#ash no exit x reader

[rae-gar-targaryen]

Oooh for the dirty drabbles 21 for Ash (and maybe a bit of 32?)

You win. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB. PLEASE ENJOY --

heated and hollow, just how you like it [ash garver ("no exit") x fem!reader]

Summary: Here’s hoping your neighbor from down the hall with the sinfully dark eyes and the glimmering, shark-tooth smile is all smooth talk, and no action (he isn’t). I hope you don’t mind the bitterness of dark chocolate in your teeth, and that you have the chance to catch your breath – baby, you’re gonna need it. Based on the prompts “bite me,” “if you insist;” and “you wanna have sex with me” (the latter is slightly modified for flow, sorry.)

Pairing: Ash Garver [“No Exit”] x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.6k (THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB) of an encounter as heady as perfume and bitter as black coffee, of viper venom in your veins, dragging your bones beneath the bounds of trouble .

Warnings: smut, so 18+ ONLY – p in v sex, unprotected sex, dubious/fearful sex (it’s dark, okay? He’s not a nice man), allusions to oral sex (fem!receiving), biting, mild choking, some degradation, coming inside (and f*cking it back in – WHO AM I). IM SO SORRY.

--

It’s like this: Your neighbor Anita is perfectly pleasant. She holds the door for you when she sees you coming with arms laden with grocery bags. She brings you cookies she’s baked for your floor every holiday season. Sure, she can be a little noisy for your taste – you could do without the pulsing of your shared wall on nights she throws parties – but what neighbor was perfect?

And, speaking of her parties, she always, always invites you, no matter how many times you’ve refused in the past. Yeah, Anita is goddamned neighborly. And, honestly, you felt bad for turning her down so many times when she was just trying to be nice. You concede. 

So, here you are, on a Friday night – one you would typically spend curled up on your couch with a glass of red wine and your favorite soft, stretchy joggers. Swapped out in favor of a high-waisted, front-buttoned leather skirt that your friend had insisted on you buying, and you insisted you’d never have occasion to wear. Standing in one corner of Anita’s too-hot apartment, the dimmed overhead ambience cut through with strung-up little twinkling party lights. A red Solo cup of Anita’s “famous” (she had assured you, as she pressed the cup into your hands with her mildly sticky fingers) punch, sipping every so often so as to appear busy. 

What was the appropriate time to stay at these things before you left? 

You’d had a day. The coffee shop near your office was closed, relegating you to the unsatisfactory bitterness of pre-prepared office coffee. You had missed lunch. You had been on the receiving end of a few choice passive-aggressive emails today. A guy had leered at you on the bus home (and no matter how much you’d wanted to snap at the creep, you didn’t have a death wish.) And to top it all off, you arrived home just in time to remember that you had agreed days before to be at this party, when you’d much rather relax in silence in your bathtub, in your home – you know, where your stuff was and where other people weren’t. 

And as you glanced around the room of packed-in partygoers (most of whom you assumed were friends of Anita’s), you made eye contact with him. 

Him.

Your neighbor from the opposite end of the hall. You were quick to glance away out of self-preservation, lest he think you were staring, while you tried to place a name to an admittedly devastating face.

What was his name? Andy? Adam? Something with an A…

“Hi,” a tanned hand entered your periphery, interrupting your musings and shaking you from your reverie. If you hadn’t been so busy worrying about remembering your neighbor’s name, you might have noticed that he made his way over to you, now standing before you with a hand waiting expectantly for you to shake. “I’m Ash.” 

Ash. That was it. 

You gave him your hand and your name, trying not to belay any of the molten gold rushing through you at the way your hand felt so warm in his (was that just the heat of the room, or was it him?), or at the way your name sounded from his lips as he repeated it back to you, before sidling to your side and taking a drink from his own cup, dark, glimmering eyes taking you in over the rim, never leaving you.

"I know," he admitted, leaning into your space to do it, lips just shy of your ear – and, in all honesty, probably too familiar for someone who had just introduced himself to you. Even if you saw him most every day.

"Know what?" You query. And really, you'd only been here for a bit, but the combination of the dim lights, the music, the punch, and now the man in front of you was doing a bit of a number on your better senses, heated and hazy.

"Your name," he smiled. Although, smile would imply congeniality, grace. The show of teeth was flattering, charming, brilliant, even on his angular face. But it wasn't… friendly.

 A Cheshire's grin, sinful and smirking. Potentially predatory, pernicious and pithy. Almost… pornographic, really, if you associated sexual attraction with flashing warning lights. 

And, you supposed, you had seen him seeing you, week after week, by the mailboxes. Out of the corner of your eye, like a shadow looming, before you slip back into your apartment. Unsettling. As if he was hoping to catch something of your correspondence, what packages you received from week to week. Something about you.

"And what else do you know?" You breezed, taking another sip of the sickly-sweet concoction, appraising the man before you – his inky dark curls shining in the low light, the flirtation of a solitary curl teasing and tempting along his forehead.

���I know that you wanna get out of here,” Ash’s voice was a little too smooth, a little too easy, still crowding you in the dark corner you were occupying. He paid you the courtesy of the swooping up-and-down of obsidian, oilslick eyes roving your form, biting his lip in brief pause before continuing. “You put on that skirt, but you keep eyeing the door like you can’t wait to make a break for it.” 

“Parties aren’t really my thing,” you conceded, turning to place your now-empty cup down on any available surface, when Ash’s arm met the wall beside your head, boxing you in and invading your senses with the woodsy smell of his aftershave. 

“So you do wanna get out of here,” his eyes flicked from yours down to your lips. “How about it? With me?” 

So, now, what did you know? You knew that he was smooth. He eased his way through conversations with your neighbors, through the building’s common spaces, with a facile air hat urges the edge of something, something like “charm, but practiced,” as though he had studied how to smile. How to seem just-so. And, like you said,  always, always on the edge of your peripheral vision. 

And maybe… maybe … maybe if you weren’t a drink-on-an-empty-stomach deep, and if your gut wasn’t already in knots at the heat coursing through you, you might have been more wary of him. Had overheard him once telling the old lady across from him that he was “originally from San Fran,” when you knew that no self-respecting California native ever referred to it that way  – it was always “SF,” or “The City.” 

But Ash’s lips on the shell of your ear were causing your skin to tingle to your toes – you nevertheless clung to your better senses by the very tips of your fingers when you replied with a snort, 

“Oh, bite me,” you rejoined, a playful roll of your eyes so as not to too-deeply offend. 

His responding grin was fully-predatory now, glimmering and shining teeth … waiting to devour. 

“If you insist,” he purred. 

And Ash does not just devour. (At least not yet.) Ash overwhelms, like a capsizing wave, the way he ushers you through your neighboring apartment door – crowding you in with strong arms and a solid frame in your interior hallway, pulling at your lips with his own, nipping your lower lip between those hunter’s teeth, groaning at the feel of you as he pressed a warm thigh between yours, parting your legs. 

His hands are warm on the peaks of your cheeks as they trail down to the hollow of your throat, tugging at the loose collar of your oversized sweater, taking in the flash of your crimson bra adorning your bare shoulder. 

“Aw, Cherry,” he breathed, the new moniker spilling from him as his full lips pressed to your neck. “That’s a pretty little piece of red.” 

He shucks the sweater from you, exposing your chest encased in the red lace to his narrowed, glittering gaze, drawing a heated hand down to your thigh and beneath your skirt, up, up, up to meet the clothed heat of your center, taking in the gasping part of your lips at his touch, your response garnering a smirk from him before devouring your lips with his own.

Ash maneuvered you through your living space to your bedroom as though he’d been there before – and how was that possible? What should have unsettled you tipped out of your head as Ash’s mouth fused to yours, his fingers roving purposefully along your clothed slit before he guides you back onto your bed. Thoroughly melted, despite not even having really touched you. 

“C’mon, Cherry,” Ash goaded, withdrawing his hand from your center, looking down his nose at you, and smirking at your resulting whimper, “I’ll touch you if you tell me you really want it.” 

And in the low light of your bedroom, you could swear his inkwell eyes, though heated, were empty – as though he was seeing you without really seeing you, taking in every inch of you with jet-black gaze and sinful touch alike as he roved covetous fingers over your form, drawing whimpers from your throat. 

And, if you were keeping track, this would be well-past strike three. But who could keep track when he was touching you like that? – Still … 

“I – I don’t even know you,” you sighed as his hands cupped your tits through the lace of your red bra, heated thumbs tweaking your nipples. 

“No,” Ash hummed his agreement as he swarmed over you again, drawing the bridge of his nose across your throat, lips following to trail the fine line of your neck, feeling the hum of your pulse beneath his lips. “But you still wanna fuck me. I see you, pretty girl,” his lips press again to the column of your throat. 

His hands are beneath your skirt again, shucking it up to expose your panties, half-hard already at the sight of you, in what is now clearly a matching set – all wrapped up like a gift for him. And maybe, just maybe, if he’d had his way, he would tie you up with a bow. And the thought of tying you up, the sweet, quiet little thing from down the hall – all gasping breaths from full lips, all wide, doe eyes – was sinful. And Ash was no stranger to sin. 

“Y-yeah?” you sighed, rolling your hips to place yourself more fully in Ash’s greedy hands, encouraging him to guide your panties down your legs.

“I see you down the hall,” a kiss to your throat.

“I see you in the elevator with your head down,” a kiss to your chest, a little tease of tongue behind it, as though he were tasting the beat of your heart, the pulse of you. 

“I see you waiting,” And he’s maneuvered down your body, between your legs, pressing full-mouthed kisses to the skin behind your knees. "Waiting for someone to come along and give it to you how you like it… how you need it."

And when had he lost his sweatshirt? His shirt? You take him in, now, eyes blown at his words, as he kisses his way up your legs, toward your aching center, his fingers following the blazing trail of his lips.

Ash’s fingers slide along your glistening slit, a perpetual tease, as he continues to press full kisses to the insides of your thighs, the firm line of his jaw sharp against your skin like a heated blade. 

And you’re basking in it, reveling at the feel of his thick fingers teasing your center, gathering your wetness and playing you like a game he knows so well. (And how would that be??) When –

You yelp at the jolt of pain, as the softness of his lips against your inner thigh is abruptly gone, replaced with a painful scrape of teeth. 

He had bitten you?!

You reach down to jerk Ash’s head from between your legs, moving your hips back and withdrawing at the hard bite he had rendered to your inner thigh. You glance down to see an imprint of teeth marks on the tender skin there.

“Wh-what the hell?” you demanded, “Too hard!”

“Sorry,” Ash bit, sounding not one ounce of sorry, cooly shrugging one bare, sculpted shoulder at your angry face. “You said to bite you, Cherry.” He smirked again, his face a puzzle of mismatched emotions as his bourbon eyes swirled with what looked like penitence, urging your forgiveness in their sincerity. While his mouth continued to play you with its soulless smirk. 

Red flag number… what was it now?? Just who was this guy?

And dd his mouth only know how to quirk in that one sinful, maddening way? 

He rocked forward on his knees, and you felt him then, fully hard in his jeans against your naked center, crowding you once more as he cupped the base of your jaw, fingers spidering back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, eyes finding yours once more before kissing you.

Now his lips were penitent. Kissing your lips raw, like the scrape of crystallized honey – once smooth. 

Breathless, your heart stuttering, Ash pulls away, admiring your lips swollen from the nip-and-tug of his teeth, admiring your starry, lust-blown eyes with the heavy lids, the whole of you undone by his lips and his fingers, and he demands. Demands more. Wants you to need him as much as he desires to control you, the ache in him twisting like a knife between his ribs. The ache in you, fluttering and flush. He wants you to want it, to need it.

“Do it again?" He asks, busying himself with undoing his jeans and sliding them down his own legs, along with his boxer briefs. exposing more and more of his golden skin to your gaze before turning those obsidian-smoke eyes back to your piteous form, heated and wet for him. 

You quirked a brow, "Do what?"

"Pull my hair, Cherry," Ash replied leaning back over you once more to envelop you, a rolling shadow. A facile and firm wave, content to drown you in him. "Hard as you want."

And you're only too happy to oblige, moaning at the roll of Ash's hips into yours, his length sliding along your slit, weaving hour fingers through his curls and tugging – your reward a deep, desirous groan into your mouth as Ash slides his lips along yours, open-mouthed and wanting.

And he’s got you tied up in knots – figuratively, that is. Though you had the sneaking suspicion that if you’d vocalized any iteration of this, he’d only be too happy to do just that. And the thought of your shady neighbor tying your wrists to your own headboard shouldn’t make you wet. Shouldn’t make you groan while he’s kissing you, his tongue plunging into your mouth to taste your reciprocal moans. 

With a decided roll of his hips, he's inside of you, the drag of him heavy as he begins to thrust. He skates his palms along your legs, wrapping his hands around your thighs to hoist them up around his waist, satisfied when you lock your ankles around him.

He rewards you with a decidedly brutal thrust, pleased at the gasp it tears from your lungs.

He allows his hands to travel further upwards, to grip the leather skirt still bunched around your hips, using it as leverage to lift your hips and guide you, fucking you back onto his own cock at the frenzied pace he's set. 

It's almost overwhelming how just everywhere he feels, the drag of him inside of you heavy. The strange astrology of him, of your pairing, as he fucks you like you're a stranger to yourself.

Your headboard, you note faintly, is thumping against your wall in time with Ash's ministrations, but you're too out-of-body to care, the sound falling hollowly on your ears as the rest of your skin tingles and warms with in tandem with the building pleasure inside of you. You've never been more grateful for one of Anita's parties. Certain that no one on the other side of the shared wall could hear the headboard through the pulsing bass, could hear the hiccuping moans slipping from your lips.

And Ash must've had the same thought, his lips twisting as he rolls his hips, tearing his eyes from the sight of your now-heaving tits, to appreciate the headboard snapping against your lavender-painted bedroom wall.

