#Lesser Glow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

palevcr · 20 days ago

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── ⊱ ۫ ׅAPOLOGIES

SUMMARY: When Theo fucks up — spectacularly, stupidly, drunkenly — he knows there’s only one way to earn back the girl he never deserved but can’t live without. And she makes him work for it. For days she ignores him, freezes him out with that quiet, dangerous composure that makes him want to kneel and ruin her in the same breath. So he does both. Cornered in the Slytherin common room, she tries to stay cold, tries to hold onto her righteous anger — but Theo’s apologies don’t come in words alone. On his knees, hands reverent on silk stockings and his mouth pressed where she’s softest, he begs for forgiveness in the only language he knows she’ll accept.

genre: decadent apology smut, messy desperate intimacy, possessive worship, soft ruin, bratty stubborn reader, helpless soft dom Theo

pairing: Theodore Nott x Zabini!reader

tw: MDNI+18, explicit content, semi-public setting, oral sex (f receiving), possessive/pleading language, soft power play, messy apology, mild breathplay implication (thighs around head), messy clothing, slight humiliation kink undertones (Theo finishing in his pants), praise kink, obsession-coded devotion, brat tamer undertones, intense emotional vulnerability

authors note: Possible spam incoming cause I’ve been filling up my drafts for a while and I’ve decided it’s time they’re let free and into society so um yeah😼

Theodore had fucked up. Nothing revolutionary there — it was practically woven into the fabric of his personality by now, the reckless threads of impulse and arrogance stitched so tightly that sometimes even he couldn’t tell where his carelessness ended and his charm began. But this time, he’d gone and done something spectacularly idiotic — a monumental slip at some nameless Slytherin party blurred by too much firewhisky and half-remembered laughter echoing against stone walls. He’d drunk himself into oblivion, so thoroughly that the entire night was a hazy smear in his memory, a gap that yawned wider each time he tried to remember whose perfume had clung to his shirt when he woke up. Whatever had happened, it was enough to ignite the quiet, lethal fury of the girl now seated across from him — the one person he would gladly let ruin him, again and again.

Y/N Zabini, his princess and his executioner both, hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction for three days. Three days of icy silences, of brushed-off apologies left to rot between them like wilted roses. She hadn’t raised her voice, hadn’t demanded anything, hadn’t lowered herself to the petty shrieks and dramatics he was so accustomed to from the rest of them — and it was that, precisely that, which unspooled something desperate and feral in him. Because she knew her worth, and Merlin help him, he worshipped that about her. She was never going to be easy — not like the girls who giggled at his dry wit and melted under the practiced flicker of his half-smirk. She was the opposite: silk-wrapped steel, a slow poison dressed in velvet and gold. And right now, she looked at him as though she was calculating whether he was worth the trouble of an execution at all.

They sat opposite each other in the Slytherin common room, emerald firelight licking at the shadows under her jaw, the faint shimmer of her lip gloss catching the dim glow each time she shifted her mouth — which was not often enough for his sanity. She reclined like royalty, one leg draped elegantly over the other, her shoe dangling from the tip of her toes in a silent threat of indifference. She could have been bored out of her mind if not for the eyes — dark, merciless, and trained on him like a predator tracing the fragile heartbeat of its prey. And Theodore Nott — cunning, glib-mouthed, heir to secrets that would blacken lesser boys’ souls — didn’t know whether he ought to shout back or drop to his knees and beg to be let back into her good graces in the only way he knew how.

“You know,” he began, his voice sandpapered raw from too many unspoken apologies, soft enough to slip under her skin if she let it, “I can’t mend what I can’t see, darling.” He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles threatened to split pale. He held her gaze like a man holding a live wire — half hoping it would kill him if only to feel her rage break this suffocating silence. “Talk to me. Scream, hex me — set fire to my bed, for Merlin’s sake — just do something. Anything other than this... silence you wear like a fucking crown.”

She did not flinch. Did not blink. She merely tilted her head, the slow arc of her neck graceful and menacing all at once. Her lashes lifted — delicate as moth wings against the flame — and her stare pinned him more effectively than any binding charm ever could. There was a ghost of a smile there, too, something cruel and amused that danced at the corner of her mouth before vanishing into the cool marble of her expression. In that moment, Theo felt it again — that jagged line between fury and want snapping taut in his chest, straining so tight it almost hurt. Because the truth was this: she was never more devastating than when she was angry at him. Never more beautiful than when her silence said, I could break you in half if I felt like it. And maybe — just maybe — he wanted her to.

“What do you want me to do?” Theo’s voice cracked the silence like a match struck in the dark, raw and almost boyish in its desperation — a far cry from the practiced drawl he usually wielded like a blade. The question hung there between them, a fragile offering, his pride laid bare at her feet.

But she only lifted one slender shoulder in a dismissive shrug, eyes flicking away to some distant, invisible point beyond the common room walls — as though the ancient stone and flickering torches were more worthy of her attention than the fool kneeling for her mercy. The dismissal made something vicious twist in Theo’s chest, a tangle of want and regret so thick it nearly strangled him. He sighed, his fingers dragging up the fabric of his trousers, seeking grounding in the rough scrape of wool beneath his palms. For a heartbeat, he simply watched her — drank her in like a dying man might a final glass of wine — then rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, as if afraid a sudden movement might shatter the porcelain shell of her calm.

He stepped closer, the soft leather of his shoes whispering against the worn carpet. She felt his presence before she looked at him — the shift in the air, the subtle dip in temperature that always seemed to follow him like an omen. When her gaze finally met his again, there was a flicker there — the tiniest chink in her armor, wide enough for him to crawl through and drown himself in. And drown he would, gladly.

Without a word, Theo sank to his knees before her — a motion so unexpected it drew a startled breath from her parted lips. His hands settled on her calf, reverent and trembling, before he pressed his forehead to her knee as if it were an altar at which he was long overdue to worship. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words muffled against the fine fabric of her stockings, soft but carved with a sincerity that made something tight in her chest coil even tighter.

Slowly, he dragged his palm up the smooth slope of her shin, over the delicate dip of her knee until his fingertips curled possessively at the bend. His mouth followed, brushing warm apologies against her skin like whispered prayers — kisses so gentle they almost didn’t touch her at all. “I’m really, really sorry,” he breathed, his voice husky with a raw edge that only she ever got to hear. He lifted her leg, settling her knee over his shoulder, the shift in position pulling a soft, unwilling gasp from her lips that she tried, futilely, to swallow back down.

“Theo…” her voice was a warning and a plea all at once — sharp as broken glass yet sweet enough to have him groaning low in his throat. Her eyes darted around the dim common room, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed this was, how scandalous it would be if some stray prefect or gossip-hungry first-year wandered back early from dinner.

“It’s just us, sweetheart,” Theo soothed, his thumb tracing lazy circles into the sensitive skin behind her knee, eyes dark and wide as they lifted to meet hers. He looked devastating like this — on his knees, tie askew, desperation licking the corners of his mouth. “Everyone’s at dinner. Let me apologise properly. Please, baby… let me show you how sorry I am. Let me make it up to you the only way I know how.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to the inside of her thigh — dangerously close to the hem of her skirt now bunched indecently high on his shoulder. Each word, each brush of his lips, each plea soaked into her skin like wine into silk — staining, sinking, impossible to wash away. And maybe, just maybe, she’d let him. Maybe she’d let him atone for every sin carved into the blurred memory of that drunken night — right here, on his knees, where he belonged.

“This is really stupid,” she whispered, the words soft and breathless, dissolving almost as soon as they left her lips. Her gaze flitted nervously around the empty common room, the shadows thrown by the low-burning torches dancing across the ancient stone walls like silent witnesses to their unfolding sin. But even as her voice trembled with reason, her resolve betrayed her: delicate fingers slid into Theo’s dark hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that made his eyelids flutter shut, a low, involuntary groan vibrating against her skin. Merlin, he’d always loved her hands in his hair — the power coiled in her touch, equal parts indulgence and command, making him pliant beneath her even as he burned to ruin her in turn.

Theo’s kisses grew bolder, hotter, a trail of devotion pressed into the soft skin of her inner thigh as he edged higher, the sharp cut of her sighs fuelling something dark and possessive inside him. His hand — pale, long-fingered, deceptively elegant — traced up the silken line of her other leg, coaxing it gently onto his opposite shoulder until she was spread open before him, a living portrait of decadent ruin perched on her emerald-backed throne. The new angle left her entirely at his mercy: skirt bunched around her hips in disheveled pleats, her stockings tugged slightly askew, the fragile lace of her panties stretched tight over the softness he ached to taste.

The sight alone was enough to make Theo’s breath catch, desire snarling low and hot in his chest like a caged animal rattling its bars. She looked devastating like this — flushed, breath coming in short, uneven gasps, the regal composure she wore like second skin slipping away in pieces under the weight of his devotion. His thumb traced teasingly along the edge of lace, knuckles brushing the heat of her, drinking in the way her thighs tensed under his touch, muscles tightening with anticipation she wouldn’t dare voice.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that was both apology and punishment, Theo hooked a finger under the delicate band of her panties, dragging them to the side. The motion bared her fully to him, and her gasp — sharp, almost wounded in its vulnerability — sliced through the hush of the empty room, echoing off ancient stone and sinking straight into his bones. It was the sweetest kind of agony, the sort that made Theo’s chest tighten with both reverence and hunger: to see her undone, not by accident but by him alone.

His dark eyes, now half-lidded with want, flicked up to meet hers — a silent question burning there, fierce and wordless. And in that taut, breathless moment, every ounce of his regret, longing, and devotion bled into the kiss he pressed just above where she wanted him most, lips brushing the delicate skin in a promise as old as sin itself: Let me atone. Let me worship. Let me ruin you until you forgive me.

Theo hummed against her, the sound low and reverent, vibrating through the sensitive skin under his tongue and pulling a strangled moan from her parted lips — a sound so soft and lethal it sank its claws into his spine and made him nearly feral with want. He didn’t bother teasing her anymore, didn’t waste a second pretending he had any control left to maintain. He dove in like a man half-mad with thirst, tongue parting her slick folds with a practiced hunger that spoke of all the nights he’d imagined her just like this: spread open, thighs trembling, helpless to do anything but take what he gave her.

She gasped, the sound sharp and crystalline as her back arched off the velvet-cushioned seat, her hips canting forward helplessly, chasing every flick of his tongue like a prayer. When her thighs clamped around his head — soft, warm, trembling just slightly with the effort to keep him close — Theo only groaned deeper into her, hands digging into the plush softness of her hips to anchor her against his relentless mouth. If she squeezed the breath from his lungs until his vision blurred at the edges? So be it. There were far worse ways to die than buried between her thighs, drowning in her scent and taste until the world narrowed to nothing but the soft, broken sounds she couldn’t stop herself from making for him.

He could feel the ragged hitch of her breath every time he flattened his tongue against her, the delicate flutter of her pulse under the silk of her inner thigh where his fingers pressed bruising promises into her skin. Every shiver, every involuntary roll of her hips, fed the raw, aching need coiling hot and insistent in his belly. It didn’t matter that he was still fully clothed, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to the sweat at the small of his back, his tie askew and brushing her calf with each hungry tilt of his head. All that mattered was her — the taste of her, the way her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp with a desperation that bordered on cruel. He fucking loved it. He’d beg for it.

The pressure in his own trousers was blinding — every heartbeat throbbing painfully through the tight line of his cock, straining against the expensive fabric like it wanted to tear straight through. One of his hands slipped from her hip, sliding down his own chest, over the sharp ridges of his belt until it cupped himself through the thin wool of his trousers. The hiss that escaped him was muffled by her, the vibration sending a tremor through her core that made her whimper his name — a broken sound that scraped every shred of restraint from his bones.

He palmed himself lazily, half a threat, half a promise — the obscene thrill of it feeding the primal satisfaction blooming low in his gut. To be here, on his knees before her, undone by her taste and the soft clamp of her thighs around his flushed, desperate face — it was penance and pleasure all in one. And when he felt her hips jerk forward, thighs quivering, the first sweet rush of her coming apart for him building under his tongue, Theo knew there was no place on earth he’d rather die than right here — suffocated by her forgiveness, wrecked by her ruin.

“Theo, wait… I can’t—” Her protest broke apart on a gasp, the syllables dissolving into a breathy moan that made his spine thrum with vicious satisfaction. She tried, with what little resolve she had left, to press her palms to his shoulders, to push him back — but it was useless. The moment her hips bucked forward, chasing the relentless drag of his tongue, her fingers curled instead into the fabric of his shirt, balling it into fists like she was trying to anchor herself to something real before she shattered entirely.

But Theo didn’t stop — couldn’t stop, not when she tasted like absolution and ruin in equal measure, not when every helpless roll of her hips told him she was close enough to break apart for him. He only doubled down, growling low into her as he sealed his mouth around her clit, the sound a rough purr that vibrated through her, forcing another broken cry from her throat. He fucked his tongue as deep as it would reach, then pulled back to flick and circle her swollen clit with the kind of desperate, reverent attention that said this was his true apology — wordless and filthy and honest in a way neither of them would ever dare admit in daylight.

His own hips rocked forward in time with the rhythm of his tongue, hand squeezing himself through the fabric of his trousers so hard it almost hurt, each pulse of pleasure grounding him in the swirl of her taste and the choked-off sounds spilling past her bitten lips. He was painfully, dizzyingly hard — the kind of hard that made his vision blur every time she whimpered his name or dug her nails into his shoulders like she wanted to mark him deep enough that no amount of scalding shower water could ever wash her off.

He could feel her legs trembling now, thighs tightening around his head in desperate pulses that made his pulse thunder in his ears. He shifted slightly, one hand bracing her hip to hold her still as he worked his mouth over her with the singular focus of a sinner clawing for redemption. He dragged his tongue flat and slow over her clit before sucking it between his lips again, swirling, teasing, coaxing every shudder and whimper from her until she had no choice but to fall apart.

When her hips jerked, rolling up so sharply she nearly knocked him back, Theo only groaned into her, the sound almost savage, all teeth and want. His hand squeezed himself harder through his trousers, hips rocking against the rough friction as he chased the dizzy high of knowing he was the one dragging these sounds from her throat. He wanted to feel her break — to feel her thighs clamp tight enough to steal the breath from his lungs, to drown him so completely in her that every other regret from that stupid, drunken night would be smothered in the dark velvet of her heat and her forgiveness.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, voice hoarse and ragged against the slick heat of her: “Come on, princess… don’t run now. Let me have it. Let me taste you…” Then he buried himself again, tongue and lips claiming every trembling pulse of her pleasure like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And she did. Her breath hitched on a choked sob of his name — part warning, part surrender — before her head tipped back against the cool leather of the sofa, lashes fluttering shut like moth wings before dusk. Her mouth fell open around a soft, strangled moan as the last of her resolve crumbled under the merciless devotion of his tongue. Her thighs clamped tight around his head, trembling with each helpless spasm that wracked her body as she came undone for him, wet and perfect and raw against his mouth.

Theo felt it like a blessing, her pleasure spilling onto his tongue, warm and sweet, the taste of her forgiveness coating his lips and jaw. He lapped it up greedily, refusing to waste a single drop, his tongue coaxing every last shiver, every tiny, involuntary aftershock from her core until she was whimpering brokenly into the hush of the common room, her hips twitching with overstimulation but never once pulling away. If anything, she pushed closer, as if she’d rather drown in him than face the empty cold of her pride a moment longer.

He didn’t stop — wouldn’t stop — even as his own body coiled so tight with need it bordered on agony. His hand worked himself through the now-damp front of his trousers, the fabric darkened with sweat and precum and the obscene friction of his palm dragging over his length in desperate, jerky pulls. Every muffled moan she spilled, every tremor in her thighs, every helpless grind of her hips against his mouth pushed him closer to the edge, each pulse of her pleasure feeding the raw, animal need snarling at the base of his spine.

When she sagged back against the sofa, boneless and trembling, Theo pressed one last, searing kiss to her fluttering core, sucking gently at her swollen clit until she gasped and her fingers tugged sharply at his hair. The sharp sting of it — the ownership in that tiny, wordless command — tipped him right over the edge.

A low, broken groan tore out of him as he buried his face against her thigh, hips jerking forward into his own hand. The pleasure crashed through him like wildfire, blinding and raw, stealing his breath as he spilled into his trousers — the hot, wet mess of it spreading inside the expensive fabric, soaking through his briefs and sticking damply to his skin. It was messy, humiliating, so pathetically eager it almost made him laugh if he’d had the breath to spare. But Merlin, it was perfect — perfect because it was for her, because it was from her, because there was no part of him she didn’t own now, from the desperate scrape of his teeth on her thigh to the warm stickiness cooling on his belly.

He stayed there for a moment, forehead pressed to the softness of her inner leg, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her skin. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to press a soft, almost reverent kiss to the tender flesh above her knee — a wordless vow stitched into the taste of her on his tongue, a promise that, drunk or sober, ruined or redeemed, he was always going to be hers.

#˙ . ꒷ emmy writes. 𖦹˙—#𐔌 . ⋮ smut.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱#hogwarts fanfiction #theodore nott x slytherin!reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott smut #theodore nott

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buckyseternaldoll · 1 month ago

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𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓌𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: A snowy night. A quiet movie. Bucky’s second night home after missions back-to-back. You’re curled up together on the couch, just soaking in the silence. But when his hands start to wander—absent, loving, familiar—it turns into something more. Something slow. Something you’ve both missed for far too long.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), soft smut content, p in v, mutual climax, deep emotional intimacy, unprotected sex (established relationship), breast fondling, grinding, heavy sensual touch, praise, post-mission softness, no rough dom/sub dynamic, aftercare, cuddling

Word Count: 4.8k

Author's Note: Trying something new of having lesser dialogues. Hope you'll enjoy this one too!

It was the kind of winter night that muted the whole world. Snow fell in thick, steady curtains outside Bucky’s apartment, blanketing the city in white and drowning out the usual hum of traffic and movement. The windows fogged faintly from the contrast of heat inside, and the occasional gust of wind left a whispering patter of flakes against the glass.

Inside, the world felt untouched.

The couch was oversized—wide, low, and so plush it could easily be mistaken for a bed. You were curled up against Bucky, tucked into the left side of his body with your back to his chest, both of you half-covered in a knit blanket that smelled faintly of pine and detergent. His arm was wrapped around your waist, vibranium fingers splayed lightly over your stomach, solid and unmoving at first. His body ran warm behind you, a furnace in human form, even in the thick chill of winter.

He wore a fitted short-sleeved thermal shirt and his favorite dark grey sweatpants. You were in your thickest oversized sweater—the one that pooled around your thighs and hung slightly off one shoulder—and nothing beneath it but soft cotton panties. No bra. No need. Not with him. Not tonight.

The television bathed the living room in a soft glow. A Christmas classic flickered across the screen—While You Were Sleeping, the one you both always returned to this time of year. It had become tradition. The kind of movie you knew line for line, but neither of you watched it for the plot anymore. It was just comforting. Familiar. A backdrop to the quiet kind of love you both had found your way into.

Bucky hadn’t said a word all night. He didn’t need to. Neither did you. His thumb occasionally brushed lazy circles against your stomach, then went still again. Every part of you felt warm—your cheek pressed to the inside of his bicep, your thighs tucked up comfortably, your chest rising and falling with his.

It was only when his vibranium fingers slipped beneath the hem of your sweater that your breath caught—just a tiny intake, nearly silent.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t check to see if you were okay. He never did when he did this—it was one of those quiet, unconscious habits he’d developed over time. Something that soothed him. Something that made him feel connected. His hand slid upward slowly, the pads of his fingers cool at first but quickly warming as they made contact with your bare skin. They moved with intention, but not lust. Not yet.

His palm cupped your breast, fingers spreading around the curve like they knew the shape by heart. Which, of course, they did. He gave a gentle squeeze. Not sexual. Not rough. Just… there. Firm. Familiar. Like you were his favorite thing to hold.

You didn’t react at first. This was normal. He did this all the time when you cuddled, when he couldn’t sleep, when he needed to touch something real after long missions full of too many ghosts.

But tonight… tonight was different.

It had been too long. Too many days spent passing each other in groggy hellos and exhausted goodnights. Too many weeks of deployment, and you—working late shifts, sleeping alone in a cold bed. Your skin missed him. Your body missed him.

And now, with his hand under your sweater and the soft warmth of the blanket draped across your legs, the moment didn’t feel so innocent anymore.

You tried to stay still, to not tense or shift too much, knowing he could pick up on your reactions in an instant. But your heart betrayed you, hammering just a little faster beneath your ribs. He didn’t say anything—but his hand gave a slow, deliberate roll of your breast in his palm.

Not teasing. Just… possessive. Familiar. Warm.

And god, it did something to you.

You clenched your thighs a little tighter together beneath the blanket, but the fabric of your panties was already dampening, the cool touch of his fingers somehow heightening everything. Your nipples had hardened beneath his hand, painfully sensitive against the metal plates, and he brushed his thumb over one now—slow, feather-light.

You exhaled, barely audible. His arm tightened just slightly around your waist.

No words. Just breath and pressure. Just the slow, quiet build of heat where there had only been calm.

The snowfall continued outside, thick and heavy. And inside, you melted slowly—inch by inch—into the way he touched you like you were the only real thing left in his world.

—

You tried to be good. Tried to steady your breathing and keep your thighs from pressing too tightly together. Tried not to let the heat pulsing low in your belly translate into the small, telltale hitches of your breath.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you. You knew he did—always did. But tonight… maybe he just wasn’t in the mood. He’d just come home. Two deployments back to back, the exhaustion still clinging to his posture even when he was showered, warm, and draped around you like a weighted blanket. You didn’t want to push him, not when all he might need was rest. Just peace. Just this: the quiet hum of a movie and your body tucked against his, safe.

So you tilted your head slightly, nose brushing along the crook of his neck as you shifted into him. You buried your face in the warmth there—his skin still faintly damp from his earlier shower, soft with that clean, subtle scent he always wore. Not cologne. Just him. Cedarwood and heat, soap and sweat, comfort and safety. He smelled like home.

The soft knit of your sweater shifted against your bare skin as you moved, and his vibranium fingers never left you. They adjusted only slightly, curling more deliberately around your breast, giving a slower, firmer squeeze this time. A beat passed. Maybe two. Then, unable to help yourself, you reached for his other hand—flesh and warm—and gently pulled it up from your waist, guiding it under your sweater until it settled over your right breast.

And he followed your touch without resistance.

His palm molded to you instinctively. Rougher than the metal, broader, warmer. He didn’t grope. Didn’t groan. Just cupped and cradled, as if your body was something fragile and familiar and necessary to his own sense of stillness. He mirrored the movements of his other hand, slow and unhurried, fingers kneading in that same absent rhythm. Like muscle memory. Like prayer.

But you… god, you were crumbling from the inside out.

Your eyes weren’t on the screen anymore—not even close. The bright flicker of the film washed uselessly over your unfocused gaze. You blinked slow, dazed, your whole awareness zeroed in on the sensation of him touching you. The cool press of vibranium against your left breast, the hot, pulsing grasp of his right hand against the other. The sweater clung faintly to your skin now, rising and falling with every shaky breath you took.

And you tried. You really tried to hold it in.

But when his thumb dragged softly over your nipple—bare and painfully sensitive beneath the fabric—you broke.

A breath escaped you. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a shaky, desperate little exhale that melted into a soft moan—warm against the curve of his neck where your mouth was still pressed. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t even that loud. But it was real. And it was enough.

You felt his hands stutter—just barely. A pause. A shift in his rhythm.

Then, slowly… they moved again.

But this time, something had changed.

The metal hand gave a slower, firmer roll, pressing your breast upward just enough to make you arch faintly into the touch. The fingers of his right hand flexed, spread, dragged more deliberately now. There was no escalation—no grab, no pull—but his touch had gained a weight to it. A purpose. Like he was feeling you now. Like the instinctive habit had bloomed into awareness.

And you melted.

You could feel the tension unraveling in your core, slow and syrup-thick. That invisible thread stretched tighter, your thighs clenched without thinking, and your lips parted against his neck again—not for a sound this time, just to breathe. Just to hold yourself together.

Because you weren’t sure how long you could.

—

The shift was subtle, almost lazy in how smooth it felt—but there was a purpose behind the way his hands slid down from your chest, sweeping across your ribcage, over your stomach. A pause at your waist—then the warmth of his grip cinched in and lifted.

You barely had time to react before he guided you into his lap—your back still facing him, thighs now spread and settling between his as he nestled you flush against him.

The blanket slipped slightly down your legs, forgotten. Your sweater bunched at your waist, exposing more of your bare thighs where they now rested over his. And beneath you—pressed right between your cheeks—you felt it.

Hard.

Your breath hitched in your throat, a small fluttering gasp that didn’t quite escape. His arousal pressed firm and hot against you, the heat of it undeniable even through the layers between you. It pulsed, bold and shameless beneath the fabric of his sweatpants.

Classic Bucky.

A smile ghosted the corner of your lips, but it faded almost immediately, replaced by the need curling deep and hot between your thighs. You shifted slowly, like you were just getting comfortable—just adjusting—but your hips dragged along his length, grinding with a deliberate roll.

You felt the way his thighs stiffened beneath you. The way his fingers, resting at your hips now, flexed—hard.

Then his face dropped against your back.

You felt the weight of him there—forehead resting between your shoulder blades, breath warming the knit of your sweater, chest rising against you in shallow pulls. One second. Then two. And then his hands moved again.

They slipped beneath your sweater, palms spreading wide over your skin like they needed to cover as much of you as possible. They found your breasts again with a practiced ease—but now, they moved differently. No longer idle. No longer thoughtless.

He fondled you with intent now.

Thumbs brushing deliberately over your nipples, fingers circling them slowly, dragging out the sensation with almost cruel precision. Every touch made you jolt a little, your body trembling as those sensitive peaks throbbed under his palms. They were so tight, so swollen, like they were aching for more. For anything.

Your back arched into him, chest pushing into his hands, thighs tightening around his hips. You moaned—soft, raw, unfiltered. No attempt to muffle it this time. It slipped past your lips in a shuddering breath, and your hips rolled again—this time instinctive, purposeful, grinding down against the rigid bulge beneath you.

A sharp exhale answered you—sharp, but quiet. Controlled. He didn’t moan, not exactly. Bucky wasn’t vocal like that. But you felt the tension ripple through him, the way his breath caught in his throat and rushed out all at once. It fanned across your back in hot, shaky bursts, the kind that let you know just how wound-up he really was.

He gripped your hips tighter.

Not guiding, not stopping. Just holding.

Holding you in place as your body rocked against his, the friction mounting so slowly it was maddening. Your panties were already damp, clinging to you with every subtle grind, the soft fabric soaked right through and doing little to dull the heat blooming between you.

His mouth pressed harder against your back now. Not kissing—just there. Breathing. Bracing.

And his hands—still on your breasts—moved in lazy, dragging motions that only made the pressure in your core throb harder. It was too slow. Too soft. And yet it had your whole body trembling, your head tipped back slightly as you chased more of it.

More of him.

Your breath caught again, your hips finding their rhythm, grinding in slow circles that aligned perfectly with every squeeze of his hands. You could feel it—every pulse of him beneath you, every twitch of his cock through the fabric, like it was begging for more friction, more warmth, more of you.

And still—no words.

Just heat. Breath. Skin.

Just the quiet sounds of snow outside and the slow, burning unraveling of control between your bodies.

—

You weren’t sure when it became too much—when the low throb between your legs tipped into something unbearable. But you knew it the moment your hips stilled, your chest heaving slightly, your skin flushed hot beneath your sweater. You needed more. Not just his hands. Not just friction. Him.

With a soft, unsteady breath, you slowly lifted yourself from his lap.

