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florencemtrash · 9 months ago

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He Feels Safe With You — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel's sleeping habits begin to worry you, but after a conversation with Cassian, you realize you've misinterpreted the entire situation.

Warnings: Major fluff. Like tooth-rotting sweetness. Sleepy Az.

Author's note: I should be sleeping because I have work tomorrow but instead I've chosen to write this oneshot and I have no regrets.

It was starting to become a problem now.

You cocked your head to the side, cradling a cup of tea in your hands and watching Azriel as he continued to sleep soundly in your bed. You had the windows cracked open and the early Autumn breeze swirled indoors with the scent of lavender, bergamot, and the strawberry jam you’d slathered over your toast. You checked the time once again on the glossy marble clock face. The arrow-shaped hour hand clicked ever closer to 11am, the minute hand close to overtaking its competitor.

10:55am and Azriel was still asleep.

The sheets clustered loose and low around his waist, mimicking the curling of his shadows up and down the ridges of his spine and across the delicate membrane of his wings. His wings hung loose and relaxed, stretching off the edges of your bed and caressing the floor with a lover’s touch. You blushed at the sight. When you and Azriel had first started courting each other three years ago, you’d thought through the mechanics of housing an Illyrian warrior in your bed — should you buy a new bed frame and mattress? Did you even have space for it in your apartment? The answer had been no to both, and yet Azriel loved when your daytime activities ended here instead of at the townhouse. If he cared about having to walk sideways to avoid the bookshelves in the halls or having to crouch to avoid the overhang above the staircase, he didn’t mention it.

Three hours ago you’d woken up beneath the gentle weight of his wings, untangled yourself from Azriel’s greedy limbs, and crept down the stairs to your kitchen, bleary eyed but well rested. But that was three hours ago! Since then you’d brushed your teeth, washed your face, and eaten breakfast, and still the Shadowsinger hadn’t stirred. You were beginning to question whether he truly was the Spymaster of the Night Court as you sat in your velvet chair and admired your lover. You traced all the subtle movements of his body as he muddled through dreams you could only wonder at — the creasing of his brow, the slack line of his lips as he breathed, the twitching of his fingertips as he reached for some phantom object.

The clock struck eleven and you sighed, gathering your plates but leaving Azriel’s pile of toast, butter, and honey alone. You also left the teapot and its mismatched cup, blowing magic over its lid in a silent command to keep its contents hot until Azriel awoke.

“I’ll be down in the shop,” you whispered to his shadows, trusting that they would relay the message when their master finally decided to grace the daytime with his presence.

One by one, shadows slipped off Azriel’s skin, curling around your ankles and wrists in a silent plea to stay. You shook them off like one might a needy child, promising you’d only be two floors down.

The artists’ corner in Velaris was an eclectic array of compact townhouses, each outwardly dressed in their unique, dazzling finery. Your townhouse was squished between a painting studio and a luthier’s. The painting studio’s owner seemed intent on changing the color of the wooden sidings every other day and the drawings scribbled over the windows every other week. Today it was periwinkle blue to match the hydrangeas overflowing from the window boxes.

You nodded in approval as you flipped the apothecary sign over from “Much apologies, please try another time” to “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” The blue would match your tulip yellow sidings and the clean white accents of the luthier’s. Last week it had been red and that had looked gods-awful.

You busied yourself in the shop, crushing up lavender and herbs and boiling mugwort in fire-stained glassware in between flurries of customers until the medicinal stench in the air grew thick and strong. You were used to it by now. It smelled clean. Like home.

You were finishing tying up a bundle of teabags when Cassian came in carrying a sturdy wooden box under one arm like it weighed five pounds instead of fifty. You snapped out the wrinkles of a cloth bag, dropping the teabags and five vials of sleep serum for the nightingale-winged nymph in front of you.

“Four feathers and three strands of hair, as we bargained for,” you said, sliding the bag across the counter.

The nymph nodded in approval, extending out a wing and shoving her fingers into the pillowy softness. She tested for loose feathers ready to pull.

“You’re a godsend, Y/n, has anyone ever told you that?” She pulled out three feathers, closed her wing, and started testing the feathers on the other side. “Finnigan’s was asking me for ten. Ten! Can you believe that? If I hadn’t found you in time I’d have been reduced to a plucked chicken.” She was much less precious about her mousey brown hair and yanked out three strands at random. “Oops, you get an extra strand today,” she sang, dropping the feathers and hair into the jars you held out.

“Well it’s a good thing you found me then, Moricka.”

“Honestly! I understand he’s got a large studio space he’s renting in the thick of the Palace, and even I will admit the ambiance is rather professional—”

Cassian raised his brow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his scarred lips as he continued to stand motionless in the doorway. It was true your space was more… homey than Finnigan’s, but your expertise shined in intimate spaces. You liked the control and the familiarity that came from running a smaller business and you wouldn’t give it up for the world.

“But I do think the success is getting to his head. You both studied under Lady Madja so I don’t see why—”

You nodded absentmindedly. It was always like this with Moricka. The songbird in her made it difficult for her to stop talking, but at least her voice was pleasant.

She threw her hands up in the air before finally catching wind of another presence in the room. Cassian waved at her with a wink and an orange blush creeped onto her full cheeks. He tended to have that effect on fae with his towering size and the wild beauty of his chiseled jaw and smattering of scars over his cheeks and brow.

“Oh… oh dear, I didn’t realize you had another customer. Oh my goodness I’ve been talking your ear off all this time and you’ve been too kind to say anything. You’re a godsend, Y/n. A godsend! I don’t know what I would do without you, although I should really be letting you go now.” She grabbed her things and sidestepped the range of Cassian’s wings, trying and failing now to gawk. “I’ll see you soon enough again I’m sure.”

“I’ll be here.” You sighed in relief when the doorbell rang behind her petite frame, the inoffensive smile you offered all your customers sliding off your face like oil on water. Cassian chuckled, dropping the box onto the countertop with a dull thud.

“Long day?”

You pulled out a stepstool and began rummaging around through the box, pulling out jars of squid ink, bark trimmings, buttons, and one particularly nasty jar containing a large eye suspended in yellow goo. “It’s not even three.”

“Did I stutter?”

You tapped the glass and the eye swiveled around to look at you, pupil enlarging and constricting with a stutter. “Yes, yes very good,” you muttered your praise and Cassian fought hard not to shiver. He had a stomach for a great many things, but some of the specimens you handled tested his resilience.

“Thank you for bringing all of this. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble.”

“Perhaps you could do the same for me and tell me where my brother is? I’ve been looking for him all day.” Cassian leaned forward on the counter, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Are you holding him hostage, Y/n? Are you using your feminine powers to bring the poor male to his knees? I must admit, I didn’t imagine you as the kind capable of kidnapping. Or shadow-napping, shall we say?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m hardly holding him hostage.” You gestured down the hallway past the bookshelves and the cases of empty glassware where the light from the staircase glowed like an iron eye. “He’s upstairs sleeping.”

Cassian furrowed his brows, stepping around and past you. He kept his wings tucked closer to his shoulder blades, careful not to upset the cramped organization you maintained in your shop.

He smirked. “Still? Are you sure you didn't work your feminine powers last night?”

You glanced out the store window. A few fae lingered outside the coffee shop across the street clutching takeaway boxes against their chest as they chatted and sipped their drinks. The street was otherwise empty. For now, you wouldn’t have to deal with any customers.

You looked back at Cassian. “I actually wanted to ask you about that.”

His brows furrowed. “About feminine powers?” He'd meant that as a joke.

“Gods, Cassian let that go.” You wrung your hands. “I wanted to ask if Azriel was alright? Has he seemed… normal to you?”

“I don’t know, has he?” Cassian lowered his voice, sinking into one of the stools by the clear glass medicine cabinet. “From what I can tell he seems well. Happy.”

Although happy was an understatement. Ever since you’d stumbled into their lives with Madja’s accolades and your wry humor, Azriel had been a goner. You’d pulled emotions from him as deftly as a spinster with a pile of wool, reduced him to a reverential, lovesick mess, and imbued his existence with a color not even Feyre could mix up. Which made it all the more confusing why you looked so nervous.

“You’ve seen more of him than I have, Y/n.” Cassian said. He braced his elbows against his knees, turning serious. The faint bags under his hazel eyes hinted at sleepless nights spent fussing over Neera. It was their fault really, any daughter of Nesta and Cassian was destined to be restless and particular.

“He just… he’s been sleeping more. Falling into bed early, but waking up late. Sometimes we’ll be reading together or just existing side by side and when I turn to face him, he’s dead asleep on the couch.”

Cassian’s lips twitched, slowly stretching into a smile. You plucked a hemp bag off one of the wall shelves at random, tossing its contents into a mortar and beginning to grind just so you could have something to do with your hands.

“At first I brushed it off, but it’s gotten to a point where I’ll be talking to him — mindless things, but regardless — and I’ll catch him dozing off. He’s always very apologetic after but I…” The mortar and pestle clattered to a stop. “I worry that he’s growing bored of me. Or that he’s sick in a way I can’t help.”

“Y/n.” There was a smile in Cassian’s voice, and indeed when you looked at him, his teeth were glistening in the soft afternoon haze. His eyes shined knowingly, as if the answer were obvious.

You paused. “Yes?”

“He feels safe with you.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“Pardon?”

Cassian tipped back in his seat, knocking his head against the cabinet with a rattle of jars and glass as he laughed. “He’s sleeping so much because he feels safe with you. It’s probably why he prefers to spend time here instead of at the townhouse and why he’s still dead asleep while we’re sitting here gossiping about him. Three years ago you couldn’t even whisper his name in a crowded room without him appearing from the shadows as if summoned.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. “Oh... I see.”

Cassian was grinning. “Y/n, I promise you he’s not bored of you. Azriel sleeping is a good thing. The gods know he could use more rest. I think he might be the worst of us when it comes to taking care of ourselves.”

Something about Cassian’s words had a crack splintering in your chest. You knew about his past. You knew of the horrors burned into the ruined skin of his hands and the weight his duties deposited on his shoulders.

And here you’d been worried over him sleeping past noon.

Shadows slipped down the stairs, pooling around your feet in a neat circle and kissing the exposed skin of your ankles. Azriel followed closely behind, still wearing his rumpled hair and pants and a shirt he’d hastily shoved his neck and arms into. He hadn’t even buttoned up the slits below his wings, opting to let the fabric swing free and loose and expose flashes of skin as he walked.

He jutted his chin out in acknowledgement of Cassian and then folded himself over your back, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and dropping his face into the crook of your neck where he breathed in the scent of lemon and lavender and medicine.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” he said, frowning. There was a slur to his words.

“It’s past three, brother.”

Azriel snapped his head up in surprise, squinting at the window and the afternoon sunlight streaking in. The pale cobblestones shone like they’d been drenched in honey.