Cute.

"D'ya think they can hear you, babe?" He croons mockingly, rolling forward and planting his hands on either side of your head, a heated roll of his hips causing a brush against your clit at this new angle. "Do you want them to?"

You shook your head mildly, the pleasure-pain at Ash's rough, repeated thrusts causing a blur in your eyes.

He's pleased at this, you note, whether it was your honesty or a blushing stroke to his own ego, Ash smiles again. All resplendent radiance that seemed so right on such a wrong face.

He's brushing your clit with a circling thumb, you note absently, and when had he shifted again?

"That's right," he murmurs to you, leaning forward to lick a line down your neck while he continues to rub your clit. "Only I get to hear you scream. No one else."

With a renewed vigor, his thrusts continue, his attention on your clit almost punishing now, punching the air from your lungs in a strangled moan that did, indeed, sound like a shuttered scream. Music to Ash's ears, like breaking glass, jagged and desperate. 

You were a wreck now, your arousal dripping down Ash's cock. The skin of your thigh burning where he had bitten you was now rubbing repeatedly against the taut skin of his waist. 

“Look at that,” Ash cooed, his voice a whiskey murmur of smoky haze into your ear, cupping your cheek as he used his thumb to drag the tears that had pricked in the corners of your eyes along your lower lash-line and beneath your eye, causing your eye makeup to smear and smudge. “Did you know how fucking pretty you are when you cry? When I make a mess of you?” 

He pressed his lips to your other cheek, dragging them along your heated skin and down to your mouth.

“No,” he murmured into your lips, catching your lower one between his full ones, chasing with teeth enough to lightly pull the plush of your bottom lip, “nonono… of course you don’t. You’re only pretty like this for me.” 

And, maybe you were addicted, now, to losing your senses. To throwing caution to the wind. To jagged little shards of danger. To pretty men with pretty curls whose words spilled like oil, thick and dark, from chapped lips. And you think you may be losing a bit of yourself at the feeling of him overwhelming you – what other reason would you be fucking your neighbor who always gave you the mild heebs? Fucking you dumb into your own mattress.

You snap at a particularly clever roll of his hips, coming on Ash's cock, the wet squeeze of your walls around him has a groan spilling from his lips like snake’s venom, blazing its way from his mouth through your veins – the whites of his eyes behind fluttering lids as they roll back at the feel of you around him, spurring his own orgasm as he came inside of you.

His mouth was covetous and prideful as he kissed you again, forceful, before withdrawing himself and guiding you onto your stomach.

You were too blissed out to care, too numb, dumb, and warm from your own release that you allowed Ash to shape your bones, running a palm down the curve of your spine as he guided your hips up. Allowing those glimmering, empty eyes to take in your swollen, abused pussy – to admire the way his own release leaked from between your lips.

He gathered a bit of himself on his thumb, causing you to shiver at the touch on your sensitive skin, before bringing it to your mouth. Wordlessly, you wrapped your lips around his thumb, hollowing your cheeks and allowing your tongue to run along the length of his digit, tasting himself on his own skin. A rare thing, as you realized, distantly, he hadn't really offered you to touch him during this entire encounter.

Ash groaned again at the sight and feel of your mouth on him as he took himself, still hard, and thrust back into your pussy, fucking his own come back into you with a few lazy thrusts, met with your mewls and squirming hips.

Content that you were full of him, he withdrew again, extricating his thumb from your lips before bringing it to his own, tasting your saliva before pulling it from his lips with a pop, smiling at you again. 

"Aren't you just a dream, Cherry?" 

You offer a wan half-smile in return, still hazy from the feel of him smattered in tingles across your skin, like fallen stars at the end of the world, eyeing him as he begins to bustle around your room, smoothing hands over his curls and making himself presentable. Seemingly uncaring for your boneless state, legs at an odd angle, like a fucked-out doll.

“See ya ‘round, alba,” he bids, tucking himself back into his pants and starting toward your door. Leaving you with the feeling of bad, wrong, want – in his destructive wake. 

“I truly hope not,” you murmur, unsure whether your words will reach Ash’s ears as he clicks open your door and begins to stride in the hallway. The ambiguity resolved for you, as you see him turn around to reward you with a blinding grin, a wall of white teeth. On a less pretty face, it likely would have served as intended – a warning. But then again, you clearly weren’t so good at heeding those when they were wrapped in handsome packages. 

Oh, you were so screwed… 

--

Tagging: @joaquinwhorres @withahappyrefrain  @thegirlwhowritesfics @xbamboowishesx @abibliophobiaa @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @mrshipsmcgee @p3mybeloved @letmeplaytheliontoo @vestrangel @moonlight-prose @aphrogeneias @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @2clones-1kamino @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @siriusfahey @gingerbreadandpaper @the-navistar-carol  @alexxavicry @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid   @maxmayfield @eagerforthesky @melinacalhounxo @marvelousmermaid @callmemana @spencer-is-amazing @mxgyver ​ @n3ssm0nique ​@mothdruid  @andrewrussgarfield @bioodforbiood @themarcusmoreno @the-purity-pen

[andy-15-07]

Morning’s First Offering

PAIRING: Danny Ramirez x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1054✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

https://www.tumblr.com/seraphibunni/786847209710813184 This with Danny

You wake to the sensation of firm weight pressing against your thighs, the early‐morning light slanting through the curtains onto Danny’s sculpted back. At first you think it’s a dream,until you feel the slick heat of his cock sliding against your inner thigh, teasing your clit.

“Danny?” you croak, half asleep, half trembling with anticipation.

He presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “Morning, preciosa.”

Your heart thunders in your chest as he nuzzles closer, hugging you from behind so his thick shaft is nestled just beneath your slick pussy. You inhale, stunned by the breadth of him, the hard ridge of his tip teasing your most sensitive spot.

He leans over your shoulder and whispers against your ear, “I thought I’d wake you up a little differently today.”

Your breath catches. Before you can answer, his hands snake around your thighs, pushing them gently apart until his cock is perfectly aligned with your folds. His hips shift, nudging that weeping tip directly on your clit. He’s impossibly heavy, each deliberate movement sending ripples of pleasure through you.

“I,” you gasp. He’s already drawing a long, slow stroke, coating his cock in your wetness. “Danny, what are you,”

He smiles against your skin, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Told you I had plans.”

Your cheeks flush as he begins a steady, teasing pace: one inch in, one inch out. Your senses reel at the sensation of that enormous girth sliding against your most tender flesh without really entering you. Every stroke is agony and ecstasy blended, and you can’t help but whimper.

“God, you’re so wet,” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “You feel like heaven.”

You swallow hard. “It’s,so much.”

He chuckles softly. “You don’t know yet.”

As he continues, you close your eyes and try to imagine what it would feel like if he sank all the way in. Your breath hitches; your core clenches in both fear and longing. Would you break? Would every man after him pale in comparison?

Danny slides two fingers between your folds and dips them inside you, synchronizing with his cock’s rhythm against your clit. The dual sensation is almost too much. You let out a sobbing moan.

“That’s it, cariño,” he whispers. “Come on my fingers while I tease you. Let me hear you.”

You bite your lip, pressing your face into the pillow, and surrender to the delicious burn of your orgasm. Your body trembles, waves of pleasure crashing through you as Danny keeps his fingers moving inside you, his cock rubbing you slick.

And then,just as you crash down from your high,he pulls his fingers out. You moan in protest, arching your back.

“You deserve more than that, baby,” he says, rolling to face you. His eyes are dark and hungry. “I want to give you everything.”

He positions himself at your entrance and, with one firm push, slides inside you. You gasp at the fullness,every nerve ending on fire. Danny holds you close, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other bracing on the bed beside you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, vulnerable.

You nod, tears of pleasure in your eyes. “Yes. Please don’t stop.”

He begins to move,slow at first, giving you time to adjust to his size. Then he speeds up, thrusting deeper, harder, until the bed shakes with your combined weight.

“I missed you like this,” he pants. “So tight, so perfect.”

You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. “Danny… harder.”

He obeys without hesitation, hands gripping your hips as he pounds into you with controlled ferocity. His breathing quickens; his cock slides in and out in long, punishing strokes.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You look so good like this.”

You moan in response, words escaping you. Your body is on fire as he hits your G-spot again and again. You can feel his sweaty skin against yours, his heartbeat thudding in his chest. In that moment, nothing else exists,just you and Danny, lost in the most intimate dance.

“I love you,” you whisper, barely louder than a breath.

He freezes mid-thrust, then buries his face in your neck. “Dios, I love you too.”

Then he’s moving again, faster, harder, and you ride the wave of his rhythm, letting your moans fill the room. Your climax builds, fierce and undeniable, and you’re drowning in pleasure when Danny follows seconds later, groaning your name as he releases inside you.

He collapses atop you, both of you panting and trembling. After a moment, he rolls off and curls beside you, resting his head on your shoulder.

“I should’ve woken you like this every morning,” he murmurs.

You giggle softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You could try.”

He kisses your shoulder. “I will.”

An hour later you find yourselves in the kitchen, Danny pressed close behind you as you butter toast. His hands roam your waist, brushing down to squeeze your ass.

“Breakfast?” you ask, turning so your back is against his chest. He leans down, kissing your neck. “Hungry.”

You smile. “Me too.” You pop a bite of toast in your mouth. “Talk to me. How long have you been planning this wake-up call?”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “Since last night when you fell asleep in my arms. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You nudge him playfully. “Smooth.”

He snorts. “I’m an actor; I’ve had practice.”

You laugh, then turn to face him. “Promise me something?”

He smiles. “Anything.”

“Next time, let me wake you up.”

He kisses your forehead. “Deal. But only if you’re prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Prepared how?”

He winks. “Trust me. I know you better than you know yourself.”

Later, as the sun climbs higher, you curl up on the couch together, Danny’s arm across your shoulders. You rest your head on his chest and listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, still warm and steady.

“Can we do this again?” you ask softly.

Danny smiles and presses a kiss to your temple. “Every day if I could.”

Your heart swells. “I’m glad I woke up next to you.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too, cariño. Me too.”

And as you drift off in his arms, you realize that waking up with Danny has become the thing you crave most of all.

[saintbusan]

Not Supposed To

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

🪞Summary:

It started with a kiss in your best friend’s hallway—hot, fast, and cut short.

Now, it’s midnight, and Joaquin is climbing through your window like he hasn’t been able to breathe since.

He says he just wants to talk.

But his hands are already on your waist.

💌 Notes:

This was supposed to be nothing. A kiss. A moment.

But he came back.

And you didn’t tell him to leave.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

[first time doing this be gentle with me]

He was back—through your window again, like kissing you earlier hadn’t been nearly enough.

It started that afternoon at your best friend’s house. Just a moment. A heat-of-the-moment kiss in the hallway that should’ve never happened. But it did—Joaquin’s hands pressing you into the wall, your fingers tangled in his curls, his mouth trailing lower, tasting your skin like he’d been dying to.

You were seconds from giving in—right there, in her house, just down the hall—when you both heard her footsteps.

He pulled away with a whispered curse, breathing hard, pupils blown wide. You didn’t even get to say goodbye. He just slipped out like it never happened, like he wasn’t falling apart inside.

But now? Now he was here.

Climbing into your room at nearly midnight, eyes full of all the things he hadn’t said, wearing the same hoodie he left in—his hands already finding your waist the second his feet hit your floor.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he muttered against your throat, his lips brushing skin, warm and desperate. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and leave me hanging.”

You didn’t even pretend to argue.

Because you couldn’t stop thinking about him either. His mouth. His hands. The way his voice cracked when he whispered your name.

You pulled him down with you onto the bed, and he followed like gravity. Like he had to. His body pressed into yours like he belonged there, like the space between you was a mistake he needed to fix.

His kisses were hungry now—messy and fast and so much. You could barely breathe, but you didn’t want to stop. His mouth moved from yours to your jaw to your neck, sucking, licking, biting just hard enough to make you whimper. It lit him up. He groaned, deep in his chest, like he was trying to memorize that sound.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “That’s what I was thinking about. That sound you made when I kissed you right here…”

He dragged his lips lower, toward your collarbone, fingers already toying with your waistband like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to touch or tease.

You squirmed under him, and he just grinned—messy and cocky and entirely gone for you.

Then he paused.

Just for a second.

His breathing was heavy, hair falling over his forehead as he looked at you from beneath thick lashes. His hand still rested low on your stomach, warm and tense.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, voice low and wrecked. “’Cause if I don’t, I’m not gonna be able to walk away again.”

You stared back at him, heart hammering.

Then, without a word, you reached for him—fisted your hand in the front of his hoodie—and pulled him down like gravity had nothing on you.

And Joaquin?

He didn’t stop.

[almadelsur]

❤️‍🔥 Crucifix

Linecook!Ash (No Exit) x Waitress!reader +18

Summary: How could you resist giving yourself to sin, when the devil himself is just so beautiful.

a/n: For the sweetest bestest @rae-gar-targaryen who’s Ash fic inspired me to write this. (Go check it out rn bc it’s truly a masterpiece)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .

You know Ash doesn’t have many friends. It doesn’t strike you as anything of concern when you see him huffing silently around the sweaty restaurant kitchen, a perfect picture of a shadow on a mission. Lots of people are introverted you tell yourself. Maybe it should have rung some alarm bells. Maybe it would have if his eyes didn’t hold dark alluring promises of sin, of that deadly pleasure you came to crave from him.

The first time you spoke to him it had been as if he had physically reached down into your lungs and robbed all the oxygen you had been holding, keeping it for himself. Greedy.

“Uh- table 9 are getting a little antsy” you stumble out the best you can, masking your nerves as frustration at the busy restaurant. And yet Ash just looks at you, studying as if he had all the time in the world.

“What’s your name?” The question is a simple command yet it leaves you fumbling your answer.