His hands fell away, though not willingly. You felt the quiet drag of his fingertips over your skin as you slid forward, knees brushing the couch cushion as you turned to face him now. The glow from the TV flickered over the sharp lines of his face, his eyes already dark, already locked on you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

You reached down, fingers tugging the hem of your sweater. It rose inch by inch, baring the soft curve of your stomach, the underswell of your breasts, until finally—off. You pulled it over your head and let it drop to the floor in silence.

Bare from the waist up now, you stood before him—heart racing, chest rising and falling—and you watched his jaw tighten the second his eyes dragged down to your panties.

Soaked.

Clinging.

The fabric had gone nearly translucent, the dark patch between your thighs leaving nothing to the imagination. It sat perfectly at his eye level from where he lounged back on the couch, thighs spread wide, hands braced on his knees, tension humming through every inch of him.

You saw it—the way his expression darkened, the way his jaw flexed again as his throat worked around a low, rough grunt that escaped him.

His hands moved—slow but sure—and the waistband of his sweatpants was tugged down with no ceremony, no hesitation. No boxers underneath. Just skin. Just him.

His cock sprang free, flushed deep and thick and leaking slightly at the tip, the sight of you clearly having pushed him far past the point of holding back. He shifted only enough to push the fabric down his thighs, leaving him bare and waiting.

And you gave him what he wanted.

You straddled him again—this time facing him. Knees framing his hips, hands braced lightly on his shoulders. Your chest pressed to his, the contrast of heat and breathlessness stealing what little composure you had left.

Then you kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t ravenous. It was tender. Deep. Drawn-out.

The kind of kiss that tasted like missing each other for too long. Like every restless night and every quiet moment of pretending you didn’t ache for this. His lips parted beneath yours, his mouth hot and patient, the weight of his hands returning to your waist as you molded yourself to him. Your bodies aligned like second nature, like they’d never forgotten each other.

And still—you moved.

Your hips shifted forward, just slightly, and the soaked fabric of your panties dragged along the length of his cock. The glide was slow, sticky, teasing—his shaft nestled perfectly between your folds, the tip brushing your clit with every subtle pass. Your panties created just enough friction to make you shudder, and your hips circled in slow, purposeful motions.

His cock twitched beneath you.

His grip tightened on your waist, but he didn’t rush you. Didn’t thrust. He just held you there, letting you grind against him in slow, sensual rolls that made his breath catch just behind your lips. Your foreheads rested together now, noses brushing, his brow drawn tight with restraint.

You moved again, dragging yourself along his shaft with a slow, grinding rhythm—again. And again.

And again.

Wet heat built between you. The slick of your arousal soaking through the thin cotton, smearing over his skin. Each movement sent shivers up your spine, each subtle press of his length against your clit making your thighs shake just slightly around him.

There were no words. Just gasps. Shaky exhales. The sound of your bodies moving in time.

And the snow still falling outside, thick and endless.

—

The kiss hadn’t broken.

If anything, it deepened.

And it was Bucky’s hand that made it happen—the warm one, flesh and strong, lifting from your waist to glide up the curve of your spine. You felt it settle at the back of your neck first, then thread into your hair with a gentle but possessive grip, tilting your head just so. Not rough. Never rough. Just enough to angle your mouth to his, his fingers tangled in your hair like he needed to feel every inch of you.

He kissed you like he’d been starving for this. For you.

Your lips moved together slowly, deliberately—no clashing of teeth, no frantic gasps. Just deep, open-mouthed kisses that made you feel like your entire chest was burning from the inside out.

His metal hand stayed at your waist, grounding you there, palm flat, fingers splayed wide against your bare skin. You could feel the way it pressed in tighter every time your hips rolled forward, every time your soaked panties dragged along the length of his cock. You kept moving—slow, teasing—feeling every ridge of him, every throb.

Then his hands moved again.

The one in your hair slid down—first to the nape of your neck, then over the slope of your shoulder, your upper back, your spine—until it returned to your waist. Now both hands were there, framing you, holding you close. One metal. One warm.

You gasped softly into his mouth when his flesh hand slipped lower.

Fingertips dipped between your thighs, and he hooked two fingers around the soaked fabric right at your core. Then, with a slow, practiced motion, he pulled it gently to the side—just enough to expose you. The drenched cotton dragged across your sensitive folds as it shifted, baring your heat and slick directly to him.

And then—you felt him.

Your bare slickness now dragging directly against his shaft, no fabric between you. The length of him pressed snug between your folds, tip catching on your clit with every grind. So warm. So hard. So there.

Your moan slipped free, muffled into his mouth.

But it was his that did it—quiet, strained, low in his throat. Barely audible, but you heard it. You felt it. The low rumble vibrated against your chest where it was pressed to his. It wasn’t loud—but it hit something deep inside you, some button that flipped everything over, and suddenly your hips were moving faster.

You rocked against him with more urgency now, the slow burn giving way to need. Each roll of your hips dragged your folds along his length, coating him with slick as you moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The soft sounds of your bodies sliding together filled the air, warm and wet and so damn intimate.

Your foreheads rested together again, your hands tangled in his hair now, fingers clutching tight. His grip on your waist had grown firmer, less patient. His thumbs dug into your skin as he anchored you to him, letting you use his body like you needed—because you did.

Your breathing was ragged. So was his.

Neither of you spoke. But your hearts were pounding now, pulses spiking with every grind, every stroke. Your clit throbbed with every pass over his shaft, the tip of him catching just right, over and over again, until your thighs trembled from the tension.

His jaw clenched hard beneath the stubble. He wasn’t moaning—but the quick, staggered exhales from his nose, the way his chest rose against yours in uneven bursts, said everything.

You moved faster. Hips circling, rocking, chasing the friction you both needed. Your slick folds coated him completely now, smearing down his shaft with every drag. You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, the tremble rising up your spine. It was too much. Not enough.

His hand slid down again—metal now, resting over the small of your back, pressing you harder against him. His other hand still holding your panties to the side, fingers trembling just slightly now.

Every part of him was focused on you.

And the only sound was the wet, muffled grind of your bodies and the snow still falling thick against the world outside.

—

Your grinding had grown slower now—deeper, more deliberate—like your bodies had found a rhythm too perfect to rush.

But then Bucky shifted, just slightly, and his nose nudged against your neck. He inhaled there, long and quiet, dragging the breath in like he needed to commit your scent to memory. Like he hadn’t smelled you in weeks and wanted to bury it deep in his bones.

“Missed this,” he murmured, his voice a low gravel, almost hoarse. He breathed the words directly into your skin, lips brushing your nape. “Missed you.”

You melted into it, head tipping to the side as your body leaned into his. That voice—so soft, so full—was the kind that made your thighs press tighter around him.

He kissed the spot he’d just spoken into, then another. Then lower.

One arm curled securely around your waist, holding you close, as the other hand released the grip on your panties and slid back up. Not rushed. Not grabbing. Just caressing.

He cupped your breasts again—one in each hand now, thumbs brushing slowly over your nipples. Your breath hitched when he squeezed, palms full and warm and reverent, like he was savoring you in pieces. He bent slightly forward, mouth trailing downward from your neck to your collarbone, lips parting with each press of a kiss. Soft. Lingering. You could feel the faint heat of his tongue as he reached the top curve of your chest.

Then he kissed lower.

One breast. Then the other. The weight of him between your thighs only made it more intense, the aching stretch of want radiating from your core to your throat.

His stubble scraped your skin in gentle passes, then his lips latched on, leaving a warm, wet trail of hickeys—nothing harsh, nothing showy. Just small reminders. Gentle claims.

By the time he made his way back up, his hands were cradling your waist again. You barely noticed the shift until you felt his muscles tense beneath you.

He moved you—slightly lifted, slightly adjusted. His cock now resting at your entrance, thick and hot, and so perfectly positioned that you could feel your slick gathering right there. The head of him brushed against your folds, your clit, and you both sucked in a breath at the same time.

His lips were at your jaw now, warm and open, voice barely more than a whisper:

“Need to feel you again.”

And there was no resistance. No uncertainty.

Just the stretch of your body as he held you steady… and the quiet, aching anticipation of finally being filled.

—

His hands still held you steady, one warm and calloused at your waist, the other cool and smooth across the small of your back. You could feel his cock nestled between your slick folds, the tip catching on your clit with every soft grind—but the moment had quieted now. No rush. No wild urgency.

Just you and him, skin against skin, wrapped in the ache of having missed this too long.

Bucky’s breath was shallow against your cheek, his lips barely brushing your jaw as he whispered, “Let me in, sweetheart…”

Your answer was just a nod, a soft tilt of your hips as you lifted slightly—just enough for him to angle himself beneath you.

His hand guided the tip to your entrance, not rough, not even firm—just there. Present. Gentle.

And then, slowly, you sank down on him.

The stretch was intimate—an inhale that filled you to the lungs, not just the core. His thickness pushed into you inch by inch, the glide made easy by how wet you already were. You both exhaled at the same time, your brows furrowed, your chests trembling from the overwhelming closeness.

“Jesus,” he breathed, the word more reverent than obscene, voice caught in the back of his throat. “You feel like… like home.”

You whimpered as your hips settled down, fully seated now, the head of his cock resting deep inside you. Your walls fluttered around him, clenching in slow, greedy pulses.

He was buried to the hilt—and still, he didn’t move.

He just held you.

Hands sliding along your back, over your hips, up to your waist. His fingers splayed wide as he smoothed them over your ribs, then higher, cradling your breasts with a kind of slow, aching tenderness. He thumbed over your nipples, swollen and flushed, watching your breath hitch with every brush.

“I missed these,” he murmured, lips brushing your collarbone. “Every part of you.”

You tipped your head down, resting your forehead against his. “I missed the way you touch me,” you whispered back. “Like I matter.”

His hands slid up to cup your jaw, his thumbs brushing the corners of your lips. “You do,” he said, soft but firm. “You always do.”

Then he kissed you.

It was slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that stole your breath not from passion but from emotion. Your hips began to move again, finally—tiny circles, shallow rocks, nothing frantic. Just motion. Just feeling. The way your bodies responded to each other like no time had passed.

Every slow glide of your hips drew him deeper, made you gasp softer. You tightened around him with every shift, and Bucky’s hands never left your body—one trailing down your spine, the other moving back to your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple again in rhythm with the way your hips rose and fell.

The sounds were quiet. Just breath. Just skin sliding against skin. The occasional moan that slipped from your throat, the kind you didn’t mean to make, but couldn’t hold back.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered, lips trailing from your cheek to your neck. “So fucking soft, baby.”

You nodded against his temple, hands cradling the back of his head, fingers lost in the slightly damp strands of his hair. “Don’t stop,” you breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

“Not going anywhere,” he murmured, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

He rocked into you now, slowly, each thrust perfectly matched to your own movements. You were both trembling, both teetering at the edge—but neither of you wanted to fall too fast. Not yet. Not when it felt this good to just be here.

Every inch of you was alive. Every nerve singing under his touch. You could feel his chest rise sharply each time your walls clenched around him, could hear the change in his breathing when you rolled your hips just right.

And when he finally whispered your name—barely audible, broken and sacred against your skin—it pushed you right over the edge.

Your orgasm crept up slow, warm, like heat blooming outward from your core. Your breath stuttered as you clung to him tighter, thighs shaking around his hips, walls fluttering in long, gentle pulses around his cock.

Bucky groaned against your neck—low, muffled, like he was trying to hold it back but couldn’t.

He followed a moment later, his hips pressed deep, arms locked around you as his cock throbbed inside you. You could feel the warmth of him spill, filling you as his entire body shuddered with release. He held you tight as the pleasure swept through him, buried his face in your neck like he needed the scent of you to survive the moment.

Neither of you moved right away.

You stayed like that—joined, pulsing, clinging to each other like gravity had shifted and only this touch could keep you grounded.

Eventually, you lifted your head. He cupped your face, thumb brushing the wet corner of your eye where a tear had slipped out—neither joy nor sadness, just emotion too big to contain.

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “C’mere,” he said, barely more than a breath.

He slipped out of you slowly, and you winced just slightly at the emptiness. He was quick to pull the blanket back over you both, easing your body against his chest again. This time you lay sideways across his lap, cheek pressed to the space above his heart, legs curled close.

His arms wrapped around you completely—his metal hand resting over your spine, warm hand stroking gently at your hip.

Outside, the snow still fell in silent waves.

Inside, everything was still. Safe. Loved.

And for the first time in a long time, you both slept without missing each other.

#by elle.ᐟ #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x fem reader #queuelle

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sweet-pea-channie · 2 months ago

Text

In the silence, I found you

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Azriel saves a mute fae woman left for dead after an ambush. Haunted by her silence, he finds himself drawn to her, not out of pity, but recognition. She reminds him of something he lost… and something he never thought he'd find again.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse & torture (non-graphic but emotionally heavy), trauma responses including selective mutism, violence, aftermath of assault, PTSD, survivor's guilt, anxiety, grief and loss of family, slow emotional healing and intimate recovery scenes, soft angst + comfort

Word count: 12.6k

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for reading 💛 English is my third language, so if you spot any grammar mistakes or odd phrasing, please be kind! I’m doing my best. Feedback is always welcome, especially if it's helpful and respectful. This fic is really close to my heart. It’s about healing, trust, and connection without words and I hope it speaks to you, even if it's quiet.

masterlist

Smoke still clung to the charred ruins of the village, curling through the early dusk air like ghostly fingers refusing to let go. The ground was slick with soot and blood, a patchwork of scorched cobblestones and scorched earth. The scent, acrid, raw, was more than just fire. It was despair, clinging to the bones of the place like a second skin.

Azriel stood beside Rhysand and Cassian at what had once been the village square, soldiers and warriors surrounding them. Now it was just rubble. A well had collapsed inward, blackened beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, and half-burned furniture lay strewn about, a child’s wooden toy horse among them, snapped in half. It was quiet now, but not peaceful. Too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed with what had been done.

“They came through at night,” Rhysand informed everyone, his voice low and tightly leashed. “Wards were weak, barely held together. Half the villagers were Fae with lesser magic. Some couldn’t even defend themselves. The males who led the attack… they didn’t just want to kill.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. His wings twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to fold them in or unfurl them in rage. “They weren’t just soldiers. They were predators.”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows slithered around his boots, darting in agitated wisps toward the edges of the square, as if still seeking out threats or witnesses. They found neither.

“The ones we caught,” Rhys continued, staring at the wreckage like it personally offended him, “are in chains. The rest… fled before we arrived. The survivors, the ones hiding, have been found. Healers are seeing to the injured. Children have been taken in by the temple elders from the northern hillside.”

Azriel’s shadows whispered again. A soft, mournful hum.

“It’s done,” Rhys said, scanning the hollowed shells of cottages and shattered windows. “Everything that can be done, has been. It’s over.”

But it didn’t feel over. Not to Azriel. Not with the metallic tang of blood still staining the air. Not with the look on that elderly female’s face when she had asked them, in a broken voice, “Why didn’t anyone come sooner?”

He hadn’t had an answer.

Rhysand glanced between Azriel and Cassian after the soldiers left, noting their silence. His own eyes, usually glowing with a spark of slyness, were dull. Exhausted. “You can rest now,” he said. “Or go home.”

Azriel looked past him, to the tree line beyond the village where the smoke thinned into mist. He caught a glimpse of a child sitting on a stone step, clutching a burned blanket, eyes hollow. The child didn’t cry. Just stared.

Rhys would return to Velaris. To Feyre. To warm arms and gentle laughter. To peace. But Azriel and Cassian… they had always found peace harder to carry. Harder to believe in.

“I’ll fly back in the morning,” Cassian said, rolling out his shoulders. “Want to make sure the families here have shelter. Food. Some of them don’t even have shoes.” He paused. “It still feels… raw.”

Azriel gave a quiet nod. “I'll stay here, too.”

Rhys hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, to pull rank. But then he just studied their faces and sighed.

“Fine. But rest, both of you. You're of no good use if you overstrain yourself,” he said softly. Then he was gone, winnowing in a shimmer of darkness and violet starlight.

The world felt heavier once he left.

Cassian turned toward a row of broken homes and muttered, “I’ll check the supply wagons again, make sure nothing’s gone missing.”

The village quieted further without him. Just the sound of crackling embers and murmuring healers in the distance. Cassian broke off to check the perimeter, but Azriel lingered by the outskirts, near the forest line.

The temporary camp had been set up just beyond the village outskirts, a collection of tents pitched beneath the shadow of the pines, where the smoke from the ruins thinned into something cleaner, but not quite peaceful. The sky had bled into twilight, bruised and streaked with orange. The smell of fire still lingered on the wind.

Azriel stepped into the tent he shared with Cassian, a canvas shelter thrown together more for function than comfort. His leathers creaked as he unbuckled his chest plate, his siphons clicking faintly as he set them down beside the low cot.

Cassian wasn’t there yet, probably still helping rebuild the central well, or lifting logs like they were made of kindling. Azriel rolled his shoulders and sat down heavily, stretching out his long legs and leaning back against the support pole. For a moment, he let the silence settle around him. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

Then a shadow darted into the tent like a dagger. Fast. Sharp. Urgent.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t need words. His shadows never spoke in them, not truly, but their intent thrummed through him like a pulse. There’s another. A survivor. Still out there. Still in pain.

He was already moving.

Armor forgotten, he strapped his siphons back on with swift, practiced movements and swept out of the tent without a word. No time to tell Cassian. No time to alert the others. His shadows were already leading the way, slithering ahead of him like smoke toward the trees.

The forest was dark, dense. Pines loomed like sentinels, and the path was barely a path at all, just loose soil and patches of moss tangled with roots. Azriel moved like a ghost, silent and fast, eyes trained ahead, shadows feeding him flashes of what they’d sensed.

Fae. Alive. Hurt. Alone.

He ran deeper, branches clawing at his shoulders and wings, the shadows growing sharper in their urgency. The quiet of the woods wasn’t peaceful, it was stifling. Suffocating. No animals moved. No birds cried.

Something clenched in his chest.

Then, a scent.

Blood. Faint, old. Human-like, but Fae.

His shadows curled tight around a cluster of trees, and Azriel slowed. Stepped carefully now. Each footfall deliberate. His siphons glowed faintly, casting a subtle blue hue against the undergrowth.

And then he saw her.

She was barely a shape in the gloom, slumped against the base of a thick pine, her body partially hidden by brush and shadow. A small Fae woman. Her wrists were bound cruelly above her head, tied to the tree with frayed rope that had cut deep into her skin. Her dress was torn, legs smeared with mud, face streaked with dried blood. One of her ankles looked swollen.

Her eyes were closed. Chest rising shallowly. Not asleep, not unconscious, just… still. Too still.

Azriel’s heart lurched. For a split second, he feared she was already gone.

He was beside her in a blink.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping to one knee, his siphons dimming as he reached out. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He hovered a hand near her cheek, not touching, not yet. “You’re safe now. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Slowly, slowly… her lashes fluttered.

She didn’t open her eyes, but her body tensed. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Azriel felt it then, not just the physical damage, but the weight of something deeper. A silence that had settled into her bones. Not shock. Not in this moment. This silence was old. Familiar.

He reached for the ropes carefully, cutting through them with a dagger he pulled from his belt. The bindings snapped with a dry crack, and her arms slumped forward, too weak to catch herself. Azriel caught her gently, cradling her body with one arm as he sliced the rope from her wrists.

She didn’t try to pull away. But she didn’t relax either.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked again, just once, then lifted her hand weakly, her fingers twitching in the air.

Signing.

Clumsy. Slow. As if she hadn’t done it in years.

Azriel’s breath caught. He understood.

“Don’t hurt me.”

He remembered the signs from centuries ago. His throat worked around the knot forming there. He shook his head, voice a whisper. “Never.”

Another flicker of fingers.

“I couldn’t scream.”

She wasn’t just mute from pain. It was something older. Deeper. She hadn’t screamed because she couldn’t.

Azriel gently gathered her into his arms. She was light, too light. Starved and cold. Her fingers clutched weakly at the collar of his leathers as he stood.

“I’m taking you back,” he said, already moving through the trees. “You need to see a healer."

And though she didn’t speak, he felt it, a shiver in her body. Not of fear, but something near it. Not trust, not yet. But recognition. A thread, fraying and fragile, tying her to this moment.

To him.

His shadows twined around them both as he carried her toward the broken village, a silent promise echoing in the night: Never again. Never left behind.

Azriel moved quickly through the woods, his steps fast but careful as he cradled the small Fae female against his chest. Her weight was next to nothing. Too thin. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, but every now and then, he felt her tense-sharp flinches whenever his boots crunched too loud, or when a branch snapped somewhere nearby.

Trauma lived in every muscle of her body.

“You’re safe,” he murmured again, more for her than himself. “Just a little longer. The healers will take care of you.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t sign, didn’t lift her head, but he felt her heartbeat flutter like a bird’s wing, fast and erratic against his arm.

The treeline broke, and the village came back into view: still smoldering, still broken. Torches burned in a quiet perimeter around the camp. The night had deepened now, casting everything in a dull, aching gray.

Azriel descended the last rise toward the path leading to the camp when a familiar voice called out.

“Az?” Cassian emerged from around a pile of crates, brow furrowed. He froze mid-step as his eyes landed on the figure in Azriel’s arms. “What the hell?”

“She was in the woods,” Azriel said without slowing, his voice clipped but steady. “Tied to a tree. Alive. Barely.”

Cassian’s face darkened. “You’re serious?”

Azriel gave a sharp nod, eyes flicking down to the female in his arms. She kept her face turned inward, buried against his shoulder, as if the mere sight of another male might break her.

Cassian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Where exactly did you find her?”

“Half a mile east of the perimeter,” Azriel said. “Tucked into a tree line past the ravine. They left her there.”

Cassian’s fists clenched. “Left her?”

Azriel didn’t miss the way her shoulders flinched again. He tightened his hold around her protectively.

Cassian’s expression softened just slightly as he crouched to her eye level. “Do you remember who did this to you?” he asked gently.

She stirred then. A hand moved hesitantly from Azriel’s chest, slow and trembling, as if even that effort cost her. Her fingers began to move, barely forming a sign before faltering.

“She can’t speak,” Azriel said quietly, his shadows curling around her like a shield. “She’s mute. I think she always has been.”

Cassian blinked, stunned. “Shit.”

“She couldn’t scream,” Azriel went on, his voice sharper now, more bitter. “That’s probably why they left her. Grew tired of her when she didn’t make enough noise while they—” He cut himself off, his jaw locking. “The marks on her body… they didn’t come from the ropes alone.”

Cassian swore under his breath, eyes flicking with a warrior’s rage and a male’s sorrow. “Monsters.”

Azriel looked down at her. “She needs a healer. Now.”

Cassian nodded immediately and moved aside, clearing the path ahead. “Go. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.”

Azriel strode past him, his steps swift as he made his way to the makeshift healer’s tent at the edge of the village. It was lit with soft blue faelight, quiet voices murmuring within. He ducked inside.

The healers, two older Fae females and a half-Illyrian male apprentice, looked up in surprise.

“She’s injured,” Azriel said. “Badly. Found her just now.”

One of the healers, a calm-eyed woman named Thera, stepped forward and motioned for him to lay the girl down on the cot. “Bring her here, carefully.”

Azriel hesitated only for a second. He turned to the girl in his arms, his voice soft. “You’re with healers now. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze.

There was nothing left in her eyes, no fight, no anger, not even fear. Just exhaustion. And behind it, buried deep, something older. A wound without a name.

He set her down gently. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away from his hand until the healer nudged him back.

“We’ll take it from here,” Thera said gently, already unfastening the remnants of the ropes from her wrists.

Azriel didn’t move far. He stayed just a few steps away, arms crossed, shadows flicking around him protectively like they were refusing to let go of her.

Cassian appeared in the tent’s entrance, arms crossed, watching her with the same quiet horror Azriel had swallowed down moments before.

“She’s lucky you found her,” Cassian said after a beat. “Another night out there and…”

Azriel didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on her face, on the way she winced at every touch, even the gentle ones. “It’s not luck.”

His voice was low. Absolute.

“She was meant to survive.”

────────────

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the cloying, suffocating heat of ropes cutting into her skin or the rank, sticky breath of her captors. No. This warmth was soft. Dry. Almost… clean.

A blanket. Someone had tucked a blanket around her.

She blinked her eyes open. Faint blue light bathed the room, soft and shifting like water. The ceiling above her was canvas, not sky. She was lying on a cot. Her arms, for once, were free.

Her throat tightened.

I'm not tied up.

But her wrists still ached. Her whole body felt stiff, like her bones had forgotten how to lie still without pain. The pressure at her ankle pulsed in slow waves, wrapped now in linen and balm. She smelled herbs. Clean ones. And something else, leather, faint smoke, a scent like fresh wind after a storm.

She turned her head. He was there. The male who had found her. The quiet one. The one made of shadows.

He sat just beyond the edge of the cot, wings tucked in tight, shadows flicking softly around his shoulders like living smoke. His siphons gleamed blue in the faint light. But he was sitting like a sentry, not a predator.

He was watching her without staring, his expression unreadable. Not cold. Not cruel. Just... steady. A pillar in the storm.

She tried to move her hand. It shook.

The blanket slipped off her shoulder and panic rose like bile in her throat. She flinched, curling slightly, waiting for the blow, for the sneer, for the voice that would growl “Don’t waste my time again, mute girl.”

But nothing came. The shadows stirred. Not toward her, around her.

A gentle breeze kissed her temple. Not wind, not air, shadow. It felt like someone brushing hair from her face.

Her vision blurred. She blinked fast.

The last thing she remembered clearly was the sound of boots. Loud. Heavy. She'd kept her eyes closed as the footsteps approached the tree, too exhausted to move, too broken to care. She had thought, truly, deeply, this is the end. The males who left her had no interest in finishing the job. They just didn’t want to look at her anymore. She hadn’t made enough noise for them.

She'd learned early: screams fed monsters. Silence bored them.

So she stayed silent. Even when it hurt. Even when the ropes cut skin. Even when she bled. And they’d left her. Forgotten. Until him.

She turned her head again. Looked at him. His shadows stilled. Not gone, never gone, but quiet. Curious.

She lifted her hand. Slow. Trembling.

Signed: “Thank you.”

His head tilted slightly, and to her shock… he understood. He nodded once, low and firm, and murmured, “You don’t have to thank me.”

She stared at him.

Another sign: “You know?”

A pause. Then: “I do. A long time ago.” His voice was a whisper. Rough and soft at once. “I used to know someone like you.”

The words made her throat burn. Something inside her cracked open a little, not wide enough to be a wound, but enough to let air in. Enough to breathe again.

Her hand fell slowly back to her chest, the simple motion of signing already exhausting.

But he didn’t look away.

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly, retreating to his shoulders like they were giving her space. His wings shifted slightly, and then, with a quiet rustle, he moved closer. Not looming. Not hovering. Just near enough that his voice could stay low.

“Do you have a house here?” he asked, careful and quiet, like he was afraid to press too hard. “I could check. See if anything’s left.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, painfully, her fingers began to move again.

“I saw it burn.”

Azriel’s breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My sister was inside. I couldn’t—”

Her hands trembled too much to finish. The signs faltered and fell apart, and her throat clenched in frustration. Not being able to scream was one thing. But not being able to say it, even now, made the grief coil tighter around her chest.

Azriel didn’t ask for more. Didn’t demand she finish.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, his voice rough. He shifted again, closer but not touching, and added, “You’re sure you’re alone now?”

She nodded once. It was the hardest motion of all.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The healer’s faelight swirled around them, blue and soft. Outside, the quiet hum of the camp settled into the air — the distant sound of Cassian’s voice barking orders, wood being stacked, water poured.