“What?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, patting Azriel’s back fondly and mussing up your hair before walking towards the door. He flipped the sign from “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” to “Much apologies, please try another time.”

“Goodnight, you two!" He called from over his back. "Remember we’re meeting at Rhys’s for dinner tonight.” He turned, bracing his arms against the top of the doorway and leaning forward like he meant to share a secret. “8pm sharp. Don’t be too late or we’ll get the wrong idea about what you two are up to.” He winked, then whistled down the street, letting the door close on its own behind him.

Azriel sighed, going back to nuzzling his face in your neck. He peppered the sensitive skin there with kisses.

“Will you be coming back upstairs then?” He murmured hopefully. "Now that you're finished with work?"

You bit your lip and decided rather quickly that the world would not end because you closed a few hours early.

You led him up the stairs, past the kitchen and living room on the second floor, and then up to the third floor — your bedroom. The window was still open, the hustle and bustle of the city and the smell of coffee from across the street wafting in. Steam no longer poured from the lip of the teapot, so you knew Azriel had had something to drink, and where you’d left toast on his plate this morning lay only crumbs.

Azriel dropped to his knees, untying your laces and helping you out of your boots. Then he straightened and tugged at the belt loops of your trousers, silently asking for permission before unbuttoning them and sliding them off your legs. Your shirt, then his shirt, and then his trousers joined the pile of crumpled clothing on the floor.

He gently pushed you back onto the bed, falling face first after you with a sigh. This was his favorite position to sleep in — you comfortable on your back and him laying with his hips slotted in between your legs and his head resting over your heart.

You sank your fingers into his velvety, black hair. His hums of satisfaction flowed through your body, lighting every nerve with a comforting buzz.

“Azriel?” You asked him, before sleep could finally claim him once more.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you feel safe with me?”

He pressed his face further into the soft flesh of your chest, bringing his arms up and around your waist before allowing his wings to do the same. The thin membranes glowed red as hot coals, blocking out the most offensive rays of light from outside.

“When I am with you, I forget that I was ever that boy whose hands got burned. When I am with you, the hundreds of years I spent feeling alone and worthless in this world melt away into nothing. When I am with you — when I am in this place that smells and feels so strongly of you — I can imagine a future that is good and pure and perfect.” He sighed deeply, seemingly ignorant to the pounding of your heart and the waves of feeling flooding your system. “So yes, my love — my Y/n — I do feel safe with you.”

“I feel safe with you too,” you murmured. “I love you, Azriel.”

You kissed the crown of his head, earning one last smile and a slurred, “I love you, Y/n,” before his jaw went slack and the room went silent save for the mixing of your breaths and the stirring of shadows.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #fluff #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #sleepy azriel is the best azriel #i swear i just need a man who wants to sleep with me all hours of the day and is a living furnace #is that too much to ask?

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captaindibbzy · 1 year ago

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There is easy low hanging fruit here, especially about the US and salty tea. And I'm so SO tempted.

But also I'm super in to tea and I'm bored.

The perfect cup of tea is how you want to drink it, and if you do not LIKE tea then drinking it a different way, or a different kind of tea, vastly changes it.

A pinch of salt makes things less bitter, this trick also works with coffee. But other things that affect taste are tempriture, length of time it brews, where the tea was grown, the climate, the soil, and how big the leaves are. Some of the cheapest tea has little more than dust in the tea bag while more expensive teas you will notice have more structure to the leaves.

Tea brewed in colder tempeitures needs longer and creates a different taste. It may require more tea to get the specific flavour you want, and generally it is less bitter for it. Similar thing to spices where if you cook them, use them hot, toast them first, etc, you get a different set of flavours to using them cold.

Like wine, tea can have lots of flavour profiles and colours. Assam for example is very dark, malty, and strong, it can get quite bitter. Ceylon is much lighter. Darjeeling is good with lemon, but Assam is better with milk, in my humble opinion. Lapsang Sushong is very smokey. Earl Grey

Most people will drink a mix. English breakfast is usually a mix of Assam, Ceylon, and Kenyan. Earl Grey is flavoured with bergamot.

White, green, and black tea all come from the same plant, just different parts of it, treated differently. Black tea can take a higher tempriture, but boiling water on green and white tea will scorch the leaves and make it very bitter. Agitating the tea can also have this effect as it releases more tannin.

As a general rule there is a tea for everyone, and a way to drink it that you will enjoy, whether that's hot, cold, mixing it with spices, flavourings, fruit, milk, sugar, lemon, and yes, even a pinch of salt.

I would not, however, recommend tea that has been in the Boston harbour.

#captain reads the news

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p0orbaby · 2 months ago

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A Tide of Tender Mercies

summary: oh, no, i think i’m in love with you

warning: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (alexia receiving), some angst, reader being stubborn af

a/n: thank you to @muffinpink02 for helping navigate the sexy part ! also i’ve deffo repeated some bits but i cannot for the life of me be bothered to sort it out

word count: 7k

part 1

The chalet is…well, perfect. It’s the kind of perfect that only comes from meticulous planning, obsessive list-making, and a kind of restrained indulgence that most people would never understand. Set high above a tiny Swiss village known for its fondue and twenty-something millionaires, it sits against a backdrop of mountains sharp enough to slice the clouds. The exterior is severe, almost aggressively minimalistic: crisp white stucco, blackened wood shutters, and glass doors that could double as showroom installations. The effect is daunting, beautiful, and—if you’re being honest—a bit over-the-top. You chose it, naturally, because it’s the type of place where “just a fling” can occur without a single hint of domesticity.

Inside, everything is pristine, hand-selected, curated to within an inch of its life. You were adamant that the linens be Egyptian cotton, but not the gaudy kind; they’re 800-thread count, light enough to seem insubstantial but woven to feel solid, unyielding. They’re arranged in clinical folds on the bed, starched and pressed in a way that suggests they’re almost afraid to be touched. You’ll mess them up later, but for now, they’re an artwork of restraint.

And then there are the wines, selected with the sort of care that would make a sommelier weep. It’s silly, of course—Alexia doesn’t normally drink during the season, so she will hardly glance at the labels, but you’ve assembled an array that hints at depth nonetheless. An entire wall of Swiss Chasselas, a few rare vintages from Bordeaux, and an stupidly expensive pinot noir that tastes like dirt but cost enough to suggest you know what you’re doing. The idea is that if she gives in to something sophisticated, she’ll find it here. If she doesn’t, you’ll find her something else. Something that says you’ve thought of everything. Which, of course, you have.

The whole thing has a sort of perverse charm, really, how every detail has been obsessively pre-arranged to ensure that she knows you’re not in this for anything serious. And yet, here you are, flying her across Europe to the kind of setting people book for anniversaries and life-altering proposals.

There’s a sort of humour in it, if you’re willing to look. You even laugh to yourself, laying out the spa towels in the bathroom—too thick, too plush, a little too “I love you”—knowing full well she won’t notice them. She’ll think of them as “towels,” and if she does notice, it’ll be because she needs a new one. But that’s fine. It’s all part of the performance, all part of the thing you’ve constructed around this chalet, around her arrival, around the notion that this is—what? Casual? Fun? Whatever word fits it neatly enough to deny what you’re feeling.

And then there are the candles. Oh, God, the candles. You tried to keep them simple, restrained, the kind of scents that evoke a distant memory rather than a specific moment. Sandalwood, bergamot, a flicker of pine; nothing too floral, nothing that says “romance,” but hints of something just familiar enough to feel safe. You even toyed with the idea of an unscented option, just in case the pine felt too… suggestive. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve learned to lean into it, to control it, to package it neatly. If it’s planned, then it’s deliberate, and if it’s deliberate, then it’s just for fun.

“Why all this?” you imagine her saying, eyebrows raised, maybe laughing as she notices the excessive stock of Swiss chocolates in the cabinet. You have them lined up in neat rows, the artisan kind—no corner-shop Toblerone here—and each one is individually wrapped in foil that gleams in the dim kitchen light. You picture her rolling her eyes at the small mountain of truffle boxes, asking if you’ve stocked up for a wedding. And you, of course, would shrug it off, offering some deadpan line about Swiss tourism. Or a joke about Swiss efficiency. Or something suitably bland that keeps the tone right where you want it—on the edge of humour, a step away from real. You’ve prepared for every reaction, really. Which is pointless, because she hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s the first time she’s been here. The place is new, purchased after a very well-timed therapy session that conveniently rebranded “self-indulgence” as “self-care.” The therapist’s exact words were “If you want to be your best self, find the spaces that let you breathe.” And you took that literally, flying up here for private viewings until this place caught your eye. Well, maybe not your eye. But it was one of those rare places that looked exactly like the pictures, maybe better, and it had the kind of aesthetic that screams “I need nothing from you” while begging for a sense of purpose. You bought it almost instantly.

And now, after weeks of fine-tuning, she’ll be here soon. You catch yourself arranging the books on the side table, pausing over which titles to leave out—a mix of philosophy and modern fiction that says “I read but don’t take it too seriously.” You laugh to yourself at the pretension of it, yet you leave the carefully selected titles exactly as they are.

It’s silly, really, because the goal here is detachment, the freedom to keep things light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that as you straighten the pillows on the sofa for the second time, catching your own eye in the polished mirror that hangs in the foyer.

“You’re being weird,” you say out loud, imagining her walking in, that quick smile flashing, eyebrows raised in a way that says, “Is this all for me?” You picture her laughing, maybe rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. But you have an answer for that too, prepared in advance, a casual shrug.

“Just a little atmosphere,” you’ll say, as if it’s nothing.

You check your watch. Thirty-two minutes until Alexia arrives. Thirty-two minutes to double-check that every single minutely considered, utterly detached detail says, I couldn’t care less—or, more precisely, I care in exactly the right amount of less. Because she needs to know that this is nothing. That this trip to an over-the-top chalet overlooking a town mostly inhabited by 19-year-olds in cashmere is simply an exercise in relaxation, togetherness, a concept you’re fairly sure you’re allergic to.

She doesn’t know it yet, but you bought the place partly to show her. Partly to remind her, subtly, that she could disappear tomorrow and you’d still have this. Because that’s the problem with Alexia, isn’t it? She’s not really yours. She’s something you can enjoy, display even, but never own. The complete opposite of the real estate you’ve added to your collection. You stand there, glass in hand, the Lagavulin you’ve graciously poured yourself warming your fingers through the crystal, staring out at the Alps with the vague thought that an obscene number of people have had their ashes scattered here, somewhere along this ridgeline. It’s an unsettling idea you rather enjoy.

She texts, something about a delay on the tarmac, and you stare at the message for a beat too long, analysing the exact wording like you’re looking for hidden subtext. As if there could be subtext in the word “delayed.”

A casual fling, you remind yourself, should never be complicated by subtext.