Ash just hums knowingly and hands you the plate, ready and prepped like he was waiting for you. His twisted game kicking off without you noticing the dark path you were about to barrel down. Looking like he could wreck your entire life without as much as lifting a finger. A roaring flame scorching over you until you’re reduced to nothing but-

“Ash.” He introduces himself and you swear you have never met anyone with a more fitting name.

A few months later and you’re hooked on him. He was good at that. It’s heady and unsettling just like he is, and yet you always succumb to the craving of him.

It goes as usual– you laying on your back beneath him, caged in and helpless to the relentless pleasure he draws out from you, the rhythmic push and drag stretching and burning and feeding.

You struggle to form a coherent thought in the heat of it all. All you can see is dark curls and smooth tan skin, and yet he’s sharper than ever. His gaze laser focused on each and every one of your features. The way your eyes water and- is that pleasure or fear that has you crying on his dick like that? He doesn’t think he’d want to know, he knows he wouldn’t care.

He has you tied up against your bedframe, arms stretched across like a crucifix, an image of penance. His very own sweet docile offering to a higher being for his sins. His eyes flicker to your tender chafing wrists and an image of a previous life flashes through his head– a fallen brother and a brunette with nails through her wrists. It only makes him more determined, increasing his pace and shuddering at the mantra of his name that falls past your lips.

He can’t get enough of you, he knows this when the familiar feeling of your legs begin to shake beneath him.

“Open your eyes.” he gruffs in your ear as one lethal hand comes up to grip at your hair. “Look at me.” he forces again when your fucked out brain fails to adhere to the command the first time.

When you manage to flutter your eyes open, his jaw grits.

You look at him like he’s a god. He knows the glossy gaze is prompted by the way his cockhead bullies your g-spot, but still he can’t bring himself to look away. The pure worship in your blurry eyes makes him want to lean down and lick at your tears.

He doesn’t.

The motion seems too soft, too comforting. And he doesn’t want that, he wants to hurt you. He knows you would let him too. The thought spurs him on to grab at your jaw and push into you hard and deep until your cried moans become silent and you snap, like holy water leaking all the way down to his thighs and onto the bed sheets.

When he himself is satisfied and spent, he collapses on top of you, your tied hands and heavy eyelids make it hard to console this moment as a loving one, but your mind silently wills it anyway. A warmth settling over you and pulling at your heartstrings for the man above you.

You fall asleep like that, with false feelings of security and the devil on top of you feeding into your fantasy. Keeping you hooked and placid.

And his.

[lastofdanny]

[chaoticsolsworld]

Those eyes. Can he look at me like that please? It’s not a hear me out but a hold me back. I would’ve stayed in the van idc.

[yourauthorjen]

|| ALL EYES ON ME (ii) || — joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | l’appetito vien mangiando— in which apparently appetite comes with eating. yet it also seems to come with your clingy bodyguard who can’t seem to keep his hands off you. or the food.

| includes: | bodyguard!joaquintorres x italianmodel!reader, flirting, some suggestive content, steamy, fluff, clingy joaquin, grumpy reader x sunshine

| word count: | 1.7k

| a/n: | from this lovely request! thank you for this idea! can be read as a part two of all eyes on you or can be read as a standalone. inspired by the song viva la vida by coldplay. to add, i am not italian so if i do portray anything wrong please tell me!

THE SPATULA IN your hand quivered slightly as you watched Joaquin reach for the saucepan for the fifteenth time in a row.

Or was it the sixteenth time?

At this point you weren’t even counting anymore.

“Back off,” you snapped, smacking his hand with your wooden spoon. “If I see you look at that goddamn pot one more time I’m chopping you up into pieces and turning you into meatballs.”

Your bodyguard smiled with an awful lot of pride for someone who had just been threatened to be turned into traditional sicillian meatballs, raising his hands in mock surrender as the grin plastered to his lips widened.

“Just trying to help, sweetheart.”

“You can help,” you said, “By not touching that fucking pot every ten seconds.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to die happy.”

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled, sticking your utensil back into the simmering pot of red sauce tomato sauce, a dizzying aroma wafting to your nose in return.

“You like me,” he singsonged.

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re furious.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, mostly because your cheeks betrayed you and went warm as he wrapped an arm around your waist.

It had been two months now, since Joaquin Torres had strolled into your life as your new “babysitter”. Your old bodyguard, Clint, had left you in the hands of this big baby man to take care of his new infant, and now you were stuck with this big doofus who had an unseemingly large appetite for your cooking and had a really bad habit of walking around the house shirtless.

And now that the two of you were a little more closer than your PR team would’ve liked, he had become terrible at boundaries. He clung to you like a sponge, making sad puppy eyes when you so much as walked to the other room without inviting him, or he’d spend an hour lying in your lap without moving an inch, just for you to run your hands through his hair once.

Now he was leaning against your marble counter, watching you cook, eyeing the pan like a starved hyena.

“You know what you look like?” you questioned, turning around to face him properly.

“A hot, charming man, who happens to be your boyfriend?”

“No,” you snorted, “You look like those hyenas from Lion King— what where their names?” You snapped your fingers, trying to recall, “Shenzi, Banzai, and Ed.”

His eyebrows flew to his hairline as his mouth dropped open and his posture straightened. “Seriously? Not even Scar? At least he had some dignity.”

You raised your spatula like a pointer. “Scar didn’t beg for scraps.”

He grumbled underneath his breath, before positioning himself back against the counter, legs crossed and eyes glued back onto the saucepan.

For a moment, it was silent, just the soft sound of the bubbling sauce and the occasional clinks of the wooden spoon hitting the pot.

“Ahem.”

You turned back around eyes flitting towards Joaquin as he stared at the stove, before he inhaled deeply and opened his mouth.

“Absolutely not!”

“What?” he whined, crossing his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“You were going to ask if you could have a bite.”

“It could’ve been a compliment about you!” he defended.

You gave him an unimpressed look. “Oh yeah? What were you going to say then?”

He blinked, and you could practically see the gears in his head spinning. “That… your pasta smells like heaven and I’d risk my life for a bite of that stuff.”

“Exactly,” you said, stabbing your spoon into the sauce with emphasis.

Joaquin sighed. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are,” you snorted, “You’re six feet tall and built like a damn brick wall. You probably burn three thousand calories just existing.”

He smiled smugly, the one where his eyes glinted with mischief and his grin turned crooked— one you despised and loved at the same time. “So what you’re saying is you think I’m hot.”

“Stop twisting my words.”

“I didn’t twist anything,” he said, pushing off the counter and sauntering over to you. “You said I was tall, muscular, and hungry. Sounds like every woman’s dream.”

You raised your spoon threateningly, but he was already in your space, crowding you, forcing you to back you slowly up against the counter. His hands landed on either side of you, caging you in as you shook your head, trying to muster out the words. “You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point,” he murmured, leaning in, brushing his nose against yours. “I could distract you all day if you’d let me.”

“Joaquin—”

He kissed you before you could finish. Soft at first, just enough to steal your breath. Then deeper, with that usual confidence of his that always left your knees a little wobbly. His hands found your waist, then your thighs, and in one swift motion, he lifted you up and set you on the counter like you weighed nothing at all.

You let out a surprised noise, which he promptly swallowed with another kiss, all heat and teasing tongue and a barely restrained laugh between your lips. And with no place for your legs to go, you had no choice but to wrap them around his waist.

“Joaquin,” you breathed against his mouth, cheeks flushed, “The pasta—”

“Can wait,” he mumbled, lips tracing down your jaw, “This is my appetizer.”

Your brain turned into fudge— like the Italian fudge you used to eat as a kid, as his fingers grazed your thigh, absolutely wrecking your common sense.

He smirked against your mouth, messy and warm, as his fingertips ghosted under your shirt. God—why was he so good at this?

“Joaquin,” you tried again, more desperate this time, even though your fingers curled around his shoulders, “Seriously, the food—”

His eyes darkened as he cupped your chin, thumb brushing softly along your jaw. “Let it burn,” he murmured, voice low and rough with want. “You taste better.”

Your heart did a ridiculous flip as he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he had all the time in the world to savor you. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him, your legs parting instinctively as he pressed between them. You could feel his smirk widen against your lips when you gasped a little, warmth flooding every inch of your body.

At that point, you’re brain had turned into pure fog as his fingers tucked your hair behind your ear, and his mouth traced your neck. “This isn’t fair,” you grumbled, palms bracing against his chest.

“Of course it’s not fair,” he murmured, “You said I couldn’t have food. You never said anything about you.”

You groaned, half in protest, half in delight, tilting your head as he nipped at that spot just below your ear that made your knees tremble.

“Okay,” you panted, shoving him away. “No more of that, not until I make sure my food’s not burnt.”

He pouted, his lips tugged downwards. “You care more about your food than me.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed, “I’m just trying to feed your grumpy ass so you stop staring at the food and me, like a crazy hyena.”

“Too late,” Joaquin muttered, following you like a lost dog as you returned to the stove. His chin landed on your shoulder like dead weight, arms snaking around your waist as he swayed you side to side. “You’re all five courses and dessert.”

“Don’t you have security cams to monitor? Maybe a rooftop to patrol?” you said, dishing the chicken you had made for the secondo. “Or I don’t know—an actual job?”

“This is my job,” he argued, as you turned to the cupboard. “To make sure you’re not… doing anything dangerous in the kitchen.”

Rolling your eyes you turned and reached out to grab a cup, but by the time you had faced Joaquin again his mouth was chewing and his eyes were blinking too innocently. Beside him, a corner of your grilled chicken had dissapeared and when your brain finally clicked he had already swallowed.

“Che Dio ti fulmini!” you seethed, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at you. “Stop that!”

His eyes met yours, tawny coloured and wide as your brows narrowed.

“I have no idea what you just said,” Joaquin smirked, “But whatever you put in that chicken is really good.”

You whacked him with the nearest thing you could find— an oven mitt.

“Ouch,” he said dryly, rubbing his shoulder like you’d just hurled a brick at him. But his lips quickly formed into a delighted grin again.

"No dinner for you," you scowled, "Keep doing this I'll feed you solo pane secco for the rest of the week.”

"What's that?" he asked smugly, grabbing your waist to spin you into a kiss.

You rapped your knuckles onto his temple before your hands found his shoulder again. "It means if you keep touching my food like that I'll feed you dry bread. Now, go set the table before I make you eat outside with the pigeons."

He groaned, burying his nose into the crook of his neck. "You're so bossy."

You smirked, mimicking his forever cocky smile. "Yet you still love me."

[chaoticcreative14]

No Exit - Chapter 1

Mafia Boss! Ash Garver x F! Bartender Reader

Summary: You have just gotten a new job as a bartender at your city’s most popular club ‘No Exit’. A coworker’s illness causes you to be placed in the VIP section of the club where you meet none other than the club’s owner, Ash. As you spend more time there, you start to realize that the club, and its owner, are much more than what they first appeared to be.

WARNINGS/TAGS (these are the tags for the whole series and are subject to change): Smut 18+, Violence, Blood, Death, Knife Play, Gun Play, BDSM, Rough Sex,, Minors DNI!

Word Count: 2598

You weaved through the people on the street, nearly knocking them over as you ran as fast as you could with the death traps women like to call heels on your feet. You had just gotten a new job at the city’s most popular nightclub and like an idiot you had slept through your alarm, body still not used to sleeping during the day and staying up through the night. You hadn’t actually started the job yet but you decided to try and acclimate to your new sleep schedule a week in advance. Clearly, it hadn’t worked the way you wanted it to.

You checked your phone as you ran, eyeing the time and willing it to move slower. You couldn’t be late your first day, you’d be fired on the spot. Some higher power must have been listening to your prayers because you made it to the nightclub with five minutes to spare before the start of your shift. The sign indicating the name of the club ‘No Exit’ was glowing and casting everything in a red hue, including you, as you approached. It was a bit of a creepy name for a club in your opinion, but hey, who were you to judge?

The bouncer at the front recognized you as you approached and waved you through, having met you a couple days ago when Darby, the manager, had given you a walk through. You quickly deposited your stuff in the back room and gave yourself a quick once over in the mirror hoping you didn’t look too much like someone who had just ran a half mile in six inch heels.

Surprisingly, you didn’t look too bad. Your hair was a bit disheveled but other than that you looked okay. You attempted to fix your hair and make it look like an intentional mess, windswept and all that and you finally managed to get it to a place you were mostly happy with. With that, you left the back room and made your way behind the bar where Darby was waiting for you.

“Cutting it a bit close there, y/n” Darby said as you approached.

“I know, I’m so sorry Darby I promise it won’t happen again,” you said in a slight panic.

“Relax y/n, it’s not like you were actually late, I was just kidding,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m not worried about you, I hired you for a reason.”

You exhaled a breath of relief at that, panic subsiding. “Thanks Darby,” you said.

Darby walked behind you, heading out towards the vast expanse of the club. “Alright, you’ve got this, I leave the bar in your capable hands. If you need anything, just press this button behind the bar and either I’ll come running or someone else will be down to help,” she said, patting you on the back. “And Sadie is here too so you’re not completely alone.” You gave her a nod and with that she was gone.

Sadie was the other bartender working on this floor tonight but she wouldn’t be able to help you out that much considering how busy you were. Oh yeah, that was the other thing. The club had multiple floors. The main floor had a large stage at the front of a dance floor, a large bar, and seating around the dance floor. The second floor that was more of a lounge where people could watch the entertainment from above but also have private conversations, with its own bar of course. Suffice to say, the second floor was more of a VIP section. It also had a third floor but that wasn’t open to the public; you didn’t even know what was up there. And, if the door you saw during your tour with Darby was any indication, there was also a basement which as far as you knew was used for storage. It was by far the largest and fanciest place you had ever bar tended in. Tonight you were on the main floor along with Sadie, where all the newer hires worked.