And still Azriel sat with her.

Then he spoke again. “We’re going to rebuild the village. All of it. We’ll keep it safe. I promise you, this will never happen again.”

She looked at him, not with hope, not yet. But with a fragile thread of belief. Not because she trusted easily, or because his words were sweet. But because his eyes didn’t lie.

Because when he said we’ll rebuild, she knew he meant every stone, every broken family, every shattered soul, including hers.

And he wasn’t promising to fix her.

He was promising that she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

────────────

The war room in the House of Wind smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faintest trace of lavender, likely from something Feyre had left behind. Morning light streamed through the high windows, catching on the scattered maps and marked reports laid across the obsidian table.

Rhysand stood at the head, fingers steepled under his chin as his violet eyes swept over the latest reports.

“They’re calling it Emberon now,” he said at last, tapping a finger to the northern ridge of the map. “The villagers decided on it a few days ago. Said they wanted something that acknowledged the fire, but didn’t let it define them.”

“Emberon,” Cassian echoed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Has a ring to it.”

“Poetic,” Azriel added, though his voice was low, contemplative. His eyes lingered on the spot on the map, far beyond the borders of Velaris. The smoke and ash had long since cleared, but the memory remained vivid, especially one particular memory.

Rhys nodded. “Most of the homes are rebuilt. They’ve started clearing out the western fields for planting again. The last supply drop from Velaris got there two days ago. But I want to see it myself.”

“You’re going?” Cassian asked.

“I’ll only stay for the day. Feyre’s painting again, and Nyx has been using my leathers as a canvas. But I want to speak to the village leaders in person. Make sure they have what they need.”

“I’ll come,” Cassian said immediately. “I want to see the families again. The way they bounced back from that mess…” He trailed off, eyes hardening. “They deserve everything we can give.”

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “You?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His shadows curled thoughtfully across his shoulders, stirred by something quieter than words.

In truth, he’d been thinking about that village for days. Ever since the last courier had brought back news of a functioning market square and newly laid stone paths, a thread of thought kept pulling at him.

The girl.

The one he’d found bound to a tree, all bone and silence, eyes hollow from more pain than any person should endure. She hadn’t spoken, couldn’t speak, but her hands had told him enough.

He never got her name.

She’d stayed in the healer’s tent the last time he saw her, still too weak to walk. When he and Cassian had flown back to Velaris days after the attack, she hadn’t woken to say goodbye.

He hadn't expected her to. But he had thought about her far more than he admitted, wondered if she had a roof again, if she still flinched in her sleep. If she still signed “thank you” with trembling hands.

Azriel looked up. “I’ll come.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought you were brooding too hard in your tower lately.”

Azriel gave him a flat look. “I’ll be brooding in the skies today.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Rhysand just offered a small nod. “Then we leave within the hour. Bring warm gear, it still gets cold up in those hills.”

As Rhys vanished to prepare, Cassian stood and stretched with a dramatic groan. Azriel remained seated, tracing his gaze over the inked lines of Emberon on the map. It wasn’t just a village anymore, it was a scar turned to a seed.

He wondered if she was still there, among the rebuilding. If she had a home now. If her silence still felt like a prison, or if it had started to feel like power.

He didn’t know what he hoped for.

But he knew this: when he set foot in Emberon again, the first person he would look for was her.

The wind was brisk over the hills when they crested the last ridge and Emberon came into view.

It looked nothing like the place they’d left behind.

Where there had once been scorched timbers and the ghostly remains of shattered cottages, now stood a patchwork of new roofs, whitewashed stone, and garden plots with sprigs of green clawing their way through the thawing earth. Smoke curled from chimneys — not the smoke of ruin, but of hearths. Cooking fires. Blacksmith forges. Life.

Children ran between homes, their laughter carried on the wind. Baskets of bread and vegetables sat outside doors. Bright scraps of fabric fluttered on clotheslines like prayer flags.

A rough wooden sign greeted them at the edge of the road: Welcome to Emberon Forged by Fire - Reborn by Choice

Azriel’s shadows stilled around him as they landed at the edge of the main square. He wasn’t the only one surprised.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “They’ve done a gods-damned miracle here.”

Rhysand didn’t respond immediately, his violet gaze scanning every face, every movement. Then he gave a quiet, satisfied nod. “This is what rebuilding should look like.”

The square was buzzing with activity. A group of Fae elders spoke quietly at a stone table under a tree in bloom. Two younger males carried buckets from a well. And off to the side, a tall healer was speaking with a few villagers, nodding in approval at someone’s bandaged arm.

But Azriel wasn’t focused on any of them.

His shadows had stirred again. Not warning, guiding.

They pulled softly at the edge of his coat, brushing his neck and nudging his gaze toward the far side of the square. Toward a small communal garden fenced with woven branches.

And there she was.

Kneeling in the soil, sleeves rolled past her elbows, dark earth streaking her hands and forearms. A loose braid of hair hung over one shoulder, strands escaping to catch the sun. Her face was turned toward the raised bed, her expression hidden, but there was something different about her now.

Not fragile.

Focused.

She moved carefully, planting tiny seedlings into the soil with practiced care. Around her, several others worked, older women, a pair of teenagers, but even in the crowd, Azriel saw her as clearly as if she stood in a spotlight.

He felt it again, that thread, that invisible pull in his chest. It didn’t ache like it had before. Not grief. Not guilt.

Just a quiet, steady certainty.

She was alive.

He hadn’t imagined her resilience, her presence. She wasn’t still in a healer’s cot, curled into herself. She was here. Rooted.

Cassian followed his gaze, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that her?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, she looked up.

Her eyes met his across the square, not startled, not afraid, just still.

Recognition flickered there, followed by something gentler. Like the first breeze of spring brushing across old wounds.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. And though she didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t move toward him… she didn’t turn away either.

Azriel’s shadows curled like smoke around his boots. “She’s stronger,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Cassian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like someone’s been taking care of her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Or maybe… she’s been taking care of herself.”

Across the square, she tilted her head, just slightly, and lifted one hand. The sign was small. Barely a motion.

Hello.

And for the first time in weeks, Azriel felt the corners of his mouth lift. Not a smile, exactly. But something close.

Hello, he signed back.

Azriel crossed the square with deliberate steps, not because he feared startling her, not anymore, but because he wasn’t sure how to approach her. Not because of any distance between them, but because he had grown used to watching her from a distance, giving her the space she needed to heal.

As he neared the low fence, she noticed him. She straightened, brushing her palms against her apron once again. There were faint traces of dirt on her cheeks, and her hair was loosely braided, a few strands escaping as she worked. She didn’t seem startled by his presence, but instead looked at him with quiet curiosity, the same way she had the first time he had found her in the woods.

When Azriel reached the edge of the garden, he stopped. He gave her the choice, as he always did, waiting to see what she would do next.

She tilted her head, just slightly, and then without a word, she stepped through the small gate, closing the space between them.

Azriel stood still for a moment, taking in the changes he could see in her. Her face had filled out with strength, the faint weariness in her eyes replaced by something more like calm determination. There was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, the way she moved between the rows of plants, even as the shadow of her past still lingered in her gaze.

When she stood before him, she didn’t look away. There was no tension in her body, no unease, just an understanding that they were both in this moment together.

Her hands moved, slow but steady. “You came back.”

Azriel’s voice was soft, low. “I wanted to see the village. And see if you were still here.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Then she signed again, more slowly this time, as though careful with her words. “I never left.”

Azriel’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but there was something in her response that settled in him, a quiet kind of peace, maybe. That she had stayed. That she had found a way to stay.

She hesitated, fingers trembling ever so slightly before continuing. “You never asked for my name.”

Azriel felt a pang of realization. He hadn’t asked for her name, hadn’t thought to ask it before. The moment of crisis, of survival, had taken away the small things, the human things. He hadn’t asked, because there hadn’t been space to.

“I didn’t want to ask until you were ready,” he replied quietly.

She regarded him for a long moment, her eyes studying his face, then placed her hand gently over her chest.

“Y/N.”

Azriel repeated the name in his mind, letting it settle like a new melody in his thoughts. He nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Azriel.”

There was no smile, but her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something there. Maybe it was acknowledgment. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was both.

She then turned slightly, gesturing to the garden around them. “Do you want to see?”

Azriel nodded and followed her through the rows of plants. She led him from one raised bed to the next, pointing out herbs, vegetables, and flowers, thyme, rosemary, young lettuce, and the beginnings of carrots and squash. With every motion, she signed the name of the plant, and Azriel followed her hands, his gaze not on the plants but on the rhythm of her movements. The way her hands danced through the air as if she had been doing this all her life.

At one point, Y/N handed him a small wooden trowel, her expression one of quiet challenge. Azriel accepted it, and with a slow, deliberate motion, crouched beside her, taking his time as he began to dig gently into the earth. Together, in silence, they planted a row of small sprouts.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet work of two souls who, for this moment, shared something that wasn’t spoken aloud but was understood.

After some time, Y/N stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn’t look at Azriel immediately but glanced down at the garden, a small flicker of something passing over her face. When she finally did look back at him, there was no sadness in her expression. No fear.

Just quiet contentment.

Azriel’s shadows, which had settled low around him, shifted lightly at his feet, as if aware of the change in the air between them. The space between them felt less like distance, less like hesitation, and more like a soft, growing connection.

For the first time since he’d found her in the woods, Azriel allowed himself to believe in the possibility of what could come next, in the small, steady steps forward, and in the quiet trust that was beginning to blossom between them.

The village of Emberon was slowly coming back to life. The faint hum of hammers and chisels filled the air as more homes were rebuilt, children played in the dirt streets, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a small bakery on the corner. Azriel walked beside Y/N, his shadows swirling at his heels, as she led him toward the place she had called home since her recovery. It was a modest house, but to her, it was a sanctuary. The early evening sun bathed the streets in golden light as they made their way through the village, Azriel glancing at the quiet houses and newly constructed buildings.

"I can't believe it's finally coming together," Azriel murmured quietly, his tone soft as he looked around at the rebuilding.

Y/N gave him a smile, though it was subtle, and motioned toward the direction of her house with a small wave of her hand. She signed quickly, and Azriel nodded, catching the gist of her words. "I’m proud of it. Of what’s been built here."

They had been walking in silence, and Azriel found comfort in the stillness, the sense of normalcy beginning to return to the village. His mind drifted as they walked, but it was broken by the sound of raised voices from down the street. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd, and he spotted Cassian and Rhysand talking to a tall fae male, a general from another region, right outside one of the shops. The conversation seemed to be heated, and Cassian’s boisterous voice was hard to miss even from a distance.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gestured for Azriel to follow her toward the group. She wanted to show him her new home, but there was no harm in saying hello. As they approached, Cassian turned and spotted them immediately, his grin widening at the sight of Y/N.

“Well, well, look who it is!” Cassian called, his voice booming across the street. He took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning her, noticing her calm but wary demeanor. “How are you?”

Azriel stood back a little, watching as Y/N stepped forward to respond. She raised her hands, signing rapidly, and Azriel moved closer to her side. His shadows drifted around her, a constant comfort, as he translated her words for Cassian.

“She says she’s doing better,” Azriel said softly. “She’s settling in.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening. “That’s good to hear. You know, we’ve been working hard to help everyone here. You’ve got a good home now.”

Y/N signed again, this time more slowly, and Azriel watched as her hands moved fluidly. He translated for her again, the words flowing as she spoke.

“She’s thankful for everything that’s been done,” Azriel said, glancing back at Cassian. “But she still remembers everything. It’s hard to move past it all, even if she has a place of her own.”

Rhysand, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, his violet eyes locking with Y/N. The breeze shifted as the power of his Daemati abilities sparked in the air around him. Without a word, Rhysand reached out, connecting with her mind. Azriel’s brow furrowed as he watched, instinctively stepping back, sensing the power at play. He couldn’t hear their conversation, and neither could Cassian, but it was clear what was happening.

Y/N’s eyes softened as Rhysand’s voice entered her thoughts, and Azriel felt a strange mix of emotions as he watched her respond, her lips moving slightly, but not making a sound.

“You’ve helped so many here, Rhysand,” Y/N’s voice came, quiet but clear in Rhysand's mind. “Without you, and without Azriel and his shadows, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

Azriel felt the weight of their conversation in his chest, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He didn’t need to. The connection between the two of them, that subtle shift in her expression, told him everything he needed to know. There was a tenderness in the way Y/N held herself, a gratitude so deep that Azriel felt it resonate with his own heart.

Suddenly, Rhysand broke through the mental connection, his voice cutting through the air for all to hear, loud and firm.

“It’s our responsibility,” Rhysand said, his voice carrying over the conversation. “To protect, to help, and to make sure this never happens again. We will rebuild this place, just like we’ve rebuilt so many others.”

Azriel stood still, his eyes focused on Y/N’s reaction. She blinked, as though Rhysand’s words were just as powerful in her mind as they were in the air, and she gave a small nod. It was as though she had heard it all before, and yet, it still made a difference to her.

Y/N turned to face them, her hands moving again. She signed with slow, graceful gestures, her fingers weaving through the air as she asked Azriel to translate.

“She’s offering us food,” Azriel said with a small smile, his voice quieter now. “She wants us to come to her place. A quick meal.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not turning down a free meal,” he said, his voice teasing.

Azriel glanced at Y/N, who smiled at Cassian's words. Then, with a subtle nod, she turned toward her home, motioning for them to follow.

Rhysand’s eyes lingered on the village for a moment before he turned to follow them. “Lead the way, Y/N. We’ll be happy to join you.”

Azriel, trailing behind, allowed his shadows to flow around him like a cloak. He could feel the weight of the day lifting, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the meal or because Y/N had invited them into her world. They had done what they could for her, for the village, but it was clear that her journey was far from over. Still, there was a small flicker of hope in the air, a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again.

The inside of Y/N's house was simple, yet welcoming. The small kitchen area had a hearth where a pot of stew simmered on the flames, filling the air with a savory aroma. The furniture was modest but carefully placed, and the warmth of her home was a stark contrast to the cold, barren village Azriel had found her in all those weeks ago. The stone walls were lined with fresh herbs, and small touches of color from woven fabrics gave it a sense of life.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel stood near the entrance, surveying the space. Cassian was running his hand along the rough wooden shelves, his eyes scanning the room for anything that stood out. He noticed a few things still left unfinished, some shelves that weren’t fully mounted, a small pile of firewood in the corner that needed to be stacked.

Rhysand’s eyes were softer than usual as he observed the place. The High Lord of the Night Court was always in command, always exuding a certain distance, but here, in the quiet of Y/N’s home, something in him softened. He turned his attention to her, and his voice was gentle as he reached out to her mind.

“Y/N,” Rhysand’s voice was like a whisper in her thoughts. “Would you like us to help finish anything here? We could take care of the shelves or the firewood, whatever you need.”

Y/N paused for a moment, considering the offer, but then signed in a quick, dismissive motion as she shook her head. She wanted to refuse, her hands moving gracefully in the air as she said to Azriel, who translated for the group.

“She says she couldn’t possibly ask for the High Lord of the Night Court to do something like that,” Azriel said with a chuckle, his voice warm as he glanced toward Rhysand. “She’s too proud.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the small space. “I won’t put my hands on anything. But Cassian over here”, he grinned slyly, “he’ll do all the work.”

Cassian’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What?” he grumbled. “I don’t even know how to-”

Before Cassian could protest further, Rhysand just waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying the banter. Azriel couldn’t help but grin a little as he watched the two of them, but his attention soon shifted as Y/N turned back to the stove, checking on the stew.

Azriel gave the room one last sweep and noticed that Y/N had already begun setting the table for the meal. He could see the care she’d put into everything, but there was still a certain sense of unfinished business, the house wasn’t quite complete, and the simple details spoke volumes about how much she had left to do.

He moved toward her, not wanting to stand idle. “I’ll help with the stew,” Azriel offered quietly, his voice low but steady.

Y/N glanced at him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips before she nodded. She handed him the ladle to stir the pot, and Azriel did so with ease, his attention on the bubbling stew. He caught the faint scent of vegetables and spices, his mouth watering slightly. The sounds of Cassian and Rhysand’s conversation in the background faded as he focused on the simple task of preparing the meal.

Once the stew was ready, Y/N began ladling it into bowls with precise, careful movements, her hands flowing through the motions as if she had done it a thousand times. Azriel stood by, ready to help, and as she placed the bowls on the counter, he moved to take them and set them on the table.

But just as he was about to move, one of his shadows seemed to get in his way. It darted out from behind him, swirling in front of his hands like an unruly piece of cloth. He tried to move past it, but it lingered, twining in front of him like it had a mind of its own. His focus was split for just a moment, and before he realized it, the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl, splashing onto his hands.

Azriel cursed under his breath, grimacing as the hot liquid seared his skin. He jumped back, quickly wiping his hands on the towel he had nearby. The sting of the burn made his jaw tighten, but it wasn’t unbearable. He muttered a curse to himself, knowing it was his own fault for not being more mindful.

“Damn shadows,” he told them, low and to himself, not realizing how loud his thoughts were as he cursed.

But then, just as he was preparing to move the bowl again, a cold, wet cloth pressed gently to his hand. Azriel froze, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up to see Y/N, who had come to his side without him even realizing. She was focused, her hands working quickly to press the towel to his injured skin.

Azriel blinked in surprise. “How did you-”

Y/N’s gaze met his, and she tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. She seemed to sense his confusion and signed back to him, her hands moving slowly and deliberately as she explained.

“I heard you,” she signed carefully. “I could hear you talking to yourself. I thought... I thought you were in pain.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He had been speaking to himself, yes, but there was no way she could have heard him. Wasn’t it just his internal thoughts? She couldn't have—

“Wait,” he asked, his voice a little unsure, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You... you heard me?”

Y/N nodded, a flicker of confusion in her own eyes. She signed again.

“You were talking to your shadows. I heard it. Are you okay?”

Azriel’s mouth went dry, and his mind raced. He had been speaking to his shadows, sure, but the fact that she could hear him... that was something else entirely. He had never imagined that someone who couldn’t speak could somehow hear his thoughts. It was impossible... but then again, this was Y/N.

Azriel paused for a moment, staring at her, trying to process everything. “Can you hear... my thoughts? Like how Rhysand can?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed even more in confusion, and she signed again, this time slower, as if trying to make sense of it herself.

“I don’t know. I just... I could hear you. In my mind. Can you hear me, too?”

Azriel blinked, feeling the faintest ripple of something he couldn’t explain, something new between them. “I... I think I can.”

He wasn’t sure how it worked, or why it was happening, but as he stood there, with the cold cloth still pressed to his hand, a strange connection started to form. He could hear her in his head, her thoughts were as clear as if she had spoken aloud.

Azriel’s mouth went dry as he turned to her, unsure whether to be thrilled or confused. “This... this is new.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a small, unsure smile. She signed once more.

“Maybe it’s something we share now. I’m not sure.”

Azriel smiled faintly, looking down at his hand, which no longer burned from the hot stew. His shadows had settled, and his mind was still spinning. But in that moment, he felt something shift between them, something tangible and warm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Together.”

Y/N nodded, and Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope rise in his chest. Maybe this was a new beginning, one where she didn’t have to remain silent anymore.

────────────

The sun had already dipped behind the hills, casting the village in soft lavender hues when Azriel knocked gently on Y/N’s door. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees outside, rustling just loud enough to be noticed. Her home, tucked between two larger cottages near the outer edge of the rebuilt village, was bathed in the golden light of a few lanterns within.

Y/N opened the door before he could knock again, her expression neutral at first, but softening immediately at the sight of him. She stepped aside wordlessly, inviting him in.

Azriel stepped inside, the warmth of her home wrapping around him like a soft blanket. It smelled faintly of dried herbs, pinewood, and something sweet.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked him, speaking gently into his mind.

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

A flicker of warmth crossed her face as she moved into the small kitchen area, setting a kettle on the iron stove. From a wooden drawer she pulled out a small tin and opened it, releasing the delicate fragrance of her favorite blend, peppermint, chamomile, and rose hip. The colors were beautiful in the low light: deep green leaves, pale yellow petals, rich crimson fruit. She dropped them into a small teapot and poured hot water over them.

Azriel watched her from a nearby chair, silent, but something about the domesticity of it, her careful movements, the quiet ritual of preparing something comforting, felt oddly intimate. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this kind of quiet.

When the tea had steeped, she poured two cups and handed him one. Their fingers brushed briefly. He muttered a soft “thank you,” and she nodded, taking her seat by the hearth, gesturing for him to join her.

They sipped in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the drink settle into their bones. Then, she looked up at him, her gaze sharp but kind.

“You’re troubled,” she said into his mind, gently, without judgment.

Azriel leaned back, his fingers wrapped around the cup, wings slightly hunched behind him. “I’ve been thinking. About… this. You and me. Whatever this is.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just waited, eyes steady on his.

“It’s not a mating bond,” he said slowly. “At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve read everything I could find on the subject over the years. I thought… I hoped I’d recognize it instantly, if it ever happened. I would know. But this...” He paused. “It feels different.”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave his. Her mental voice was quiet, steady. “It’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel stiffened, then nodded once. “You’re sure?”

“I had one once,” she said. The words slid gently into his thoughts, but their weight landed heavily. “A true mating bond. I rejected it.”

His brows drew together. He set the cup down, leaning forward. “Why?”

“Because he was cruel. Manipulative. He wanted to break me, not cherish me.” Her hands remained folded in her lap, but her voice in his head was calm. “The bond was there, yes. But I would rather walk alone than be bound to someone like him.”

Azriel’s chest ached. He shifted to sit across from her now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “And yet,” he said, “you and I… we have something.”

“We do.”

“I can speak to you without sound. You can answer. It’s not like what you have with Rhys, I can’t do that with anyone else. And you can’t do it with anyone else, either, can you?”

She shook her head. “Only you. And Rhys, because of what he is. But with you… it’s different. Easier. Natural.”

He studied her face, her stillness, the way her shadows always seemed to draw nearer when he was near her. “Maybe it’s the shadows,” she offered softly. “They understand me. I’ve always felt like they listened when no one else could. Maybe they… carry me to you.”

Azriel looked down. His own shadows curled at his ankles, one brushing the hem of her skirt. They didn’t pull away. If anything, they seemed... content. Restful.

“You might be right,” he admitted. “I’ve never known them to behave like this before. They whisper to me, warn me, guide me… but they’ve never connected me to someone like this.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Do you think they’re giving you something you didn’t know you needed?”

The question was quiet, but it dug in deep. Azriel looked up, met her eyes, and for a moment, it felt like she’d peeled back every layer he spent a lifetime guarding.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low even in his own mind. “Maybe they are.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something just as kind. She reached for the teapot, poured them both another cup.

And as they sat there, in the fading evening light with the scent of peppermint and rose hip between them, neither spoke aloud.

They didn’t need to.

The air between them shifted, thick with unspoken words. The warmth from their tea had settled into the bones of the small cottage, but Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that something heavy lingered in the space between them. He’d always known Y/N was a survivor, that there was more to her silence than met the eye, but he hadn’t pushed, until now.

The shadows at his feet coiled tighter, drawn to the quiet stillness of the room. He could feel them, just as he could feel the weight of her presence. She was stronger than she realized, but there were cracks in her walls. Azriel’s mind lingered on those cracks, and the realization hit him hard: She has a story. And I need to hear it.

“Y/N,” Azriel began, his voice quiet but steady, “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to, but... I need to ask. Were you always mute?”

She paused, her fingers gently tracing the edge of her teacup. Her eyes fell to her lap, and for a moment, he feared she would close off completely, retreating into herself. But then, slowly, she looked up at him. The silent communication between them was a delicate thread now, one she grasped without hesitation. And for a brief second, Azriel saw the rawness behind her calm facade.

“No,” she said, her mental voice soft, laced with pain. “I wasn’t always like this.”

Azriel leaned forward, sensing that this was the moment where the walls would either crumble or solidify. He said nothing more, allowing her the space to share her story on her terms.

She inhaled deeply before speaking again, her voice now shaking, though still only audible to him. “I was born into a family that was... never safe. My parents were good people, I think. But the world around us was always breaking, always trying to tear us apart. I was just a little girl, caught in the chaos.” Her mind drifted for a moment, eyes looking past him, as if seeing something Azriel couldn’t.

“When I was young, our village was attacked, too. They came at night, burning homes, ripping families apart. My parents were taken from me, pulled from my arms while I was screaming, too loud, too helpless. They told me to be quiet. They told me that if I made a sound, I would die like them.”

Azriel’s heart twisted painfully at her words, at the way she spoke with such quiet certainty of loss. But what struck him the most was the calmness in her voice, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the horrors she had lived through.

Her mind continued, and the weight of her trauma filled every thought. “After they... they killed them, the others came for me and my sister. They said they’d cut out my tongue if I ever screamed. They said I was worthless if I didn’t learn to obey, to shut up. And they made sure I understood by threatening to do it right there.”

Y/N’s eyes squeezed shut, the pain almost palpable even though it was confined within her mind. Azriel could see the shadows at her feet, as if they, too, felt her anguish. He reached for his own, needing the connection, needing to hold something tangible as her memories bled through their shared silence.

“They locked us away. Kept us in a room, chained to a wall. And every time I tried to make a sound, anything, there were punishments. Whips. Swords. It didn’t matter. The message was clear: Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. And after a while... I couldn’t anymore. I was so terrified. Every time I tried, it felt like my voice was gone.”

She paused, the heaviness of her confession suffocating the air between them. Azriel could feel it, could see it in her eyes. The tears that had never fallen, the silent scream she could never release.

She looked at him now, her eyes full of something else, resignation, but also a quiet, unyielding strength. “It’s like my voice was stolen. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s like my body just... refuses. Even now, if I try to speak, nothing comes out. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

The silence that followed was deep, and Azriel felt like the room itself had stopped breathing. His hands clenched into fists, the sharp ache of helplessness pulling through his chest. What she had been through, what she still carried, was unimaginable. And yet, she was still here. Alive. Still fighting.

Azriel didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there were words to make this right. Instead, he took a slow breath, pushing through the growing ache. “You don’t have to fix it, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice rougher than usual. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand you.”

Her eyes flickered with something like relief, but she didn’t respond. She just closed the space between them, a tentative touch to his arm, her hand resting there, silent but full of meaning.

“I just…” she thought, her mental voice hesitant, “I want to be heard. In my own way. To be understood.”

Azriel reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t need to speak aloud. He didn’t need to fill the silence with words. Instead, he let her know, through the bond they shared — through the shadows and his steady presence — that she was heard.

Azriel sat in stillness for a moment longer, watching the way her fingers curled around her teacup as if grounding herself through the warmth. The weight of her story still hung in the room, but there was something new now, a vulnerability she hadn’t shown before, and the trust it took to reveal it.

He shifted slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His voice came quiet, thoughtful, each word etched with a heaviness he didn’t try to hide.

“Aren’t you afraid,” he asked gently, “that something like that might happen again?”

Her head lifted at that, her eyes meeting his, not startled, not offended. Just honest. He hesitated, then continued.

“It happened again, Y/N. Just a few weeks ago. That night I found you... bound, bleeding. Alone.”

The shadows at his back flickered restlessly, echoing the unease he barely contained.

She was quiet for a long time before her voice slipped into his mind, soft and sure. “Yes. I’m afraid.”

She didn’t try to hide it. And the admission, simple as it was, carved deeper into Azriel than any scream ever could.

“But I trust Rhysand,” she added. “This village matters to him. To you. I believe he’ll keep us safe.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed as he looked at her, at the softness of her features, the hard-earned strength beneath. The shadows whispered against his skin, tugging at him, as if echoing what he was about to say.

