just for a moment, before they're schooled away. Tucked away, hidden, not for you to see.

Inside, your hurricane howls again, this time in pain.

You can tell he feels it, even as you mentally gather your bricks. It isn't fair. How can he have every bit of you and you get what he pleases to return?

You want to know him completely, want to see every part of his rugged, weathered soul, and love him anyway. It's an untold type of agony to have him deny you.

"My love," His feet finally move, his wings almost dragging on the floor as he steps forward, slowly, as though he was afraid he might spook you.

"Tell me how to fix this pain." He pleads. His gloved hands are held out, palms up and suddenly, he looks nothing like a warrior. Just a Male, afraid of losing what is most dear to him. You shake your head, like a child, and keep building your brick wall.

"Please don’t keep this from me," He takes another step forward, his shadows sent awry as they dart across to you. You can feel them on your calves, on your arms, feel the tiny kisses they leave. Azriel speaks again, voice low. "My love, I can feel your pain.”

You can't help how you screw your eyes closed, the ache in your chest unbearable— made worse when you know he can feel it too.

"That is my problem." You utter the words quietly, eyes still clenched shut, knowing he can hear you. He takes another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat of his enormous frame, his wings bracketing around you. "I cannot hide anything from you."

Azriel makes a noise, a punched-out wounded sound that reverberates down the bond.

"My love," He murmurs for the third time. Down the bond, you can feel his sweet love, his golden gentle feelings travelling along to assure you. "I would not wish for you to hide anything from me."

“But you hide everything from me." You whine, eyes finally crinkling open. Azriel stares down at you, his eyes softer than they've ever been. You can see the hurt swimming in them, the hurt you've caused. Still, you speak.

"You hide your emotions. You hide your touch, yet you give it willingly to your friends." You share each ugly thought with him, whispered as you gaze into his face to search for your answers.

Lifting your hands, you curl your fingers around his wrists tentatively. Azriel swallows heavily, his eyes dancing down to where you're touching him. You slide your hands forward, dragging the pads of your fingers over his pulse, along his palm, til your hands are holding his gloved ones.

"Is there some test I don't know about?" You ask, your focus on your intertwined hands. "Is there— do I have to earn this?"

"No," Azriel chokes out the word suddenly. You look up at him. He clears his throat and you feel his hands grip yours back, surer and stronger than you had. "No, I'm sorry. There is no test, nothing to prove you deserving of this. I just..."

His words trail off and you watch as he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if gathering his courage. His hands slide from yours, pulled backward and you nearly feel the urge to cry once more— before you realise he's removing his gloves.

The skin of them is warped, you realise acutely with horror. The skin of his hands is swirled and mottled, an injury long healed but scarred for eternity. Azriel is watching your face closely, holding his hands close to his chest as though he was prepared to hide them away at the first flicker of fear.

You're grateful for the link between and all your shoddy attempts at blocking him out. Your love and your unwavering devotion drifts along the bond.

Azriel shudders, his wings giving the tiniest shiver. Slowly, gently, he reaches out towards you. You feel his hands, the unruly scarred feel of his skin sliding along your jaw to hold it tenderly. He has never held you like this before.

He cradles your face gently — like his hands have never held weapons of war, like they aren't twisted and marred with a memory he can't forget, like they're worthy of holding something so precious.

Azriel holds you as if you're holy — and he's come to kneel at your altar.

"I was afraid of what you would think." He admits. His voice is hoarse, gravelly as he fights off the lump in his throat. "I— on the first day we met, I felt your fear along the bond and—"

"It was not of you." You interrupt him, your hands jumping up to cover his own where they hold you. Azriel inhales sharply, eyes darting to watch.

But you pay him no heed, the palm of your hand covering his like a lover would. You let your thumb soothe up at down the ridges of his skin. You let your love ripple along the bond.

"It was not fear of you, Azriel." You repeat, your voice soft. His eyes are still fixed on your joined hands. His wings have begun to pick up, no longer drooping behind his back— you're not sure if he even notices.

"It was fear for how strongly I already felt for you." You lean into his hand and Azriel lets you, lets the length of your nose nuzzle into the touch of his hands — something no one in all his years of living had ever done before.

"It was fear that you already could ruin me," The words are murmured. "And that I would let you."

You whisper his name to pull his wide-eyed gaze from where his hands touch you and his hazel eyes burn into yours. Every whitened scar on his skin, every eyelash, the adorable pinch between his eyebrows; you drink it all in and smile at him. Azriel, your mate.

"Azriel, I chose this despite that fear. I choose you.”

Azriel quivers at the words, at your unflinching tone and suddenly the world seems such a perfect place, time moving around you, untouching, with such a perfect grace.

“I choose you too,” He murmurs, an emotion so strong a fire of possessiveness streaks down the bond. This time, you can feel his wall melt away, allowing you access to all he feels — his mountain of fear and his melting relief.

“Forgive me—” He begins and you laugh without meaning to, cutting him off.

“Stop,” you say, the word light and as pretty as your grin. “We keep doing this to ourselves, tying ourselves in knots over and over.”

Azriel laughs, his lips twitching into a smile as he allows himself to stroke his thumb lovingly over your cheek. The way you melt beneath it, your lashes fluttering and heart burning so brightly he can feel it in his own chest too— Azriel knows this longing will long outlive his body.

“We do,” He agrees. He dips his head a little lower, probably the only apology you’ll let him have, and inhales shakily. His hands shift across your face, down to hold your chin, his fingers pressed together tightly to hide the way they quiver.

“Then let me apologise in another way,” He murmurs, his voice closer to playful. “In a way I’ve been selfishly depriving you of.”

And when he kisses you, it’s with a reverence that softens all your corners.

His lips are plush and sweet, and with the way he dedicates himself to your bottom lip, you can’t help how you sigh into his mouth. He finds home in the curve of your mouth.

It’s delirious the way he kisses once, twice, three times like he’s hungry for something found only in your lips.

Your hands stagger forward, leaving his own to wind over around his neck. Your fingers curl up, raking through the hair on the nape of his neck — feeling the shiver that travels up his spine, his wings giving a little flare out.

He kisses you breathless, one hand abandoning your jaw to wrap snugly around your waist, bringing you closer to him.

When he pulls back, something within you glows molten gold at the panting that leaves his lips. He’s gazing at you, his hazel eyes alight in a way you haven’t quite seen before. His wings shift behind his shoulders, curling forward to wrap the two of you together, not quite touching.

Your heart thrills. You grin, your lips still just an inch apart as Azriel nudges forward, his own twitching in that way when he fights his smile. His lips brush yours, his smile barely held back.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” He says, sweet and low, allowing the smile to finally pull his pretty mouth up at the corners.

“Or should I make it up to you a little more?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, chaste and gentle.

“Mmm,” your eyes are bright as they peer up at him, full of playful mirth and adoring affection. “You're forgiven but... I think you should make it up to me, just a little more.”

Azriel willingly obliges, his smile as sweet as the moonlight.

—

some people i thought might want to be tagged :)

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