You turned toward the crowd of people swarming the bar, ready to order drinks and muttered a quiet “you’ve got this” under your breath. You began taking people’s orders and mixing their drinks for them, trying to work as efficiently as possible while giving them an award winning smile. You seemed to be doing an alright job if your tips were any indication. Your tight black dress probably didn’t hurt either, it showed off your tits spectacularly if you did say so yourself.

You spent the next couple of hours in a groove and you were actually having fun. The vibes were good and so was the music. Unfortunately, like they say, all good things must come to an end. You saw Darby approach you and you got a bad feeling, stomach sinking as she waved you over. “Is everything alright?” you asked her. “I thought I was doing okay but if not I can do better,” you promised.

“Oh it’s not that, you’re doing an amazing job,” she assured you. You started to feel calm again until an apologetic smile creeped onto her face. “But-,” she began.

“Don’t say but,” you pleaded, not liking where this was going.

“But,” she continued, “Laurie, one of our VIP bartenders just had to go home sick and I have no one to replace her,” Darby explained. It took you a second to catch on but when it did your mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“You’re not serious,” you told her, still processing what Darby was getting at.

“I am,” she replied, with sympathy in her voice.

“Why can’t you get Sadie to do it?” you asked her. “She’s been here longer than I have! It’s literally my first night,” you said a bit panicked.

“Sadie is fine down here but if I put her up there she’d be throwing herself at every man whose wallet she thought was thick enough. Our VIPs pay not to be bothered, throwing Sadie at them would derail that,” she explained.

“And you can’t call anyone else to come in?” you asked.

“No, I already tried that,” she said.

“But if I go up there, who’s gonna cover me down here?”

“Y/N, any bartender can cover down here, not every bartender has what it takes to work up there. But I believe you do so, please, for the love of god, go upstairs,” she convinced you. You inhaled deeply and took a moment to appreciate how fucked you were.

“Fine, but if I make an idiot of myself I will not be held responsible,” you swore.

“Thank you!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Alright, follow me.” With that, you trailed behind Darby, passing through the red rope that indicated you were about to enter a VIP area and walking up the stairs.

The second floor of the club was much classier than the bottom floor was. Fancy booths with partition walls that gave off a red glow, containing black leather couches and black tables. It was like night and day. You could still hear the music from the floor below and could see the entertainment on the stage from the edge of the balcony if you walked to it but the atmosphere was much different to that of downstairs. “Well this is nice,” you said.

“Yeah well, the VIPs pay enough that they have certain standards,” Darby said.

“Looks like it,” you agreed. You made your way to the bar and noted the shelves of very expensive alcohol it carried.

“So,” Darby started. “Serving drinks up here is a little different to down there. You have your VIPs who sit at the bar as you can see,” she said, gesturing to the people sitting at the bar. “That is typically covered by one person, in this case, tonight it is being covered by Anna,” she continued, pointing at a woman behind the bar. “Your job,” she said, turning back to you, “is to cover booths one to ten,” she explained.

“You are only responsible for those ten groups the rest of the night. Anything they want, you get for them,” she said, handing you a tablet. “Now these VIPs like I said don’t love to be bothered, so when they need you, they’ll press a button on a tablet that resides on their table and it will pop up here,” she said, pointing to the tablet in your hand. “It will indicate, for example, that booth seven would like a server or bartender’s assistance and you will go over there and take their order. You’ll click on their booth number on the tablet and note what they ordered, then you will go and make them their drinks and bring them their food from the kitchen behind the bar. As soon as their order is fulfilled, you press the check beside the booth number and that booth will disappear on the tablet until the next time they request your assistance. Does that make sense?” she asked, after that long explanation.

“I think so?” you say in response. She had given that explanation in less than 2 minutes so you weren’t that sure.

“Repeat it back to me,” she said.

“Uh, they use their tablet to signal for a server, it pops up on my tablet, I go over and take their order making sure to click on their booth number on the tablet to input what they order, I go and make their drinks and grab their food for them, serve it to them, press the check on the tablet so their booth disappears on the tablet until the next time they need me, and other than that I pretty much fuck off and make myself scarce?” you said.

“Perfect. See, you’re already good at this,” she said. “And remember, under no circumstances do you go over to them without them signalling you. These are very private people and discretion is key.”

“Got it,” you said.

“Great,” Darby said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I have faith in you, if you need me tell Anna and she’ll signal me,” she said walking away. You were still a bit overwhelmed with all the information that had just been thrown at you but you resolved to just go for it and so you walked behind the bar, waiting for one of your booths to signal you. Anna gave you an encouraging smile as you did, recognizing you were nervous. At least she seemed nice.

You didn’t have to wait for long for something to do, screen lighting up after only a few minutes. Booth Four, the screen read. Alright, you could do this, at least that’s what you told yourself as you slowly approached the booth. You were greeted by three older looking men, all in suits, and none of them bothering to look up at you. It wasn’t because they didn’t notice your presence, because they rattled off their orders as soon as you reached the table. You had a sneaking suspicion it was because they thought you beneath them, considering you were working at a club like this.

They were basic with their orders, three whiskeys. At least that was easy to put into the system. It took you less than three minutes to pour their drinks and serve it to them, making sure to check off the booth when the order was completed. You still didn’t get so much as a thank you which was pretty rude but at least they’d still be tipping you. Darby had clued you in during your tour that to become a VIP member you had to commit to a minimum of a fifty dollar tip, which was crazy to you but hey, working in the VIP section had its perks. Besides, you knew that that amount of money was nothing for them.

You continued on serving booths as they popped up and all in all, it was a pretty easy gig. Luckily, most customers were actually pretty nice, the majority of them, apart from booth four, at least saying hello and giving you a smile.

As one in the morning came around a few of your booths had cleared out, now only having to manage six booths. You had practically served every single one of your assigned booths at that point, all except for booth one, that is. It was even more secluded than the rest of them, located in a dark corner. Honestly, you had assumed that no one was seated there tonight because it had been so quiet, so it came as a surprise to you when your screen lit up and Booth One was displayed across it.

You grabbed your tablet and quickly walked over to the booth, heels clicking on the marble. As you reached the table you looked up and put on your biggest smile but found it almost dropping in surprise when you saw a group of younger men, different from the people you’ve been used to seeing all night. There was one in particular, however, that caught your eye. He had longer, black, slicked back hair, the deepest brown eyes you’d ever seen, with a moustache and a beard. You could also tell, even from the opposite side of the table, that his white dress shirt was practically hugging his muscles and his thighs filled out his black dress pants more than they had any right to. In other words, the man was sex on a stick.

He was already looking at you when you turned your head towards him, appearing to give you a once over. You were just about to ask for their orders when the man spoke, not a greeting, but rather an intrigued, “You’re new.”

You gave a slightly nervous laugh at that, meeting his eyes. “Is it that obvious?” you asked, worried you weren’t doing as good a job as you thought you were.

Another one of the men at the table interjected, putting your worries at ease. “Not at all,” he said. “Ash here owns the club, so he notices these things.”

Well shit, you thought. Of course Mr sex-on-a-stick had to be the owner of the stupid club you worked at. You were fucked. “Oh,” you said slightly stunned. “Well it’s nice to meet you sir,” you said trying to seem professional. At that, you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes darken but you were certain you were imagining things. Just because you wanted to jump his bones, didn’t mean that he wanted to do the same.

“You can just call me Ash,” he said, smirking at you. “And you are?” he questioned.

“Y/n,” you introduced yourself. “Darby just hired me, it’s my first shift” you explained.

“First shift and already working the VIP section,” he remarked. “Darby must have a lot of faith in you.”

“Apparently so,” you agreed. There was a pause for a moment before you shook yourself out of it. “So what can I get for you?” you asked.

“Scotch, top shelf, neat,” he said.

“You like it strong,” you said with a laugh and he gave you a wink. Everyone at his table ordered the same thing which made your life easier. “Right, I’ll be right back with those,” you said with a smile, walking away and trying not to trip over your feet and eat shit.

As you left the booth, however, you felt a pair of eyes on your back and you just knew who they belonged to.

Yeah, you decided. You were absolutely fucked.

NOTE: Hey everyone! Thanks for reading! I just wanted to let you all know that while I don’t have a specific schedule for updating this fic as I’m writing as I go, I will be aiming to publish at least a chapter a week though it could be more or less than that depending on the week! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!

[daughterofthequeen]

Don’t worry no spoilers you guys besides the gifs anyway

So I just watched No Exit and y’all🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭it’s such a good movie like I was literally on the edge of my seat now I gotta go buy the book. Like I was supposed to be working while I was watching to pass the time. I got no work done🫣🫣🫣 and how good he looked definitely didn’t help. I’m thinking a Stockholm Syndrome fic is in order what do you guys think? Or reader trying to give him a better life by saving him from his uncle.💡cbf!reader🤭🤭🤭🤭

Danny Ramirez as Ash | No Exit (2022)

[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[rae-gar-targaryen]

I’m still here at the ash garver restaurant 👉👈 would you ever consider writing for him again maybe even a lil sequel?? No pressure ofc !!! Ur writing is amazing !!

My DARLING!!!! Im ALWAYS happy to talk about Ash Garver!!!!!!! Thank you for reading my fic. I actually DID start a sequel to it -- here's a little snip. If I did continue with Ash and his neighbor, what would you like to see? Or feel free to request other ideas or vibes with Ash 💜😘

[andy-15-07]

Bless Me, Madre, For I Have Sinned

PAIRING: Danny Ramirez x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 868 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

You didn’t remember how you got to the couch. One minute, you were kissing in the kitchen, and the next,Danny’s strong hands were pushing you down, his body already hovering over yours, his mouth everywhere.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured between kisses, voice husky.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathed, tugging his shirt over his head.

His abs flexed as he straddled you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. “Damn. Okay, bossy.”

“You love it,” you whispered, grabbing the waistband of his sweats.

He hissed between his teeth as your hand slid under. “Fuck, babe…”

Your name fell from his lips like a prayer. The pace between you two was desperate, needy, fast. You were already half-naked, thighs parted, back arching as he kissed down your chest, sucking a bruise right under your collarbone.

“Danny…”

“Say it again,” he muttered, tongue flicking over your nipple.

You gasped, threading your fingers through his hair. “Danny…Jesus”

His grin was smug. “He’s not the one making you moan like that.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me in about… ten seconds,” he growled.

You giggled breathlessly. “Promise?”

He hooked your legs around his hips and grinded down against you, slow and deliberate. You let out a soft, needy sound, and his eyes rolled back for a second.

“Fuck, you’re unreal,” he whispered.

Just as he reached down, lining himself up—

BRRRRRING. BRRRRRING.

You both froze.

Danny's head dropped against your chest. “No way.”

BRRRRRING.

“Ignore it,” you groaned, pulling him back down. “Please.”

He reached for the phone just to hit Do Not Disturb,but paused.

You saw the look on his face and sat up. “Who is it?”

He turned the screen so you could see:

Mamá.

Your jaw dropped. “No way. Now?”

“She always knows,” he whispered, voice panicked. “She’s psychic.”

You tried not to laugh. “Are you seriously gonna answer?”

“She’ll think I’m dead!”

“She should hope you’re getting laid!”

He swiped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear, trying to clear his throat and talk like he wasn’t still rock hard and ready to absolutely wreck you.

“Hola, Mamá…”

You lay back, covering your face in the blanket so she wouldn’t hear you wheezing with laughter.

Danny cleared his throat again. “Sí, estoy bien… sí, comí… no, Mamá, I’m not in trouble.”

His hips were still between your legs, and you were still panting, watching his chest rise and fall. You gave him the look and slowly dragged your nails down his back.

He choked,literally choked,mid-sentence.

“Estoy bien!” he coughed, glaring at you.

You mouthed, Payback’s a bitch.

He turned slightly, as if that would help, and kept nodding. “Sí… no, no estoy solo.”

You froze.

He realized what he said too late.

There was a pause on the other end, and then:

“¿¡CON QUIÉN ESTÁS!?”

Danny flinched like he’d been slapped.

You burst into silent laughter.

“Uh,solo un,una amiga,” he stammered.

Ouch, you mouthed, pretending to clutch your heart. Friend?!

He held the phone away and whispered, “I’m so sorry. She’s gonna start asking questions.”

You licked your lips and leaned up to whisper in his ear, just loud enough.

“She doesn’t have to wonder. I can scream your name and confirm.”

His eyes widened.

You smirked and pulled him down again, hips shifting under him, just enough to make him twitch.

“Okay, Mamá,” he said shakily. “Sí, I’ll call you tomorrow. Te amo.”

He slammed the phone down.

You didn’t even finish your laugh before he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head. “You’re evil.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you teased. “Just… helped paint a picture.”

Danny kissed you, deep and hot and a little pissed off.

“‘A friend’?” you teased against his lips. “That what I am?”

“You’re gonna make me say it while my mom’s voice is still echoing in my head?”

“Mmhm.”

He kissed down your throat, teeth scraping your skin. “Fine. You’re my girl. My problem. My addiction.”

You arched against him. “Keep going.”

He slid inside you with a slow, deep thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He started moving, fast, punishing, like he needed to chase away every trace of that damn phone call. Your bodies moved in sync, messy and frantic. The couch creaked. The air was thick with heat and panting and your name falling from his lips again and again.

“Look at me,” he growled. “I wanna see you when you fall apart.”

You did. And when it happened, when your body clenched around him and you gasped his name, he followed right after, burying his face in your neck with a broken groan.

The room went quiet except for your heavy breathing and a little squeak from the couch springs.

Danny collapsed on top of you, still catching his breath. “If she calls again, I’m joining the priesthood.”

You laughed breathlessly. “You’d make a terrible priest.”

“I really would. I’m too into sin.”

You turned your head to look at him. “Next time, we put the phone on airplane mode.”

“Next time,” he whispered, “I’m throwing it out the fucking window.”