He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and then asked what had been weighing on him since the day he left the village: “Would you come to Velaris?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback, her fingers going still against her cup.

“It’s safer there,” Azriel said quickly, before she could answer. “The city is protected. Guarded. No one would touch you. I could take you there. You’d be safe.”

He didn’t say I’d sleep better knowing you’re behind those wards. He didn’t say I think about you more than I should. But it was all there, in the way his voice dipped, the way his shadows hovered near her like they were drawn to her pain, her quiet strength.

Y/N’s thoughts reached him after a moment, hesitant but clear. “I can’t abandon them.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but said nothing as she continued.

“These people… they stayed. They rebuilt this place together. With blood on the ground and ash in their mouths, they still stood. I can’t leave them behind.”

He nodded slowly. He understood, more than she could know. Still, he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t scream for help.”

He hated the sound of that truth aloud. “If something were to happen again-”

“Then maybe,” she cut in gently, “you could teach me how to stay safe.”

Azriel blinked. Her eyes met his, unwavering. There was no fear in them now, only quiet determination.

The shadows stilled.

“You want me to train you?” he asked, surprise flickering through his voice.

She nodded. “I don’t want to be helpless again. I don’t want to rely on someone hearing me. I want to be able to protect myself… and others too.”

Azriel’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something close. “Alright.” His voice was gravel and warmth. “Then tomorrow, we begin.”

And even though she said nothing aloud, he felt the quiet warmth ripple across their bond, gratitude, fierce and radiant, and beneath it, something new: Hope.

────────────

The sun had just begun to dip behind the Sidra, painting Velaris in shades of gold and lavender as Starfall’s first shimmering streaks whispered across the sky.

At the House of Wind, laughter and warmth swirled through the grand dining hall like old music. Lanterns floated gently above the long table, casting soft hues of blue and violet over wine glasses and golden plates. The Inner Circle was gathered, every one of them dressed in star-kissed silks or tailored leathers, the room buzzing with anticipation, except for one lingering question.

“Why aren’t we eating?” Nesta asked, arms folded, her patience thinning as she eyed the untouched food on the table. She looked radiant tonight, as always, in midnight blue, like she belonged among the stars themselves.

Rhysand, lounging at the head of the table with Feyre nestled beside him, smiled with that infuriating calm of his. “Because,” he said smoothly, “Azriel is picking someone up.”

Cassian, who had just downed a sip of wine, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “You mean Azriel and his girlfriend.”

Mor nearly choked on her drink, eyes sparkling. “Wait, seriously? Are they…?”

She left the question open, eyebrows raised toward Rhysand.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the open balcony, where the night sky had begun to stir with faint threads of starlight. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I don’t know what to call it,” he said. “But I can feel it. Whatever is between them, it’s real. And different.”

Amren, perched near the end of the table, narrowed her silver eyes. “He shares something with her he doesn’t with any of us. That much is clear.”

Feyre nodded softly, brushing her fingers along the stem of her glass. “I’ve seen it, too. The way his shadows behave around her, like they’re part of her now.”

The conversation faded into a hush as a faint sound stirred from the hall, the rustle of boots on stone, the quiet press of wings folding behind them.

The door opened, and Azriel stepped inside, dressed in soft black, his Siphons gleaming like frozen stars on his hands and shoulders. At his side walked Y/N.

She wore deep forest green with a shimmer of silver woven into the fabric, nothing elaborate, but breathtaking in its simplicity. A small braid was pinned behind her ear, and her gaze moved over the Inner Circle with a calm steadiness that held no fear. Only curiosity. And quiet strength.

Azriel kept close beside her, a shadow brushing along her arm like it was anchoring her, or maybe the other way around.

Rhysand stood first, his smile genuine. “Welcome.”

Y/N bowed her head gently in greeting, and though she didn’t speak, she didn’t need to — the way her eyes met each of theirs, full of quiet warmth and gratitude, said enough.

“Thank you,” her voice echoed gently into Rhysand’s mind. “For letting me be here.”

Rhysand inclined his head with a smile, then turned toward the rest of the room. “Shall we eat now, Nesta?”

Nesta rolled her eyes, though a smirk played at her lips.

Cassian was already rising to his feet, nudging a chair out beside him. “Come sit, Az. And Y/N, we saved the good bread for you.”

Mor beamed as Y/N took a seat beside Azriel, the shadows around him curling like smoke in moonlight, peaceful for the first time in days.

And outside, the stars began to fall, like silver rain from the heavens, silent and endless.

Dinner was laughter, the clink of glasses, warm candlelight, and the shimmer of magic laced in the air.

Y/N sat quietly between Azriel and Feyre, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the easy rhythm of the Inner Circle, the way Cassian teased Mor with flicks of bread rolls, the way Amren rolled her eyes and muttered about “children,” even though the corners of her lips were quirked in amusement.

“Did Azriel tell you,” Cassian said mid-chew, gesturing toward Y/N with his fork, “that he threatened three construction workers last week for letting a hammer fall too close to your garden?”

Azriel, without looking up from his plate, said calmly, “I told them to be more careful.”

“You said,” Mor mimicked in a deadly-serious tone, “‘Drop that again and I’ll rip your arms off and bury them in the herb bed.’” She grinned at Y/N. “We were all there.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly in amusement, then her hands moved, quick, fluid gestures of her fingers.

Feyre laughed, translating instinctively, “She says the hammer didn’t even touch the ground.”

Azriel’s lip twitched.

“I told you,” Cassian said, pointing his fork again. “Absolutely whipped.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He just raised a brow and flicked a shadow toward Cassian’s wine, tipping the cup ever-so-slightly.

Y/N caught the movement and bit back a laugh, shaking her head as if to say boys.

The Inner Circle was basking in warmth, and Y/N felt the unfamiliar but comforting sensation of being part of something, even if she mostly listened. Still, she didn’t feel apart from them. Not tonight.

Azriel stayed close at her side, his shadows uncharacteristically calm. Every so often, he’d lean in, not out of necessity, but as if it was simply his instinct now.

When Cassian launched into another embellished story about Mor and a bakery brawl years ago, Y/N turned slightly toward Azriel and caught his eye.

“Are they always like this?” she asked in his mind, her tone dry, amused.

Azriel’s lips curved faintly. “This is tame. Wait until Cassian’s had three more glasses of wine and starts dancing.”

She laughed silently, a soft sparkle lighting her eyes.

“You’ve changed,” she added after a moment, more hesitantly now. “Since the night you found me. You seem… lighter.”

Azriel turned his head to her, searching her face in the flickering glow. “Maybe because you’re here. And safe. It’s easier to breathe when I know that.”

Across the table, a pair of sharp silver eyes were watching them closely.

Amren said nothing. She swirled the deep red wine in her goblet and observed the pair, the way they seemed to speak without a sound, how Azriel’s shoulders loosened when he was with Y/N, how Y/N’s expressions shifted as though full conversations were happening in silence.

There was something deeper there. Not a mating bond, she’d known enough of those to recognize it, but something… older. Stranger.

When dessert arrived, Amren stood without a word.

Feyre glanced over. “You’re not staying?”

“I have something to look into,” Amren replied, her tone clipped as always, though her eyes flicked once more to Azriel and Y/N before she turned. “Something I should’ve thought of sooner.”

And then she was gone, shadows slipping behind her as she vanished from the dining hall, no doubt heading toward the library’s oldest corners.

Back at the table, Y/N noticed Azriel watching Amren leave. She nudged his arm gently, tilting her head.

“Everything alright?”

He shook his head once. “With her, who knows.” But his eyes softened when he looked back at her. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I’m more than okay. This is the first time in… years… that I feel like I’m not surviving. I’m just living.”

Azriel blinked slowly, something fierce and fragile sparking behind his eyes.

Then, almost without thinking, he reached under the table, just a brush of his pinky finger against hers, a quiet promise. She stilled, and then wrapped her fingers around his.

Later, when most of the Inner Circle had drifted to other corners of the House of Wind, some to sip wine by the fire, others to dance beneath the starlight, Azriel and Y/N slipped away to one of the balconies.

They said nothing for a while. They didn’t need to.

Y/N leaned against the stone railing, gazing up at the stars as they fell in slow, glowing streaks. The sky shimmered with ancient magic, vast and silver-blue and full of unspoken dreams. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, and Azriel, standing just behind her, watched as one of his shadows twined itself around her wrist like a ribbon, then flitted away as if shy.

She turned to him after a moment, her voice touching his mind in that soft, singular way.

“Is it always like this?”

Azriel shook his head. “Some years, the stars fall slower. Sometimes the wind carries them in spirals. This… this is rare.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the light. “Then I’m glad I’m seeing it like this. With you.”

A pause.

He looked at her, really looked, as if this was the first time he could, uninterrupted by fear or pain or the weight of everything else they’d survived.

“I thought I knew what I was looking for,” Azriel murmured. “All these centuries. I thought I’d know the shape of it when it came.”

Her brows lifted, curious.

He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time, space, always.

“But this,” he said, voice lower now. “This wasn’t what I expected. It’s not a mating bond. It’s not fire. It’s… quiet. Like peace. Like my shadows finally have nothing to warn me about.”

She didn’t speak to his mind immediately. Instead, she reached out, just barely, and brushed her fingers against his.

Azriel’s eyes darkened as they held hers.

“Then maybe,” she said gently in his mind, “you weren’t looking for fire. Maybe you were always looking for quiet.”

The words landed like a balm across a scar.

Slowly, deliberately, Azriel lifted one hand and cupped her jaw. His thumb skimmed the curve of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught, eyes wide and shining.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t claimed. It was reverent.

Their lips met beneath the falling stars - soft, slow, warm.

Y/N exhaled into him, and Azriel breathed her in like he had waited a lifetime to do so.

Above them, a shooting star blazed past, brighter than the rest. And for a moment, time stilled.

When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, her mind brushing his again with a whisper: “You make me feel safe.”

Azriel’s hands trembled just slightly where they held her.

“I will always keep you safe,” he murmured aloud. “No matter where you are.”

The stars were still falling when the soft click of the balcony door stirred them from their shared silence.

Azriel turned first, instinctively, his shadows twitching before settling as the figure stepped into view.

Amren.

She looked… different. Not in appearance, still timeless, still clothed in midnight silk and draped in something sharper than elegance, but there was an intensity in her silver eyes that hadn’t been there at dinner.

“I thought I’d find you two out here,” she said, folding her arms. “You’ve become rather inseparable.”

Y/N straightened slightly, unsure if she should step back from Azriel, but his hand remained gently over hers, grounding, not possessive. She didn’t move.

Amren strode to the balcony’s edge, glancing once at the sky, then at them again.

“I saw the way you were interacting tonight,” she said plainly. “The way you speak without sound, how your magic knows each other before you do. It reminded me of something I once read. A long, long time ago.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “You went to the library.”

Amren’s mouth twisted into something half-smirk, half-snarl. “Of course I did. I don’t like mysteries I can’t name. And what you two have-” she waved a hand vaguely between them, “-is not a mating bond.”

Y/N’s brows drew together. Amren turned her gaze to her.

“No, girl, it’s not a bond of body or desire. But it is powerful. And old.”

She paused, and for once, the silence was heavy.

“It’s called a thirren bond,” Amren said at last, voice quieter. “From a language lost before Velaris was even built. It only happens under very rare, specific circumstances. Two souls, both fractured, but not by fate, like mates. By experience. By grief. And sometimes, when the cracks align just so…”

Her gaze swept between them again, sharp and unreadable. “They fill each other.”

Azriel’s voice was low. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Amren tilted her head. “It means you share more than thoughts. You share… knowing. Not just emotions or whispers. You don’t complete each other. You comprehend each other. There’s no hierarchy. No instinct to dominate or claim. It’s a conscious harmony. A chosen one.”

Y/N stared at her, mind gently spinning.

Azriel was quiet beside her, shadows curling slowly at his feet.

“But it’s rare,” Amren continued. “Rarer than any mating bond. Most fae don’t even believe in it anymore. Because it requires pain. It requires survival. And a willingness to connect that deeply without being compelled.”

She stepped back toward the door, her words falling like stones.

“So whatever this is between you,” she said, “don’t waste it trying to label it with something lesser.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway, her scent fading with the soft click of the door.

Silence fell again.

Azriel looked over at Y/N.

Her eyes were distant, thoughtful.

“Do you believe her?” he asked gently, his mind brushing hers.

Y/N looked at him then, searching his face, the raw honesty in it, the care.

And she nodded once.

“I think we already knew. We just didn’t have a name for it.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching for her hand again.

And this time, when their fingers laced together, it felt like confirmation. Not the beginning, not even the middle, but something ancient finally remembered.

The night air was cool, laced with starfall’s faint shimmer. They stood close, quiet in the wake of Amren’s revelation, both of them turning it over in their minds like a precious, fragile truth.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the distant hills beyond Velaris, her expression thoughtful but unreadable. Then, finally, she turned to Azriel.

“What does this mean for us?” Her mental voice was soft, tentative. “This… thirren bond?”

Azriel looked at her for a long moment. His shadows were quiet now, as if they, too, were listening.

“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles. “But I know what it feels like.”

He searched her face, his voice a low murmur in her mind. “It feels like I’m not carrying the weight of the world alone anymore.”

A soft, trembling smile curved Y/N’s lips, and her eyes flicked down to their hands, still laced together.

“I feel that too,” she said. “But it’s not just the bond.”

Azriel’s head tilted, curiosity blooming in his features.

She looked up at him then, eyes lit with quiet fire.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said. “Not because of the connection. But because of you. Because of how gentle you are with me. How patient. How you see me without needing me to explain every broken piece.”

Azriel stilled, just for a breath, shadows curling gently at his shoulders, like they’d heard something sacred.

Then he stepped a fraction closer, his voice brushing against her mind with warmth.

“I’m falling too.”

Her breath caught as he reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been trying not to rush,” he whispered aloud this time. “Trying to give you space, especially after you said you didn’t want to leave the village.”

Y/N gave a small, almost sheepish smile — the kind that crinkled the corner of her eyes and made something bloom in his chest.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she teased softly. “Maybe I want to come to Velaris. To be closer to you.”

Azriel’s heart stumbled.

“You do?”

She nodded, her smile widening just a little.

Azriel let out a breath, more like a laugh, really, one of disbelief and gratitude mingled, before he cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned in.

This kiss was slower than the one beneath the stars earlier. Deeper. A quiet promise shared under falling starlight, between two people who had once lived in silence and shadow, and now found peace in each other’s presence.

When they parted, their foreheads resting together, Azriel whispered, “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

“I think I do,” Y/N whispered back into his mind, her fingers brushing his cheek.

They stayed like that a while longer, wrapped in each other, beneath the gentle rain of stars, knowing that whatever this bond was, it was theirs to define.

Together.

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thesvnandthemooon · 4 months ago

Text

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: again, a request :)

summary: delivery driver!nat, artist!reader (not part of the request, but i decided to add it anyway), g!p nat

warnings: brief smut (handjob), implied sex, forgetting to eat (not sure if this needs to be a warning but i’m adding it anyway), mildly creepy behavior but only if you squint

word count: 7k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Hands splattered with yellow paint. A white overall. Messy hair and the smell of turpentine mixing with some expensive perfume.

Mundane things, but she won't be able to get them out of her head.

Natasha never knows what kind of people she's going to run into while doing late-night deliveries and, frankly, she usually doesn't care. All she wants is the money and maybe a solid tip — that's it. She does it for the extra cash, not because she's desperate for even more social interactions.

She's been doing this for a while now. Being a car mechanic at a small shop, her salary is far from sufficient. The $20 an hour don't stretch far, barely manage to fully cover her rent, so she decided to pick up a few extra shifts at night. Bless DoorDash for making those quite flexible as well, otherwise she'd probably be living in the streets now.

Again, she doesn't care who her customers are. She meets all kinds of people like this, and she's seen everything from teenage boys ordering Chick-fil-A for their 2am-gaming sessions to lesser known celebrities who can't be bothered to cook. Alcoholics and single dads, college students and people who just got home from partying. In the end, their faces will all be a blur, anyway.

Your name doesn't stand out when she accepts the delivery. All Natasha notices is that she's never delivered to this address before — a somewhat remote area, up on a hill, no neighbors and nothing to do. She doesn't question what kind of person would live in a place like that, even though she maybe should. What she also should do (but doesn't) is worry about driving up there by herself. It's the middle of the night, nobody else lives up there, and the cabin looks as run-down as it does abandoned.

When the motorcycle's headlights die down, so does the last source of light she has. All the house's windows are closed and dark. Judging by the looks of it, she's delivering food to ghosts.

Natasha swings her leg off the motorcycle and grabs the paper bag from the little top-box. She notices the residual grease on her hands a second too late, but decides it isn't important. The paper bag is full of stains either way.

Once she steps on the porch, a tiny light turns on. It flickers pathetically, barely holding on at this point, but provides enough light for Natasha to see your face when you open the door.

Doe eyes and paint on your cheeks, hair pulled back carelessly. Hands that look like they have enough color on them to make even the grayest days a little more colorful. Suddenly, she regrets not taking a closer look at your name. She would've remembered.

"DoorDash", she says, holding out the paper bag.

"Right!", you say, face lighting up and eyes turning more lively. Natasha feels her thoughts falter. "Totally forgot. Lemme just-"

You turn and, just like that, disappear in the darkness of the house. Natasha pauses, still holding onto your order, before snapping out of it. She glances into the hallway and tries to locate a single source of light, but finds nothing.

That is, until you seem to appear out of thin air again. She flinches slightly.

"Thanks", you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "Had trouble finding your way up here? I know one guy who got lost in the forest. Somehow managed to take the wrong exit. Never saw that pizza."

"No, no issues", she mumbles, handing you the food and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "It's dark in there."

"Oh, yeah." You nod and grab her hand. She stares at you, stunned, and then you smear the rag on the back of her hand. The streak of paint that's left behind glows faintly. "Glow-in-the-dark paint!"

"Seriously?"

"Looks great, doesn't it? I wanted to paint my bathroom with that, but decided against it."

Natasha hums, looking at the paint again. Her eyes meet yours. You give her an expectant look, as if you're waiting for something she can't place. All she's doing is deliver your food, after all. But you keep staring, so she shakes her head.

Enough. She has at least half a dozen more deliveries to get through before she can call it a night.

"Okay", she says, slowly, and steps back. "Well, uhm, enjoy your food."

You nod, already tearing open the bag of fast food and grabbing a fry. "Don't get lost on your way back."

She glances at you, seeming a little distracted. Then she nods and waves absently, already on her way to her motorcycle. The door closes behind her, a soft thud that cuts through the quiet of the night, and she tracks the vehicle where she left it.

It's an old, beat-up thing, but it's reliable. It gets her where she needs to be, it allows her to earn some extra money. She's thankful for her Harley, she really is. But in that moment, when she's hopping on her old Sportster and grabbing the handlebars, she wishes it wasn't the reason she's able to leave again.

. . .

Can doing what you love make you starve?

Maybe. Possibly. Actually? Pretty damn likely. That's your conclusion after working on a few new projects made you forget about eating for almost an entire day.

Aside from a bowl of Cheerios in the morning, topped with a bunch of sugar, you haven't eaten anything all day. Instead, you've been mixing colors and washing paintbrushes and filling your sketchbook. Doodles on walls and paper scraps on the floor, paint in your hair and a pencil between your teeth. One foot resting on the edge of your seat, you tug at the straps of your overall. The color on your fingernails isn't nail polish — it's paint.

You lean forward and inspect the little sketch again. At this point, you're not even sure what this is going to be. Another scrap? A comic strip? No way to know until you're at least halfway there. Maybe you won't know even then.

Music is making the floors vibrate. In front of you are a couple of cups. Some contain tea, others water you've been cleaning your paintbrushes with. You glance at them and resist the urge to take another leap of faith. You've had one too many sips of murky, paint-infused regret.

You turn toward the sketch again, but your stomach rumbling distracts you from the thick lines of charcoal and graphite. You sigh and shift, trying to ignore it and get back into that creative, pulsating headspace again, but it's no use. Your body is hungry.

As usual, you're not in the mood to cook. You're working, and you're scared of getting into another creative block, so you open the DoorDash app and order one of your favorites.

When Natasha looks at her phone, it's not just your name that stands out. It's the address. It brings back images of vines on the sides and tangling around porch railings, winding dirt paths, paint on the back of her hand and a heart that won't stop thrumming.

There's been a lot of this over the past few weeks. At first, it was just a coincidence — due to you ordering food at the most ungodly hours, not many drivers are available. Natasha is one of the few who are desperate enough to work past midnight. Just bad timing, in the end. Or good, depending on how you look at it.

Then, it started to feel like more. She's not sure why, or how, but it did.

It was the same for you. After a few nights of being too distracted and sleep-deprived to notice anything, you finally caught onto the fact that, hey, you'd been getting the same driver over and over again. And hey, you like that driver, and it's not just some case of classical conditioning due to the yummy food, but actually more than just that.

Natasha noticed as well. And now, seeing your name and address on the screen, your order up for grabs, she taps on 'accept delivery'.

The route to your house is familiar by now. The lack of light doesn't disrupt her ability to find her way to your porch anymore. The paper bag in her hands has ceased to merely be a way to earn more money.

You open the door and, as basically always, give her that slightly absent smile you tend to sport. Eyes just a little distant, like you're constantly chasing some cloud of thought in your head, and hands and cheeks smudged with some kind of art medium — charcoal, paint, ink. Natasha can't help but stare, her own forearms oil-smudged but concealed by her jacket.

"Hey", she eventually says, holding out the paper bag. "Your food."

"You were quick this time", you say, grabbing the bag and putting it aside. "No traffic? Or were you just that eager to get here?"

"A bit of both", she says. She's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You do tip quite generously."

You hum, eyes subtly tracing along her arms. They're hidden by her leather jacket, but you can tell she gets some sort of physical exercise. Workouts or something. Maybe manual labor. Whatever it is — it's working.

"Driving into the middle of bumfuck nowhere should have its perks."

"Oh, I can think of a few."

You shoot her a quick smile. "Hm", you say, briefly glancing into the hallway. Natasha follows your gaze and spots a half-finished painting. She decides not to comment on it, but the colors distract her for a moment. "So...any more deliveries tonight?"

"Huh? Oh, yes." Natasha nods, spinning her keys around her pointer finger. "Still got to get through a couple."

Tilting your head, you let your eyes linger. She tilts her head right back at you, but much more subtly. The air between you heats up, despite the chilly October air seeping into the hallway. Sparks fly and bodies subconsciously move closer. Just a tiny, harmless step. Nothing to worry about.

"Pity. I was going to offer you a fry", you say, peeling some dried paint off your thumb. "But I can't keep you from your adoring customers, can I?"

"Probably not", Natasha agrees, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step back again. It's getting late, and she needs to get her ass back on her motorcycle. Flirting with a customer probably isn't the smartest move, either. "Though 'adoring' isn't exactly a word I'd use for them."

"Why not?", you say, watching her walk back to her motorcycle. A black, rugged thing that makes perfect sense for her. "You're always on time."

"Maybe that's only your experience", she counters. "Like you said — eager to get here."

You lift your eyebrows. Natasha sits on the old Harley and lets the engine roar, a sound that cuts through the quiet night sharply. You can barely see her, that's how dark it is outside. But then the motorcycle's headlights come on and you feel your heartbeat quicken.

"Drive safe", you call out once you've pulled yourself together.

"Always do", she calls back.

As she drives off, you can't help but wonder whether it's still just a coincidence at this point.

. . .

There's a thin line between being romantic and being a creep.

You may or may not have been toeing that very line.

Ever since noticing Natasha works the night shifts, you started ordering food later and later. It went from 11pm to midnight, then to half past midnight. 1am followed, then quarter past.

Why? To allow her to linger.

What you don't know is that Natasha's been doing the same. Maybe even worse. She scans the orders, looking for yours. She doesn't even think about it anymore — it's just instinct.

With each delivery, she stays longer. Stalls. She lingers in the doorway, her voice hushed and raspy, silently trying to figure out what colors you used based on the stains on your hands and face.

And with each delivery, you become more used to seeing her. It turns into a routine, something normal. Like waking up to the movie posters taped to your bedroom ceiling and listening to the owls at night, you start to expect it. That shows a few weeks later, when Natasha pops up to deliver your birria tacos.

"Where were you yesterday?", you ask, sleepy and groggy, and grab the greasy paper bag. She lifts her eyebrows.

"You didn't order anything yesterday."

You pause and look up, blinking slowly. It's nearly 2am, and you really need to sleep. But you've been up, waiting to order something and have Natasha deliver it.

"You sure?"

She smiles faintly. "Didn't see your name anywhere. I'm pretty sure, yes."

"Oh." Your face falls and you scratch your cheek. The dried watercolor on it is irritating your skin. "I think I forgot about dinner, then."

"That's concerning."

You wave your hand dismissively. "Happens all the time", you say. "Maybe I need someone to remind me."

Natasha stops in her tracks when you give her an expectant look. There's no way you're serious, right?

But you are. You grab your phone and hand it to her. She looks at the screen, smudged and cracked, before glancing at you again.

"You deliver my food all the time, anyway", you argue, ignoring her soft sigh. "Why not cut out the middleman? Much more practical."

"And the reminding you-thing?", she asks, already typing in her number.

"That was a joke."

"It didn't sound like one. Here." She hands you your phone back and crosses her arms. You tuck the device into the pocket of your overall. "For emergencies, right?"

"Of course", you say, smiling. The exhaustion seems to have disappeared from your face.

It's a lie, and you both know it, but Natasha can't find it in herself to care.

. . .

"Seriously?"

"I ran out of charcoal."

"I had to drive all the way across town", she points out. "Plus, my number was supposed to be for emergencies only."

You lift your chin, silently challenging her. She doesn't seem too impressed, though, but the look in her eyes tells you she doesn't mind this as much as she pretends to.

"Food emergencies", she adds. "Not art emergencies."

"You still went and brought it."

Natasha only partially succeeds at biting back a half-frustrated, half-fond noise, and shoves the plastic bag into your arms.

The words do it yourself next time are on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't utter them. God forbid she has to quit stopping by your house.

You peek into the bag and hum approvingly. Natasha watches you, first unmoving, then reaches out to touch the blue paint on your cheek. She swipes her thumb across it and smudges it further.

You look up, staring. She shrugs.

"Missed a spot."

"Very considerate", you say, lifting your hand to let your fingertips ghost across your cheek. Red and blue create purple.

Natasha shifts, but doesn't step away. Her eyes trace your face. You want her to stay, and she doesn't want to leave.

"No more bullshit", she adds. "Otherwise, I'll start expecting much bigger tips."

"You drive a hard bargain", you reply, cocking your head. "Can't promise anything, though."

She sighs, but the tiny smile betrays her. She can think of worse things than getting more excuses to see you.

"You're spoiled", she states. "How come you're always up this late, anyway? It's, like, 2am."

You shrug, turning on the spot and sauntering into the living room. Natasha, to your frustration, stays glued to her spot in the hallway.

"Can't sleep", you say, crouching in front of the large sheet of paper and tearing open the new charcoal. "Working on something."

She hums, trying to catch a glimpse of you and what you're doing. She can see the corner of a paper, covered in a bunch of comic strips. Then, you crawl forward on your knees and your head comes into view.

"I'm surprised I see no coffins in here."

"Huh?"

"You know. Always up at night, afraid of the sun."

You lift your head, momentarily puzzled — you're spacing out already, and you're sleep deprived, and this late, nothing seems to make sense. Then, the meaning behind her words registers.

"You're asking if I'm a vampire?", you say, sitting on your knees and wiping your face with the back of your hand. Natasha's lips twitch as she sees you smudge the charcoal there further.