To pass the time, you scan the kitchen once again. The coffee is fresh-ground, of course, from a bag that cost as much as an entire year’s supply from anywhere normal. It’s pre-portioned in tiny glass canisters your assistant found online that look like vintage apothecary jars. The labels are printed in Helvetica Neue because you once read that it’s a ‘subtly superior’ font. Ridiculous. But also, it’s perfect. There’s also a miniature mountain of imported Spanish oranges on the counter, carefully arranged in a hammered copper bowl you don’t remember buying. You could make mimosas, you think, if you didn’t know she’ll insist on starting with a protein shake instead.

You put a bottle of Alpine mineral water in the fridge just for her, chilled to the exact 4.4°C she prefers. Yes, it’s an oddly specific temperature preference. No, she didn’t tell you directly. You overheard her mention it once, offhand, to someone else. Which is exactly why you’re bound to a polite indifference if she asks why it’s there. It’s simply what the fridge was set to. Nothing personal.

Just the thought of her walking in has you adjusting your posture as if she’s already watching. Alexia doesn’t miss a single detail. Once, she commented on the way you have a tendency to pull your sleeves over your hands. You haven’t done it since. Now, you check that every piece of clothing you’ve chosen is deliberately, carelessly oversized—but only to the point that still reads as flattering.

Then, at last, you hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. You scurry to watch from the window as she steps out of the car you sent, and she’s immediately caught in that glacial alpine light, her features so stark and defined that it’s almost cinematic. There’s a sharp thrill—one you won’t admit to yourself—in seeing her here, framed against this scene like she’s the final piece in some high-budget film. The coat she’s wearing is slightly too large, lending her a relaxed, indifferent air, as if she’d picked up the first thing she saw on her way out the door. Effortless, in that way that would feel studied on anyone else.

You stand back from the window just before she glances up, retreating into the comfort of shadows. Timing is everything. You’ve thought this through, down to each calculated second. It’s critical, after all, that she finds you not watching, but instead lingering at a perfect remove, preferably with a slight air of distraction. You’re aiming for a kind of aloofness, as if her arrival is the least interesting event of the day.

She’s about to ring the bell when you move, deliberately slow, to the door, letting it swing open just as she raises her hand. There’s a brief, barely perceptible pause as her eyes meet yours, a spark of something unspoken passing between you both before she raises an eyebrow, a look that hovers between amusement and challenge.

“Missed me?” she asks, dryly, though there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. She’s close now, close enough that you can catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, something dark and woody and just the right side of familiar.

You tilt your head, giving her a slow once-over, and shrug. “Not especially,” you say, voice low, careful to keep the tone perfectly flat. But you let your gaze linger just a second too long on her collarbone, barely visible where her coat has slipped slightly, enough to make her catch it, her mouth curling up at the edge. It’s a deliberate game, one you’ve both played a hundred times, each move rehearsed, practised to the point of art.

She’s barely through the door when you feel it—that unmistakable tension, thickening the air between you. It’s almost tangible, a static hum just beneath the surface of polite conversation, something that pulls at you like gravity. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something you’re not quite willing to name, because if you wait too long, the feeling will settle into something more familiar. Something too close to comfort, which is the last thing you want.

She doesn’t seem to notice it, of course, her mind likely on dinner plans or the slow crawl of the evening. You, however, are already teetering at the edge of patience, every nerve just slightly too aware of her. She walks in, drops her bag by the door with a casual grace that feels almost too natural, like she’s done this a hundred times, like she could do this forever if you asked her to. And you wonder if you’d even want that—something so predictably domestic, the quiet comfort of a routine. No. You want her in ways that defy that kind of simplicity, in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

You watch her from the corner of your eye as she takes in the room. Her eyes linger on the minimal, curated details you agonised over: the leather-bound books you never plan to read, the art on the walls meant to suggest a taste for something more sophisticated than it is. She’s oblivious, seemingly caught up in the novelty of the place, and that’s exactly what you intended. She can’t know how meticulously you set the scene, how every pillow and chair is positioned with an almost obsessive precision. All she has to do is be here. You’ll take care of the rest.

There’s a slow, unhurried quality to her movements, an ease that’s infuriating because it’s so at odds with the pulse of urgency rising in you. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel with a soft, idle curiosity. Her fingers trace over the edge of a photograph you don’t remember putting there, something abstract and distant, chosen for the way it says absolutely nothing about you. It’s maddening, really, the way she lingers in the space, claiming it without meaning to, as if her very presence could overwrite the hours you spent constructing it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she says, her voice light, unaware of the way it cuts through the silence with a sharpness that’s almost physical. There’s a half-smile on her face, something unreadable that you can’t quite shake off.

You shrug, adopting an air of disinterest you’ve perfected over the years. “Thought you’d appreciate the change of scenery”

She raises an eyebrow, still oblivious, her focus now on the bust of Venus of Arles by the window. For a second, you want to laugh at the madness of it, how she’s here, right in front of you, while you’re clawing at the edges of your own restraint.

But she’s still gazing around, her fingers brushing the edge of a table as if she has all the time in the world. As if she doesn’t know what you’re holding back. You take a slow breath, exhale, feel the tension coil tighter inside, and think that if you let this linger for even another second, you’ll start to resent the calmness of it, the quiet rhythm that feels too much like waiting. Like settling into something you’re not prepared to face.

“Wine?” You ask in a futile attempt to keep things just this side of civilised. The offer hangs in the air, a thin layer of normalcy that feels like it could snap at any moment, but she only nods, glancing over with a slight smile, one corner of her mouth lifting in that way that’s halfway between polite interest and something more.

“Sure,” she says, her voice smooth, without a hint of awareness. “You pick”

You turn to the wine rack with an exaggerated casualness, scanning bottles you chose with this exact moment in mind. You could explain the notes of every vintage, how each one was picked not because it pairs with any particular food—because let’s face it, dinner’s not exactly on your mind—but because it suggests a kind of sophistication, a subtlety. You choose a bottle of red, something full-bodied and just slightly bitter, almost as if in silent commentary on the situation. You pour, slowly, setting the glass down in front of her with a kind of precision that’s both reverent and clinical. She reaches for it, her fingers grazing the stem, the gesture infuriatingly graceful.

The first sip seems to surprise her. “Good choice,” she murmurs, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the glass.

The silence stretches on just a moment too long, the air thick with something that isn’t quite tension, more like a coiled spring just waiting for one of you to press down. You feel it building as she shifts, glancing around the room, and suddenly, you realise she’s working up to something. There’s a certain deliberateness in the way she moves, a careful consideration in her stare, and you know—know—she didn’t come all this way just to admire the decor.

“Look,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, carrying a weight that tells you she’s not talking about the view. “I’ve been thinking—”

But you can’t—won’t—let her finish. Not when you know exactly what she’s about to say. You cut her off, leaning forward, your tone light, easy, deliberately dismissive. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to talk, Alexia”

She freezes, mid-sentence, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, a blend of surprise and—annoyance, maybe? But she masks it quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I thought you’d appreciate me being… honest,” she says slowly, as though testing the waters, watching you carefully.

“Honest? That’s what we’re calling it?” You let a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, a practiced expression, something designed to be just detached enough to hold everything at arm’s length. “Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your deflection, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Better than what? Talking?”

Talking. The word hangs in the air, innocent, innocuous, yet loaded in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to. You shift, taking another sip of wine, letting the liquid burn down, hoping it’ll smother the way her eyes feel like they're peeling away all your practiced layers. It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, but the feeling creeping in now is something else, something you’re not used to. It feels inconvenient. Like an itch you can’t reach.

You try to fire back, something witty, something cool, but the words catch in your throat, your mind scraping empty. It’s frustrating, the way she’s caught you off guard, how she’s unraveled your carefully crafted reserve without even trying. You reach for your glass again, swirling the wine, stalling for time, anything to avoid that knowing look in her eyes.

But then it dawns on you, like a spark catching flame—there’s still one thing left to do to regain control. Something you can do that would put you back in charge, bring this uncomfortable vulnerability back into something physical, where you excel. You set your glass down, slowly, purposefully, letting the silence stretch taut between you both.

She watches you with that smirk, that trace of challenge, as if daring you to break this moment of stillness.

“Come here,” you say, low and steady, injecting just enough command to leave no room for debate.

“No”

She says it so simply, so carelessly, that for a moment you’re almost convinced you misheard her. It’s infuriating, really, that one little word has the power to throw you so entirely. Your pulse stumbles, and you feel the ground slipping from under you, just enough to catch you off guard.

“Alexia.” You give her a look that’s intended to be definitive, final, but it lands with all the power of a weak threat. Her smirk widens into a full, infuriating smile, the one that says she’s entirely aware of the effect she’s having on you.

“Just hear me out,” she says, with a kind of softness that’s more unnerving than you’d like. “You’re doing that thing. The thing where you turn everything into—” She pauses, gesturing vaguely with her hand, searching for the right word, “—into some kind of performance”

It’s an odd, unnerving feeling, this loss of footing. Normally, you’d have a witty reply ready, something cutting or clever, but instead, you feel like she’s stripped you bare, left you standing there with nothing but honesty, and you hate it.

“So now you’re the expert?” you reply, finally finding your voice, though it sounds sharper than you meant. “Since when do you—”

“Since I started actually falling for you,” she says, cutting you off, her voice low but clear. It’s not even particularly dramatic, the way she says it, and somehow that’s worse. Like she’s not trying to turn it into anything, not expecting any kind of reaction—just stating it as a fact.

You feel a flush rise to your face, and you mask it with another sip of wine, a hasty attempt to cover up the sudden jolt in your chest. She waits, just watches you with that maddening calm, as if giving you all the time in the world to come up with some kind of response.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid and unfamiliar. You feel the urge to laugh, to make light of it, anything to disperse this feeling building between you, something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“You don’t have to make this into… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing between you. “Let’s not get sentimental”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms, looking impossibly patient. “I told you I’m just trying to be honest. I thought that was allowed”

“Honest,” you repeat, as though the word itself is foreign. And maybe it is. Honesty has never been the thing you reach for. Honesty is for people who can afford to look foolish, who don’t mind slipping, stumbling a little. Honesty is… unnecessary. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s got you so rattled now.

You set your glass down, more forcefully than intended, and close the distance between you with a deliberate slowness, a silence that says everything you aren’t willing to say out loud. She watches you, unmoving, waiting, that infuriating patience of hers still intact.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “If youre falling for me, fucking show me”

Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement mixed with something warmer, something that makes you feel like you’re the one being dissected here. It’s maddening, really, how effortlessly she manages to get under your skin, slip past all those careful layers. And yet you’re already reaching for her, pulling her closer, desperate to change the pace, to turn this moment into something you can control.

There’s a split second where neither of you move, holding the charged silence like it might be the only thread of control left. And then it snaps. You reach for her, not gently, fingers curling around her wrist with enough force that she has no choice but to be pulled in. Her smirk flickers, only slightly, and there’s something about the momentary surprise in her eyes that makes your grip tighten further, anchoring yourself as much as her. It’s a flash of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of bravado, one you’re keen to shatter.