[chuulyssa]

──── ★ DRUGS SUCK IT UP LIKE VANILLA ICYS the recruiter x reader ────

starring the recruiter x detective!reader count 2.3k genre 18+ dark themes, yandere, stalking, kidnapping, gunplay, smut

notes I'LL KEEP EDITING THIS AND ADDING MORE SHIT WHENEVER I GET HORNY !!! make sure to keep tapping in lol notes wanted to write smth non horny but gong yoo just had to deepthroat that gun 🙂‍↔️ wrote this at 2am and i have my practicals tmr

You had no idea when you had lost track of him. One minute, you had been following his step through the bustling train station, and the next, your vision had blurred, and a sharp pain had shot at the base of your skull.

You didn’t know how long it had been since then. You opened your eyes, immediately shutting them back due to the sudden appearance of light to them. The scent of cigarette smoke filled your nostrils, and your tongue tasted blood.

You wriggled, trying to move your arms, but your hands had been tied behind your back, ankles tied to the legs of the chair you had been made to sit on. You opened your eyes once more. The room was dim with a single light bulb flickering on and off again and again.

“Detective,” a voice cooed at you from behind you.

You snapped your neck up to see his face smiling gleefully, staring down at you with a predatory glint in his eyes.

“Imagine my surprise,” he continued, moving away to stand in front of you, “when I realized the pretty lady that had been following me all this while,” he leaned against what you could make out to be a wooden table, “was you.”

His smirk was maddening. You remembered it from all those years ago. The handsome man in a suit, way too overdressed to meet you where he had. The man who had approached you when you were hopelessly drunk in a children’s park, crying about an unsolved case. He had wiped your tears back then, kissed your fears away. You still recall his words.

“Since we’re in a children’s park, how about a children’s game?”

Thank god for the polite refusal of yours, or you would’ve been in the same position as your current client. Seong Gihun. For whom you had been trailing this man for weeks now. The Recruiter.

“Hello? Earth to you, miss?” He snapped his fingers in front of your dazed face, making you jump at the sudden sound. He laughed at you. Then, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the floor, he mocked you. “I had such high hopes for you back then, sweetheart. But you said no,” he pouted, then cackled maniacally at your expression. “I got a kiss though!”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He chuckled darkly, the sound echoing throughout the small room. Your eyes darted around to check for windows or exits, but you couldn’t find any in the pale lighting. “Aw, you want me to let you go? After you’ve been my little shadow for the past month?”

You looked away, and he only smirked, walking towards you. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked it upwards to catch your attention. “You look at me while we’re speaking. Don’t you have manners, love?”

“Don’t call me that,” you scoffed.

“Oh, you don’t want me to call you that? Is that right, love?” He jeered. When you scowled at him, he dropped his smirk. “Oh, come on now. We both know you’re not going anywhere. Come, let’s have a chat, shall we?”

He sat on the floor, his toes lifting him off the ground by themselves. The soles of his shoes clinked, tilting up so that he was mostly leaning onto you.

“It’s so flattering,” he began, “that you spent so much time trying to follow me all this time later. Am I that captivating, Miss Detective?”

“No.”

“Ah, but you are, certainly,” he nuzzled his face into your lap, making you squirm. You tried to close your thighs, but the restraints didn’t allow you to. “I’ve been dreaming of you ever since I saw you that night.”

He hummed, his knees going down to support his stance. He moved his hands to caress the front of your waist softly. “I cried because you were crying. So don’t cry over anything other than me, hm? It makes me so upset.”

He unbuttoned your pants swiftly, and you flinched. He looked up, amused at your reaction. You glared at him, refusing to speak, but the look in your face, the desire in your eyes, even the wetness he could practically smell betrayed you. He tilted his head.

“Still so stubborn,” he murmured, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. You jerked your head away, but the restraint made it futile.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re in my world now, detective. And in my world, we play games.”

He pulled out a revolver from under his suit. The metallic click of the very much real weapon cocking made your breath hitch.

Where did he get that from?

He always managed to surprise you.

“Russian roulette,” he announced dramatically, spinning the cylinder. “You know this, yes? A game of chance. Just like life.”

“You’re fucking insane,” you spat, trying to keep your voice steady, but you could feel it quaking in fear. You were scared now.

“Maybe,” he agreed, stepping behind you and pressing the cold barrel of the gun to your temple. “But aren’t you curious, detective? I am. I’m so so curious. You make me feel it. To crave it. Don’t you see it?”

You closed your eyes. The pressure of the gun against your skin seemed unbearable now. It was as if the nuzzle could pierce through your brain with how he was holding it against you.

“I want to see,” he kissed the top of your head, “just how far you’re willing to go to solve this case.”

I’ll do anything, you thought.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “Beg me to stop, but there’ll be consequences then. Or take the risk.”

His voice was a low purr. The gun shifted slightly, trailing down your temple to rest just below your jaw.

“Say the word, and I’ll put it all to an end. No more games. No more questions.” His other hand came up, ghosting over your chest. “But then you’ll have to give me something else in return.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to steady your breathing as he groped your breast through the fabric of your shirt. The room felt too small, the air too thin.

“What’s it going to be, darling?” he teased, the nickname twisting in your gut like a knife. His fingers found your hardened nipple through the fabric, and his lips your neck.

“I...” you started, but your voice cracked. His soft chuckle rumbled against your pulse, sending an unwanted shiver down your spine.

“No shame in fear,” he said, almost kindly. The gun tilted up, tilting your chin with it, forcing you to meet his dark, hungry gaze in the reflection of the mirror in front of you. “Little Miss Detective, found dead in a basement room. Your parents wouldn’t like to hear that now, would they?”

Your eyes widened. He knew. He knew from the start you had been tailing him. He had kept tabs on you, more than you had on him.

“Stop,” you whispered. “Please.”

“Ah, is that the best you can do?” He cooed at you, and your hands clenched into fists.

“Please let me go,” you said, almost angrily, and he threw his head back to laugh.

“That’s not how you say it, dolly.”

You took a deep breath in, feeling your pride crush and fall down around you in bits and pieces. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” He repeated in a child-like voice. “Like what?”

“Anything you like.”

His smile grew. “Will you be willing to play a game with me, then?” His hand reached under your shirt to caress your nipple, and you could feel yourself gushing at the touch.

“What game?”

“Hm, let’s see,” he murmured softly, fingers circling around your nipple. “I’ll count down from ten.”

You swallowed hard. “And?”

“And for every second that passes, I’ll take one step closer to you,” he explained, his lips curling into a sly smile. “If you say the safe word, I stop. But…” He picked up the gun, rolling the cylinder lazily before he pointed it to the side and—

BANG !

You shook, trying to cower and hide yourself, but even that was difficult. The aftereffects of the shot echoed in the silence, until it faded away. It made everything seem realer, if that was even possible. He grinned at your reaction. “There will be problems.”

“What problems?”

“That’s for me to decide,” he said simply, leaning forward, the gun still in his hand. “Do you want to play, Miss Detective?”

You hesitated. There was no way out of this room, no way out of his control. And he knew it.

“Good.” He stood, assuming your answer before you even responded. But the gun was still in his hand, and you didn’t dare disobey. He stepped back to the far wall and bumped into a table on the way. Angrily, he kicked the table out of his way, muttering curses all the while. Then his expression softened as he turned to you. “The rules are clear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He began.

“Ten.” The sound of his boots against the floor echoed around.

“Nine.” Another step. His eyes locked onto yours like a predator stalking its prey.

“Eight.” Your hands gripped the edge of the chair.

“Seven.” The gun in his hand wasn’t aimed at you yet, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from it.

“Six.” He was close enough now that you could see the faint smirk playing on his lips.

“Five.” “Wait,” you blurted out.

He paused mid-step, tilting his head. “Wait? That’s not the safe word.” He took another step, closer still. You clenched your jaw, now starting to panic.

He never even gave you a safe word in the first place!

“Four.” He was looming over you now, the barrel of the gun tracing along the edge of the table.

“Three.” “Stop,” you said loudly.

“Two.” The gun was under your chin now, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“One.” He smiled, satisfied, as he crouched down to your level, his face mere inches from yours. “You didn’t use the safe word,” he murmured, the gun tracing along your jawline.

“You didn’t give me one!”

“Details,” he rolled his eyes. “But now, as per the rules, of course…” He kneeled down in front of you again, head tilting down. His hands went up to grip both sides of your waist.

“Wait—”

“Shut up.”

For a moment or two, you didn’t feel anything. That was until his tongue licked a striped against your clothed cunt.

“Ack!” You jumped, trying to push him off you, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Like that?” He nuzzled his face into the wetness, making you shiver. “I haven’t even started yet, baby,” he mumbled. Then, he sank his teeth into your clothed thigh.

You let out a loud cry, hoping that someone — anyone — would hear you. But no one did. No one came.

“Quiet now, dolly.” His teeth chewed at your waistband for a few seconds before pulling it down completely. “Up,” he tapped your waist, and you obediently raised your hips. He pried your pants off you.

“Oh,” he let out a disappointed sigh when he saw that your panties were still covering you. “We’ve got to take this off, hm?” He cooed at you again. “Come on, taking it off for me now.”

“What?”

“I said, take it off.”

“How?” You were taken aback.

“Wiggle wiggle,” he smiled like a dork. Then he sat up and kissed your ear. “I’ll help you with the top till then.”

He helped lift your top over your head directly. Once it was off, his lips immediately latched back onto your cheek. “Panties off, please. Before I rip them apart.”

You nodded and fidgeted for a while, lifting your hips up and down and trying to get the fabric off you. But it wouldn’t budge at all.

“Pathetic,” he said, though he looked at you fondly, as if mocking your vulnerability. Tugging a finger under the waistband of your panties, he peeled the soaked cloth away from your skin easily, patting your waist so you’d lift them up to get it off completely. 

You were exposed to him. Naked from top to bottom except for the bra he somehow hadn’t removed yet. You felt the sudden chill of air against your bare pussy. Your nipples pebbled further. He tossed the underwear aside.

His hands slid along your thighs, spreading them wider. “Beautiful.” His fingers tightened. A hand snaked between your legs, cupping the flesh of your thighs easily. “So wet. Already? You should be ashamed.”

You flushed lightly, trying to come up with a retort. But he shut you up immediately. His middle finger had found its way inside you.

“Fuck—” you groaned, and he snickered.

He wiggled his finger within you, grinding it against your inner walls, pressing firmly on that sweet spot while watching as your face contorted in pleasure.

Your body bucked as he added another finger, stretching you wide open. Then another. And another.

He pulled back suddenly, and you whined.

“Why—?”

“No,” he whispered, standing up. His large frame towered over yours, his hands reaching behind your neck to unclasp your bra. “Such nice tits, dolly.” He squeezed them in his rough palms as if grateful to God for his creations. His thumb brushed across your hardening nipple, teasing the peak into a tighter bud, if that was even possible.

Then he lowered his head, capturing one between his lips and suckling deeply. His tongue flicked expertly at your hardened nipple, nipping lightly.

You could see stars.

Suck. Nip. Twist. Fiddle. Suck. Nip. Twist. Fiddle. Suck. Ni—

He moved onto the other one and did the same.

Fuck was he good at his job.

He left trails of kisses on your chest. Both of them were red and swollen now, and you were left cursing his name in your mind.

“I’ve been playing nice all this while, don’t you think? Let’s make it rougher.”

[mahalachives]

Part 7: The Night He Wept

Warning: This chapter contains emotional trauma, grief, and one (1) deeply depressed shadowsinger who is Not Doing Well.

Reader discretion advised for intense emotional moments, ambiguous consent regarding mating bonds, rejection fallout, and scenes of vulnerability that may be triggering for those sensitive to abandonment, entrapment, or quiet men crying silently in the garden.

Azriel is having a time. You might, too.

Please take care of your heart. And maybe keep tissues, and a therapist nearby. 💔🕯

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Winnowing was a strange sensation at the best of times.

The world folding around you, compressing to a single point before expanding again.

But this was wrong.

The darkness stretched too long. Your body felt too light, then impossibly heavy.

The pain in your shoulder flared so violently that a scream tore from your throat, though you couldn't hear it through the roaring in your ears.

When reality finally reassembled itself, you were sprawled on unfamiliar ground, Lucien's arms still around you. Rain pelted your face, mingling with the blood that seemed to be everywhere now.

"Stay with me," Lucien commanded, his voice tight with panic. He shifted you in his arms, his face swimming in and out of focus above you.

The trees overhead blurred into a canopy of indistinct shapes.

Not the Dawn Court.

This was still Autumn territory, though not anywhere you recognized.

"Something went wrong," Lucien muttered, more to himself than to you. "Winnowing wounded... shouldn't have risked it."

You tried to answer, to tell him you were fine, but your mouth filled with a metallic taste.

Blood. Your blood.

"Nerissa's cottage is close," Lucien said, his pace quickening as he carried you through the rain. "Just hold on."

The world tilted sickeningly, darkness encroaching at the edges of your vision. The bond in your chest pulsed weakly, like the fluttering of a bird's wings.

The ash tea still burned through your system, keeping the full force of the bond at bay, but doing something else too. Something worse.

"Lucien," you managed, your voice a thread of sound beneath the rain.

He looked down, his mismatched eyes wild with fear. "Don't talk. Save your strength."

But you needed to say it, needed him to understand. "It's stopping me from healing."

His jaw tightened, a flash of understanding and horror crossing his face. "The ash," he whispered. "It suppresses magic."

Including the magic that might have kept you alive.

The cottage appeared ahead, a small structure nestled among ancient oaks. Smoke curled from its chimney despite the rain, lamplight glowing in the windows. Lucien kicked at the door, not bothering with courtesy.

"Nerissa!" he shouted. "I need help!"

The door swung open to reveal an elderly faerie with skin like autumn leaves and eyes of deep, shifting amber. She took one look at you and stepped back, gesturing them inside.