"It'd make sense", she replies. "Now you're refusing to answer, too. Guess there must be something to it."

"Well", you say, wiping your hands on your overall, "let me bite you and find out."

Natasha malfunctions for a solid three seconds. Once she's gotten her bearings, she rolls her eyes and knocks on the wooden door. You look up from your project and tilt your head.

"Deliveries?"

"Yeah", she says. "Two more, then I'm done for tonight."

You nod, disappointed but not ready to argue. You get up and pad back into the hallway. You're not even sure why — she can find her way back outside by herself, obviously.

Natasha keeps her eyes on you. Her hands are in the pockets of her jeans, red strands of hair framing her face. She sees the charcoal on your bottom lip and wonders what kissing you would taste like.

"I'll text you", you say, rubbing your lip to get rid of the charcoal.

Emergencies only, she wants to say. She decides against it.

She steps back, adjusting her jacket. She should leave. She needs to leave. Somehow, she can't bring herself to. She just stands there, watching as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the light from inside catching on the paint smudges along your collarbone.

"See you", she says, voice lower.

"Yeah", you mumble, eyes on her.

She finally forces herself to turn around and step outside. The cold night air cuts through her jacket, but she barely registers it. She swings one leg over the motorcycle and puts on her helmet, then waits.

You're still in the door, the golden light spilling out from inside framing your silhouette.

Natasha shakes her head and kicks the bike to life.

The roar of the engine fades into the night, and you close the door.

. . .

Having your motorcycle break down in the rain is less than ideal.

Natasha swings her leg off the bike, frustration etched into her features, and crouches down beside it. She filled up on gas right before leaving, so that can't be the issue. She checks the cables and wiring, inspects the spark plugs, takes a look at the battery. Once she's done that, she curses and kicks the tire.

The battery's dead. She's screwed.

Running her hand through her wet hair — of course she had to forget her helmet today —, she looks at your house in the distance. It's almost two more miles, and it's pouring rain, but she's got your In-N-Out order in the top-box and, truthfully, she‘s itching to see you.

She tries starting the bike one more time, even if it's hopeless. The battery's dead, which means the motorcycle isn't getting anywhere. Accepting her fate, she grabs the handlebars and starts pushing.

Wet hands slip on metal, rain drips down her face. Her jacket is soaked, as is her hoodie. Her boot briefly gets stuck in mud. Raindrops feel like dozens of tiny whips against her cheeks.

By the time she's gotten up the hill and to your house, half an hour has passed. She's soaked to the bone, dripping wet, out of breath, her arms hurting — and somehow, she doesn't care about any of that. She grabs the paper bag from the top-box and makes her way to your porch. Cold, reddened knuckles meet old wood.

You open the door and stare at her.

Drenched, out of breath, her once light gray hoodie now the shade of cracked pepper. Water drips from the red strands of hair that are framing her face. Clutching the takeout bag like it's life or death, her green eyes staring right back into yours.

For a moment, neither of you move.

When she lowers her gaze to the floor, a puddle forming on the wooden porch beneath her, you jump forward and cup her face.

Kissing her feels like second nature. Her lips are cold and wet when they press against yours. Her cheeks are cold, and she smells like a mixture of perfume and rain-soaked clothes.

You tug her inside, only pulling away slightly. She's still out of breath, but for a different reason now.

She sneezes, turning her head to try and hide it, but you notice anyway. You help her out of her jacket and steer her to the couch. She sits down and off comes her dripping wet hoodie. Her shirt is soaked as well, so off it goes as well. Fingertips brushing against skin, you notice how cold she is.

"You're insane", you say, returning with a towel. Natasha glances at it and subtly raises her eyebrows when she spots the paint stains on it, but you've already started toweling her hair dry. "You'll get pneumonia!"

"I'll be fine", she says dismissively. "Just a little rain. My bike broke down."

"You could've called", you mutter, rubbing her hair with the towel. "Or texted. I would've called a taxi or something."

Natasha goes silent. She didn't even consider that option. Maybe part of her wanted to prove something. Hopefully, she succeeded. If not, this may have all been for nothing.

You go upstairs to grab some clothes from your room. Natasha stays on the couch, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She expected art supplies, many of them, and she also expected some messiness. But she didn't think it'd be so...comfortable. Lived-in. Warm, despite the chaos.

Paint splatters on wooden floorboards and half-finished paintings leaning against the walls. Charcoal sketches and pastel doodles, postcards on the walls. Mismatched furniture — most of it thrifted — and glass paint on the massive window. A teddy, with a knitted dress on it.

She smells tea and turpentine, with a hint of something floral woven into the unique smell. A glance at the dining table tells her it's coming from a vase full of lilies.

You return, bare feet padding against stair steps, and walk back to Natasha's side. You hold out a sweater for her to put on, nodding in encouragement, but she grabs your waist and pulls you into her lap instead.

It's unexpected, but not unwelcome. She tugs the sweater out of your hand and tosses it aside, then kisses you again.

Fingerprints of paint stain her face.

. . .

You don't stop ordering things. In fact, you only start to order more.

You know you're being an annoying little shit. It's clear as day, and your chats prove it.

You: bring me more

washi tape pls? — 1.04am

Natasha: you're fucking

kidding — 1.04am

You: the clear one with

the stars :) — 1.05am

Natasha: this isn't a

convenience store. — 1.05am

You: it is if you bring

me what i want — 1.06am

And, half an hour later, she was in front of your door. There was a striped bag in her hands.

Once she saw your smile, she'd forgotten all about her complaints.

"This is the last time", she said, letting you lead her into the house. You tilted your head up to kiss her jaw. "Don't even try to butter me up. No more running errands for you."

You know she doesn't mind, though. One night, as you're kneeling on the floor and gluing magazine cutouts to a painting, someone knocks. You get up and open the door and, oh surprise, it's Natasha.

The first thing you notice is that she looks exhausted. Circles under her eyes, her face even paler than usual. The poor excuse of a paper bag she's clutching is crumpled and grease-stained.

"You order anything?", she asks.

Of course not. You never order on Tuesdays. Not anymore, at least — it's the only night Natasha has off.

You tilt your head in silent response. Her jaw clenches, she shifts on her feet and drums her fingers against her thigh, and you finally decide to stop torturing her.

"Come in", you say, grabbing her hand.

"Figured you'd want something", she mumbles, padding into the living room.

"Uh-huh. Here, sit down."

She sinks onto the couch's cushions, sighing quietly. You straddle her lap and take your sweet time with her for a moment. Just look at her, run your fingers through her hair, gently push the jacket off her shoulders.

Her eyes meet yours. You smile softly and grasp her chin between your fingers.

"You must really like me."

She bites the insides of her cheeks, eyes staring up at you. No response — she doesn't know what to say, because denying the truth would be as uncomfortable as standing by it.

You trail your fingers along her jaw, then slide them up into her hair. You lean in close, so close you can taste her breath and feel her lips brush against yours, but not close enough to kiss her. Finally, Natasha grips your thighs in unspoken frustration.

You laugh quietly and lean in, deciding to go easy on her. You press a kiss to the corner of her mouth and guide her to lay down.

"Cat got your tongue?", you murmur, placing lingering kisses on her jaw.

"Just tired."

"And you decided to show up here."

"Nothing else makes sense this late."

The admission makes you pause, if ever so briefly. You kiss her, hands cupping her face, and feel her hands slip under your shirt.

Fingertips inch higher up and tug at your bra. The clasp comes undone, making the pressure around your chest disappear.

It's slow. Clothes come off, lips meet time after time. Straddling one of her thighs, you litter kisses and little bites on her neck.

"You should sleep", you whisper against her skin. Your fingers are fumbling with the zipper of her jeans.

"I will", she rasps, eyes closed. "After."

"You seem tired", you point out. You tug the waistband of her jeans lower and expose Calvin Klein boxers. An involuntary noise leaves you at the sight.

Natasha puts her hand on the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. Her other hand grips yours, slowly guiding it into her boxers.

You feel the heavy weight of her length in your hand and nearly moan. A few slow strokes are enough to get her to harden in your palm. You feel every vein, every soft throb, her quickening breathing like music in your ears.

There's something vulnerable about being in this position. Natasha is used to being on top, but with you, she doesn't seem to mind letting you take control.

Her head drops back against the armrest. With her neck exposed to you, your lips linger on her pulse point as you start moving your hand up and down her shaft. The pad of your thumb circles her tip, gathering precum and lubricating her hard-on.

She squirms underneath you, frustrated and restless, a silent request for you to pick up the pace. But you keep your movements slow and steady, drawing out the pleasure and letting it build gradually. Natasha's hips buck into your hand, her hand clasped over her own mouth to stifle moans.

She twitches and throbs hotly in your hand. You kiss her collarbone, your hand applying pressure to her cock. You're drawing her to the edge so gently she feels like she might lose her mind.

Your thumb traces veins and rubs the underside of her length. Another soft whine comes from her mouth. You lift your head to kiss her and swallow the pathetic little sounds she's making. When she comes, her body tenses through the slow, shuddering unraveling. Cum spills on your hand and you pull away.

Dazed, spent, out of breath. Natasha clears her throat, her cheeks flushed.

. . .

You only need to take one look at the bag she's holding to be able to tell.

"You forgot something", you say, paint-smudged hands on her waist as you steer her inside. Much to her dismay, you absently wipe your fingers on her hoodie. She shoots an exasperated look at the blue stains.

"You haven't even opened the bag."

"I can tell. You forgot the snail shells."

Natasha glances at you as she plops onto the couch. You put the bag on the coffee table and rummage through it. You were right — no snail shells. But you do find the requested Oreos and vanilla milk.

"You only eat trash, you know", she says, one arm tucked under her head.

You roll your eyes. "Don't even start with that."

"I mean it. Oreos and sugar-milk aren't exactly the most nutritious dinner."

"Oh, hush", you mumble, swatting at her. Natasha just grins and reaches out, grasping your wrist. "Hey, what-"

She ignores you. With one swift tug, you topple over and she's got you on the couch next to her. You grunt and adjust your position.

"You hush", she retorts, arm wrapping around you and snuggling you closer. "Always complaining. Would it kill you to be grateful for once?"

You huff, smiling. Natasha pinches your side and you let out a gasp.

"Hey!"

"Come on, say it."

"Forget it."

Her fingertips dance over your ribs. You shift and squirm, trying to get away from her grasp, but it's a halfhearted attempt.

"Come on", she repeats. "Say thank you."

Her fingers brush against the underside of your breast. Your laughter turns into a barely contained sound of pleasure.

Natasha laughs and slips her fingertips under the fabric of your bra.

"Say thank you", she whispers, "and maybe I'll be nice."

"So unfair", you retort. "Fine. Thank you."

"Mhm." She hums and kisses your cheek. "Better."

"You know, if you weren't the one delivering me stuff..."

"What?" She scoffs, smiling, and tickles your ribs. She knows better than to get offended by what you said. If it weren't for her delivering your orders, this never would've happened. Neither of you really know what 'this' is, but you both know you like it.

You squirm in her arms and bat at her hand. "You heard me!"

"Is that all I am to you?", she mocks, lightly cupping your breast. "I'm wounded. Truly."

"No", you say, not thinking. "You don't know how much you mean to me, I think."

Natasha goes quiet for a long moment. She feels your heartbeat speed up, rapid like a prey's, when you realize what you just said. But then she shifts and sits up, and she guides you to roll over, and you feel her lips on yours.

She never stays the night. She doesn't let herself get too close to anyone. She's seen you naked, touched every inch of your body with her tongue, yet staying the night always felt like it'd be too much.

This time, she stays. Fully clothed and keeping her space, she lays down. She makes sure not to breathe in the scent of your bedsheets. At some point that night, though, she wakes up. She reaches for you blindly, fingers feeling the air until they graze your arm.

She hesitates. Something has shifted, and she can feel it deep in her bones.

Finally, she pulls you closer. Tucks you against her chest, brushes her fingers along your spine.

. . .

Before she's even managed to open her eyes, you're up and about.

Digging through your closet, brushing your hair, making tea and toast and opening windows. Wind makes the curtains billow out and her hair flutter, so she rolls over and buries her face in your pillow. The sun isn't even up yet.

"Why are you up at this ungodly hour?"

"Watch the sunrise", you say, slipping into a tank top. "Paint a little."

"You're insane."

"Up, up", you say. You throw aside the blanket she's covered with and pat her butt. She doesn't move an inch. "Come on! I need your help with something."

That manages to briefly get her attention, but it doesn't last long. She slumps back into the sheets, her face hidden.

"Forget it", she murmurs.

"Nat", you drawl. "Please. It'll be worth it."

"Define 'worth it'."

You tug at her boxers, just enough to expose a sliver of her butt. She swats at your hand. It's obvious she's tired, so you decide to let it go for a while. As soon as she's out of bed, though, you're dragging her out of the house and toward a shed to the side.

You feel grass under your feet, tickling your ankles. Natasha trails after you, hand in yours, her red hair in a braid. The top she's wearing is one of yours, and it's covered in charcoal and watercolor stains. She's not complaining anymore — too distracting is the sight of you in nothing but an oversized shirt and her boxers.

But then, you open the shed. You reveal a red Fiat.

First, she just stares. The car looks relatively new. Maybe not brand new, no, but no older than about five years. Natasha's a car mechanic, so she can figure that out pretty easily.

"You have a car."

You nod and lead her into the shed. "Yeah. This is DaVinci."

She shoots you a brief, disbelieving look, then stares at the vehicle again. "You've had a car. This whole time."

"Mhm."

"...I've been driving around in the crack of dawn for nothing."

You wave your hand and lean against the wall, ankles crossing. "Not for nothing. It, I dunno...won't start. It cranks, but doesn't really do anything."

Natasha rolls her eyes. She lifts the hood and secures it with the rod, then takes a look at the engine bay. You stay where you are, subtly checking her out. A black tank top and cargos, her braid resting over her shoulder. Hands that are slowly but surely getting covered in grease.

You'd jump her bones, but you already made her roll out of bed for this, so she probably wouldn't appreciate you trying to make a move on her right now.

"Didn't take it to a shop?"

"Wasn't in the mood."

You earn an exasperated look for that. You shrug, and Natasha turns toward the car again. You have no idea what she's doing, truthfully, but that's fine. The view's nice.

"Coolant's good", she says, checking it for leaks. "Battery terminals are a little corroded."

"No idea what that means."

"Of course", she mutters. She frowns and tugs at a belt-like thing. Loose, which isn't a great sign. She unscrews the fuel filter and a nasty liquid drips out. "Jesus. When's the last time you changed this?"

"Change what?"

Natasha purses her lips and puts the filter aside. "I see. Neglect."

"You're being dramatic."

"You should've taken this thing to the shop ages ago", she complains, voice muffled as she leans deeper into the car. Tank top riding up slightly, you catch a glimpse of her toned stomach. Her biceps flex and you almost miss her next question. "Got a toolbox?"

You tilt your head and pretend to have no idea what she's talking about just to mess with her a little. She stares back at you, eyebrows raised. Once she leans onto the car, one hand on the side of the hood and the other covering her forehead, you saunter to the shelves in the back of the shed.

"Oh, thank god", she mutters. "You got a replacement filter?"

"Aw, honey. You believe in me too much, I think."

Another shake of her head. She steps out of the shed, walks to her bike, grabs something, and then returns. You eye the cylinder-like thing with the two tubes sticking out of it.

"That it?"

Natasha doesn't even respond. You do see her lips twitch, though.

She grabs the creeper you for some reason have and lays down on it. Again, abs. Muscles, covered in small grease stains, flex. You stare at them unabashedly.

She slides under the car and unhooks the filter. You crouch down to get a better view of her.

"Now what?"

"Changing the filter", she replies. Fuel dribbles down her forearms and she wipes it off with a rag. "You can thank me later, by the way."

"Will totally do."

She replaces the filter, tightens the clamp, then gives the undercarriage an encouraging tap before rolling back out. You're sitting on the floor cross-legged, shooting her a teasing smile when she reappears.

"What?", she asks, wiping the fuel off her arms.

"You're so good with your hands."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but kisses your cheek anyway. She changes the serpentine belt as well, then closes the hood and pats it. She nods at the car.

"Go on", she says. "Give her a try."

"'Her'?", you say, sitting down behind the steering wheel.

"Cars are always female."

"You learn something new every day." You put the key in the ignition and turn it.

The car seems to hesitate for a moment. It rumbles, cranks, and you're already about to give up — but then it comes to life, smoother than ever before, and you clap your hands.

Before she can register what's happening, you're out of the car again. You throw your arms around her and jump into her embrace, squeezing a little too hard. You hear a soft grunt from her.

"Hey", she laughs, "I'm covered in grease."

"Don't care." You pull away just enough to reach her lips. They're plush and warm against yours. "You're a genius!"

"I do what I can", she mumbles, a little too rosy cheeked and happy, and kisses you again. Walks you backwards until you're sitting on the hood of the car, slowly leaning forward so your back is flush with the cold, hard material. "What now? No more deliveries? I'm officially useless?"

"No", you whisper, tugging her closer by her pants' belt loops. "I'll find a way to keep you entertained."

Metal creaks beneath you. Sunlight seeps into the space. The shed's doors are still open. The air smells like grass, fuel and Natasha's cologne.

Her hands palm your sides, push the shirt you're wearing a little higher. Fingertips trail over smooth, soft skin. Her nose nuzzles your jaw, then you feel wet, hot kisses along your neck.

You wrap your legs around her waist.

"Think DaVinci can handle this?", she murmurs, one hand sliding around to the small of your back.

You pretend to think about it — and then pull her back in.

. . .

You're both on the rug in the living room, a paint-stained blanket draped over her lower half. She's on her stomach, arms crossed underneath her head and her eyes staring at nothing in particular. You're straddling her butt, a paintbrush in your hand.

You've had all kinds of canvases so far. Linen, cotton, in rolls or on panels. Small ones and bigger ones, raw or primed. Yet, none of them come close to the one you're sitting on right now.

Neither of you really talked about this. After sleeping together on the floor, though, surrounded by art supplies and sketches, Natasha’d rolled onto her stomach. You’d seen the smudges of paint on her shoulder. You’d brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.

"You ticklish?", you’d whispered.

She'd shaken her head 'no'.

It may have been a lie. You can see her twitch ever so slightly whenever the bristles brush against the more sensitive areas of her skin. You put your hand on her shoulder and push her back down when she tries to shift.

"Not yet", you insist, trying to finish the painting of the two little bats.

"Whatever", she mutters. You smile and add tiny teeth to the creatures' mouths.

"It's cute."

"I look ridiculous."

"What?" You huff, getting off her and scooting away on your knees. You grab a different color and return. "Bullshit. You look adorable. Such a shame I'm not a tattoo artist."

She turns her head enough to look at you. Red strands fall in front of her eyes and you reach out to tuck them behind her ear. Your fingertips, stained in black and red, leave specks of paint behind.

"I truly hope you aren't being serious."

"Maybe, maybe not." You grin and wave your hand at her. "Come on, put your head back down. I'm not done with you."

"Oh, for fuck's sake", she mutters, but does as told.

Index finger dipped into black paint, you write the word mine on her lower back.

Natasha tenses, but only briefly. Her fingers curl into the rug underneath her. She exhales, her face buried against her arms again. She's enjoying this a little too much. Not just the feeling of your weight on her body, of cold paint on skin, but everything else as well.

It's been months. You still haven't given up your little routine of ordering stuff and then making her stay the night.

"I felt that", she mumbles, voice muffled.

"What?", you ask innocently. You decide to add a few hearts.

"What you wrote." She hesitates. "You mean it?"

You add another heart. You smile at your own creation, then peek at her face. You can't see her, so you tickle the back of her neck. All it leads to is a small huff, though.

"Is it important?"

"It's not not important."

"So it is."

"Y/N."

"I mean it."

Finally, she looks up. Her eyes search your face.

You haven't defined your relationship. You're staking your claim on her, anyway.

"I mean it", you repeat, seeing the incredulous look on her face. "I wouldn't have spent hundreds of dollars on deliveries if it didn't mean getting to see you."

"Yeah", she murmurs.

"I don't need the deliveries." You let out a slow breath. "I just need you."

The tips of her ears burn red. She shifts, swallows, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how. You nudge her side with your knee.

"Too much, too soon?"

"No." She laughs, dropping her face back onto her arms. "Keep going."

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #fanfic #marvel #x reader #marvel mcu #wlw #lesbian #fluff #smut #moon’s fics

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dark-konohagakure2 · 9 months ago

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imagine succubus!reader lurking in the phantomhive manor to find a victim for the night cause a succubus gets their energy if they take control but ends up getting caught and noncon-ed by sebastian until she cant take it anymore and begs to stop

UGHHH I HAVE BEEN STUCK WITH THIS IDEA SINCE THE DAY I IMAGINED IT 😭😭 petition for more succubus!reader fics 😔

tw: noncon, succubus!reader, size difference, tail pulling, rough sex, overstimulation, humiliation, creampie

All characters depicted are 18+

Sebastian takes his duties as the butler of the Phantomhive household very seriously, so seriously in fact that he doesn't ever sleep, mainly because demons don't need to sleep, but the fact still remains that there is no butler more diligent than Sebastian. His keen senses are able to pick up on the smallest of noises, even the faintest creak of the floorboards won't escape his notice. If a pin dropping doesn't go unnoticed by Sebastian, then there is no way in hell that he won't notice the presence of another hellish entity in his midst.

He is equal parts intrigued and concerned. Sebastian knows he can effortlessly dispatch any threat towards his master, bit even so the thought of another demon being after him is quite concerning. Never one to waste his time dwelling on any worries he might have, Sebastian will quickly do his part as a butler by apprehending the uninvited guest.

It's comically easy for Sebastian, he's not called a devil of a butler for nothing, he's able to use his superior strength to yank the little demon over to him when she's unaware, grabbing her by the pointy tail, which makes her hiss out in pain like a cat. Sebastian likes cats, even the ones with claws, but he sadly can't pet her, not when she's been such a bad girl as to even attempt to endanger his master.

Sebastian knows precisely how to deal with a naughty little succubus like herself, her kind feed off the sexual energy and desires of men, so he'll give her exactly what every succubus wants, he'll give it to her until she's begging him to stop. It's a fitting punishment for the demonic intruder, and it finally gives Sebastian the opportunity to stop feigning his humanity, even if just for a short while.

"Naughty thing, did you truly believe you could intrude oh my master's property without consequence? Oh how adorable~ I'll be sure to give you something to remember before sending you back to our home~"

His eyes are glowing unabashedly now, the glowing red orbs now having a feral intensity to them as he starts teasing the lesser demon, yanking on her tail roughly as he exposes her holes to his hellish gaze, teasing her sensitive pussy lips mercilessly before he decides to have his fill of her. Sebastian hasn't had a good fuck in a while, and certainly never with another demon that was aware of his true nature, so he's going to savor this rare treat.

Being centuries old, Sebastian is well versed in the art of making somebody come undone around his cock, whether they want to or not. His hips will slam against her from behind, his balls slapping against his ass while he fucks her raw, pulling on her tail like a bully pulling on the braids of a girl he likes. Sebastian's cock is long and thick, even in his human form, so it'll ram against her oversensitive womb with every thrust, forcing her into one mind breaking orgasm after the other.

Demons typically can't reproduce with one another, so Sebastian can cum inside of her to his heart's content without a care in the world, and he won't be satisfied with cumming inside of her just once, he's going to breed her until she's begging him to stop, and for hours after that too. It won't take long for her to go from confident and rude to whining and pleading with him to show mercy, but nothing will come of those pleas aside from her receiving even more mockery and even more loads shot into her already overstuffed womb.

He finds her reactions and pleading to be both adorable and pitiful, not to mention ironic; a creature who feeds off of sex now begging him to stop fucking her, her impish pussy overflowing with cum and weakly gripping his cock, fucked loose from the brutal pounding she's getting. He definitely won't be stopping anymore despite her pleas, after all, lesser demons make lovely fucktoys.

"Oh my~ begging already, little one? How sad, your kind usually loves getting ravished so, you truly are a disgrace from all demonkind~! How cute~!"

But alas, he can't keep this adorable little kitten as a house pet as much as he wants to, his young master would never allow such a thing, but Sebastian takes pride in the fact that he successfully subdued another interloper, and she won't mess with him again, that is unless she wants her holes destroyed again.

#black butler #bb #kuroshitsuji #headcanon #x reader #sebastian michaelis #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian michaelis smut #black butler x reader #black butler headcanons #black butler smut #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji smut

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multimilfs · 9 months ago

Text

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader x Rio Vidal: The Prize

Summary: Agatha has been fighting to reclaim her prize from Rio for a long time.

AO3

Included: dark themes, lesbian drama & yearning, near-death experiences, smut; biting, orgasm denial, praise kink, degradation, s&m, blood, fingering, cunnilingus, use of pet names, begging

Words: 9.7k

Tag List: @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @escapetodreamworld @white--lillies @imtrashinflames

1750

Glowing hands press over the seeping wound, magic swirling around them, diving inside. There’s no satisfaction of watching the flesh knit itself back together. Instead, your magic drifts right back out like smoke.

Oh Goddess.

“Do take your time.” Agatha snaps, voice strained, “I have absolutely no plans.”

Five types of poison are immune to tangible magic. You know antidotes for three. Staring hard at the wound, you look for the blackened edges consistent with Nightrot, finding the flesh as red and irritated as to be expected. Is it swelling or screaming that goes with Alewife’s Revenge? A glance up at her face finds it normal. Her lips are pursed.

Your hands shake, one hovering over the open wound in her middle, the other clutching your head. Remembering has never mattered more so why is your mind empty? Pieces of information slip through your fingers like sand. Dozens of cadavers, hundreds of hours of study; useless.

Unable to rely on your memory, you scramble across the floor for the dagger that’d flown from the wall. The little light coming from the boarded windows prompts the metal to glint. The edge of the blade is sticky with blood, beneath it a metallic sheen that can only be a witches poison. You hold it up to the slant of light to see the color.

“Are you out of your mind? Heal me!”

You drop the dagger the second the poison glints purple. You slap your hand over your mouth, panic beginning to course through your veins; the body’s own special brand of poison.

How are you going to tell her?

“I’m trying!” You snap, voice breaking.

It’s a cruel joke that the poison should be so well matched to the witch bearing its effects. You stare at the edge as it rocks from being dropped, your stomach turning when the color doesn’t change. If only you could be wrong this once.

Were you a lesser witch, you’d curl in a little ball and quail under the weight of your failures. The idea is seductive. Yet, you turn to Agatha where she lies, pale and sweating on the floorboards. The pallor of her skin makes you whimper.

“Agatha,” You start, your voice holding just enough, “it’s Saura’s Dread.”

Things click into place behind her eyes despite the glazed-over look to them. She fights to find a way out of this, but you know well that the reality cannot be avoided.

“Give it to me. You’re wrong.”

“I know poisons better than most.” You hand the dagger over anyway.

“That’s not saying much.”

The comment stings, but you let it slide off you. You cannot give into petty squabbles now. With so little time to find a solution, you have to focus.

She stares hard at the blade as if willing it to change.

“Brew the antidote.”

“I can’t.” You whisper.

There’s a flicker of something in her gaze that looks suspiciously like rage. Your own internal fire leaps to meet it; of all the emotions to look upon you with—rage? As if this is your fault? You’re not the one that dragged her into this old cabin, intent on sifting through the contents.

It’s not your fault. You know that as the truth. Yet, shame floods you.

“You’re a healer.” Agatha spits, “What good are you if you don’t know the antidote?”

“Someone didn’t let me stay with my coven long enough to learn it!”

“The next time someone tries to keep you from me, I’ll let them.”