You pull her toward you, and the air shifts, that faint hint of uncertainty cracking into something far messier. Your hand finds its way to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a kind of reckless precision, not even aware of how tightly you’re holding on. You don’t waste time; you’re not even sure there’s time to waste. And as soon as you lean in, catching her mouth with a kiss that’s anything but tentative, you feel her resistance melt, her lips parting under yours with a roughness that’s almost defiant.

She meets you with equal force, as if each clash of mouths, each bruising press of skin, is a way to gain back her own control, and you revel in it, the give-and-take that feels as calculated as it is chaotic. Your hand slips to her jaw, holding her there, your thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth with a kind of ferocity that toes the line between possessive and desperate. You know it’s not going to be gentle; there’s a part of you that doesn’t want it to be.

You’re moving backwards, feeling the edge of the marble island press into your spine, but it doesn’t matter. She’s everywhere, her hands gripping the fabric of your shirt, blunt nails scraping against your skin as if she’s staking a claim, as if she’s finally caught on to the pace you’ve been trying to set and decided to match it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Her words slip out like a slow, deliberate knife cutting through the air between you. The tone, sharp, unfamiliar, though has been the soundtrack to your late-night thoughts. It’s almost as if she knows, like she’s caught you in the act of something that’s always been just below the surface. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, eyes darting between your face and the space between you two, as if trying to read the faintest tremor in your expression. It’s always a game with her, always a step too far.

Yes.

“No,” you manage, your voice betraying you—cracked, thin, like a lie too rehearsed. The words come out wrong, but they come out anyway, forced through a tightening chest.

The moment stretches, each second fracturing, bending and folding into itself. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a shadow—everything slips just out of reach, and the harder you try to grasp it, the more it seems to twist away, leaving nothing but the sensation of your own breath hitching in your throat. You fucking hate this. You hate the way her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, as if trying to remind you of your place, of the expectations that have always followed you both like a silent, mocking echo.

No, you don’t hate her.

Fuck. You love her.

The thought is an ugly, dissonant thing, a weight that doesn’t settle easily, like a slow-moving tide pulling you under. The water’s cold. You can’t feel the bottom. You don’t know which way is up, and the only thing you do know is that, somewhere along the line, you’ve let yourself drown.

Your pulse is almost deafening in your ears, hammering in time with your desperate need for air. There’s something about the way she stands before you—still and deliberate, eyes trained on yours—that makes the room feel smaller, closer. You think you can hear her thoughts. Feel them. It’s maddening, how much she seems to know you, how she’s always known the way you bend. How much she’s learned to manipulate that bend, until you almost forget what it’s like to be anything but this: a response.

You swallow. The taste of her is lingering on your lips, sweet and bitter all at once, like a bad memory. How many times has this happened? You don’t know anymore. The last time feels as far away as the first time—when she leaned in, the weight of her body an invisible promise. But tonight, there’s something different. It’s in the way she watches you, cold, calculating, her fingers still gripping the edges of your shirt, the only real connection between you two in the moment.

She inhales slowly, the rhythm deliberate, like she’s listening to a song you can’t hear. The silence is suffocating.

“You’re lying,” she says, low and accusing, with just enough venom to make you flinch. There’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, something fleeting, something knowing. You want to reach out, to take her in your hands and pull her close, but the distance between you both feels like a universe. The space feels like a reflection of everything that’s wrong with you: the empty conversations, the meaningless gestures, the ache that’s always there, just beneath the skin. It’s maddening, this tension.

And yet…

You want her. Fuck, you need her. You don’t know if it’s because you love her or because she knows how to make you feel more alive than anything else. She’s become your addiction, your fire, the only thing you can’t quit.

Another shift in the air. Another breath from her, shallow and calculated. It’s not a question anymore, not a challenge—it’s an affirmation. She knows, and you know, too.

You close your eyes for a moment, just long enough to lose yourself in the fleeting memory of something that almost felt like peace. The sound of her voice, the taste of her, the way she touched you. It’s all a blur, a disjointed collection of moments tied together by one inescapable truth: you’ll never be able to walk away.

Not this time.

When your eyes open again, she’s still standing there, eyes not leaving yours, studying you. Everything feels slowed down, almost too slow. Like time is bending around her, twisting the seconds into something thick, sticky. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but it holds you in place, an anchor, a force. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, the dull tap of your own pulse in your ears.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You don’t need to.

Her fingers slide along your chest, trailing down in that same slow, infuriating pace, until they settle on the edge of your shirt again, the same place they started. She doesn’t look away, her lips curving upward in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s like she’s trying to decide whether you want to hurt her or fuck her. And the problem is, you’re not sure you can tell the difference anymore.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like that might keep you steady, like that might stop you from doing the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

Loving something. Someone. Loving Alexia.

“What are you so afraid of?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost gentle, and it’s the softness of it that makes you unravel completely.

You don’t think—you can’t. One second you’re standing there trying to convince yourself you still have your palms wrapped around this situation, and the next they’re on her, pulling her in with a force that’s almost cruel. Your mouth finds hers, hard and unrelenting, and she gasps into the kiss, her fingers clutching at your shirt, wrinkling the silk, as if you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

She tastes like spearmint gum and coffee. You imagine her shivering as she steps off the plane, teeth chattering in the wind, and too polite to mention it. But your driver notices, you pay him to notice, so before her luggage is out of the cargo, a café con leche is being pressed into her gloved hands.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. It’s a collision, hard and unrelenting, her mouth crashing into yours with a force that feels like defiance, like she’s daring you to stop pretending. To stop holding yourself together so tightly you’re liable to snap.

Your hands are already on her, pulling her close, so close it feels claustrophobic, but you can’t stop. You can’t make yourself pull away because then you’d have to look at her, really look at her, and confront the unbearable softness in her eyes. You’d have to hear her voice again, saying the one thing you’ve been trying to ignore since she first murmured it like a needle under your skin:

“What are you so afraid of?”

What you’re afraid of is this. Her. The way she’s stripped you bare with no effort at all, no grand gestures or declarations. She’s unravelling you with the weight of her presence, with the simple fact of her being, and you hate it almost as much as you crave it.

Your teeth scrape against her lower lip, harder than you mean to, and she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her nails dig into your shoulders, gripping onto you while you take your rightful place at the helm of this godforsaken dance.

And she’s letting you. Letting you press her against the edge of the table, her legs bumping into the thick, varnished oak. The table was handmade by some artisan you don’t remember the name of, its surface polished to a high gloss that reflects the warm light overhead. You’d spent weeks agonising over the purchase, debating wood grains and finishes with a level of scrutiny that felt absurd even at the time. It’s the kind of thing people like you do when they’re too scared to focus on what matters.

But now it’s just a table. A thing in the way, a thing that’s caught between you and her.

Her jeans catch on the wood as you push her back, and the sound is sharp, cutting through the fog in your head. You hesitate for half a second, your hands hovering at her hips, fingers brushing the cool metal of her belt buckle.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, her voice low and breathless. It’s not a reproach—it’s almost amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in your head, and it’s ridiculous to her that you’re trying to wrestle this into something it’s not.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you say, and it’s true. Or it’s a lie. You don’t know anymore, and you don’t care.

The belt comes undone with a soft clink, the leather sliding through the loops of her jeans in one smooth motion. You let it fall to the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile lost beneath the ragged breaths you’re both taking. Your hands are shaking slightly as you undo the button on her jeans, the metal cold against your fingertips.

She doesn’t help you. Doesn’t lift her hips, doesn’t make it easier. She just watches you, her gaze steady and unwavering, like she’s daring you to keep going.

And you do.

You yank the denim down her thighs, your movements jerky, almost frantic, and it’s not until the fabric crumples on the floor that you realise your hands are still trembling. She notices too, her lips twitching into that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, something that cuts right through you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and the words make something inside you snap.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one swift, unceremonious motion. The damp lace clings for a moment before it slides free, pooling at her knees before hitting the floor. You don’t stop to think. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the doubt that’s been clawing at you since this started.

Her scent hits you first, heady and intoxicating, and for a moment you freeze, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. But then she moves—just slightly, her hips tilting forward in an unspoken plea—and it’s all the permission you need.

You press your mouth to her, your tongue sliding through her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that pulls a broken sound from her throat. Her taste is sharp, almost sweet, and it floods your senses in a way that makes you dizzy. Her thighs close around your head instinctively, caging you in, and you let out a low, involuntary groan against her skin.

“Fuck—” Her voice is high and breathy, her fingers digging into your scalp now, hard enough to sting. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You don’t. You press deeper, your tongue finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circling it with a precision you didn’t know you had. She jerks against you, her body arching off the table, and you use the opportunity to slide your hands up her thighs, holding her steady.

The table creaks beneath her, the sound of the wood groaning under her weight mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth against her. It’s filthy and raw, every sense overwhelmed, and you’re not sure if you’re doing this to prove a point or because you can’t bear to stop. Maybe it’s both.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and you want to mark it, to leave evidence of this all over her skin, but you can’t pull away. Not when she’s gasping your name, her voice breaking like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.

You slide a finger into her, slow at first, just enough to make her hips stutter against your mouth. She’s tight, impossibly so, and you feel her clench around you as you add a second finger, curling them just right. Her moan is loud, sharp, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

“God, you—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, and it sends a twisted sense of satisfaction through you. You focus on her clit again, your tongue moving in quick, precise circles as your fingers work her open, the slick heat of her making it almost too easy.

Her legs tremble around you, and you can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. You don’t let up, don’t give her a second to recover, pressing her higher and higher until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs clamping tight around your head as she rides out her orgasm, and you keep going, drawing it out as long as you can until she’s pushing weakly at your shoulders.

“Enough,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, and you finally pull back, your lips and chin wet with her.

You look up at her, and she’s a mess—her hair sticking to her damp forehead, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

Then, slowly, she reaches for you, her hands shaking as she grabs at your jumper and pulls you up to meet her. Her kiss is rough and desperate, her teeth catching on your lower lip, and you realise she’s not done.

Her hands don’t go for your own clothes like you’d expected. Instead, they move to your thighs, her grip firm and commanding, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, she’s lifting you. The sudden change knocks the air out of your lungs, and you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, locking you against her. The motion is seamless, like she’s done this before—or like she’s always known she could.

You try to tell yourself you hate how easy it feels, but you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands find her shoulders, her jaw, her hair—anything to ground yourself, but nothing works. You’re still dizzy, still untethered, even as her lips crash against yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing controlled. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip, her tongue pushes into your mouth like she’s trying to devour you, and you let her because for once you don’t want to think about what comes next.

She’s walking, you realise belatedly, the steady rhythm of her steps making your body rock against hers. It’s disorienting, the way she carries you so easily, like your weight is nothing, like you’re the fragile thing here.