"Put her on the table," she instructed, already moving to gather supplies.

Lucien laid you down gently. You could feel the blood pooling beneath you, soaking into the rough wood. Too much blood.

Nerissa worked quickly, cutting away your sodden clothing to reveal the arrow wound. It had gone straight through, leaving entry and exit wounds that should have been survivable. But the arrow had been tipped with something. You'd seen it glinting green on the arrowhead before it struck you.

"Poison?" Lucien asked, hovering anxiously.

"Yes." Nerissa's voice was grim. "But that's not the worst of it." Her fingers traced the veins spreading outward from the wound. "What has she taken?"

"Ashwood tea," Lucien admitted. "To dampen a mating bond."

Nerissa's hands stilled. "Foolish girl," she breathed. "The ashwood neutralizes all magic, including healing magic."

"Can you help her?" Lucien's voice cracked on the question.

The healer pressed her palms to your wound, closing her eyes in concentration. You felt a warmth trying to penetrate the cold that had settled into your bones, but it was like water sliding off oiled cloth. Nothing took hold.

"The ash wood is blocking me," Nerissa said, frustration evident in her voice. "I can't reach her system to purge the poison."

"There must be something," Lucien insisted. "Some way to counteract it."

"Perhaps..." Nerissa hesitated, then moved to a chest in the corner of the cottage. She rummaged inside, pulling out a small box inlaid with bone. "This is old magic. Before High Lords, before courts."

Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest, each pulse weaker than the last. The pain was receding now, replaced by a spreading numbness that should have terrified you but instead felt like relief.

"Hurry," Lucien urged, his hands pressed to your wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Nerissa returned with something cupped in her gnarled hands. "Blood magic," she said softly. "It works outside the normal channels."

"Whatever it takes," Lucien replied without hesitation.

The healer nodded, sprinkled a mixture of herbs and dark powder around your body, forming a circle on the table. "But it requires payment."

"Name it."

"A memory," Nerissa said, her amber eyes fixed on Lucien. "One you value."

Lucien didn't hesitate. "Take it."

She nodded once, then placed her hands on either side of your face. "And from her, we take the poison."

The world started to fade around you, consciousness slipping away. As Nerissa began to chant in a language older than Prythian, your mind drifted free from your body.

And suddenly, you were elsewhere.

A hospital room. Sterile. Bright.

The rhythmic beeping of machines, the soft whoosh of mechanical breathing. And there. A body in a bed. Your body. Tubes and wires connected to machines that kept it alive.

"...no change in brain activity, though the patterns are unusual," a male voice was saying. A doctor. Human.

"What does that mean?" Another voice, your aunt's, thick with tears. "Is she in pain?"

"We don't believe so," the doctor replied gently. "But I'm afraid there's been no improvement since the accident. The coma is stable, but deep."

Coma.

The word registered with a jolt of understanding. Your human body had been in a coma all this time, while your consciousness wandered in Prythian.

"It's been three months," your aunt said, voice breaking. "You said if there was going to be improvement..."

"I know this is difficult to hear," the doctor said, "but at this point, we've done everything medically possible. The rest is up to her. She has to find her way back."

A sob escaped your aunt. You tried to scream, to move, to give any sign that you were there, that you could hear them. But nothing happened.

I'm here! you shouted inside your mind. I'm right here!

But she couldn't hear you. No one could.

Her hand closed around yours, warm and achingly familiar. "Baby, if you can hear me," she whispered, "please come back to us. Please don't go."

And you couldn't. You were trapped between worlds, neither fully in Prythian nor fully in your human body. You wept without tears, screamed without sound, as your aunt's fingers gently stroked your unresponsive hand.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she promised, her voice thick with grief. "I love you. Always."

As she moved away, your awareness began to fade, the hospital room growing distant. The beeping of the heart monitor receded, replaced by a different sound. Nerissa's chanting, Lucien's desperate pleas.

You were being pulled back, drawn inexorably toward the body dying on that wooden table.

Back to Prythian.

Part of you wanted to resist, to stay with your aunt, in your world. But your human body was beyond your reach now, your consciousness tethered to this new existence whether you wanted it or not.

The cottage materialized around you, time seemingly frozen in the moment of your almost-death. Lucien's hands pressed against your wound, his face contorted with grief and determination. Nerissa stood with palms outstretched, her blood magic pulsing in crimson waves that fought against the ashwood in your system.

As your consciousness settled back into your dying body, the cottage snapped into focus, time resuming its normal flow.

Pain flooded back, the poison and blood loss and failing heart. But something else came with it. Nerissa's magic, dark and ancient, finding pathways the ash tea couldn't block.

"There," she whispered, triumph in her voice. "The blood accepts blood."

Your back arched off the table as your heart lurched painfully in your chest, giving one strong beat, then another. Blood that had been sluggishly seeping from your wound slowed, then stopped entirely as the wound began to close under Nerissa's touch.

"She's returning," Nerissa said, watching as color crept back into your cheeks. "But changed."

Lucien sagged with relief, his hand finding yours and squeezing tight. "Thank the Cauldron."

"Don't thank anything yet," the healer warned. "The poison is gone, but the ashwood remains. It will be days before it leaves her system entirely."

"And the bond?" Lucien asked quietly.

"Muted, still. But present." Nerissa's amber eyes fixed on your face with uncomfortable intensity. "Though I sense there is more to this bond than meets the eye. It stretches... elsewhere."

You wanted to weep, to tell them about the other world, about your aunt sitting by a hospital bed, about the life you might never return to. But exhaustion pulled you under, the trauma and magic and sheer weight of your double existence too much to bear.

As consciousness faded once more, one terrible certainty remained.

You weren't going home.

Not to your aunt. Not to your real body.

The bond had claimed you for Prythian.

And somewhere far to the north, a shadowsinger flew through rain and darkness, driven by a golden thread he couldn't ignore and didn't understand coming to find what belonged to him, whether either of you wanted it or not.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, the bitter taste of Nerissa's medicine lingering on your tongue. The cottage was quiet save for the steady patter of rain on the thatched roof and the occasional crackling of the hearth fire. Night had fallen, turning the windows into black mirrors that reflected the warm glow within.

Voices pulled you from the edge of sleep hushed, tense, just beyond your door.

"You should have taken her straight to Dawn," came Eris's voice, pitched low but sharp with anger. "Not stopped at this hovel."

"She was dying," Lucien replied, his tone equally tense. "The arrow had pierced clean through, and she was losing too much blood. I made the call I had to make."

"And now five fae are dead."

Your breath caught. You kept your eyes closed, feigning sleep while straining to hear.

"What are you talking about?" Lucien asked.

"Your little escape from the estate didn't go unnoticed," Eris said. "Word travels, even in rain and darkness. The shadowsinger found the burning ruins."

The bond in your chest gave a sudden, sharp tug at the mention of Azriel. You ignored it, focusing on the conversation.

"Impossible," Lucien breathed. "He couldn't have tracked us that quickly."

"He didn't need to track you," Eris replied, disgust evident in his voice. "He simply followed the chaos you left behind. And when he found your little mess, he found the hunters who survived the fire."

A pause. Then, "He killed them all, Lucien. One by one."

"They tried to kill her," Lucien said, but there was uncertainty in his voice. "They deserved-"

"That's not the point," Eris cut in. "The point is the way he did it. Cold. Calculated. My source said he was completely composed."

"Bond-sickness should have driven him to madness by now," Lucien said, confusion evident in his voice. "Especially after her injury. He should be feral, uncontrolled."

"But he's not," Eris replied, something like reluctant respect in his tone. "It's as if the bond has given him clarity rather than chaos. He's more focused, more deadly than ever."

The bond pulsed again, stronger this time, sending a wave of heat through your veins despite the ash tea still lingering in your system. You pressed your hand to your chest, willing it to be quiet, to let you hear.

"You sound almost impressed," Lucien said with disbelief.

"I can recognize a dangerous opponent without liking him," Eris replied. "And the shadowsinger has become something… formidable. The bond hasn't weakened him as it should have. It's strengthened him, focused him."

"What does that mean for her?" Lucien's voice had an edge of concern now.

"It means he won't stop," Eris said simply. "Not for borders or laws or High Lords. Not until he finds her. And he will find her with a determination that even Rhysand might find disturbing."

"She's not some possession to be claimed," Lucien said.

"I don't think that's what he sees anymore," Eris replied thoughtfully. "My source said he moved differently, spoke differently. Not like a male hunting a possession, but like one seeking his other half. There was purpose there, not just obsession."

You shivered despite yourself, remembering the cold precision of Azriel's rejection. The harsh words. The shadows that nevertheless had caressed your cheek with strange tenderness.

"We need to move her to Dawn Court as soon as we can," Eris continued, his voice urgent now. "We leave at first light."

"And when she's healed?" Lucien asked. "We can't keep her hidden forever, even in Dawn Court."

A longer silence fell. When Eris spoke again, his voice was softer, almost resigned.

"No. Eventually, she'll have to face him. But on her terms, not his. When she's strong enough to make her own choice."

"And if she chooses him?"

"Then we respect her decision," Eris said. "But it will be her choice. Not the bond's. Not his. Not even ours."

The bond gave another insistent tug, as if in agreement with their words. This time, you couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped your lips as golden light briefly pulsed beneath your skin.

The conversation outside your door immediately ceased. Footsteps approached, and you quickly closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to even out.

The door creaked open. You could sense them both standing there, watching you.

"She shouldn't be moved tomorrow," Lucien said quietly. "She's still too weak."

"The alternative is waiting for the shadowsinger to find her," Eris replied. "And I promise you, brother, he's already hunting."

You expected to hear the door close, but instead, footsteps approached your bedside. The mattress dipped slightly as someone sat beside you. A warm hand gently brushed the hair from your forehead a touch so unexpectedly tender that you nearly gave yourself away by opening your eyes.

"I'll check the perimeter again," Lucien said softly from the doorway. "Make sure Nerissa's wards are holding."

The door closed with a quiet click, leaving you alone with Eris. His hand remained on your forehead, a comforting weight that felt strangely familiar, as if your body remembered a touch your mind did not.

"I know you're awake," Eris said quietly, no anger in his voice, just weary resignation.

You opened your eyes, meeting his amber gaze. In the dim light of the single candle, his normally harsh features seemed softer, more human.

"How much did you hear?" he asked.

"Enough," you whispered. "Five dead."

Eris nodded, his hand still resting on your forehead. "The shadowsinger is… not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A rabid animal," he said frankly. "Bond-sickness usually breaks a male, especially one who has rejected the bond initially. It should have driven him mad."

"But it didn't," you said, the words a question more than a statement.

Eris studied your face, his expression unreadable. "No. It changed him, but not in the way I anticipated. It's as if…" He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "As if he's found his purpose."

The bond hummed quietly in your chest, neither painful nor insistent, just… present.

"Are you afraid of him?" Eris asked, surprising you with his directness.

You considered the question, truly considered it. "I don't know," you admitted. "I should be. But…"

"But the bond tells you differently," he finished for you.

You nodded, unable to deny it. "Does that make me a fool?"

A ghost of a smile touched Eris's lips. "No more than any of us who have been touched by the Cauldron's whims."

His hand moved from your forehead to take one of yours, his grip firm but gentle. It was such an unexpectedly brotherly gesture that tears sprang to your eyes. "Why are you trying to protect me."

"You're still my sister," he replied, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did.

He squeezed your hand once before releasing it. "Rest. Tomorrow will be challenging enough without you exhausting yourself eavesdropping. The journey to Dawn Court will test your strength."

As he rose to leave, you caught his sleeve. "Eris."

He paused, looking down at you.

"Thank you."

He didn't smile you weren't sure Eris truly knew how but his expression softened slightly. He placed his hand briefly on top of your head in a gesture so familial, so protective, that it made your heart ache. Then, in a movement so quick and gentle you might have imagined it, he bent down and pressed a kiss to your head.

"Sleep, little flame," he said quietly, using what must have been a childhood nickname. "Your brothers are watching over you."

It lingered like a blessing, so unexpected from the cold, calculating male you'd come to know. It spoke of a past you couldn't remember, of a bond deeper than politics or court alliances.

Then he was gone, the door closing silently behind him, leaving only the faint scent of cinnamon and smoke to prove he'd been there at all.

You turned your face to the pillow, confused tears slipping down your cheeks. The bond sang its golden song in your blood, but now another bond one of family, of blood and choice and unexpected protection wrapped around you as well.

Tomorrow you would leave with your newfound brothers, flee to Dawn Court, continue fighting against the bond that tried to claim you.

But tonight, in the darkness where no one could see, you allowed yourself to wonder about the male who had found clarity rather than madness in your connection. Who sought you not as a possession, but as his missing piece.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, there might be a choice that didn't require you to run from one bond to preserve another.

You were barely conscious when you arrived at the Dawn Court. The journey had taken what remained of your strength, Lucien and Eris winnowing you through multiple points to throw off any trackers. Your vision had tunneled to pinpricks of light, voices coming to you as if through water.

“She needs immediate attention,” someone said, their voice musical yet commanding. “Bring her to the eastern chambers.”

Hands lifted you onto something soft that floated beneath you, carrying you through corridors scented with jasmine and morning light. You tried to focus, to thank whoever was helping you, but consciousness slipped away again. Replaced by a different scene entirely.

The hospital room. The beeping monitors. Your aunt’s voice, thick with tears.

“It’s been over three months now, and the doctors say… they say we should consider…” Her voice broke. “I can’t give up on you. I won’t.”

You tried to reach for her, to tell her you were there, that you could hear her, but an invisible barrier held you back.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only watch as she pressed her forehead against your unresponsive hand.

“Come back to us,” she whispered. “Please come back.”