The fire in your chest ebbs. An old argument at an inconvenient time. There will be no rough makeup sex following this argument, no unspoken apologies in Agatha’s kisses. All the time, all the bodies; they cannot be for nothing. They mean too much.

Fleetingly, you feel pity for your old coven. In their minds they had attempted to do the right thing. Keeping you from Agatha must have seemed reasonable. But you remember how many bodies they made, how pleased it made Her.

Saura’s Dread takes its victim within six hours. This, you know confidently. The demise is slow and painful, a poison intended for torture. You can’t stand to see Agatha in this kind of pain. You’re not ready for her to be just another body.

“I’m calling Her.” You say.

“No.” Agatha counters, “She’ll never let me live it down.”

“You won’t live down anything if you’re dead, Agatha.”

“I won’t die.”

She’s an idiot.

Magic flowing into your fingertips, you trace familiar symbols on the floor. They glow bright and then dim as they wait. Around your neck sits an old, jagged bone, tied by a thread; you use the end of said bone to split your palm and drip blood over the symbols.

Agatha’s mouth is moving, but you don’t listen. You mutter the incantation in latin under your breath. The words—old and comforting—curl your tongue in ways that you’ve only known between two pairs of legs. You end the incantation with the key that gets you around the waiting list; Her name, Her true name.

There’s a blinding flash of light and a puff of fog, but the symbols contain it. You catch the glint of white teeth.

“You rang?”

Rio smiles, clad in darkness and bone and that same beauty that always stops you in your tracks. Upon seeing her, you breathe easier.

“We need your help.”

“You wouldn’t have called so formally if it was quality time you wanted.” Amusement dances in her eyes.

She eyes the symbols on the floor. They no longer glow, but still they contain her. She scuffs a foot along them.

You smudge the symbols and the containment drops. Stepping over the magic as it sinks down into the earth, she catches you by the waist and devours you; lips and teeth and tongue dominating your own, leaving you helpless to do anything but give in. And you’re all too willing to do so.

When she pulls back, you’re breathless. Somewhere in the fray your lip has begun to bleed. Rio soothes her tongue over the wound and you feel it close.

“Hand.”

You offer the demanded appendage, palm up. She places a kiss in the center and licks the blood from her lips.

Rio turns her head to where Agatha has dragged herself to sit against the wall. The rise and fall of her chest is slow, but there. She glares at the two of you. You flush while Rio grins.

“Hi, sweetheart. You look like shit.” Rio says, delighted.

“A side effect.” Agatha grits out, “The same can’t be said for you.”

Rio tilts her head back and laughs. It’s deep and rich and fills you with thoughts that are not appropriate for this situation. The hand on your waist squeezes as if she knows. Then, she releases you.

She crosses to crouch before Agatha, devious smile shifting to something softer. One of her hands works through a lock of Agatha’s hair, brushing it out of her face.

“What did you get yourself into?”

Agatha’s eyes drop to Rio’s lips, but she stays silent.

“Saura’s Dread.” You choke out, shame winding itself tight inside you, “I don’t—I can’t brew the antidote.”

You should have done more to push off Agatha’s agenda; just so you would have finished your research. A few extra days wouldn’t have hurt. They would’ve infuriated Agatha—and Rio by extension—but then you would know the solution instead of watching her slowly wither away.

Rio doesn’t look away from Agatha, but you know the soothing tone is for you, “It’s okay.”

Something passes between the two that you miss. One moment, Rio holds Agatha’s face in her hand, while Agatha—hesitantly—leans into the contact. The next Rio is standing between the two of you, toying with her knife, all business.

You feel a chill pass through you at the unfamiliar territory; staring into Rio’s eyes and finding the affection buried away. It stings more than knowing how you’ve failed.

“You’re asking me for life in a bottle.” Rio says, grinning, “What do I get in return?”

Short of knowing that Rio would fix it should you ask, you find yourself shamefully bereft of anything with value. You search the space for anything to bargain with. Agatha’s eyes should be looking at you with knowing, but her gaze doesn’t leave Rio.

When Agatha tilts her head and grins, turning on the bedroom eyes, you pause.

“What you’ve wanted for years.” Agatha says, “Brew me a little potion and you can have her all to yourself.”

Rio’s brows shoot sky high. You tilt your head, then freeze. It’s you. Agatha’s bargaining you.

There should be a sweetness in knowing you’re the only thing of value she has to offer, yet the taste is sour on your tongue. The words feel like a punishment, a reprimand—and not the kind you’ve begged at her feet for. That awful part of you would rather Agatha die than ever willingly give you up and Rio eyes you as if she knows it. Does it please her to know how they’ve twisted you?

One mistake, you think bitterly, and Agatha throws in the towel. Despite all the near-death experiences you’ve endured at her side. Despite the years you’ve spent together. You never expected a punishment of this proportion.

You bite your tongue. At your sides, your fists clench and unclench. They glow with the anger you can’t keep hidden.

Pride rears its unhelpful head and you speak before you can stop to think, “My life for Agatha’s.”

Rio’s full attention is on you, then. Her eyes are bright.

You speak directly to her, “I’m bound to you and The Road until such time as Agatha traverses it to collect me.”

Had you not been so focused on Rio, you would have noticed Agatha flinch at your suggestion. Her wide, glassy eyes stare at you. You do not give her the satisfaction of your attention. If she is going to be cruel, so can you.

Your terms are a challenge; and Agatha doesn’t turn down a challenge.

Her devious, wicked mask clicks back into place. Rio’s expression is pensive. Despite the poison working through her system, Agatha almost looks as powerful as her best day.

“You’d let me steal her away, O Death?” Agatha teases.

The comment is salt in your open wound. You glare, wishing more than anything that you could wrap your hands around her pretty neck and squeeze. You want her not only to beg—but to apologize.

But Rio’s eyes haven’t left you for a second.

“Alright, sweetheart.” Rio says, “Your life, bound to mine, until Agatha comes to get you.”

In it you understand the desire you both share; to have Agatha, one way or another. You wonder if the desire for possession is your own or something you’ve learned from her.

From her pocket comes a small glass vial. She tosses it to Agatha, who only barely catches it. She cradles it like something precious.

“Drink up.” Rio orders.

Then Rio is there, arm around your waist, holding all your pieces together. You lean into her comfort as color returns to Agatha’s cheeks.

“Te veo.”

1754

“She waits for you.”

Agatha whips around, purple crackling at her fingertips. At the edge of the clearing, Rio leans her weight against a gnarled tree, eyeing the withered husks of once-witches in the grass with interest. She looks almost predatory.

“Does she?”

Rio nods, eyes shifting to Agatha, “Like a puppy. It’s almost pathetic.”

It is pathetic, is what she should say. Time and affection have curbed her tongue on this small thing at least. On you. Agatha’s smile is knowing.

Rio has pulled her punches toward you since the beginning. Agatha’s never minded. It’s almost sweet watching the oldest force in the multiverse tiptoe around a witch barely into her second century. Is it that craving for ancient knowledge in your veins that renders Rio down, or is it simply your pretty face?

Does it matter?

“I don’t have what I need yet.” Agatha rolls her eyes, “Witches these days don’t have the power they used to.”

“Or maybe you’re leveling the population before they have time to strengthen.” Rio raises a brow.

Agatha thinks, deliberately dramatic, then shrugs, “No, that’s not it.”

With a shake of her head, Rio steps out from the treeline, and closes the distance across the clearing. Agatha watches every step with dark eyes. The stench of death and magic sends a chill down Rio’s spine; there’s nothing more delicious than a life snuffed out.

The wind slows in the trees as if sensing her. Birds silence their sweet tunes. There is frantic rustling in the trees somewhere as creatures do all they can to get away.

Yet Agatha stands, waiting, and allows Death to pull her into her embrace.

One of Rio’s great loves is watching skin split so she can lap up the blood at her own pace. Yet, when her hands settle on Agatha’s hips, they’re gentle. She doesn’t open wounds with her teeth. Rather, she moves her lips over Agatha’s until she can’t breathe. Agatha is wary when she pulls back.

Rio shrugs, “A message from her.”

“I see. Forgiven me, has she?” A slow, taunting grin, “Anything from you?”

“Have you earned it?”

“These bodies didn’t make themselves.”

A tilt of her head, as if considering, “Maybe you’ve earned something small, then.”

And they meet in a clash of lips and teeth. Rio’s hands are everywhere, leaving behind deep claw marks that make Agatha moan into her mouth. Agatha’s own nails pierce through cloth and skin at her hips but draw no blood. She tries to push Rio backward toward one of the trees, she just needs a little leverage and Rio’s thigh to—

Rio pulls back. She grins something wicked at the flash of Agatha’s purple.

“Something small.”

Agatha makes a face, batting her lashes. Rio doesn’t give in.

“You’re awful.”

“You love it.” Rio says, then her face takes on something more serious, “Don’t keep her waiting, Agatha.”

Then she’s gone as if she was never there; the only evidence being the bleeding marks on her skin. Agatha stares at where she stood for a long time before moving on.

1801

The Road changes, you’ve seen, as the covens come along. Small cottages, ancient ruins—the most interesting was an old system of catacombs, though it lacked the remains you’d been intent on studying.

Your favorite, though, is the bower, absent of any illusions or spells.

Beneath a canopy of purple leaves upon a seat of grass, you watch the events unfold from afar. An old curved trunk sits at your back keeping you upright. The animals—lost familiars, mostly—wander up to you here, nibbling at fallen leaves and taking up residence in your lap.

From outside it could be mistaken for a simple tree. Yet, beneath it, the world is at your fingertips. The position of your place presents the underside of millions of glowing leaves to your view; lives, Rio said, witch and non-witch alike.

You find the one you love best among the foliage. You trace your finger down the purple veins, hoping she feels you, thinks of you, misses you. The veins seem to glow a little brighter at your touch.

Rio doesn’t enjoy you toying with them; worried a wrong move on your part will take a life too soon, upsetting the greater balance she’s beholden to. But she taught you how to handle Agatha’s. Trace, never prod. Caress, but never pluck.

A black cat settles in your lap and you sit straighter.

Soothing a hand down her back, she purrs. Her little body presses against your stomach and basks in your warmth.

“You really are too predictable.” Rio says.

She stands a few feet away, clad in dirt and muck, yet still beautiful. Always beautiful.

“I like it here. It’s comforting.”

“You like being close to Agatha.” She corrects.

The leaf in question glows brighter as if sensing the mention. You trace a finger along the edge, willing all your love into it.

“This is all I have of her.” You admit.

Something like softness creeps into Rio’s face. As soon as it appears, it recedes. She joins you under the canopy. The cat in your lap startles and leaps from your lap, darting back into the underbrush.

You had never thought to secure some token of Agatha’s, then. Now, with nothing of her’s to hold close, you settle for her life-line, begging it to tell you her whereabouts and if she’s safe; it is always silent. Rio is, too. She doesn’t mention much when you ask, though you know she knows the actions of every life tied to her.

The Road is a wonderful home. Rio is an attentive partner. But you ache, still, for the other set of hands you knew; those who were predictable in their firmness, balancing the sudden changes of Rio’s own.

“You’re crying.” Rio says.

Her face is dark, but fury lingers around the edges. Something like worry flutters in and out of her eyes. You have nothing to say, so you only nod.

Then you’re in her lap. Rio’s bunching up your dress to your waist, canines embedded in your neck. Her nails dig into your hips and the blood warms you. You whimper.

Lips kiss down your neck while a hand hovers between your legs. You bear down, desperate for any friction to dull the ache. And she gives it to you. Her hand is exactly where you want it, fingers rubbing and pressing, and you grind your hips hard, harder until you’re right there.

And then her hand is gone.

You whine. Your hips move of their own volition, searching for that pressure to send you right over the edge. Rio’s lips catch your own in a bruising kiss and you whimper into her mouth.

Needy, desperate, you can almost hear her say.

But when she pulls away and digs her nails in harder, she whispers, “Cry for me, sweetheart.”

She alternates between giving you what you crave and rescinding it for hours. You whimper, moan, and beg. She laughs and repeats herself—cry for me. You lose count of how many almost-orgasms tighten your body just to go unfulfilled. You do cry. You sob and she’s there, tongue licking up your tears and knuckle deep inside you, thumbing over your clit until you have what you want.

You’re not sure how long you lay there, after, crying against her.

1833

Rio’s arm is warm where you’re wrapped around it. She leads you through the winding stone streets, around grand buildings with stained-glass windows. Some of the scenes depicted in the glass are beautiful, simple; but the majority are Catholic in nature, dripping with sadness and guilt. You shake your head.

Passersby nod or tilt their hats, but don’t seem to see you. Their eyes go especially glassy when they look at Rio.

Whereas you’re clad in a dress of rich layered fabric, Rio has opted for more masculine attire. The low heels of her dress shoes click upon the stone. The unwrinkled fabric of her suit smells of smoke.

Your heels don’t quite agree with the stone. After the fifth time of a near-twisted ankle, you huff, “Could I not have worn flat shoes?”

“The heels compliment your legs.”

“You can’t even see them.”

“Yet.” She winks.

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat suffusing your cheeks. Another nod to a passing couple and Rio makes a sharp turn. You’re led into a damp, dim alleyway.

The ground is made from rough slabs of uneven stone. You curse when your heel slips and only Rio’s strength keeps you standing. Water slides down the walls on either side, thick moss growing in the cracks. You reach out to feel it only for your hand to come away red.

If not for Rio pulling you along, you’d have screamed. Blood cascades down the walls. From it grow dark, twisted plants you’ve studied beside The Road. Beneath the plants and out of them come bones; most have yellowed with age, but there is the occasional bright-white specimen.

Surprise aside, you lean toward the bones with interest. Still, Rio presses on.

The alleyway is growing slimmer by the second. Should it continue to do so, you’ll be forced to walk behind Rio, and the thought makes you tense.

Rio squeezes your hand, “Relax, sweetheart.”

“I’d relax more if I knew what we were doing here.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Before you’re forced to walk single-file, you come to the end. Rio traces a counter-sigil upon the stone. With a shudder, a door is revealed. Above the silver knocker, embedded in the door, sits an unblinking eyeball. The blue pierces you.

Rio pulls and slams the knocker. The eyeball falls from the door and hits the ground with a sickening pop. You nearly shriek while Rio makes noises of delight.

“Ooh,” She chuckles, “we’re not the first to arrive.”

You try not to think about what the eye must look like now, “Can I go home?”

“Why so squeamish all of a sudden? You handle the cadavers I bring you just fine.”

“That’s different. That’s research.”

“Who says this isn’t, sweetheart?”

The door opens soundlessly. Inside, the scene is much the same; another dark, slim space, though notably absent of plants and body parts. The owner of this place must be allergic to candles, the lighting situation is just pathetic.

Rio waits. When you make no move to walk inside, she sighs, nudging you with a hand on your lower back, “Ladies first.”

You’re not sure if being first or last is the worst. If anything is to jump from the walls now, you’ll take the brunt of it; you’re reminded of that day with Agatha all those years ago. Rio’s warmth at your back offers the strength you need to continue. Though, you do cling to her hand the whole way.

The hallway empties into a full room. Dark shelves match the height of the walls, on them jars full of ingredients. There are tables boasting dozens of drawers, though none sit open. Glasses and tools and cauldrons line the tabletops. In the center of it all are two figures; well, one figure and one corpse.

You can’t catch your breath. She’s as beautiful as the day you lost her.

“Agatha.” You whisper.

Agatha turns and smirks. She doesn’t look nearly as surprised to see you as you do her. Upon seeing you, her expression softens, eyes full of affection and longing. It hardens a bit when she glances behind you.

“You ruined the surprise.” Rio says, arms crossed, though one motions to the corpse, “We needed her.”

“What could you possibly need with a poison witch?”

“Our darling healer wanted to study with her.”

Something like regret turns Agatha’s face when she regards you. With a wave, she produces a thick book full of yellowing pages. You tilt your head when she offers it to you.

“Her life’s work. I’m sure there’s more here somewhere.” Agatha shrugs.

You take it and hold it to your chest reverently. All this time you thought Rio was putting you off about finding a competent poison witch and yet here you are, standing in her apothecary. She lies dead on the floor but you couldn’t care less when the real gift stands before you.

You long for her. You ache to feel the gentle caress of her hands on your face, the threat of her nails on your scalp.

A look at Rio tells you she isn’t entirely pleased with the turn of events. Yet when she sees your excitement some of her ire dissipates. The yearning in your eyes must be plain, since she gives you a single nod.

Book of poisons tossed onto the tabletop, you throw yourself into Agatha’s arms. She’s as steady as you remember. Her hand grips your chin and forces your lips to hers. Her hands are predictably firm wherever they land. She grips you as if afraid you’ll slip away. But her kiss, oh gods her kiss; soft lips and taunting, sharp tongue. The length of her body pressed against your own and so warm.

There are hands in your hair and this is all you’ve wanted—all you’ve craved for years. Why, then, do you feel the urge to cry? To rip the heart from your chest and banish it to where it won’t hurt?

Agatha is warm and steady. You bury your face in her neck and her in yours. Your hands shake with the force of clinging to her.

The feeling is bliss. Yet, it isn’t complete.

You glance over Agatha’s shoulder to Rio. She stands in the doorway, watching the scene with dark-eyed interest; but there’s a weariness in the set of her shoulders.

“Beloved.” You call, holding one of your hands out to her.

Rio raises a brow. Her eyes don’t stray from your outstretched hand.

“This is your gift, sweetheart.”

“And it’s incomplete without you.”

Her eyes stray to Agatha, who has taken to watching her, too. This time, Agatha’s eyes don’t harden. They maintain that soft look you melt for.

Agatha extends her own hand alongside yours.

“Come on.” Agatha urges, soft.

You watch the resolve break moments before she wedges her way into your embrace. Her fingers lace through yours, but her face is pressed into Agatha’s neck. She pushes and nuzzles like she wants to become part of her. It reminds you of the cat that visits the bower—Ebony—but you don’t dare say so.

Agatha’s hands leave you to caress Rio’s face. A thumb rubs along her cheekbone. You press yourself against Rio’s back, unable to glimpse her face but sure of the longing in her expression.

In a perfect world, there would be no separation between the three of you. No clothes, no emotional barriers, not even flesh to keep your hearts from mingling into one. You settle for Rio’s hand in your own and Agatha’s blue eyes locked on you.

You lean over Rio’s shoulder and kiss Agatha, your free hand fumbling with getting into the former’s pants. She chuckles darkly in your ear. It ignites a spark in your chest; a dangerous longing for this to remain, to be always. You try to push it away and focus on how Rio moans in your ear instead.

1869

“Will you walk with me?”

Rio nods, smiles grandly, “Of course.”

You laugh. She holds out her arm, ever the picture of a gentleman, but you lace your fingers through hers instead.

As a rare treat, you lead. You pull her along the road. The leaves change beneath your feet, from silver and black to the hues of autumn and then to pure green. The Road opens its arms into a clearing bathed in the color. Only the stone building in the center stands apart.

Upon your approach, flowers grow in the flattened grass where you step; honeysuckle and heliotrope, baby’s breath and red chrysanthemum. Rio glances over her shoulder as the blooms spring forth.

Ivy grows up the walls of the building. You brush a gentle hand over the leaves.

Crumbling, worn headstones en masse wait behind the building.

Rio tilts her head, “What is this?”

The door is unlocked. You knew it would be. The Road cannot keep you from this place.

Inside is warm and hazy. Papers with elegant scrawl cover every surface, books half-open litter any free spaces. Shelves line the walls, jars bearing various specimens. Plush couches overflow with deep, red cushions, begging you to sit and stay. A fire cracks in the fireplace.

Rio turns this way and that. She wanders around the room, flipping through books. A fingernail taps against a jar full of eyes. An errant paper is plucked from where it sits haphazardly atop the mantle. She stops.

You know the paper the second she comes into contact with it; can remember the way you wax poetic about how beautiful she is, how safe you feel in her arms. She picks another, then another, so on, and you know every word the second she touches them; the way she unwinds in Agatha’s arms, her face twisted in perfect fury, the lightless turn of her eyes when she teeters on the edge of wickedness.

She looks at you, vulnerable and unsure, “What is this?”

“My heart.”

“That… then why is all of this here?”

Her hand shakes the papers for emphasis. You resist the urge to laugh, lest she think you’re making light of her. Death can be cruel, but you try not to be.

You step close. Gently, the papers are extracted and returned to their places. Rio stares and hardly breathes as you take your face in her hands.

“You pulled away after that night.” You whisper, finger tracing her cupids-bow, “Do you think I touch you only because it is convenient?”

Rio’s lip curls. Fists bunch at her side, crackling with green light. You feel the rumble of her anger working through her chest. She tries to pull from your hold, but you don’t let her.

“Do you think I kiss you and pretend it’s her?”

Rio snarls, “I will kill you if you don’t stop talking.”

You smile. The threat is a real one, but you don’t fear it; the outcome is remaining by her side. With one hand you reach and pull one of her fists between you. You unravel it, trying not to flinch against the bursts of power over her skin. You press the palm of her hand over where your heart resides inside your chest.

The snarl fades just so. Fury still lingers in her eyes. You press your hand over hers and will her to see, to know.

“Look at the walls.” You order.

Upon the walls, plain and dark, shimmering scrawl appears. Agatha Harkness, it reads in shaky lettering; like a name carved into a tree. One signature turns into ten and ten into countless. Purple and shimmering is Agatha’s brand upon you. Rio yanks and reaches for the dagger she keeps handy.

Rio’s true name appears in shimmering green letters, then. Same as Agatha’s, there are countless signatures. They conjoin and overlap until the walls of your heart look like nothing more than a child’s colorful scribbles.

She stares at the walls in disbelief. The knife in her hand clatters to the ground.

“I’ve carved your names upon my heart so I’ll never forget who it belongs to.” You whisper.

“Sweetheart…”

You bend and collect her blade, pressing it into her hand, “Now do it yourself.”

Her hand wraps around the handle reflexively. Rio’s hand doesn’t leave the spot over your heart, feeling the steady, truthful beat.

“It’ll hurt you.” Rio says. She doesn’t bother hiding the desire in her voice.

You urge, “Make me hurt.”

Each artful stroke of her blade is slow. You whimper, but grip her wrist and push the blade deeper into your flesh. She scoffs when tears flood your eyes. The tears run down your cheeks while you smile, filled with bliss and ache in equal measure.

It’s a gift to love so deeply it wounds you. You never want her to stop; who, aside from your shared scar, holds such power? Who else in the world could touch your heart truly enough to carve into it?

There’s delight in her every movement. She consumes the pain of millions and yet, none of it is of her own making. She can only relish in what others have done; torture for a being who remains eternally intimate with the greatest methods of drawing out agony. Death has no free will but that you offer her—and she takes what none else would give, ravenously.

Is it enough?

Not forever, something tells you, you think it might be her, but for now.

1925

“You called?” Rio asks.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re avoiding me.”

Agatha leans against the wall beside a small window. The pane has been slid upward, letting in the sounds of the city below, releasing the smoke of Agatha’s cigarette into the air outside.

The cigarette is clutched in gloved hands. Her expression is amused as she draws in and releases the smoke, watching it form the shapes she wills. Though it has no effect on such a witch, Rio admires the object’s capability of bringing Agatha infinitesimally closer to her.

“We’ve been busy.”

“Busy or not, I’d say twelve bodies earns me a visit. And with the bulk of good booze I just removed from the market, I’d say I’ve earned a little more.”

An obvious lure with paltry bait, still Rio bites, “What do you have in mind?”

“Let me see her.”

She should. You’ve come to accept Agatha’s absence in your life, but she sees how much time you spend in the bower, and how you flinch when her name comes up. Rio hadn’t expected the frequency of Agatha’s name on the lips of covens walking the road to be so overwhelming, but it always drives you right into her arms; that she will relish.

But Death is not giving. She takes. Taking is, in fact, her favorite hobby. Twelve bodies is not enough to make up for the haunted look in your eyes. She wants more—will have it. Agatha has to earn you.

“I’ll need a little more from you.” Rio drawls.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill that many witches here with the nightlife?” Agatha throws her hands up. Ash flies from the forgotten cigarette.

The sounds of Chicago seem to grow louder, as if to aid her point. Rio grins. She crosses the small space and takes the cigarette, snuffing it out on the back of Agatha’s hand. The action prompts a quiet moan.

“It shouldn’t be a problem. What I want, you have an abundance of.” Rio’s smile widens as she manipulates Agatha’s hand, removing the glove, pushing and prodding until purple flashes along the flesh.

A cooling breeze sneaks in the window and rustles the fringe along Agatha’s dress. It’s a beautiful thing, short and decadent. Rio knows you’ve enjoyed the few sightings of the period fashion you’ve glimpsed, but like her, you’d enjoy this specific dress in a pile on the floor.

Agatha’s eyes stare at where Rio’s flesh meets her own. Her eyes are contemplative, calculating. She hesitates. And that is her fatal mistake.

Rio throws her across the room with a shove. Agatha’s side hits one of the walls and she falls, face-first, onto the mattress she’s been sleeping on. The springs shriek at the sudden weight. Agatha snarls, throwing out a blast of purple that slams into Rio’s chest. Rio moans something filthy.

There’s a brief struggle where Rio does her best to keep Agatha pinned; to the bed, to the wall, wherever there’s a surface. Yet Agatha is slippery. Her magic whisks her right out of the hold Rio puts her in and wherever Agatha wills it; which currently, is behind the other witch so Agatha can kick the back of her knees. Rio kneels not of her own volition.

She braces to stand, only to find the blade of her own dagger at her throat.

Rio’s gaze has lost any warmth. Her affection is buried deep, beneath layers and layers of earth she craves to bury Agatha in right this second, “You’re breaking her heart.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, you like seeing her cry.”

“When I’m the one responsible.”

Agatha rolls her eyes. She maintains a carefully ambivalent expression. Rio knows better; knows, under all that forced emotion, that Agatha’s heart is waging against her head, warring over her selfish desire to keep every bit of power.

Then, something shifts. Rio feels it. Agatha has made her choice and it isn’t you. And it ignites a rage in her chest unlike anything she’s felt in centuries.

She snatches the dagger back from Agatha’s grasp and only just barely resists the urge to bury it in her chest. If she has to drag Agatha back to you kicking and screaming, she will. You would like that, wouldn’t you?

“I’ll kill you.” Rio vows, and means it. Agatha can’t run away from the two of you if her soul is Rio’s to keep.

Agatha’s eyes flash with fear. Then, she grins around it, “If you can catch me.”

Latin words roll off Agatha’s tongue faster than Rio can comprehend. She recognizes the words and what they mean, where they’ve come from. Rio reaches out with her magic for the Darkhold too late; it, and Agatha, have completely vanished from her awareness.

When she returns to The Road and finds you pacing before the bower, she stops short.

“Did you—is she dead?” You ask, worrying your lip. Though your eyes dart every which way, looking for whatever manifestation of Agatha you believe she’s brought you.

“Sweetheart…”

1937

“Do you think if I cut you open you would heal too fast for me to do any research?”

Rio tilts her head, considering. She’s sprawled out on the plush couch inside the physical manifestation of your heart, toying with her knife, having a staring contest with the unblinking jar of eyes while you jot down thoughts into notebook number… well, she’s lost count.

“Probably.” She answers, “I’m also not sure I have organs.”

You pause, “How is that even possible?”

“Magic, sweetheart.”

Leaning back, your mind begins to race; given how old she is, it would only make sense that the organs the body came with are gone, rotted away—but would the flesh not go with it? You massage your temples. Life magic is no easier to understand than Death magic.

There’s only one way to test your hypothesis. You stand from your place at the table and cross to her, straddling her hips where she lay on the couch.

“I want to see.” You say, holding out a hand.