You kiss her harder to prove you’re not, nipping at her lip until she growls low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through you and pulls a small, involuntary moan from your lips. Her hands tighten on you, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and it sends a sharp thrill up your spine.

The hallway blurs around you, the world narrowing until it’s just her—her mouth on yours, her hands gripping you like she’ll never let go, her body impossibly solid against yours.

When she finally kicks the door open and lays you down on the bed, it feels like surrender. Not hers. Yours.

You don’t realise how tightly you’ve been clinging to her until she pulls back, your fingers still knotted in the collar of her shirt. The fabric wrinkles between your hands, and for a moment you just stare at each other, the room charged with something you don’t have the words to name.

Her eyes are dark, searching, but there’s no smugness, no trace of victory there. Instead, there’s something softer, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and steady, and it undoes you more than anything else she’s done tonight.

It’s too much. The weight of her words, the way she says them like a promise, like she means it. Your chest tightens, and you shake your head, your fingers releasing her collar to press against her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.

But she doesn’t let you push her away completely. Her hands slide up your sides, gentle now, her touch a sharp contrast to the bruising grip she had on you moments ago. She’s watching you, waiting, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

You hate her for it. You hate her because she’s right.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracks, barely audible, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to,” she says simply, and the honesty in her tone is unbearable.

You want to argue, to fight, to push her away, but your body doesn’t move. You just lay there, your chest heaving, your hands trembling against her. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

Because this isn’t about sex anymore.

It’s about her, and the way she looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. It’s about the way your body feels like it’s breaking apart under the weight of it, like you’re finally being seen for what you are—what you’ve always been.

A liar. A coward. Someone too afraid to let go, too afraid to feel, too afraid to love.

Her lips brush yours again, soft this time, barely there, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not enough to drown in. Not yet. But it’s close.

“Let me in,” she whispers, and it’s not a command. It’s an offering.

You close your eyes, and for the first time, you don’t resist.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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vandaliatraveler · 2 years ago

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Summer on the Deckers Creek Trail in Preston County.

From top: wild bergamot (Monarda fistulosa), whose fragrant odor permeates the trail in late July; downy skullcap (Scutellaria incana), an adorable perennial mint that clumps gregariously with wild bergamot; buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis), easily identified by its pincushion-like flowers; Canada lily (Lilium canadense), which can be distinguished from the very similar Turk's-cap lily by petals that don't reflex past the flower's base; the elegant tall thimbleweed (Anemone virginiana), named after the thimble-shaped mound of pistils at the center of its flower; white meadowsweet (Spiraea alba), a lovely native spiraea that grows in damp meadows; and summer phlox (Phlox paniculata), also known as fall phlox, because it blooms prolifically from late July through September.

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zooophagous · 10 months ago

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I see a post, that asks the question "you are now married to your phone background, how fucked are you?"

I close the app and look. When was the last time I considered my phone background? I can't even remember it.

On the screen before me is a purple wildflower, a bergamot, or "bee balm" plant, photographed in North Dakota in 2019 in a family member's back yard.

I am married to a bergamot. She is tall and shapely, moreso than myself, though her choice of purple raiments matched closely my own. She is my favorite color. Maybe that's how we met? Why I decided to woo her?

My wife the bergamot is a socialite. She has more friends than I. Every morning she gossips with a cabbage white butterfly, and cruelly shares their secrets with the rusty patched bumblebees, who compete for her affections with the domesticated aapis mellifera, which trail at her purple coattails like lapdogs.

Her favorite friend, however, is the ruby throated hummingbird. More insect than avian though it does contain a vertebral column, it iridesces like green beetle wings and in my heart I feel jealousy as my bergamot bride and the hummingbird kiss.

I sit with her for a season. Under the sun and the heat and the biting flies. She is covered in dewdrops and in spiders. I spare her from caterpillars and lavish my affections on her with a cup of water.

The world turns at last to its cool side, my bergamot changes her purple coat to her dusty toned night gown. She lies down to sleep and is buried beneath a bed of fresh snow come October.

Love so fleeting, marriage so brief, could I forget my bergamot and move on? Could my love be perennial and evergreen even when my beloved is not? It is winter and my bride is dead. How fucked am I?

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the-mortuary-witch · 3 months ago

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SPELLS

MAKE SURE TO CLEANSE YOUR SPACE, TOOLS, AND JARS BEFORE STARTING ANY SPELL. I WILL ALSO UPDATE THIS POST MORE OFTEN WHEN I FIND MORE SPELLS.

REGULAR SPELLS:

REDUCING STRESS SPELL:

• Take a white candle.

• Spread oils and herbs on your candle that are associated with relaxation.

• Light it with intention.

FULL MOON SPELL CANDLE:

• Cleanse a white candle.

• Make a herbal blend with cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, rosemary, basil, mint, and thyme.

• Anoint your candle.

• Dress your candle with the herbal blend.

• Write your manifestations on bay leaves before tying them to your candle with some string.

• Clear quartz for amplifying your intentions and energy.

• Moon water to charge your intentions with lunar energy.

• Light your candle.

• Let the candle burn out completely during the full moon.

GAINING MONEY SPELL:

You will need:

• A full moon.

• A coin (any silver coin, like a nickel, dime, or quarter).

Instructions:

Position the coin so that the light of the moon shines into it. Gently sweep your hands just above the surface, symbolically gathering the moons silver.

While doing this say:

“Lovely Lady of the moon, bring to me your wealth right soon. Fill my hands with silver and gold. All you give, my hands can hold.”

Repeat this 3 times - Leave the coin there until morning, then keep it in your pocket.

SPELL JARS:

MENTAL STRENGTH SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Place a protection symbol under your jar.

• Salt.

• Rosemary.

• Chamomile.

• Cinnamon.

• Rose petals.

• Protection symbol then placed on top of all the ingredients, the symbol should be facing upward.

• Red candle wax to seal the jar.

SELF LOVE SPELL JAR:

• Either a small or heart shaped jar.

• Rose petals.

• Dried lavender.

• Himalayan salt.

• A love note to yourself.

• Essential oils (rose, jasmine, bergamot, or ylang ylang).

• Honey.

• Rose quartz (tiny ones).

• Rosemary.

• Pink candle wax to seal the jar.

SUCCESS SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Cinnamon.

• Basil.

• Intention/petition.

• Star anise.

• Ginger.

• Orange peel.

• Sea salt.

PROTECTION SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Salt.

• Obsidian (tiny ones).

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Rosemary (break it up then place in the jar to save space).

• Cloves.

• Cinnamon.

• Thyme.

• Lavender.

• Rose (preferably two mini roses).

• Black wax to seal the jar as you focus on your intention to infuse the jar.

• Keep the jar in your home or carry it with you.

GOOD HEALTH SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Cinnamon.

• Rosemary.

• Lavender.

• Garlic.

• Amethyst.

• Green wax to seal the jar.

• Keep the spell jar close by and draw its healing energy when needed.

GET A JOB SPELL JAR:

• Salt.

• Money rice.

• Cinnamon.

• Bay leaf plus dream job written on it.

• Seal with green wax.

• Visualize the moment you get your new job.

MOTIVATION SPELL JAR:

• Salt.

• Cinnamon.

• Coffee.

• Rosemary.

• Bay leaf plus intention written on it.

• Seal with orange or white wax.

PROSPERITY SPELL JAR:

• Green aventurine (tiny ones).

• Citrine.

• Thyme.

• Basil.

• Mint.

• Cinnamon.

• Coins.

• Cloves.

TRANQULITY SPELL JAR

• Chamomile.

• Salt.

• Lavender.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Fluorite.

• Seal with white wax.

ANTI-BAD VIBE SPELL JAR:

• Bay leaves.

• Cloves.

• Mugwort.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Salt.

• Chamomile.

• Seal with red wax.

PRODUCTIVITY SPELL JAR:

• Cinnamon.

• Cloves.

• Citrine (tiny ones).

• Rosemary.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Seal with yellow wax.

CREATIVITY SPELL JAR:

• Citrine.

• Lapis lazuli.

• Jasmine.

• Cinnamon.

• Honey suckle.

• Unakite (tiny ones).

• Rosemary.

• Black pepper.

• Pine.

• Seal with a mix of yellow and orange wax.

FERTILITY SPELL JAR:

• Red clover.

• Hibiscus petals.

• Cinnamon.

• Jasmine.

• Rhodonite.

• Moonstone.

• Garnet.

• Seal with a mix of pink and white wax.

SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS SPELL JAR:

• Thyme.

• Salt.

• Rosemary.

• Tiger’s Eye (tiny ones).

• Smoky quartz (tiny ones).

• Green aventurine (tiny ones).

• Citrine (tiny ones).

• Seal with purple wax.

ANTI-DEPRESSION SPELL JAR:

• Salt.

• Pepper.

• Cayenne.

• Lavender.

• Orange.

• Quartz (tiny ones).

• Rose quartz (tiny ones).

• Seal with orange wax.

DIVINE MASCULINE SPELL JAR:

• Mint.

• Ginger.

• Turmeric.

• Salt.

• Tiger’s Eye (tiny ones).

• Garnet (tiny ones).

• Sunstone (tiny ones).

• Seal with a mix of blue and red wax.

DIVINE FEMININE SPELL JAR:

• Himalayan salt.

• Red clover.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Rose quartz (tiny ones).

• Moonstone (tiny ones).

• Seal with blue wax.

ANXIETY RELEASE SPELL JAR:

• Sea salt.

• Lavender.

• Chamomile

• St. John’s Wort.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Rhodonite (tiny ones).

• Seal with blue wax.

#fyp #fypシ #fypシ゚viral #fypage #fyppage #tumblr fyp #witchcraft #witch #witches #witchblr #learning witchcraft #witch community #spells #spellcraft #spellwork #spell jar #information #helpful #occult

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crushmeeren · 4 months ago

Text

࿐ second part of installment number one for my kinktober series! enjoy my little bats! click here for Bakugou’s version.

࿐ Good fucking lord, this is much longer than I intended it to be, but it’s worth the read, I promise.

࿐ master list link ⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ⋆ FEM READER ⋆

⋆ ⬪ KINKS INCLUDED ࿐ knotting, breeding, scent kink, biting/marking, fighting as foreplay, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of blood, slightly possessive behavior by Hoshina.

┊ ༝ ᭝ ༝ short summary ༝ ᭝ ༝ ┊ ‣ ‣ ‣ ‣ Mating runs are boring and common where you come from. You’ve taken part in more than you can count, yet no one has been able to catch you and the thrill’s worn off. You’re on the verge of giving up completely when someone new joins your pack. It startles you when you realize that you’re about to be in for the mating run of your life.

⇣ ⇣ ༄ ⇣ ⇣ ⇣ ༄ ⇣ ⇣

You often speak to the moon, but she never talks back.