The scene dissolved, replaced by a Dawn Court ceiling painted with a perpetual sunrise. Healers moved around you, their hands stirring gentle currents of air that smelled of herbs and magic. You let yourself drift, caught between worlds, belonging to neither.

Days passed this way. Sometimes you were in Prythian, vaguely aware of people tending to you, speaking about you as if you couldn’t hear.

Other times you were in the hospital room, a prisoner in your own unresponsive body, watching your family grieve.

You never fully woke. Never fully slept.

You simply existed in a gray space between, the mating bond a dull ache in your chest. A tether to a world you hadn’t chosen but couldn’t escape.

On the fourth day. Or maybe the fifth; time had become fluid, unreliable, you heard Eris’s voice.

“Is there improvement?” he asked someone you couldn’t see.

“Her physical wounds are healing,” came the reply, a female voice, likely a healer. “But she remains unconscious.”

“And the bond?” Eris’s voice was carefully neutral, revealing nothing.

“Stable, but stressed. The separation isn’t helping.”

“It’s necessary,” Eris said firmly. “Beron has every tracker in Autumn searching for her. He’s even approached the Spring Court for assistance, claiming she was abducted.”

“Lord Thesan understands the situation,” the healer assured him. “Our wards will hold.”

Their voices faded as you slipped back into the liminal space, pulled toward your human body once more. The hospital room seemed dimmer this time, night having fallen. A different family member. Your cousin, sat beside your bed, reading aloud from your favorite book as if you might hear and find your way back through the words.

You drifted again, caught in the riptide between worlds.

When awareness returned, Lucien sat beside your Dawn Court bed, his metal eye whirring softly as he studied your face.

“You need to wake up properly,” he said quietly, as if sensing you could hear him even in your half‑conscious state. “Ember and Sizzle are terrorizing the servants. Yesterday they set fire to Thesan’s favorite tapestry, and the day before that they somehow got into the kitchens and charbroiled an entire week’s worth of pastries.”

As if summoned by their names, you felt two small, warm weights settle on either side of your pillow, your flame‑bunnies, who had apparently appointed themselves your guardians in this strange, suspended state.

“Troublemakers,” Lucien continued, his voice fond despite his words.

You wanted to respond, to reach out, but the pull of the other world was too strong. Back in the hospital, a doctor was speaking to your aunt, using words like persistent vegetative state and difficult decisions ahead. You tried to scream, to let them know you were there, trapped between lives, unable to fully claim either.

Fragments of conversation drifted through the fog of days.

“Beron grows more desperate. He’s threatened the Summer Court with retaliation if they don’t assist in the search.”

“Why is he so fixated on finding her? He never showed such concern before.”

Eris sighed, after a long pause, “Because she defied him. Beron doesn’t care about her, only about making an example of her. He intends to show what happens to those who defy the High Lord of Autumn.”

The words pierced the haze. Rage and wounded pride, nothing more. The bond flared at the thought, golden light flickering beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened properly for the first time since arriving at Dawn Court. The chamber around you was beautiful in a way the Autumn Court could never manage. Soft light and gentle curves, crystals catching and amplifying the eternal dawn.

Ember and Sizzle, dozing on your pillow, perked up, their tiny flame forms brightening with excitement. They hopped around your head, chirping happily and leaving small scorch marks on the luxurious bedding.

“Look who’s finally decided to join the land of the living,” Lucien said from the doorway, arms crossed yet visibly relieved. “Just in time, too. Your little fire hazards were about to be banished to the fountain for their own good.”

Ember looked deeply offended. Sizzle, indifferent, continued exploring, leaving paw‑prints of ash on silken sheets.

“How long?” you croaked.

“Nine days,” Lucien replied, pouring water from a crystal carafe. “You’ve been… elsewhere.”

You drank gratefully, but kept your secrets close. “It feels like I’ve been dreaming. Strange dreams.”

Lucien’s metal eye whirred faster. “Trauma often sends the mind searching for escape.”

“And the bond?” You pressed a hand to the golden thread pulsing in your chest.

“Still there,” he said. “What it means… we’ll see.”

Eris appeared, amber eyes widening at the sight of you upright. “Just in time for the latest crisis.”

“What crisis?” you asked, reaching for Ember, who hopped into your palm with a contented chirp.

“Beron has discovered your location or suspects it,” Eris replied grimly. “He’s petitioning Thesan for a formal search of Dawn Court grounds.”

“Will Thesan agree?”

“No,” Eris said, confident. “Thesan’s no friend to Autumn. But we must strengthen your protection and plan for a swift departure.”

“Why is Beron so determined? Is it really just because I defied him?”

“He’s furious,” Eris said. “When you ran, you humiliated him. Our father sees you as property, not a daughter.”

“But we won’t let that happen,” Lucien added. “Get your strength back. We may need to move soon.”

Exhaustion washed over you as they left to make arrangements. Ember and Sizzle curled against your side, warm and comforting.

“What am I doing?” you whispered to them. “Caught between worlds while my human body lies dying in a hospital? I can’t tell them. They’d never understand.”

Ember shrugged—a strangely human gesture—and you laughed despite everything.

You slept properly for the first time since arriving at Dawn Court. When you woke, actual sunlight. Not the court’s perpetual glow—streamed through your windows. You’d slept through an entire day and night.

A tray waited. Fruit glowing from within, bread still warm, tea perfectly steeped. You ate ravenously, surprised by your appetite.

Feeling stronger, you explored your chamber. Elegant furniture seemed to grow from the floor; crystal windows refracted light into rainbows; a bathing pool steamed with jasmine‑scented springs.

A knock interrupted. A Dawn Court servant bowed. “Lady, Lord Thesan requests your presence in the eastern garden when you feel strong enough. Your brothers await you there.”

Brothers. The word still felt wrong. They shared blood with this body, but were strangers to the consciousness within.

“Thank you,” you said. “I’ll come now.”

She left a simple, beautiful gown of pale gold that captured dawn‑light. You dressed quickly, surprised by your regained strength. Ember and Sizzle followed as you walked the corridors; servants stared at your flame‑pets as tiny scorch marks dotted the polished floors.

The garden embodied Dawn Court restraint: pale‑barked trees with glowing blossoms, crushed‑white‑stone paths, fountains singing as water leapt from tier to tier.

Thesan waited by one fountain, his copper skin glinting under the gleaming light.

“Lady of Autumn,” He greeted, kindness warming his ancient eyes. “I’m pleased to see you recovered. Your unconscious state caused us concern.”

“Thank you for your hospitality and protection, Lord Thesan,” you replied, bowing your head. “I’m sorry for any trouble my presence has caused.”

“No trouble,” Thesan assured. “Dawn Court is a place of healing and transition.” His gaze flicked to Ember and Sizzle, currently scaling the fountain with disastrous enthusiasm. “Though your companions have provided some… unexpected excitement.”

“They’re impossible,” you said, stifling a smile as Sizzle slipped into the water with a hiss of steam. “But they mean well.”

“Indeed.” Thesan’s expression sobered. “I hope your stay, however brief, brings peace. Dawn Court lives in the moment of transition between night and day. A reminder that no state is permanent, only change.”

You wondered if he sensed your divided nature, but his face revealed only polite welcome.

“Thank you, Lord Thesan,” you said. “I hope to enjoy what Dawn Court offers for as long as I may stay.”

As talk turned to mundane matters of accommodation and security, the hospital surfaced in your mind, distant now, faint. Your human family still kept vigil, but their voices reached you as though from a deep well.

The bond tugged you toward this world, this reality. Answers about Beron, the bond, and yourself, waited beyond Dawn Court’s perpetual sunrise.

For now, you would gather strength and keep your secrets close, navigating this strange existence between two worlds.

The Dawn Court's borders shimmered in the perpetual half light, a gossamer veil of magic that separated Thesan's realm from the rest of Prythian.

Azriel stood before it, unmoving as he had been for days now, his shadows writhing around him in agitated tendrils that reflected the turmoil within.

The sentries watched him warily from their posts.

The shadowsinger of the Night Court had arrived five days ago, taking position at the eastern border where the magic was thinnest. He'd made no move to cross, no attempt to infiltrate.

He simply... waited. Watching. Sometimes pacing, but mostly standing in silent vigil, his haggard appearance growing more concerning with each passing day.

"He hasn't eaten since yesterday," one sentry murmured to another as they changed shifts. "Barely sleeps either. Just stands there, staring."

"Should we report to Lord Thesan again?"

"Already did. He said to continue observation only."

Azriel heard them, of course.

His Illyrian hearing could pick up a whisper from across a battlefield. But he gave no indication, his focus turned inward to the golden thread that pulsed in his chest sometimes painfully bright, sometimes a dull ache, but always pulling him toward the heart of Dawn Court.

Toward you.

His wings, normally immaculate, showed signs of neglect the leathery membranes dull rather than gleaming. Dark stubble shadowed his usually clean shaven jaw, while circles beneath his eyes gave his already severe features a haunted quality.

The shadows themselves had changed.

Those who knew Azriel well would have noticed immediately they no longer moved with calculated precision, no longer seemed like tools under his absolute control. Instead, they reached, they yearned, stretching toward the border before being pulled back to coil around their master like protective serpents.

When the Dawn Court emissary finally approached, Azriel's eyes sharpened with predatory focus, though he made no move toward the slender fae who approached with hands raised in peaceful gesture.

"Shadowsinger," the emissary greeted formally. "Lord Thesan acknowledges your presence at our borders and invites you to an audience."

Azriel's voice, when he finally spoke, was rough from disuse. "When?"

"Now, if you're willing."

Azriel gave a single, sharp nod.

The emissary gestured toward the border, which parted like silk curtains to admit him. The moment he crossed, he felt the weight of Dawn Court wards settle around him not hostile, but watchful, ready to neutralize any threat.

As they walked through forests bathed in perpetual sunrise, Azriel's shadows retreated closer to his body, as if uncomfortable in the gentle light. His hand drifted occasionally to the hilt of Truth Teller at his hip not in threat, but from habit, seeking comfort in the familiar weight.

The golden thread in his chest pulled harder with each step toward the palace, almost painfully tight now.

Somewhere ahead, you waited.

Somewhere ahead, the other half of his soul lived and breathed, perhaps hating him for the cruel words he'd spat at you when the bond had first snapped into place.

"I reject you," he had told you weeks ago, the memory flashing unbidden through his mind.

Your face had crumpled at his coldness, the bond between you shuddering with your pain. He had turned away then, unable to face what he'd done.

The Dawn Court palace rose before them, its crystalline spires capturing the eternal sunrise and fracturing it into rainbows that danced across polished facades.

Even in his state of agitation, Azriel could appreciate its beauty so different from the shadowed grandeur of the Night Court, yet magnificent in its own way.

They led him not to the grand audience chamber, but to a smaller, more intimate garden terrace where Thesan waited alone. The High Lord of Dawn studied Azriel with ancient eyes that held no hostility, only careful assessment.

"Shadowsinger," Thesan greeted. "You've caused quite a stir, maintaining your vigil at my borders."

Azriel inclined his head slightly, the closest he could manage to courtly manners in his current state. "I meant no disrespect."

"None was taken." Thesan gestured to a seat across from him, but Azriel remained standing. The High Lord didn't press the issue. "Your appearance suggests you have not been caring for yourself."

Azriel made no reply.

His state was obvious enough the weight he'd lost, the gauntness in his face, the shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with his power.

"Why have you come, Shadowsinger?" Thesan asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

Azriel's gaze lifted to meet the High Lord's, and something in that gaze the raw emotion, the quiet desperation seemed to soften Thesan's expression.

"I don't demand to see her," Azriel said, the words clearly difficult. "I don't demand anything."

"A refreshing approach," Thesan noted. "Most males in your position would be tearing apart my court stone by stone."

Azriel's jaw tightened beneath the dark stubble. "Is she well?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The simple question, asked with such carefully restrained concern, seemed to surprise Thesan, who studied the shadowsinger with renewed interest.

"She is recovering," the High Lord finally replied. "Both physically and... otherwise."

"The arrow wound?" Azriel's shadows twisted anxiously.

"Healed, for the most part. Though there were complications."

Azriel nodded once, his gloved hands clenching. "Has she been able to rest? To eat properly?"

"She's regaining her strength," Thesan answered, watching Azriel carefully.

"And her flame creatures? They're with her?"

A slight smile touched Thesan's lips. "They've caused quite a stir among my household staff. Very protective of her."

Relief flickered across Azriel's face. "Good. That's... good." He paused, then asked, "Is she safe here?"

"As safe as anyone can be in these turbulent times," Thesan replied. "Though Beron's interest in her whereabouts grows more aggressive by the day."

"Has Beron threatened her directly?" Azriel asked, shadows darkening. "Are his agents watching the borders?"

"Your concern is noted, Shadowsinger," Thesan said evenly. "Though I assure you, Dawn Court is quite capable of protecting its guests."

"I don't question your capabilities," Azriel said quietly. "I only wish to know if there's anything I can do to help ensure her safety."

Thesan's eyebrows rose slightly. "You offer assistance to Dawn Court?"

"I offer whatever is needed to ensure she's protected," Azriel replied, the words a quiet vow. "I only ask permission to remain here... at a distance. To help ensure her safety without intruding on her peace."

"And if she doesn't wish you to stay?" Thesan asked, watching him carefully.

"Then I'll go," Azriel said immediately. "But I would station myself at your borders, with your permission."

Thesan studied him for a long moment. "The bond has changed you."

"She has changed me," Azriel corrected softly, then fell silent, as if he'd already said too much about himself.

Thesan's expression showed genuine surprise, then approval. "That is a rare understanding, even among those far older than yourself."

Azriel looked toward the eastern wing of the palace, where the golden thread in his chest pulled insistently. "I don't ask to see her. I don't deserve it."

"And if she chooses to never see you again?" Thesan asked, his tone gentle but probing.