Rio hands over her dagger and sinks further into the couch, as if that is possible. She grins up at you with no shortage of delight. You do your best to tamp down on your own grin.

The flesh beneath your hands is warm and smells of damp earth where you peel away her shirt. Her eyes darken with every inch of flesh revealed to you. Firm and unafraid, you press the tip of the dagger down against her sternum. The action earns you an exaggerated moan.

You rip the dagger away, glaring, “Behave.”

“Or what?” Rio taunts, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek.

“Or I stop letting you watch my dissections.”

She tenses, “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I, beloved?”

“Get on with it.”

You lean down and steal a quick kiss. It melts away the darling little pout on her lips.

When you press the dagger back down, the flesh bends, but doesn’t open. You tilt your head and press harder. Rio watches, unphased. There is absolutely no give to her flesh. It gets to a point where you’re pressing your entire body weight behind the dagger, but Rio only laughs, squirming as if the action tickles.

You whine and sigh. The dagger is dropped unceremoniously onto her chest while you lean an elbow against the back of the couch, sinking somewhat into the cushion.

“If you want live specimens, we can collect some.” She soothes.

The idea isn’t intolerable, but you shake your head.

“They scream too much.”

“Anesthetic exists, sweetheart.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

You look away, tracing the walls and their offerings with your eyes. Upon them hang paintings of your own making; scenes of life, death, love, fear—mostly fear.

The human condition fascinates you, always has. Of the emotions to study, fear is the hardest; it is always fleeting in your wake; your face is too kind, too trustworthy, wiping away any sense of the unease you seek to study. You stare at your paintings and feel only distaste, knowing they’re not quite right.

You can’t claim to have always had such taste. No, a cultivation for the finer flavors of life and death takes time. You can pinpoint where the itch started, however; that day in your childhood village when a dying soul reached out to you—scarcely were you a day older than four—and found no assistance.

How beautiful it was; grisly, messy, but beautiful. You did not flinch away. Rather, you found yourself drawn in, eager to see more. And being of a coven of healers, your desire was fulfilled. Death was yours before you knew her name.

Looking down at her, she stares back, unashamed to be caught. The heart in your chest—which has felt so stagnant in recent years—warms toward something almost pure.

Rio will one day claim your soul. This, you know, and accept; your soul belonged to her the second you watched that woman die. You fear the when. What becomes of you when she claims your soul? What if you have yet to conduct all the research you desire? There is so much still to learn and you know she’ll abandon it for the chance to keep you.

You love her, but you’ll never forgive her the knowledge you’ll one day lose. The warmth in your chest doesn’t ebb.

Her top is still splayed open from your attempt at dissection. A healthy amount of flesh is bared to your eyes. You trace one finger from her neck to the center of her chest and tap, just above where a heart should be.

“When you come for me,” You say, “I want to hold your heart in my hand.”

“You already do.” She utters.

“Will you let me study it, then, when I’m but a soul?”

“You can study whatever you wish as long as it leads to me.”

1989

Agatha dwells on mistakes, often. She just doesn’t allow them to distract from her purpose. She is ruthless, to her very core.

She spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to open the damned door to The Road. One coven after another, all failures. There is an obscene beauty in claiming a reward for what would otherwise be failure on her part.

Time passes, enemies made, promises broken. She shrugs them all off. Yet she can’t shake the feeling of your hands in her hair, on her face. The lingering whisper of your kisses haunts her. The Darkhold whispers to her, oftentimes in language she shouldn’t comprehend, and it offers her the solution, should she just be patient;

The Scarlet Witch

2026

The power that floats before you is biting and all too familiar.

It fights against your hold, twisting and writhing like a wild animal, desperate to return to its mistress. But you’re stronger for now. The Scarlet Witch threw this power into the ether in her attempt at playing Death, and now it is yours to hold until Agatha comes for it.

Anger rubs against the heart in your chest like a cat. You lean into it, feeling your own power respond to subdue that which isn’t yours.

Rio watches beside you. She runs her fingers through the purple electricity contained in your palms, laughing when it fights her. Lips press against your temple.

“Not long now.” She assures you.

You feel longing and fury in equal measure.

“I want her soul, Rio.” You whisper.

A small chuckle, low beside your ear. It sends shivers down your spine. Her hand grasps your chin and turns you to face her, her lips meeting your own. The kiss is soft. You melt into it.

She pulls back, tone careful, “You didn’t walk The Road, sweetheart.”

You have not earned what The Road promises to grant.

2026

Agatha doesn’t expect the end of The Road to look like Agnes’ Westview home, nor does she expect to see Rio perched on the roof, leaning back, as if waiting. But every step closer to the front yard makes her more furious.

She is owed her prize.

Upon her first step in Agnes’ yard, the front door opens, and she is blasted with something so strong that it knocks her back to The Road, on her back. She groans. Yet, she feels more alive than she has in centuries. Her body shudders with its missing piece; her power curling up in her veins, pleased to be home.

She sits up, wincing at the ache in her bones that continues despite the gift she’s received. Leaves stick to the back of her arms, little pieces having crunched beneath her weight and adhered to her skin. She does her best to brush them away while getting to her feet.

Rio remains on the roof, grinning.

There, on the porch of Agnes’ house, is you. All the glory of you.

Agatha’s heart leaps in her chest despite the scowl on your face. To her, you haven’t aged a day; still the young, fresh-faced witch following at her heels, dizzy on knowledge and the thrumming power inside. Time has not erased the love she has—so great it threatens to bring her to her knees.

“Dearest…” Agatha murmurs, taking a half-step forward.

“You have your prize.” You sneer.

Your heart aches, begging you to go to her; hasn’t it been centuries? But your pride holds you back. She left you here while she gallivanted around the world getting what she wanted.

There’s a brief flash of hurt on Agatha’s face, before it morphs into a wicked grin. Her posture changes, too, to something more proud, as she slinks across the yard toward the porch. You resist the urge to take a step back.

“No, I don’t.” She drawls, “Are you going to be a good pet and come home willingly, or do I have to put you on a leash?”

Something inside you burns for her. You ache for her touch, for her to force you to do what she wants. It creeps through the cracks of your pride and turns it into something else. You stick out your chin. Agatha snickers.

Magic pulses in your palms, pulling various items from around you to throw—not fast enough. Agatha has you kneeling with your hands bound in a blink.

“That’s not very nice, dear. And after all I’ve done to get here.”

You regain some of your fight, snarling, “You left me here.”

Agatha hums.

“Into the deal you stumbled your way into. I’m not the one who tied herself to The Road in a fit of pride.”

“You were leaving me regardless. If I was going to be handed off, I was going to do it on my own terms.”

“Did I specify a length of time in my proposal? Was there any explicit mention of how long She could have you before I came back?” Agatha asks, mean-spirited joy in her eyes upon watching the realization dawn in your own. All that time you spent agonizing… when you had shackled yourself, “Years lost because you wanted to be a self-righteous brat.”

There’s a lilt to her voice that clues you in to everything you’d once seen instinctually; Agatha has been in just as much anguish as you have, left to walk the world alone. You see the pain in her eyes. Just like then, you try to get to her now, eager to fix it, to wipe it away.

The binding around your arms keeps you stationary. You whine and pull against it.

“Agatha,” You whine, “I’m sorry.”

“You will be.” She says. Then she turns to your left, finger poised and accusing, “And you—you kept her away from me.”

Rio shrugs, smiling, “I couldn’t just make it easy on you.”

Agatha waves a hand and Rio is kneeling on the porch at your side, similarly bound. Yet where you look pained, she is delighted.

“I’m sorry.” You repeat, “I didn’t mean to be bad.”

“That doesn’t change that you were.”

A cloud of purple smoke announces your arrival to the inner bedroom of Agnes’ house. It doesn’t look like what you’ve seen from Rio, though. Where Agnes had been bland and cookie-cutter, this is rich fabrics and deep wood. It is Agatha through and through.

You and Rio kneel side-by-side at the foot of the bed, where Agatha perches. Her beautiful blue eyes don’t miss the slightest movement you make. She’s clad in a dark robe with snakes and flowers that has Rio leaning forward in interest.

Agatha’s eyes lock on you, “You’re going to apologize. Properly.”

“I’m sorry—”

“With your tongue.”

Leaning back on her forearms, Agatha spreads her legs, and you feel the desire in your body rush through you. It’s so strong you feel your head begin to pound. She’s pink and dripping and all you want is to do a good job for her.

Yet, ever the brat, you lean forward and start with kissing her inner thighs. With every press of your lips to the delicate flesh you murmur an apology. She sighs.

A hand weaves into your hair and yanks you back. Her eyes are dark. Her face is set in a punishing expression but you see the yearning in her that matches your own. She yanks again, lighter, and you moan.

“What did I say?” She asks, before directing you where she wants you.

Witches don’t subscribe to the idea of what a human would call heaven, but upon tasting her, you think you could get behind it. She’s warm and sweet. You flatten your tongue and drag it along her slit just to collect a better taste of her. Agatha’s hand presses you in harder as she moans.

Without the use of your fingers, you have to use your tongue well. You stiffen it as much as you’re able when you delve inside her and hope it is even slightly close enough to satisfy. The pathetic sounds reaching your ears—breathy moans, sweet whimpers—tell you that you’re doing fine.

“Good girl.” Agatha breathes out.

You clench around nothing. You’re sure that you’ve ruined your undergarments thoroughly from how wet you are.

Eager for more praise, you direct your attention to that small, fleshy bundle of nerves begging for your attention. You swirl your tongue around her clit and her hips stutter, before they grind against your face with a renewed sense of purpose. You smile.

“Yes—there, more—” Agatha stutters.

You were born to do as she commands. All you want is to make her happy. Following her directions is as easy as breathing.

The tip of your tongue alternates between circling her clit and flicking it. Every flick earns you a high-pitched oh! and a firm grinding of her hips. Her thighs are tightening around your head, but she’s putting up a good fight. Her legs quiver.

“There—there—I’m going to—” Is all the warning you’re given before Agatha shrieks and comes while rutting against your mouth. You lap up every drop of her wetness you can get with glee. You did this, you brought her this pleasure; the knowledge sends a happy jolt through you.

Agatha’s grip on your hair releases and you lean back, taking in big lungfuls of air. She stares down at you with a thoroughly fucked-out expression that makes you preen.

Then she leans over and pulls your lips to hers. She moans against the taste of herself on your lips, tongue collecting the flavor from your lips. You throw every ounce of love you possess into the kiss—willing her to understand the longing you felt, the thousands of hours you spent watching her lifeline just to make sure she was safe.

“Good girl.” Agatha murmurs, pressing little kisses all over your face, “My good girl.”

“All yours.” You agree.

She laughs, low and smooth, “That’s not quite the truth, is it?”

The two of you turn to regard Rio in unison. She remains in the position Agatha left her in, kneeling and bound. You admire her restraint at not breaking the bindings. Though you guess Agatha wouldn’t take kindly to that.

Rio’s eyes are black with desire. They dart between the two of you. She takes in the wetness on your face, licking her lips. You can feel her eagerness for a taste.

She’s writhing a bit in her restraints, pressing her thighs together and wiggling, looking for any source of friction she can find. Agatha tuts and she stops. If it were up to you, your face would be between her thighs, ears enjoying every sound she makes. But it isn’t up to you.

Agatha scoots back up the bed until she’s sitting against the headboard. That’s when you feel the restraints on you fall away. She beckons the two of you with a finger and you both follow the command, eager.

“Come here.” Agatha urges you specifically, patting her bare thigh.

You obey and straddle the appendage, shuddering against the feeling against your throbbing clit. There’s a split second where you think of just grinding down and taking what you want. But you don’t—you have to be good.

Words pass between Agatha and Rio during your silent struggle. When you look, she’s lying along the length of the bed, legs bunched up and spread wide next to you.

“What am I going to do with you both?” Agatha muses.

“Fuck us?” Rio drawls.

“You, my good girl,” Agatha says, ignoring Rio as she soothes a hand through your hair, “are going to use me until you come. And my bad girl isn’t going to come until I tell her she can.”

You shudder, whimpering, while Rio whines next to you. Agatha kisses your forehead while dealing a slap to Rio that makes her groan.

A hand settles onto your hip and begins to guide you through the motions of grinding against her. The friction is difficult to attain with how wet you are, but you do what you can, crying out everytime the pressure is just enough to make your toes curl. It won’t take long for you to finish.

Your face is buried in Agatha’s neck, where you press loving little kisses to the flesh. As a result you cannot see Rio. But you hear her; every movement of Agatha’s deft fingers through her wetness, every growl and keen of desire, every slap of Agatha’s hand when she gets a bit too eager. She won’t last long either, from what you can tell.

The image of Rio and Agatha in your mind is enough to push you toward that delightful little taste of death. Your hands tighten over Agatha’s shoulders.

“Agatha, can I—please?” You plead.

“So obedient, asking for permission even when you don’t need to.” Agatha praises, “Go on, darling.”

With her hand guiding you and her voice in your ear, you come so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You’re not sure what sound leaves your lips, only that your throat aches afterward.

You tune back in to hear a brutal slap of flesh on flesh. Rio snarls.

“Beg.” Agatha’s voice commands in your ear, though you know it isn’t for you.

Rio stays stubbornly silent.

The sounds of Agatha toying with her come to an abrupt halt. You don’t have the strength to lift your face from your refuge, but you can imagine that stubborn, yet pleading look in Rio’s face; wanting so deeply but not willing to give up what is required.

“If you don’t want to behave, she can have your pleasure instead.”

“No! I’ll—” You hear Rio grit her teeth, “Please, Agatha. Please let me come.”

Agatha laughs.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She coos.

Seconds—or maybe minutes—before Rio wails. There’s something primordial and animalistic wrapped inside it, almost like a growl. It makes you shudder. Then all that's left in the room is the sound of breathing.

You spent so long aching for something just like this. It’s beautiful, though you know it can’t stay; all three of you are far too ambitious to live a domestic existence, but it’s nice for now. You missed them. The heart in your chest feels complete again, filling to the brim with affection.

Tears seep from your eyes and you pull back before Agatha can question it, though you do feel her stiffen. You press kisses to her neck, her sternum, the inside of her wrist; then you grab Rio’s hand and press kisses to every pad of her fingers.

With every kiss, you murmur I love you.

2027

“If you don’t sedate him at least a little bit, his heart is going to give out.”

Rio’s sudden voice next to you isn’t surprising. You’ve grown used to her coming and going—Death waits for no one, after all. Her lips press to your cheek and you accept the affection.

“She did sedate him. Three times.” Agatha’s voice calls from the next room.

“Oh, I see.”

Rio leans over to examine the man on your table with no shortage of interest. He stares back, eyes impossibly wide. His heart rate picks up.

“What is he?” She asks.

“Not sure. Rapid regeneration, odd capabilities. Mutant, maybe?”

“He’s certainly not a witch.” Agatha’s leaning against the doorway now, arms folded over her chest, “Though it is taking a fair amount of magic to keep him subdued.”

“He’s no match for you, naturally.” You compliment.

Both Agatha and Rio grin at that. The former comes up behind you, hands settling on your hips. Her lips press against your neck. Then, she leans over and steals a kiss from Rio, who is all too eager to meet her halfway.

You smile. The heart in your chest threatens to burst—not unlike the specimen in front of you.

“Well, aren’t you sweet today.” Agatha comments.

“Aiming for a reward?” Rio asks.

Rio kisses her way up the flash of skin available to her eyes, making you sigh, leaning back into Agatha’s hands. Then Agatha’s lips fasten to the other side of your neck. Your head falls back and you laugh. Then you moan.

The experiment on your table is forgotten as you’re dragged into the next room and bent into all sorts of shapes you couldn’t even imagine on your own. Oh, well; if he dies before the six hour mark, you can always just find another one. The same cannot be said of the witches bracketing you. And oh, how beautiful that is.

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sparrowlucero · 3 months ago

Note

Reading comprehension site. As far as I understand it, your point is moreso that often stories set in a world without homophobia, transportation, etc. Are treated as morally better. Meanwhile stories which are parallel to real world queerness, identity, and oppression are often viewed negatively. Mostly because there's a standing idea of "you could have made it better by simply not including the homophobia and transphobia".

In my mind, both are morally equivalent, and both are examining themes which may be interesting in the context of queer experiences and liberation.

yeah that's exactly what I'm talking about... I'm basically just arguing against that more extreme mindset you sometimes see around queernorm stuff and pointing out that maybe it's not great to implicitly lump stuff like, say, steven universe, queer as folk, and i saw the tv glow together as the 'lesser' or "more harmful" type of work we should seek to avoid because they focus on queer struggles, or otherwise downplaying the value of themes that aren't like, escapist enough in some way.

Honestly I think at some point the discussion around depictions of homophobia- specifically, criticism aimed at the thought that (often quite fetishistic) homophobia (or sexism, racism, etc) needed to exist in fantasy for the sake of "historical realism", and of bury your gays-type stuff - sort of got telephone game'd into "it's weird to depict bigotry or gay characters suffering/dying when you could just not do that; no one wants to see that" and then in turn "the best, most valuable and desired way to depict queerness (race, disability, gender, etc) is to make it normal and as downplayed as possible" and i think it's worth pointing out that that's often not great advice/a good metric for judging queer fiction overall.

#if this was about disability or something #like i was arguing against writing advice claiming that there was something inherently better and more woke and representational #in. say. a world where aids are so good that deafness functionally doesn't exist and there is no need for sign language or deaf culture #and I was going 'hey i think this is kind of a weird way to talk about this. that's pretty alienating for many people #especially if the work in question isn't thematically concerned with it at all'#surely the response should not be 'well many deaf people wish that was real! why don't you think deaf people should have escapism?'#'so you think it's bad to depict fantasy disability aids?'#like no. im so obviously aiming at the moral angle of it and the way the most erasing form of it is being bigged up as the best one #the implication that a fantasy story where deaf culture exists is a less good work of fiction

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specialgradefckr · 14 days ago

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Not In Your Wildest Dreams

concept: satoru and suguru as incubii. and you, the shy, awkward thing at the club? you're the latest item on their menu.

tw: explicit content. dubcon (?), somno/dream stuff. satoru and suguru are literal demons, they kill people, they do bad things.

you see them in the club often enough. they're not always together but they share a strange, magnetic appeal that has your heart skipping a beat at the sight.

satoru is gorgeous. otherworldly, almost, with his snowy hair, eyes so blue they almost glow, a smooth jawline framing his undeniably attractive face.

he weaves in between the crowds without a care in the world, striding towards whatever takes his fancy. there's something graceful in how he moves; utterly confident, unbothered, and yet somehow there's a deeper, erotic appeal.

maybe it's just his outfits - his shirts are often more fashion than fabric, leaving his toned top half on display. it's like he's showing off; baring all his pale and perfect skin as an appetizer.

lurid eyes piercing through you with a glance, with a tiny, secret smile on those lovely pink lips; want a taste? of course you do.

pure arrogance. and it's so, so hot... but he's the type of guy who'd never go for a girl like you.

you're shy. a wallflower, even. he's a star, shining bright, pulling everyone into orbit. you're content to be a lesser moon, feeling the tug on your blood as he nears, looking away when you can no longer stand his light.

and somehow, you keep coming back anyways.

"this seat taken?"

he sounds as lovely as he looks. your heart can't take this. divert, defend!

"by my boyfriend," you mutter out a lie, looking away. face hot.

satoru laughs, and it turns out he doesn't need his beauty to make your heart skip a beat. just the sound of it; high and boyish and unrelenting charm.

maybe you're crazy, but you swear you can feel the body heat of him sliding in next to you.

"i'm right here~" sing-song, so charming, but teasing - god, he's such a tease, "c'mon, gimme a kiss~"

"my boyfriend wouldn't like that." might as well go all the way with your made-up nonsense.

"i'll beat him up. take his girl. just point him out to me, baby," you can definitely feel the heat of him, as he leans in closer, "i'm stronger than i look, you know. don't worry, i won't kill him~"

it's not like satoru looks weak. he's got muscles, lean, but defined, and just thinking of them again unsettles you.

you pull away, heart racing face burning, "i'm more worried you'll fuck him."

he laughs again. but this is loud, hearty; from the chest, you think. it makes your chest hurt.

you think you feel a hand on your shoulder before you slip off your seat, and into the crowd.

probably just your imagination, though.

suguru is more... obtainable, you think? not that you imagine you'd have a chance with either of them.

they're both so pretty they feel like they're from another world - like models off a billboard, so effortlessly airbrushed and flawless from every angle.

but suguru's got less flash about it. he's more subtle, more unassuming. approachable, almost.

not that you approach him. it's more that you run into him - drink in hand, on the way to the bathroom.

it spills all over him, over a clean but stylish top that must be designer something, an assortment of long chains around his neck clinking and wet.

"oh my god, i'm so sorry," the fluster overwhelms you as you meet his eyes. dark, violet. suddenly you feel unfathomably small, like a tiny fish in the face of a massive great white, out in open ocean.

"it's all right." his voice is velvet-smooth, nothing like satoru's. he smiles, and it's an easy, comforting thing -

but there's something about him that just isn't quite right.

it's hard to think about, because suguru's arms reach down, and you watch him pull his shirt right up over his head, chest stretching, muscles flexing broadly as he takes a deep breath, and drapes the half-soaked shirt over a forearm.

god. oh, god. his chest is so broad, so well-muscled, dusky nipples dark and perked up against his plush pecs.

you think you're going to pass out.

"no harm done," honey-sweet, the words drip out, "as long as i can get your number."

his voice is warm, melodic, and he looks at you with a gentle warmth -

but you can't help but feel like the girl who gets asked out as a joke.

with a tight smile, you type your number into his phone, handing it to him very quickly as you dart into the bathroom, throwing the cup away, only to head straight for the exit afterwards.

you don't dare look back.

and maybe it's a good thing you don't. you don't see suguru, number dialed, staring at the phone ringing in his hands.

you don't see his eyes on you as you leave. how you don't react at all, not even the way you would to a vibration.

you don't see his text, either, or voice message - because you hadn't given him your number.

but suguru knows. he always knows.

they're demons, after all. they have their ways of knowing. desire, attention, lust. they're natural whores. sex isn't exactly casual to them - it's a way of life.

satoru feeds off yearning, longing. he relishes breaking sweet, chaste mortal hearts, bewitching them with the most beautiful face they've ever seen, with quick glances and bashful smiles.

part of it is vanity. he is one of hell's prettiest, after all.

he loves making them want him. crave him. break themselves apart, betray their lovers, their values, their better interests just for a taste - a taste he rarely gives them.

only a chosen few get to touch him. and everyone who does get the honor is drained of their life essence and tossed away like the ugly, emptied out vessel they are.

suguru is more selective. he doesn't get anything out of leading people on. and he's not a gentle creature like satoru, who likes to make his prey come to him.

he's a hunter to the core. of course, he finds people who desire him - introverts, soft, shy souls who aren't likely to act on their longing.

delectable. ripe fruit hanging low on the branch. he hunts them down, presses them with soft smiles, gentle touches. cornering them so tenderly they think the nervousness is their own fault.

virgins are the best. he pushes it further and further, takes and takes and takes from soft, sweet things too caught up in the newness of their own desire and situation to hear the alarms blaring in their empty little heads.

and because he eats less often than satoru, he makes sure to savor each and every one, down to the very last drop.

he's a monster. through and through. at least he can admit it; he doesn't know how most of the mortals who serve him sleep at night.

neither of them feel guilt - what a useless emotion that would be for a demon.

but they do both feel desire.

this, though... this is the first time they've ever felt desire for the same person.

you don't sleep well that night.

it's been a bit of a pattern, lately. you're an insomniac in the best of times, but now it's bad, even when you fall asleep.

now, you've been having dreams.

it's not even subtle what it is. how it starts.

you know immediately that you're not alone. there's a warmth beside you, the press of bare skin against your own.

you think it should feel strange - being touched like this, having hands roaming over you. they're bigger, but not rougher. gentle as they cup your curves, slide along the expanse of your torso, your breasts, your shoulders.

it should feel invasive. it should feel like a violation, being touched like this. no one has ever seen you like this before.

instead, between your legs, a slow and steady ache grows.

it's hard to think when it happens. not quite lucid dreaming. like you're an actor in the play, floating through the roles, the lines, just soaking in the sensations.

hands on your hips. soft lips that tickle your neck, trailing up. tracing skin that prickles and shivers at the touch.

and then you see him - satoru.

unmistakable. striking white and blue that sends a bolt through you - throbbing. hot. hungry.

lower down. hardness against you. a grind, delicious, slow, the friction against your panties nearly making you keen and stretch into it.

you're not even looking at his face, but somewhere in this dream image in your mind, you see his smile.

"so cute... why'd you run off on me, huh?" you hear it, like it's whispered in your ear, but you feel him sucking a mark into your neck, "i don't bite... much."

it's both shameful and erotic, how you feel yourself clench at the sound of his voice.

you open your mouth, or you think you do. maybe you were going to say something. maybe you do, and you don't hear it. maybe it's just part of the dream.

either way, his laughter fills your ears. and it makes your chest ache. it's such a pretty sound.

"don't be scared. i like you, you know that?"

bright white hair flits into your vision. it smells sweet, electric; there's a sour taste lingering on your tongue that makes your mouth water.

makes you grind up into him. legs twine with yours, pinning you down, letting you feel him press and press that length of hardness right into your crotch.

it's - it's dirty. messy. embarrassing, to be like this.

and it feels so, so good.

the hair - soft, feathery - slipping through your fingertips but suddenly it's still there, it's silky, and smooth, and dark, and -

"naughty thing. you really hurt my feelings with that fake number, you know?"

the words should terrify you. they should be frightening even in a dream, you know that.

but looking up into those violet eyes and that catlike smile, all you feel is heat.

pure, pounding out of your chest like your galloping heart. you swallow your spit, or you think you do, the drool pooling in your mouth.

this time, when your mouth opens, you see suguru's face. hovering over yours. his own lips parted, wet, dripping saliva.

a strand, syrup-sweet, that lazily pools down from his mouth into yours.

it tastes as honeyed as his words are. makes your head feel dizzy.

not dizzy enough to forget the pulse of arousal that pounds, heavier and heavier.

you don't know if it's fear or desire that makes it surge as suguru smiles down at you. you don't know if it's fingers, or something longer, thicker, hotter, nudging at your folds, burning -

you never know what's happening in those dreams. it all gets hazy from there.

it dissolves in a mess of heat and sensation. a hot mouth, wide hands, pretty eyes and colors - so many that you can't tell them apart.

maybe it's that in your own mind, you can't decide which one you want. maybe it's because both of them feel like a lie you can't bring yourself to believe.

you don't know. you don't even want to, really. you run away, even in your dreams, hiding from the sensation, the obvious conclusion, the budding arousal and eroticism that must be your own subconscious begging you to get laid.

god. you really need to get a grip.

they're the kinds of dreams you remember, when you wake up. the type you try to pretend you haven't had.

someone like that would never be interested in you anyways... but it's nice to have them in your dreams.

you can't even look at yourself in the mirror most mornings. you don't want to see the face your dream men must have been looking at. you're not some beautiful creature like all of them, gorgeous at every angle, with any expression.

maybe it's lucky. or maybe not.

if you did check, you'd have noticed the hickeys on your neck.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk smut #satoru gojo #satoru gojo smut #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #suguru geto #suguru geto smut #suguru x reader #geto x reader #x reader #yandere #yandere x reader

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alfascorpiionux · 5 months ago

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Ascendants: How to recognize them ~ part 2

🦸🧚🏼🧌🧝‍♂️🥷🧛‍♀️

Can you recognize which emoji is which ascendant?:3

__________________________________________

Libra ascendant: these people are the social butterflies and charmers. You’ll find them surrounded by people trying to win their attention. They dress nicely and have a pleasant disposition. They have the iconic “charming smile” that they use to win people over. Fair-minded, diplomatic and balanced are also words that describe them well. Could fall into the trap of always wanting to seem perfect and/or wanting to please people. Depending on other influences, indecision, shallowness and passive-aggressiveness is also very possible with this placement, as they typically want to avoid conflict at all costs.