You let out another long, spiritless howl. Hoping for some kind of answer as to why you’re here in the middle of another mating run where nobody seems capable of catching you. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve been pursued. Yet no alpha is up to your caliber.

Sure, your pack mates tease you for your high standards, but you’re confident in who you are and what you want. How could you be expected to settle for somebody less than what you deserve? No run of the mill wolf is what you’re searching for. You huff in frustration, seeing as how it’s the closest thing you can muster to a sigh while you’re covered in thick fur.

Shifting your weight from paw to paw, you stare up at the full moon, enthralled by the beauty of it as you debate whether or not to leave your peaceful resting spot here by the creek.

You’re on the verge of throwing in the towel and returning to the starting site when the crunch of a branch nearby catches your attention. Your ears twitch, perking up fully at the noise. The soft padding of sneaky paws cut through the babbling of the water, a strong smell of freshly fallen rain and bergamot hitting your nose.

Reno, you recognize, tail beginning to swish happily. Your long time friend has made somewhat of a ritual out of seeking you out at the end of a mating run. Usually it’s when you come home, meeting you halfway as a wolf to help you blow off steam by wrestling.

This time though, Reno isn’t participating in a run and he isn’t waiting near the town for you. He’s just recently joined the pack’s patrol, and Narumi has trusted him with the responsibility of keeping an eye on your territory while many wolves are otherwise occupied during the run.

You turn your focus to the tree line and bark happily when a large snowy white wolf breaks through. You raise to all fours, bounding over to the wolf you consider a brother. Once you get closer, Reno drops his front half to the floor, spine curving and displaying his desire to rough house. He growls playfully, sneezing once or twice to show he intends no harm.

You respond in kind, slowly stalking towards him and you lower your head between your shoulders. You both freeze as you creep up right beside him. It’s tense for a few seconds and then the two of you are snapping half heartedly at each other’s muzzles. You nip teasingly at his scruff before backing off a few steps and lifting your paw to strike his shoulder.

Reno rumbles in irritation, launching himself forward and erasing the few feet that remains between you. You collide roughly and the force sends you both tumbling to the floor. Reno manages to get his teeth into your shoulder, trying to get you to admit defeat. You use all four of your legs to kick at him, hind paws digging into a sensitive area on his ribs and he releases you with a yelp.

You roll away and stand abruptly, not wasting a second before pouncing on him and forcing him onto his back. You lock your jaws around his throat and apply enough pressure to pin him in place. He squirms petulantly, but a warning growl from you has him giving up with a whine that reminds you of a tea kettle going off. Reno slumps and bares his vulnerable belly.

You pull away, panting to catch your breath and lean down to lick his cheek affectionately. You start to nibble gently at the side of his face to convey that you’re glad to see him. Reno licks your muzzle a few times and then rolls to get out from underneath you, opting to plop down into a seated position instead.

You’re about to shift back to speak with him in person when an ear splitting, agonized howl cuts through the happy atmosphere you’d been basking in.

A chilly shot of adrenaline spikes your blood, causing your heart to thunder against your rib cage. Reno’s eyes are wide and alert when you turn to him in alarm.

He’s sprinting in the direction of the howl at a break neck pace before you can blink, kicking up dirt as he goes. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, chest clenching tight with fear as Reno disappears from sight.

Your strong survival instinct pushes you to start racing back towards town, not keen on sticking around to see what kind of situation would result in a noise as gut wrenching as the one you heard.

Your steps falter when you recall just how distraught the unknown wolf sounded, almost as if you could feel the desperation in it. The echo of it replays in your mind for the entirety of your run.

⇣ ⇣ ⇣

It’s chaotic once you arrive.

You reach the clearing where all mating runs begin, noticing several other pack members have started to return, forced to cut their nights short as well. The mounting tension in the air causes you to shift too quickly, joints protesting loudly as you rush through it.

Your night vision allows you to locate the robe you’d left behind, finding it crumpled in a small pile near the tree line. Anxiously you tug it over your shoulder and tie the belt, searching the area until your gaze lands on the familiar mess of hair that belongs to your other dear friend, Narumi Gen.

“Gen!”

The man’s head whips around, eyes widening when he realizes who’s calling for him. Narumi stalks towards you, face pinched in anger out of reflex and concealing the concern that’s simmering just below the surface.

“Are you alright?” Narumi places a heavy hand on your shoulder, scanning your body to check for any obvious signs of injury.

You nod, gripping the hems of your sleeves. “I’m fine, but Reno is still out there.”

Narumi curses loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. They flash open seemingly even more furious than before.

“Goddammit, I told that fuckin’ pup to wait and call out for us if he came across a shitstorm. I knew I shouldn’t have assigned him to patrol tonight!”

As the leader of your packs defense, he’s responsible for everyone on his team, and Reno hasn’t been a part of it for long. He’s younger than you both, still wet behind the ears when it comes to situations like this, and Narumi’s clear desperation about Reno makes panic start to well up in the back of your throat.

“What the hell is going on out there Gen? You’ve got to go get him!” Your adrenaline turns up another notch and now you’re unable to stand still, fingers curling and uncurling restlessly at your sides.

Narumi’s expression turns stormy, jaw clenching when he glances at the forest. “I’m heading out there now with Kafka and some of the others. Someone out there was calling out for help, but we don’t know if it’s real or if there’s rogues nearby trying to sneak in under our noses. Go back to town, I’ll bring Reno home.”

Your gut twists sourly at the thought of leaving Reno out there while you sit in the safety of your home. You’re aware you would be useless in battle, but you have a decent amount of medical knowledge stored in your mind. At least enough to be able to tell whether someone could be helped in the field or if they need to be taken straight to your mother. She is the town’s doctor, after all.

“No, no fucking way Gen. I’m waiting here for you. I’ll be able to help if he’s hurt.”

Narumi sneers, obviously wanting to argue, but then Kafka calls out frantically for him to hurry and he knows he can’t waste anymore time fighting.

“Fine. Plant your stubborn ass right here and wait. Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle.”

You roll your eyes, but you slip your arms around his waist in a hug anyways. “Be careful Gen.”

Narumi’s reply is to hug you back a tad tighter.

Then he’s vanishing, shifting as he turns into a massive black and white wolf, confidently leading the others to where Reno must be waiting.

⇣ ⇣ ⇣

You wait.

And wait.

And wait some fucking more.

The sun starts breaking over the horizon when you finally catch the familiar scents of your pack mates. Reno’s rain mixed with bergamot and Narumi’s spicy cinnamon stand out the most.

Your shoulders sag with relief, too distracted by the fact that maybe your friends are okay to realize there’s an unfamiliar hint of vanilla and honey mixed amongst them. Not too mention the metallic tang of blood is overpowering close to everything else. The scent is so strong your spine stiffens and your stomach rolls.

“What if Reno was hurt?”

“What if it’s coming from Gen or Kafka?”

Some of your fear is abated when the three step into sight, but your head jerks in surprise when you notice Reno is carrying a naked man. One who must be a stranger because you’ve never seen him before.

And he currently is more wound than person.

You scramble to your feet and rush over to meet them halfway. The dark purple haired man is unconscious in Reno’s arms, and your brain freezes when you take note of the gaping laceration that stretches vertically down the middle of his sternum. It looks like someone tried to rip his heart out, and the thought makes you sick.

Thankfully, whoever did this, doesn’t seem to have cut deep enough to kill him. You’re fairly certain it’s only a layer of muscle that’s exposed, no vital organs or bones. You glance over the rest of his body to assess all his injuries.

Scratches cover his upper chest, his neck and his arms. There’s a steadily bleeding gash that cuts straight through his left eyebrow and you think one of his ribs is broken. His right eye is swollen shut, and there’s a split in his lower lip. He seems to be unscathed below the waist.

You can figure out how this happened to him later, but he desperately needs much more medical attention than you currently can provide.

“Get him to my mother, now. I’ll run ahead to warn her.”

Reno nods once, and before anyone else speaks you turn and sprint in the direction of your town. It’s takes at least ten minutes when you’re running at a decent pace, but you make it there in five. You burst through the clinic door, unintentionally scaring your mother and making her jump about a foot into the air.

You frantically explain everything that’s happened, doing your very best to describe all the injuries to her with your limited knowledge of medical terms. Her expression shifts into something you only see when she’s working life or death situations, and she immediately instructs you on what to get ready for the strangers arrival.

Reno rushes in shortly after, carefully placing the wolf on the cot your mother instructs him to use. It’s all a blur, but you watch her work a miracle, as she normally does, and help to the best of your ability.

Each time you take in the sight of the strangers badly beaten up face, your heart clenches in a way you’ve never experienced before.

And for the life of you, you can’t figure out why.

⇣ ⇣ ⇣

Once again, you find yourself waiting. It’s as much of a nightmare now as it had been earlier.

You’d been shoved out the door and into the waiting area as soon as your father had turned up to help. You’d struggled not to protest it, an overwhelming urge to protect, to help him screaming at the rational side of your brain.

But you’d forced yourself to obey and sat outside chewing on your fingernails for what seemed like days. The only time you’d convinced yourself to leave was to run home to find a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to cover up with.

Anyone who’d come in to try and sneak a glimpse of the newcomer was abruptly shooed away by you. Of course, you’d helped the ones who needed actual simple medical attention. Now you’ve taken up space in one of the waiting chairs, gnawing on your bottom lip while you stare at the floor lost in thought.

The door to the back creaks open slowly, revealing your mother and you shoot to your feet already halfway to her before she’s able to get two words out.

“Is he alright? Has he woken up? What happened to him?” Your rapid fire questions have your mother smiling comfortingly. She gives you a reassuring squeeze on the arm, turning to walk back through the door without checking to see if you’re following.

“Take a deep breath honey, he’s going to be just fine. The laceration to his chest was the worst of it, and we managed to stop the bleeding and stitch him up. Since the broken rib didn’t pierce his lung, it will have to heal on its own. We cleaned the rest of his wounds but he hasn’t woken up since. The severity of it all has taken it’s toll on him.”

Words fail you as she fills in the blanks for you, a fierce sense of relief uncurling your shoulders when she confirms he’ll be okay. You trail behind as you enter the room, eyes landing on the still unconscious form of the stranger. You notice a soft pair of athletic shorts peaking out of the blanket that’s been pulled up to his waist. At least he’s got clothes on now.

The closer you get the more it shocks you to find there was a strikingly handsome face hiding underneath all the blood. You try to ignore the swarm of butterflies in your gut and focus on the present. You shake your head softly to yourself. You don’t even know this man’s name, or if he’s dangerous.

“When he will wake up?”

Before you realize what you’re doing, your fingers have moved on their own to delicately trace the stitches that decorate his eyebrow. You snatch your hand back as if you were burned when you catch yourself, face blazing.

If your mother notices the uncharacteristic moment, she doesn’t comment on it.

“I’m not sure baby, it’s only been a few hours. Let’s give him some time before we jump to any conclusions. Assuming he’s also a wolf, his regeneration should kick in soon and speed up the recovery process. With that being said, be careful when you’re here. If he wakes up, come get somebody so you aren’t alone. At least until we learn his intentions.”

You swallow drily, lips pressing into a line as she leaves to go gather more bandages.

Your mother had said when you’re here, not if. As though she has no doubt about finding you rooted to his side.

You pull a chair up next to his bed and settle in to wait.

⇣ ⇣ ⇣

Your mother was right.

The next few days sees you spending almost all of your free time in the clinic. You’d taken to washing the stranger’s hair, cleaning his face and changing his bandages a few times a day.

He appears to be healing well, according to your mother. The scratches have begun fading to faint pink lines and the laceration down his sternum has lost it’s stitches, already scabbing over nicely.

Reno had visited the first day and you’d hugged him tight, playfully bumping your forehead with his as you tell him what an idiot he was for going out there alone. He only laughs, returning the hug just as tightly.

He let you know that he hadn’t gotten any more information than you because the stranger was already knocked out cold when he showed up. Narumi had appeared not long after, chewing him out and ordering him to watch the guy while he and Kafka searched the area.

They’d come up with nothing but a scent trail that ended at the edge of your territory. They chose not to go any further in case the threat had moved closer to town.

Even as the puzzle remained a mystery, you continued to care for the unfairly attractive man. A sick sense of self satisfaction continuing to build inside you as you watched him heal with your help.

Narumi stopped by on the third day, eyeing the sleeping stranger wearily before you hugged him the same way you had done to Reno. He’d laughed and reminded you that “nothing could take him down.” Narumi wasn’t able to offer much else in terms of information either, but he did make you promise to find him once the stranger woke up.

The next morning you arrive bright and early to check over the man you’ve oddly become attached to. You carefully carry a sterile bowl filled with warm water and a wash cloth over to his cot, ringing it out and sitting next to him to clean his face like you normally do when he starts to stir lightly.

Your heart skips a beat, and you freeze with your hand hovering mid air as he groans softly, eyes fluttering open just enough to allow you to see purple irises. His confused gaze lands on you, squinting as he focuses intently.

“Where am I?” He asks, voice hoarse from spending so long silent. You blink a few times, recovering and bringing your hand back to your lap. You try to calm your racing pulse.

“You’re safe, you’re in my town’s clinic. One of my pack mates found you in the forest after you’d been knocked out.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “I thought I was in heaven.”

You tilt your head, thoroughly confused. “You thought…. what?”

“In heaven,” he says as if it’s obvious. “Ya know, because you must be an angel.” The silence that stretches between you is borderline deafening as you process what he’s saying.

Is he… joking? At a time like this?

Your question is answered when he’s no longer able to hold in his laughter, sending himself into a wheezing coughing fit and you start to giggle from the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

The man settles back down with a wince, eyes widening and fingers reaching down briefly to trace the new, large scab on his sternum. You study him curiously, giving him time to process. He rests his head back on the pillow, shifting to stare at you serenely.

You wonder if he’s a bit insane to be so calm waking up in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers.

“I’m Soshiro, Hoshina Soshiro,” he croaks.

Soshiro, you think, testing how it sounds in your head. You like it a bit too much. You let your gaze trace the sharp features of his jaw, the ironically cat like slope of his eyes and he smiles just enough to show off his canines. A low heat slams into your belly, slithering up the back of your neck and burning the tips of your ears.

He raises his good eyebrow and waits for your response, prompting you to clear your throat and glance at the floor awkwardly before providing him with your name.

Once Soshiro assures you he won’t go anywhere, you run to the training area to fetch Narumi just as you promised and stop to alert your mother as well.

The three of you, and your pack leader Mina, gather around his bed as Narumi interrogates him a bit too harshly for your taste. You glare at Narumi but he ignores you. Not that it matters, because Soshiro answers all his questions with an easy smile. You notice then that Soshiro squints quite often, eyes only open wide when he’s serious.

His pretty purple eyes are on display now, somber as he lays out all the details of what he can remember from being attacked. You have to look away from the intensity of his stare when he glances at you. Soshiro’s vanilla honey sent sours as he speaks, and suddenly you’re aching to do anything in your power to make him smell sweet again.

Soshiro reluctantly admits to being the alpha and leader of a rogue pack. But he assures that they were only rogues because they had nowhere else to turn so they ended up sticking together. There were only four them, and they were just passing through the area when things rapidly went south.

They’d stumbled across a group of about eight other rogues who were dead set on not allowing them to pass by peacefully. Soshiro’s the one who took on eight wolves, by himself, so his pack mates could escape.

He’d been distracted for a split second and that’s all it took for one of the rogue wolves to land a solid hit on him. A different one tore into his chest and that’s when he instinctively let out a howl that cried for help. He assumes hearing Reno’s approach is what scared them off, but he’s unsure because he passed out from blood loss at that point.

Soshiro’s face screams exhausted once he’s finished retelling the story, and your mother takes it upon herself to cut off the questioning and demand everyone allow him to rest. Mina pulls your mother away and speaks to her quietly in another room, and Narumi leaves with a stone cold expression and not another word.

You, however, remain in place.

Soshiro’s frowning softly, brows pinched together in concentration as he stares out the window. His hands clench into fists at his sides and you act impulsively.

Gingerly, as if trying to avoid spooking an animal, you uncurl his hand and lace your fingers together. You concentrate on pushing out your own scent and purr when his features smooth out. His lips tug into a grateful smile and he squeezes your hand, thumb running over your knuckles.

You may not know much about Soshiro yet, but something you are certain of, is that he’s strong. He’s brave. He’s selfless and bubbly and he put his life on the line so his pack mates could have a chance to live.

You may have finally found someone worthy of being your mate.

And it excites you like no other.

⇣ ⇣ ⇣

It takes close to a full month for Soshiro to completely recover.

You’d occupied nearly all his time during it though, not that he was complaining. By week two you even had him up and out of bed, taking him on a tour to learn the town and meet some of the others. Soshiro, you find, is incredibly playful and quite friendly. You find it endearing just how well liked he’s become.

Your pack leader Mina has even stopped by the clinic a few times, offering him a place in your pack in exchange for joining Narumi’s squad. She says it’s because we need as many skilled members for protection as possible, but you have a sneaking suspicion she’s got a soft spot for Soshiro due to his situation. She’d suffered something similar in the past.

You selfishly cross your fingers that he’ll agree to stay even if it means he’ll have to give up his old pack in order to do so. It wasn’t difficult for you to come to the conclusion that you have feelings for the man, but you’ve decided to keep your cards close to your chest for now.

All in all, Soshiro’s healthy again, and that matters first and foremost to you. A scar on his eyebrow and one that stretches the length of his sternum are thankfully all that remains as evidence of his attack.

The day after he’s officially released, Soshiro requests you bring him to the place where Narumi trains his squad. You’d brought him by there multiple times before on your walks and he’d always had this longing, wistful expression as he watched them spar.

The two of you stroll towards Soshiro’s desired location, even if you’re a bit weary about it, and you happily listen to Soshiro chatter along the way.

“I bet I can beat Narumi,” Soshiro says out of nowhere, his scent reeking of confidence. You stare at him as if he’s grown two heads.

“As in, win a sparing match against him?”

“Exactly!” Soshiro grins brightly at you and the warmth of it infects you enough that you can’t help but smile back.

“What makes you say that? Not that I’m doubting your skills, but Narumi has always been one of the strongest members of our pack.”

Soshiro taps his chin in fake contemplation, humming playfully. “I guess you’ll just have to see and find out. After all, I’ll be fighting to impress someone.”

Heat burrows into your cheeks and hopeful butterflies flood your stomach at the implication in his words. Unsure of how to respond, you nod, biting the inside of your cheek. When you risk a glance at Soshiro, he’s already staring at you, the corners of his squinty eyes crinkling even more as his smile grows.

As you continue to walk you stare straight ahead, and somehow you muster up enough confidence to intertwine your hand with Soshiro’s. His scent turns even sweeter, and his chest rumbles with satisfaction.

⇣ ⇣ ⇣

Much to Soshiro’s dismay, Narumi wasn’t in the training area.

However, you did get the pleasure of seeing him put Kafka and Reno on their backs, several times. It settled something inside you that had been agitated for quite some time.

In your eyes, Soshiro is the strongest. Even without beating Narumi in a fight.

Another couple months pass by swiftly and Soshiro has made quite the place for himself within your pack. He’s adjusted impressively well. Narumi has, much to his reluctance, even made Soshiro his second in command. That was mostly due to Mina’s insistence though. There’s some sort of strange rivalry between Soshiro and Narumi that you don’t understand, but it’s friendly enough.

You spend an ungodly amount of time with Soshiro, and the more you’re together the more you’re certain he’s the one you want. The two of you haven’t said the words aloud, but you can tell he wants the same.

Currently, you find yourself lounging on his couch, sprawled between his legs like a lazy cat and pillowing your head on his firm chest. You’ve got a hand pushed up under his t-shirt, fingers rhythmically tracing the scar on his sternum.

A movie plays in the background, but you’re entirely fixated on the way Soshiro’s warm chest rises and falls gently with each breath he takes. The slow, steady sound of his heartbeat lures you closer to taking a nap.

Soshiro’s honey vanilla scent clouds the air and it doesn’t help you stay awake in the slightest. His slender fingers card through your hair, pausing to affectionately scratch near the base of your skull and you vibrate with a satisfied purr. The thick sensation of contentment is what you blame for loosening your tongue.

You mumble softly. “Soshiro?”

“Mm?” He replies sleepily.

“Are you going to catch me?”

Soshiro doesn’t miss a beat, sliding his hand down to possessively cup the back of your neck, thumb digging into the muscle under your jaw.

“Oh baby,” he starts sweetly. “I’ve already caught you. But, if you mean to ask am I going to hunt you down? Am I going to pin you to the forest floor and make you present for me like the good omega I know you are?” He squeezes your neck once. “Am I going to have my way with you and knot you? Scar your pretty little neck with my bite?” He trails the pads of his fingers over the side of your throat. “I’m offended you even have to ask.”

You shove your burning face into his chest, voice muffled by his shirt. “What makes you think you’ll get to me first?”

The nonchalant way Soshiro speaks causes goosebumps to cover your arms, as if there’s not a single chance he won’t be the one to catch you.

“Ah, well that’s because I’ll rip whoever else tries to shreds.” He tangles his fingers through the hair on the back of your skull and pulls until you’re forced to lift your head and see him. His eyes are wide open, dark gaze solely focused on you. “Seems like a good plan, right?”

You try to nod, hair still caught in his fist. Soshiro drags you up for a kiss and you think you might tear someone apart if it means Soshiro wins you in the end.