As body type: look for face symmetry, clear and glowing skin, typically medium-sized body with kind eyes and charming smile. As a native ruled by planet Venus, they probably put a lot of emphasis on aesthetics. This could translate to always dressing to the latest trands, decorating their homes nicely or simply a dislike for messy/chaotic or too minimalistic environments.

Scorpio ascendant: the most characteristic for this placements is “the stare”. When they look at you it feels like they can see the deepest corners of your soul and all your flaws and it’s unnerving. In fact, their very presence seems to add heaviness to any room. You might notice people falling silent when you insert yourself to a conversation. Rather than being charming and agreeable, your aura is intense and commanding. You might make people feel uncomfortable even when you don’t mean to. The planet of death, Pluto, is your ruling planet. You might find yourself faced with plenty of crises throughout your life that will force you to grow or to give up on yourself. You’re sharp, intuitive and an assertive communicator. People cannot help but take notice of what you say. Be careful how you use this power as it can invite lots of hostility if used improperly.

On a positive note, ledership skills are very possible. If you watch out for your overly-controlling tendencies you could make a strong and capable leader people can rely on.

Learn to let go and to open up again.

As body type: deep and thoughtful eyes, a hard stare. Sharp facial features, especially the jaw, a darker complexion.

You likely prefer darker colours of clothing. Black, darker shades of grey or blue. You could dress in a minimalistic fashion or opt for flattering even edgy or gothic styles. Your appearance could also change significantly throughout the years.

Sagittarius ascendant: the first words that come to my mind are “bold” and “loud”. These natives love having space to roam free and explore and are intellectually curious. They crave novelty and new experiences like a fish fresh water. It’s a necessity. They are definitely the friendly people that seem to float from one group of friends to another. Instead of staying silent they will voice their opinion even if they will come off blunt or insensitive. They definitely have a temper that they hide to a greater or lesser extent. Though they are friendly, they aren’t people pleasers and very much prefer honesty over shallow pleasantries. This definitely means ruffling feathers at least sometimes. Regardless of other placements, Jupiter definitely adds a touch of light-heartedness and positivity to this person’s aura.

On the downside, there could be anger issues, a love for drama, messiness or lack of structure in one or more dimensions of their life. Settling down could also prove to be hard. If they aren’t the type to play the field then at least they have high standards and/or don’t like their freedom being restricted or feeling like they are under somebody’s thumb.

As body body type: they could be athletic or if not there could be a fondness for working out/practicing some kind of sport or staying active in general. They are definitely the outdoorsy types so don’t expect they’ll stay cooped up in the house for too long. They likely have an open body language, relaxed posture and an approachable energy in general. Expressive eyes and youthful appearance is very possible.

As clothing, they prefer colourful styles or sporty/functional ones. They likely opt for versatile, comfortable shoes. Bohemian styles or statement accessories are also very possible.

Capricorn ascendant: meet the serious-minded and ambitious folk. Those natives always do more than just complete their assignments. They do them with overwhelmingly perfection. Teachers and older people might like you more than those of your age or you might just feel like you resonate with them more. There is definitely a strict and bossy side to your personality. You don’t like inefficiency, too much drama or even grammar mistakes, for that matter. You bottle up your emotions and let only a few select people close. You are organised and logical in your approach to life. You are always true to your word and people can always depend on you. A dark and sharp sense of humour may be present. You are strong-willed and typically very polite.

On a downote, watch out for your controlling, workaholic tendencies and much like the Scorpio ascendant, learn to be more open about your feelings in general. A more positive outlook on life wouldn’t hurt either. Not everything is black and white.

As body type: you could be lean or have a defined built. A good posture and serious eyes. You probably prefer classic or simple styles of clothing. You might have a preference for formal wear. You like comfortable shoes and looking sophisticated and put together in general.

Aquarius ascendant: meet the gypsies! These natives are inquisitive, rebellious and have a special flair to them that makes them stand out in a crowd. They are social and likely have many hobbies. They could be big nerds or just very good with technology in general. They are definitely the 70 year old grandparents that pick up a smartphone for the first time and know how to use is as well as or even better than their grandchildren. Because, well, “it’s just so obvious. You just click here and here.” They don’t like being ordered what to do and if someone adopts a commanding tone with this native on a regular basis, they’ll definitely fly away or wiggle their way out of any assignment really. Also, they hate being monitored when completing a task. It’s unnerving. Luckily, they usually put a lot of emphasis on doing their work right, even suggesting ways in which to make any project better, more efficient or interesting in general. If they respect you as a leader, they would do nearly anything for you even if that means lots of unslept hours, tears and hard work. The loyalty of this natives is very hard to gain but extremely precious. They can be real forces of nature for better or for worse. It’d be best not to be on their black list.

On a darker note, they could be very stubborn, impulsive and emotionally detached in personal relationships (most of which if due to their cerebral approach to life and/or inability to deal with emotionally-charged situations). They could be erratic and unpredictable and aren’t necessarily easy to get to know.

They are deeply loyal to a select few people and are total sweethearts to them, sometimes undeservedly.

As body type: they are on the taller side, perhaps lanky or just give the impression of being taller in general. They have a youthful appearance and at least one distinctive feature that makes people take notice.They might express their creativity through interesting hair-dos or tattoos etc.

Almost any style of clothing is possible, or a combination of 2-3 of them at the same time. Instead of following trends, they are trend-setters and don’t mind having all looks on them, even judgemental one, if it means their clothes align with who they are deep down.

Pisces ascendant: they have a softer and sometimes ethereal presence. You look at them and might think they are a poet or artist and could very well be right. They might be gentle or soft-spoken. Not the most social but people might just like them anyways. They are empathetic and sensitive people that would gladly give suport and heart-felt advice, only were they asked for it. They are diplomatic and easy-going. They can make friends easily as people are drawn to their giving and kind energy. There is probably a dislike for conflict or tense situations in general. They are not fond of overly competitive environments and having to convince any person of the rightness their opinion is frankly scary and/or overly burdensome for them. They’d rather ignore the problem or you altogether than keep getting into arguments.

On a darker note, there could be manipulative tendencies or lying, mostly as not to upset someone or having to admit a mistake they made in the past. It probably tears them apart as it is but admitting that to another person is a different matter altogether. Mood swings, naivety, emotional indecision, weak boundaries and victim mentality are also very possible.

As body type: soft and gentle features, expressive eyes, fluid movements, ethereal aura.

As clothing, they definitely prefer the softer, feminine or romantic styles. They might like to dress in a bohemian fashion or prefer lighter, pastel colours over darker ones. Comfortable shoes and sporty/homey clothing could also be to their taste.

Hope you guys enjoyed the “how to recognise” series of posts I made.☺️ If there is any placement you’d like more clarity on, I’ll be more than glad to offer my interpretation. I am open to receiving feedback from you and us having discussions on topics of your choice. Thanks for reading!💞

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pwnyta · 4 months ago

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The other day I was trying to sleep but instead I thought about what kind of like... super powers Ivo and Stone would have.... which turned into a whole AU.

Like people who have powers are called EVOS. The powers arent necessarily genetic they can just happen in anyone but also relatives tend to have similar powers? Or something. The population is a 50/50 EVO/NonEVO

Theres also no Mobians... theyre just EVO humans in this AU. Sonic Knuckle and Tails just have Speed, Strength, and Flying EVO powers. Shadow has Teleportation.

Ivos power is Amplification. Allowing him to radiate and/or touch someone to power up their EVO power.

When his power is working on others it causes glowing lines to form on the body as well as making the persons eyes glow. If used too much too quickly it can cause someone to lose control.

I wanted his power to be something unrelated to his intelligence but also be a power people would want to exploit with it so I thought a support power like this would be perfect. Gerald also had a similar power which is why GUN did what they could to get Ivo in their ranks.

Because his power is completely in his control (he must be conscious for his power to work and he can fully control the radius & power of the amp so it cant be manipulated.) so he can hold it over peoples heads to get what he wants.

NonEvos are often recruited into military positions because the military can Bio Augment them and give them kinda... lesser/general abilities (like super soldiers.) they dont augment EVOS because theyre afraid of giving people too much power...

Stone was thought to be NonEVO and the test they give new recruits ran negative but its only because his ability is almost impossible to detect. His power Technopathy lets him communicate with and control machines, he used his ability to skew his results and got augmented powers as well.

His desire to work with Ivo comes from 'meeting' some of Ivos inventions. Theyre much more intelligent then most machines and very sweet despite being killing machines technically. Theyre also VERY loyal to their creator so he doesnt try to manipulate them.

More and more Stone relates more to Ivos Badniks than the humans hes around. Like the Niks he becomes completely loyal and loving to Ivo.

When Ivo Amps Stones power it connects him to basically every bit of tech within his controlled radius. The first time he does it it doesnt end well (they were at the GUN compound in Ivos lab.... it was a lot of tech and a lot of information).

Ivo may or may not be completely infatuated with Stone.... 's circuit board-like Bot Amp lines. But if he were it would only be because the lines are cool cuz he likes tech and no other reason. [citation needed]

uhmmm... YA.

#Pwny Sonic fanarts. I guess.#Stobotnik

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noirscript · 4 months ago

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cursed covenant

pairing: yandere lesser god x reader

warnings: YANDERE. dubcon. noncon (implied). manipulation. gaslighting. captivity. failed escape attempt.

note/s: let me hear your thoughts about this one. its been stuck in my drafts for more than a year now 😂

Tip Jar | Commissions

The lanterns bobbed like fireflies in the distance, their golden glow flickering through the dense canopy of the forest. Laughter and music from the village festival still echoed faintly, but the path behind you had long since dissolved into the shadows. The trees loomed taller, the scent of damp earth and moss filling your nose as you clutched the hem of your festival clothes.

You hadn’t meant to wander this far.

One moment, you were chasing after the sound of a bell—a clear, delicate chime just beyond the treeline. And now, the familiar voices of your family were gone, replaced by the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. The festival had felt so warm, so full of life. Here, the air was thick, the silence stretched too long between every chirp and whisper.

Then, the sound of running water reached you.

Relief flooded your tiny chest. The villagers always said the river led back to town. If you followed it, surely you’d find your way home. You hurried toward the sound, stepping over gnarled roots and ducking under low branches.

But when you emerged into the clearing, the river was not the first thing you noticed.

A man sat by the water’s edge.

He was beautiful. Even as a child, you understood that much. His hair, darker than the night sky, spilled over his shoulders, and his silver eyes caught the moonlight like trapped stardust. He reclined against the smooth stones, long fingers trailing in the water, as if unbothered by the presence of a small, lost girl staring at him with wide eyes.

And then, he smiled.

“You’re quite far from the festival, little one.” His voice was smooth, rich like the hum of the earth before a storm.

You hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. "I was… I was following a bell."

His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpened. "A bell?" He chuckled, low and knowing. "How strange. There are no bells in this forest."

A small frown tugged at your lips. But you had heard it. You knew you had.

The man tilted his head, watching you with quiet amusement. “Tell me, little one, are you afraid?”

You blinked up at him. It was an odd question. Should you be? The village elders always spoke of gods and spirits that dwelled in these woods, warning children never to stray too far. But as you stood before this man—this strange, beautiful man with silver eyes—fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

You shook your head.

He laughed softly. “Good.” Then, he reached out a hand. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitated for only a moment before slipping your small fingers into his. His touch was warm, his grip firm as he led you along the riverbank. He moved without hesitation, as if the forest itself bent to his will, parting the way before him.

As you walked, he asked you questions. Simple ones. Your name. Your age. If you liked the festival. If you enjoyed sweets. You answered eagerly, the nervous edge in your voice fading as you spoke.

He listened.

No one had ever listened to you like that before. Not the other children, who only wanted to play rough games. Not the adults, who often brush you aside with distracted nods. But he—he made you feel important. As if every word you said mattered.

When the village lights finally flickered through the trees, disappointment stirred in your chest. You didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The man knelt before you, his silver gaze holding yours as he brushed a stray leaf from your hair. “I will ask something of you, little one.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

His fingers ghosted over your cheek. “Promise me.”

“Promise what?”

“That you’ll always return to me.” His voice was gentle, but something deep beneath it coiled tight. “That you’ll be mine, forever.”

You blinked at him, puzzled but unafraid. It sounded like a game, like when your friends made pinky promises by the river.

So, you nodded. “I promise.”

For the first time, his smile reached his eyes. But the glint in them was something you wouldn’t understand until years later.

“Good girl.”

Then, the festival bells rang, and the world blurred.

When you turned to thank him, he was gone.

The festival was already in full swing when you stepped back into the village. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting flickering patterns across the packed earth. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet rice cakes filled the air, and the laughter of children rang out as they ran through the crowded streets. It should have been comforting, familiar.

But something felt… different.

Your hand was still warm from where he had held it.

You glanced back at the darkened forest, half-expecting to see those silver eyes watching from the treeline. But there was nothing—just the rustling of leaves, the whisper of wind through the branches.

“Where have you been?” Your grandmother’s sharp voice snapped you back to reality. She appeared through the throng of people, worry etched deep into her face. “I told you not to wander off. Do you know how dangerous it is to go near the mountains alone?”

You opened your mouth to tell her about the man by the river, about how he had brought you home safely. But the moment you tried to form the words, something stopped you. A strange pressure, a weight on your tongue, as if speaking of him would break something fragile and sacred.

So instead, you shook your head and muttered a quiet apology.

Your grandmother’s fingers gripped your wrist tighter than necessary as she pulled you back toward the festival. “You must never go there again,” she warned. “No matter what.”

But you had already made a promise.

And deep in the woods, under the silver glow of the moon, a god smiled.

The years passed.

The seasons changed, the festivals came and went, and the village continued to thrive. But something about you was… different. The boys in your village avoided you. Not out of cruelty, but something deeper, something instinctual. Even those who once played alongside you as children now hesitated to meet your gaze, their hands twitching with nervous energy whenever you came too close. The few who dared to approach were quickly met with sickness, misfortune, or strange accidents.

The only exception was him.

He was always there, waiting in the woods just beyond the village. You weren’t supposed to go near the mountain, but somehow, your feet always found the path leading back to him.

It started with stolen afternoons. You would slip away after lessons, past the watchful eyes of the elders, and run to the river where he always waited. He never called for you, never beckoned you forward, but he didn’t need to. You always came.

He listened to your stories, his silver eyes never straying from your face. When you laughed, his lips would curl into something unreadable. When you cried, he would touch your cheek, his fingers cool against your warm skin. He never asked for anything in return.

Not yet.

But his presence was intoxicating. Comforting.

Yours.

Until the day they took you away.

It happened quickly. One moment, you were walking home from the woods, your heart still racing from your latest meeting with him. The next, your grandmother was gripping your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she whispered hurried prayers under her breath. Your parents were there, too, their faces tight with something you didn’t understand. There were no explanations, no time to argue. Just hurried steps, packed belongings, and a carriage waiting at the village gates.

The other elders stood in the distance, their gazes cast downward, their hands gripping charms and talismans. They wouldn’t look at you.

You struggled. You cried. You begged them to tell you why.

But it wasn’t until you saw the thick paper talismans plastered across the door to your home that realization set in.

They knew.

And they were taking you away from him.

Your screams echoed through the village as they forced you into the carriage, your nails clawing at the wooden frame. You didn’t care about the strange looks from the other villagers, the hushed whispers behind their hands. All you knew was that you had made a promise, and they were breaking it.

The last thing you saw before the doors shut was the treeline. The shadows between the trees shifted, moved, as if something—someone—was watching.

And then, the silver of his eyes, gleaming with something dark and terrible.

And then—nothing.

The city was loud. Too loud.

Even after years of living there, the endless noise of car horns, chatter, and the hum of electricity never settled right in your bones. The air was thick with something artificial, something lifeless. The sky never seemed as wide, the stars never as bright.

At first, you fought against it. You clung to the memories of your village, of the woods, of him. But time had a cruel way of dulling things. The face of the god by the river blurred at the edges, the warmth of his fingers against your skin faded to a ghostly sensation, the sound of his voice—once so clear—became harder to recall.

You moved on.

You made friends, explored the city, built a life that had nothing to do with the mountain. And for a while, it was enough.

Until the letters started coming.

At first, they were harmless. News from your uncle, brief mentions of the village, how things had been difficult but were getting better. You barely paid them any mind, offering polite responses in return.

Then, the tone changed.

The village was suffering. Crops withered before they could be harvested, livestock fell ill, and the number of stillborn children had risen to something unnatural. They needed you back—for the festival, for a ceremony only you could lead.

You ignored it.

But the letters kept coming, each one more desperate than the last. Until finally, your uncle arrived in the city himself, standing on your doorstep with weary eyes and hands that trembled as he held out the final letter.

You read it.

And the moment your fingers brushed against the parchment, something shifted in the air.

The scent of damp earth filled your nose. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a bell chimed in the distance.

And suddenly, the city didn’t feel so safe anymore.

Returning to the village was like stepping into a memory that had been left out in the rain—warped, faded, wrong.

The streets were quiet, the colors muted. The children who had once been your playmates now peeked at you from behind their mother’s skirts, their eyes wide with something too solemn for their age. The elders barely acknowledged your presence, their hands clutching charms so tightly their knuckles turned white.

Your grandmother’s house was the same, but the moment she saw you standing at her doorstep, her expression twisted into something unreadable.

“You should not have come back.”

But it was too late. You were already here.

That night, you lay awake in your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling as the wind howled through the trees. The house creaked, the wooden beams groaning as if something pressed against them, waiting—watching.

And then, through the open window, a whisper.

"You promised."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You sat up sharply, heart pounding as you turned to the window. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and endless.

You told yourself it was your imagination.

But you knew better.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you found yourself walking the familiar path to the mountain. The villagers didn’t stop you. They didn’t even look at you.

The forest welcomed you back like you had never left.

The trees were the same, the river still carved its path through the land, the scent of moss and damp earth filled your lungs. And at the heart of it all, standing just beyond the threshold of his temple, he was waiting.

He was different. The softness of his features had sharpened, the playful glint in his silver eyes replaced with something unreadable. His presence felt heavier, denser, as if the very air bent to accommodate him.

You hesitated.

And then, he spoke.

"Come back tomorrow morning."

You swallowed.

You should have refused. Should have turned back, should have walked away.

But you didn’t.

Because despite everything—despite the years, despite the distance, despite the way your stomach twisted in something dangerously close to anticipation—your feet remained planted in place.

And deep down, you already knew.

You would come back.

You returned the next morning.

And the morning after that.

It became a routine—waking before the village stirred, slipping away before anyone could stop you. Each day, you climbed the path to his temple, and each day, he was waiting.

At first, he only watched. Silent. Unmoving. His silver eyes followed your every step, his presence weighing on your skin like a second layer. You talked, filling the quiet with idle conversation—about the city, your life there, the people you met, the things you learned. He listened, never interrupting, never reacting.

Then, slowly, something shifted.

His silence gave way to words. He asked questions—about your time away, about the world beyond the village, about why you had taken so long to return. His voice, rich and low, wrapped around you like silk, threading through your thoughts, lingering long after you left.

And then, he touched you.

It was subtle at first. A brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him something, a fleeting touch against the small of your back when guiding you up the temple steps. But his hands were warm—too warm—and each time he touched you, something inside you tightened, curled, craved.

The forest changed, too.

The trees stood taller, their leaves greener. The river ran clearer, its waters shimmering under the sunlight. Even the village below seemed to breathe easier, as if your presence had soothed the unseen rage that had gripped it for so long.

But the biggest change was him.

He smiled more, spoke more, let his gaze linger too long. He was indulgent, affectionate in a way that made your skin flush. Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth, the softness, was something else. Something hungry.

You should have been afraid.

But you weren’t.

You should have left.

But you didn’t.

Because each time you stood to go, his fingers would catch your wrist, his touch firm but unyielding. And though he never outright asked you to stay, his silver eyes always whispered the same thing.

"Don’t go."

The night before the festival, the storm came.

The winds howled through the village, rattling windows and tearing through rooftops. Rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching the earth, turning the roads into rivers of mud.

And when morning came, the mountain path was gone.

A landslide had blocked the only way out, cutting you off from the world beyond the village.

You barely heard your uncle’s reassurances. He claimed the roads would be cleared soon, that it was only a temporary delay. But you knew better.

This was no accident.

He wasn’t letting you leave.

And deep down, a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to.

The festival began at sundown.

The village gathered at the foot of the mountain, their voices rising in an eerie, rhythmic chant. The firelight cast flickering shadows against their faces, turning them into something unfamiliar, something devout.

You stood at the center of it all, dressed in the traditional red attire they had prepared for you. The fabric clung to your skin, the intricate embroidery swirling around your body like flames. Your fingers tightened around the offering in your hands—the best produce the village could gather, though it paled in comparison to the ones you had tasted in the city.

None of it mattered.

Because as you climbed the mountain, as the torches lining the path flared brighter with every step you took, as the air thickened with something electric, something expectant—you knew.

This had never been about the village.

It had never been about the crops, or the prosperity, or the suffering they had endured.

This was about you.

And him.

The temple was waiting.

The offerings from dawn still sat upon the great stone table, untouched, pristine. But the only thing your eyes focused on was him.

He stood at the entrance, dressed in godly white, his ink-dark hair cascading over his shoulders like a river of night. The contrast was striking—too perfect—the divine purity of his robes only emphasizing the darkness in his gaze.

He was watching you.

Waiting.

You stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Every part of you screamed to stop, to turn back, to run.

But you didn’t.

Because the moment you met his gaze, a heat bloomed low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire through your veins. It was intoxicating, overwhelming—an ache so deep, so consuming, it left you trembling.

Your breath hitched.

And he knew.

The eerie smile that curved his lips was slow, knowing, filled with a satisfaction so deep it made your knees weak. He reached for you, his fingers brushing against your cheek, your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

And then he whispered, voice rich with something dark and unshakable—

"You are mine."

The torches flared.

The wind howled.

And as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into the depths of his temple, into the depths of him, you knew—

There was no escaping this.

There never had been.

The doors of the temple shut behind you, sealing out the world beyond. The air inside was thick—humid, charged with something unseen, something alive. The torches lining the walls flickered, their golden glow casting restless shadows against the stone.

His fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate. His touch burned—not painfully, but with an intensity that made your breath come quicker, your skin hypersensitive to the smallest movement.

"You hesitated," he murmured, his voice impossibly smooth, impossibly deep. He stood close, too close, his presence consuming every inch of space around you.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You had hesitated. For a single, fleeting moment, you had thought about turning back. But what use was hesitation now? What use was resistance when his very presence unraveled you, thread by thread?

He didn't need an answer. His silver eyes gleamed with something dark, something possessive, and you knew he had already decided your fate long before you ever stepped into his temple.

"You promised me." His thumb brushed against your lower lip, a touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. "You belonged to me the moment those words left your lips."

You remembered it—the promise made in childish innocence, spoken in a voice too young to understand the weight of such words. And yet, even then, even in those fleeting moments, hadn't you felt it? That strange pull toward him, the way his presence had made the world feel smaller, as if nothing outside the forest had ever truly mattered?

"I waited." His voice was steady, but there was something dangerous beneath it, a tension so sharp it could cut. "I waited as you forgot me. As you let your thoughts be filled with others. As you tried to build a life that did not include me."

His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Did you truly think I would let you go?"

The air felt thinner, your knees weak. The answer was already clear. You had known it the moment you stepped foot back in the village. Perhaps, deep down, you had known it all along.

His lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.

"You will never leave again."

His arms encircled you, his warmth engulfing you completely, and the last threads of resistance inside you snapped.

And as his power wrapped around you, seeping into your very bones, your thoughts blurred, twisted—desire intertwining with surrender, need overtaking reason.

The festival chants echoed in the distance, voices raised in worship, in offering.

But the only thing that mattered was him.

And the inescapable truth that you were his.

Now and forever.

—

The temple was silent, but the silence breathed.

It coiled around you, heavy and cloying, pressing against your skin like unseen hands. The torches along the walls dimmed, their flames shrinking as if bowing to his presence. The air itself felt thicker, charged with something oppressive—something hungry.

His arms were still wrapped around you, his grip firm but unyielding. You had always known he was strong, but now you felt it—the raw, unnatural power that lurked beneath his touch.

"You’re trembling." His voice was smooth, indulgent, but there was something dark beneath it, something that made your breath catch. "Is it fear?"

Your lips parted, but you had no answer. Because it wasn't fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something more primal. A shudder ran through you as his fingers traced a slow path down your spine, and you swayed without meaning to—drawn in by the heat radiating from him, by the way his presence filled every empty space inside you.

He laughed.

A quiet, satisfied sound, as if he already knew.

"You still don’t understand, do you?" His fingers ghosted over your pulse, lingering at the delicate skin of your throat. "What it means to be mine?"

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to remind you.

"Your body recognizes it before your mind does," he mused, tilting his head. "That pull. That ache. The way you want even when you don’t know why."

His lips brushed your temple, a mockery of tenderness, and a rush of warmth spread through your veins—too much, too fast, leaving you lightheaded.

"That’s my influence," he murmured. "My power inside you, working its way through every part of you. You can feel it, can’t you?"

You could. It was in the way your thoughts blurred, in the way your body burned, in the way your knees threatened to give out the longer he touched you. It was wrong—too much, too unnatural—and yet, you needed it.

The realization sent a ripple of dread through you.

He noticed.

His smile widened, his silver eyes gleaming with something almost fond. "Good. I want you to feel it."

His hand drifted lower, brushing against the curve of your waist, his touch featherlight but all-consuming. "I want you to understand."

The temple doors rattled, as if some unseen force was pressing against them. The air thickened further, the walls seeming to close in, and a strange, distant hum filled your ears—low and rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

No, not yours.

His.

"You are changing," he said, almost lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to watch it happen. "Every moment you spend here, every second you breathe this air—it binds you to me. More and more, until there’s nothing left of the person who thought she could leave."

Your stomach twisted. The weight of his words settled deep, and yet—you couldn’t move away.

Didn’t want to.

Your fingers curled against his chest, and he sighed, pleased.

"See?" His voice was almost gentle now, almost affectionate. "You’re already learning."

You should have fought.

But his warmth was sinking deeper, crawling beneath your skin, settling into the very core of you. His hands on you weren’t just touch—they were commands.

And you were listening.

"You think I will be merciful," he mused, running a hand through your hair. "That's because I have waited, I will take my time, let you adjust, let you resist just a little longer."

His fingers tightened in your hair, forcing your head back, and your breath hitched as you met his gaze.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

"I won’t."

The temple groaned around you, the very foundations trembling beneath his will. A gust of wind rushed through the chamber, snuffing out the torches all at once, plunging the room into near darkness.

Only his eyes remained, gleaming silver in the dim light—predatory, absolute.

"You are mine," he whispered, his voice laced with something ancient, something terrifying.

And for the first time, you realized—

You had never truly been given a choice.

The ritual, the offering, the village’s desperate prayers—none of it had ever been for them.

It had always been for him.

To bring you back.

To keep you.

Forever.

And as the last of your resistance crumbled, as the god before you claimed what was his, the final thread of your past life snapped.

The girl who had left this village all those years ago was no more.

There was only you.

And him.

And the inescapable, cursed covenant that bound you together.

—

tbc.

—

taglist: @violetvase @hopingtoclearmedschool

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