⇣ ⇣ ⇣

“Omegas! As always, you have five minutes to create some distance before the Alphas follow. Your individual run ends when you’re caught or once the sun rises, everyone understand?”

A quiet murmur of confirmation trickles through the crowd as Mina finishes going over the rules. The moon is high in the sky and you’re restless as you listen to this speech for the hundredth time.

You can feel Soshiro practically burning holes into the side of your head, and when you peak over at him, you flush hotly at the intense look on his face. He flashes you a small smile and wiggles his fingers in acknowledgment. You return the gesture before starting to slip off your robe along with the other omegas.

The fabric drops to the grass and a suffocating wave of vanilla honey hits you like a truck. You glance over at Soshiro in surprise and his face has gone pink, jaw clenched tightly as he drags wide eyes up and down your bare figure. Your toes curl into the grass and then Mina is signaling for you all to start running.

You smile coyly at Soshiro, sending him a wink and then you take off running. You shift seamlessly into a wolf, shaking your fur out and leaping through the tree line. You head in the direction of an area you know well, a place near the edge of your territory that overlooks a cliff. It’s quite far, but it’s beautiful, and you’re hoping you can make it there before Soshiro takes you down.

Branches snag your fur as you run, but you pay the pain no mind. It’s nonexistent with all the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You distantly hear the shrill siren that announces the Alphas can begin their hunt and your pulse skyrockets.

You stop only once or twice to brush up against the trunk of a tree or a branch, just to leave behind some of your scent for Soshiro to track. It dawns on you that you’re starting to get about halfway to your destination when you hear a playful howl break through the otherwise quiet forest.

It kicks your ass into gear because you know it’s Soshiro. And fuck, it’s closer than you anticipated.

Your muscles begin to burn from the hardcore pace you’re being forced to keep up. Your ribs expand rapidly as you pant to try and keep enough oxygen running through your lungs.

A crunching noise to the left of you has you glancing that direction, and your steps falter in shock when you see glimpses of deep purple fur rushing through the trees like a blur. He’s only about twenty feet from where you’re currently running.

A giddy sensation makes you yip. You knew were right to choose Soshiro, but having it validated in front of your eyes makes you feel elated.

You abruptly change direction, turning right and sprinting like a bullet train towards a clearing you know is close. A furious snarl echoes from somewhere behind you and you’d laugh if you could.

You dig your claws into the dirt to generate more momentum, and it propels you into the clearing and towards the small creek you’ve often visited. The thundering of paws closes in again, but you’re still thinking you can outrun him when Soshiro slams into you so harshly you fly off your feet and splash into the water.

A bright pain flares in your shoulder as you land and all you can think is “just how fucking fast is he?”, before you scramble to your feet, fur soaking and hanging heavily with water. You realize you can’t even waste a second with your mate chasing you, and you launch yourself back into a run before Soshiro’s teeth can sink into your leg.

Water flies off your fur in every direction as you close in on the cliff side. You buzz with energy as you glide through the maze of trees as fast as your legs can carry you. You get the vague sense that Soshiro’s just been playing with you until now, because all of a sudden he’s rapidly gaining ground on you and the fear that you won’t make it prickles at the back of your head.

Just as you’re certain your legs will finally give out you burst through the tress, having to pump the breaks and skid to a stop before you fly over the edge of the cliff. You spin around, lungs positively burning for air, to see Soshiro stalking towards you, head lowered as he hunts you down.

It occurs to you that the easily overlooked flaw in your plan was that you’re now trapped with nowhere to go. That is, unless you feel like taking a nose dive. You know you’re not fast enough to slip past Soshiro, and so you steady yourself, growling at him half heartedly. You’ll have to take him head on.

Soshiro pounces first and you leap towards him simultaneously, colliding painfully and knocking your heads together as you try to snap at his throat. Soshiro backs off a couple steps before throwing his body weight into his next movement and barrels into your shoulder, sending you crashing to the floor.

You go down with a yelp, landing on your side and sliding a few inches. Before you can even consider retaliating, Soshiro’s jaw locks around your throat, applying enough pressure to pinch the skin but not enough to puncture. He rumbles lowly with a warning and you respond with a whimper, sagging with defeat.

Soshiro drags the moment out, and then he pulls away by a few feet to allow you to shift and shed your wolf, settling on his haunches as he watches you flop onto your back, panting and heaving to catch your breath.

He huffs in amusement and you glare halfheartedly at him. In the next moment Soshiro’s human again, sitting on his knees. He’s sweaty and flushed pink all the way to his nipples, grinning with an infuriating amount of self satisfaction.

You push up into a sitting position, shoving at his chest before he can speak. Now that he’s caught you, your adrenaline has morphed into an arousal that burns so viscerally you think your blood will boil. You physically cannot waste any more time not being locked on his knot.

Soshiro, much to your dismay, snatches your wrist and doesn’t budge an inch.

“Ah ah, I don’t think so princess. You’re not calling the shots tonight.” You try to pull your wrist free, whining childishly but Soshiro wraps his fingers around your throat and slams you back onto the ground, rattling your brain and a tearing a loud groan from your chest. Your pussy aches to be filled, and the blatant display of strength makes it worse.

“C’mon Soshiro, you caught me, just like I knew you would. Now mate me,” You demand impatiently, throat bobbing against his palm as you swallow. You grip his wrist with a hiss when he squeezes again, eyes flickering down to where Soshiro’s cock stands fully hard and proud.

“Such a bossy little mate, you’re so adorable,” he coos, releasing your throat and pushing your thigh open with one hand so he can settle snug in between your legs. You push your lower lip out but then Soshiro’s thick cock twitches against your inner thigh and that wipes away all traces of your pout.

“Soshiro, please,” you beg, squirming and tilting your hips up to try and catch the head of his cock. He moans, lids fluttering when your pussy glides along his shaft, drooling all over him and he brings a hand up to squeeze your tit roughly. Your back arches into his palm and your nails dig into the dirt below.

Your mate trails his hand down your sternum with an appreciative hum and warmth pools in low your belly. You want him so badly you’re willing to fight him over it. Your gums ache dully, the urge to sink your teeth into his neck and claim him consuming you.

Soshiro’s thumb finds your swollen clit and he rubs slow, deliberate circles into it, sending waves of pleasure throughout your pelvis. It’s more of a tease than anything else at this point.

“That’s what you wanted, right baby?” He teases, dragging his thumb down to part the soft lips of your pussy, a rumble rattling his chest at what he finds. “God, you look so fucking gorgeous under me like this, I can’t wait to see you split open on my knot.”

Your clit twitches and Soshiro grins slyly.

“Why are you teasing me? You said you would give me what I want!” You’re aware sound like a little kid who hasn’t gotten the treat they asked for, but dammit, you just want Soshiro to fulfill his promise!

“And I’m not going back on my word baby girl, just appreciating the moment.” He bites into his bottom lip, gaze heavy lidded as he stares down at you.

Soshiro presses his thumb into the base of his cock, angling it just so and then he’s pushing inside you. Your breath hitches, toes already starting curl at just how good it is. The stretch is nothing short of perfect, and when he pulls his hips back as if to test the waters, the drag makes you shiver in anticipation.

Apparently satisfied, Soshiro grips the backs of your knees and shoves them towards your chest, folding you into a mating press. He shifts his weight, readjusts his knees and you hold his forearms to ground yourself. You throw your head backwards, crying out his name loudly when he starts to fuck you in earnest.

Soshiro laughs breathlessly as you beg him not to stop, sweat beading on his temple and rolling down to his jaw.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’m not stopping until you’re limping out of here.” The threat has your pussy fluttering, and Soshiro whines at the sensation, curling his hips the next time he thrusts in.

You all but scream when his cock strikes your g-spot dead on, the ruthless motions of his hips jostling you and scratching your back against the rocks underneath you each time. You don’t even get the chance to warn him before you’re cumming so hard your vision whites out.

“Oh fuck yes. God baby just like that. Give it to me my sweet little mate, cum on my fucking cock.” Soshiro sounds on the edge of feral when he speaks, voice fucked out and breathy.

Soshiro’s knot starts to swell, begging to pop inside your pussy and he lets your legs fall to his lithe hips, sweaty fingers slipping against your skin as he grips your waist and tugs you back onto his cock as he pushes forward.

“Soshiro, baby, please give me your knot, let me fucking have it!” You beg desperately, dragging your nails along his forearms to leave angry pink lines. Soshiro’s cock twitches violently, and he leans down to shove his face into the crook of your neck with a husky moan, licking your scent gland.

“You’re going to look so cute swollen with my pups,” he says with a whine, snapping his hips shallowly yet urgently. You groan in agreement and wind your arms around his neck.

Soshiro pants hotly against your collarbone, breath hitching as he readjusts his grip on your hips and shoves his knot inside you. His cock twitches, stuffing you enough that some of his cum manages to sneak out past his knot.

Razor sharp teeth sink into your neck and you let out a wail so loud you wonder if every other wolf in the forest can hear and just know Soshiro is rearranging your guts. Your mates scent explodes and you’re delirious with the need to claim him, pushing roughly at his shoulders to get him to let go.

His jaw unclenches and you relish in the slick sensation of his teeth sliding free from your neck. You growl, grabbing the hair at the base of his skull and wrench his head back.

Soshiro complies with a whimper, your blood staining his lips and trickling down his chin. The sight drives you fucking insane and you tear into the junction of his neck and shoulder. Sweet vanilla honey bursts across your tongue when you pierce his mating gland, and the metallic tinge of blood doesn’t deter you in the slightest.

Your mate squirms in your punishing grip, and you growl harshly, clamping down harder. He whines long and low, nails sinking into the dirt next to your head.

When the wolf in the back of your mind is truly satiated, you release Soshiro and he gasps, cock kicking inside you again. Your head falls back to the ground, chest heaving as you try to calm down, each one of your senses on high alert. Soshiro snakes his arms under your back, holding you close as he rolls the two of you until you can relax on his chest.

You go willingly, straddling his waist and pressing your face into his throat with a deep inhale. His scent is now a mixture of the two of yours. Your purr, slipping your arms around his neck and he sighs happily. The two of you bask in the high you’re on, slowly coming back down to earth when Soshiro speaks abruptly.

“Thank you.” You raise your head up to peer down at him curiously. “For saving me, I mean. I’m not sure if I ever said so, but I’m grateful it was you by my side while I recovered,” he says sincerely.

Affection blooms in your chest. “I should be thanking you. I thought I would never find a worthy mate, but when you showed up I knew I was lucky.”

Soshiro giggles. “I think that should be the other way around. I’m the lucky one. I love you though, you know that right?”

The grin you wear splits your face apart. “I love you too Soshiro. You’re stuck with me forever now though, you know that right?”

He strains his neck to reach up and plant a chaste kiss on your lips.

“I’m aware, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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