"Then I will protect her from afar," Azriel replied without hesitation. "Whether she claims me or not, she has my dagger, my shadows, my life if needed."

Thesan was silent for a long moment. Then, "You speak of choice, yet you've been at my borders for five days, barely eating, barely sleeping. The bond drives you still."

"The bond drives me to ensure her safety and happiness," Azriel corrected quietly. "Not to possess her."

Something in his words seemed to satisfy Thesan, who nodded slowly. "Rest here tonight, Shadowsinger. Food and quarters will be provided."

Azriel stiffened. "I don't wish to impose-"

"It is not," Thesan interrupted gently. "It is a High Lord's hospitality to a warrior who has clearly reached his limits."

Before Azriel could respond, a flicker of movement caught his attention a flash of fire from a nearby corridor, there and gone in an instant. His shadows surged in that direction, sensing rather than seeing, and Azriel went completely still.

You were near.

So close that the bond sang between you, golden light briefly visible beneath his skin. His wings twitched with the instinct to move toward you, but he held himself rigidly in place, refusing to push, to intrude.

Thesan rose, "A room will be prepared for you. Food brought. I suggest you accept both, Shadowsinger, before you collapse."

As if his body had been waiting for permission, a wave of exhaustion swept through Azriel. He inclined his head in acceptance, shadows swirling tiredly around him.

"Thank you," Azriel replied, the words raw with genuine gratitude.

As a Dawn Court attendant led him to guest quarters, Azriel felt the golden thread in his chest ease slightly, as if knowing he was under the same roof even floors and corridors away was enough to soothe its constant pull. He followed quietly, each step taking enormous effort now that the adrenaline of meeting with Thesan had faded.

In his room, food had already been laid out fruits that seemed to glow from within, bread still warm from the oven, and a carafe of wine that caught the light like liquid rubies.

Azriel could barely remember the last time he'd eaten properly. The days at the border had blurred together, hunger and thirst secondary to the need to be near you, to know you were safe.

He ate mechanically, his body demanding sustenance even as his mind remained focused on the bond connecting him to you. It felt different here less painful, more... anticipatory. As if the bond itself knew that separation couldn't last forever, one way or another.

After eating, he moved to the balcony that overlooked gardens awash in perpetual dawn light. He breathed deeply, letting his shadows expand and contract with each breath. Somewhere in this palace, you were making your own choice. Whether that choice included him or not, he would honor it.

His gloved fingers absently rubbed at the stubble on his jaw as he stared out at the Dawn Court's eternal sunrise. He didn't care about his haggard appearance, his exhaustion, or his hunger. He cared only about one thing.

That you were safe. That you were healing. That you had everything you needed.

The rest including whether you ever forgave him was entirely your choice.

And for the first time in his long life, the shadowsinger surrendered completely to a power greater than his formidable will.

The choice was yours.

The healing chambers of the Dawn Court became your sanctuary.

After weeks of recovery, you found yourself drawn to the eastern wing of Thesan's palace where injured fae came seeking help.

At first, you simply observed, fascinated by the Dawn healers' methods so different from Autumn Court magic, which focused on destruction rather than restoration.

"You have a natural aptitude," remarked Alis, the chief healer, as you handed her crushed herbs for a poultice.

Her amber eyes studied you with interest. "Your touch calms the patients."

You shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "I'm just trying to be useful."

"Nonsense," she replied briskly. "Your energy has healing properties. I suspect it's always been there, just... misdirected in Autumn."

The work gave you purpose, a reason to rise each morning despite the persistent ache of the bond in your chest.

The ash tea's effects had finally worn off completely, leaving you with the full strength of the mating bond, a golden thread that tugged constantly toward the western edge of the palace grounds.

You ignored it. Deliberately. Fiercely.

Instead, you threw yourself into learning. Into living. Into rebuilding a life that was wholly your own.

"The lavender infusion needs straining," you told one of the younger healers as you moved through the sunlit chamber, checking on patients.

The Dawn Court's perpetual sunrise streamed through crystal windows, bathing everything in a golden glow that enhanced healing magic.

As you reached for fresh bandages on a high shelf, you felt it again the sensation of being watched.

It had been happening for days now, a prickling awareness that raised the fine hairs on your neck. You turned sharply, scanning the room, the doorway, the windows.

Nothing. No one.

Just as there had been nothing the day before, or the day before that.

You pushed the feeling aside. Dawn Court was full of secrets and hidden watchers perimeter guards, palace attendants, the Peregryn warriors who served as Thesan's elite force. Any of them might have reason to observe an Autumn Court refugee with unusual healing abilities.

It meant nothing.

"You look tired," Lucien commented that evening as you joined him for a simple dinner in your private quarters.

Eris had already departed another brief visit concluded. His position in Autumn Court required maintaining appearances, which meant he couldn't stay long in Dawn without raising suspicions. "The healing work is draining you."

"I'm fine," you replied, helping yourself to roasted quail and honeyed vegetables. "It's good to be useful."

Lucien studied you for a moment. "You've settled in quickly."

"The Dawn Court suits me," you admitted.

The constant sunrise felt like hope made manifest neither trapped in darkness nor exposed to harsh daylight. Just endless possibility.

Later that night, as you prepared for bed, you noticed something on your balcony a small parcel wrapped in midnight-blue silk, secured with a silver ribbon.

Your heart beat faster as you approached it warily. It hadn't been there earlier. Someone had placed it there while you dined.

With cautious fingers, you untied the ribbon.

Inside lay a delicate silver bracelet, each link shaped like a tiny flame that somehow captured the dawn light and reflected it in golden hues. It was beautiful understated yet distinctive, nothing like the ostentatious Autumn Court jewelry you'd seen.

A small note accompanied it, written in an elegant, angular hand.

For protection and healing.

No signature. None needed.

You knew instantly who had left it, just as you knew who had been watching from the shadows.

Azriel.

Anger flared hot and sudden. You stormed from your room, bracelet clutched in your fist. The bond pulsed wildly as you marched through the Dawn Court halls, following its pull like a compass.

You found Lucien in the library, browsing ancient texts by lamplight.

"You knew," you accused, throwing the bracelet onto the table before him. It clattered against the polished wood. "You knew he was here."

Lucien didn't feign ignorance. "Thesan granted him sanctuary three days ago."

"Why wasn't I told?" The flames in the nearby hearth flickered higher, responding to your anger.

"Because you're still healing," Lucien said carefully. "And because he specifically asked not to disturb your peace."

"That's not your decision to make," you snapped. "Or his. Or Thesan's."

"No," Lucien agreed quietly. "It's not. But the damage he did to you when the bond first appeared-"

"Is between him and me."

Lucien studied you. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Why is he here? What does he want? How long has Thesan been sheltering him?"

"Let's find Thesan," Lucien suggested. "He can explain better than I can."

The High Lord received you in his private study despite the late hour. His golden-brown skin seemed to glow with the same light as the perpetual dawn outside, his eyes keen as he gestured for you to sit.

"I expected this visit sooner," Thesan said, pouring three glasses of pale wine. "The shadowsinger arrived at our borders five days ago and simply waited. No demands, no threats."

"Unlike most males in his position," Lucien added.

"Why is he here?" you demanded.

"For you," Thesan said simply. "Though he claims he expects nothing in return. He stood at our borders for days, barely eating, barely sleeping."

"The bond drives him," Lucien explained.

"No," Thesan corrected. "He believes the bond drives him to ensure your safety and happiness, not to possess you. His words, not mine. He offered his services to Dawn Court as additional protection against Beron's growing interest in your whereabouts."

You scoffed. "How convenient."

"I'm not asking you to forgive him," Thesan said. "But I thought his approach unusual. Most fae males, especially warriors of his caliber, would have demanded access to you, claimed ancient rights. He asked only to know that you were healing well."

"The gifts?" you asked.

Thesan's expression softened. "Those were not my idea, nor did I explicitly permit them. But I saw no harm."

"He's a shadowsinger," you said flatly. "Of course you didn't catch him."

"I see more than you might think," Thesan replied, unruffled. "The question is, what do you want done? I can send him away if that's your wish."

The question caught you off guard. You'd been so focused on your anger at being kept in the dark that you hadn't considered what you actually wanted.

Your chair scraped harshly as you stood. "He's not welcome anywhere near me."

"Very well," Thesan began. "I'll inform-"

"No." You cut him off, walking toward the door. "You don't get to play matchmaker, Thesan. Neither of you do. You had no right to keep this from me."

"That wasn't our intent," Lucien said.

You paused at the doorway, not looking back. "I'm not a piece in whatever game you're playing."

You left without waiting for a response, your anger a living thing inside you. But beneath it, the bond hummed, carrying an emotion that wasn't entirely your own, relief, perhaps, that you now knew he was here. That there was no more need for shadows and secrets.

You hated how your body responded to that knowledge, how the pain in your chest had eased slightly despite your fury.

"What is this, Medieval Instagram?" you muttered to yourself later, staring at the bracelet.

You set the bracelet aside, ignoring the insistent tug of the bond in your chest.

After a moment's hesitation, you didn't throw it away, but placed it in a drawer instead.

Out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.

The gifts continued over the following days.

A small pot of healing salve appeared on your balcony, its properties more potent than anything in the Dawn Court's extensive collection. Alis marveled at its efficacy, asking where you'd obtained it.

You couldn't bring yourself to tell her.

Then came a set of delicate crystal vials for holding medicinal tinctures, each stopper carved in the shape of a different healing herb. Next, a rare book on ancient healing techniques, its pages clearly carefully selected to align with your growing interests.

You placed each gift in the drawer with the bracelet, refusing to use them, refusing to acknowledge them in any way.

Yet you found yourself opening that drawer each night, running your fingers over the items, wondering what might appear next. The gifts felt like messages, each one saying. I see you. I know you. I'm sorry. Words the shadowsinger wouldn't couldn't say to your face.

One evening, you discovered a small wooden carving of a flame bunny on your balcony, so detailed it captured Ember's mischievous expression perfectly.

You ran your fingers over the intricate workmanship despite yourself. You placed the carving with the other gifts, trying to ignore how perfectly it fit in your palm, how the weight of it felt oddly comforting.

The next day, as you walked from the healing chambers to your rooms, you felt the familiar prickling sensation of being watched. This time, rather than ignoring it, you stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor.

"I know you're there," you said quietly, not turning around. "Following me like a shadow. Very original, by the way. So this is the Fae version of sliding into my DMs?"

No response came, but the air seemed to thicken, darkness gathering in the corners despite the eternal dawn light streaming through the windows.

Did the shadows just... ripple? As if caught off-guard by your strange reference?

"This is childish," you continued, still facing forward.

The shadows stirred, a whisper of movement that might have been mistaken for a draft if you hadn't been listening for it.

"Nothing to say for yourself?" You finally turned, scanning the seemingly empty corridor. "Fine. Keep hiding."

As you continued to your rooms, the sensation of being watched gradually faded.

By the time you reached your door, you felt alone again the bond still tugging insistently, but the immediate presence gone.

That night, no gift appeared on your balcony.

Nor the next night. Nor the one after that.

You told yourself you were relieved.

That the game, whatever it had been, was finally over. Yet each evening, you found yourself glancing toward the balcony, expecting perhaps even hoping to find another small token.

"This is why we can't have nice things," you muttered to yourself, annoyed at your own disappointment.

Ember and Sizzle seemed agitated, pacing the balcony each evening, their tiny forms of rosy-pink flame flickering with what seemed like disappointment when they found nothing new. They'd grown oddly attached to investigating each gift, sniffing and circling the items with inexplicable interest.

On the fourth night without a gift, Ember hopped onto your vanity table as you prepared for bed. His pink flame form flickered restlessly as he pawed at the drawer where you'd stored the shadowsinger's gifts.

"Stop that," you said, shooing him away. "It's nothing. My own personal Edward Cullen with wings sends his regards," you said with an eye roll that would have confused any purebred Fae.

Ember made a soft, crackling sound not words, but clearly displeasure. He continued pawing at the drawer until you relented and opened it, if only to prevent him from scorching the wood.

"There. See? Just trinkets," you told him firmly.

A soft chirp from the balcony drew your attention. Sizzle stood at the doors, her pink flame form brightening as she squeezed through the small gap you always left open for their nocturnal explorations.

"Sizzle! Get back here," you called, alarmed. She'd never ventured outside alone at night before.

Ember seized the opportunity created by your distraction to grab the wooden carving of himself, following his sister through the gap before you could stop him.

Moving to the balcony doors, you hesitated, then pushed them open fully, stepping out into the cool night air. The balcony was empty.

They must have scrambled down the ivy that covered this section of the palace wall. You leaned over the railing, trying to spot two tiny points of pink flame in the gardens below.

Nothing.

Without thinking, you grabbed a shawl and hurried from your rooms, making your way through the quiet palace corridors toward the gardens.

The bond in your chest seemed to pulse more insistently with each step, as if approving your destination even as you remained ignorant of it.

The night air carried the scent of Dawn Court roses as you entered the gardens, their blooms glowing faintly in the perpetual twilight. You called softly for your companions, listening for the distinctive crackle of their flame-steps on the gravel paths.

A flicker of movement caught your eye not the pink of your flame bunnies, but a deeper shadow among shadows near a secluded bench beneath a flowering tree.

Your steps slowed as you recognized the silhouette seated there, two tiny points of pink flame dancing around his feet.

The traitors had found exactly who they were looking for.

Azriel sat perfectly still as Ember and Sizzle circled him, emitting excited little crackles of flame. In the shadowsinger's gloved hands lay the wooden carving of Ember, which he appeared to be showing to the real thing.

His wings were folded tightly against his back, his expression hidden in shadow. The leather gloves he always wore seemed particularly dark against the pale wood of the carving.

You could have retreated should have retreated.

He hadn't noticed you yet, focused entirely on your flame companions. But your feet carried you forward instead, drawn by equal parts irritation at your pets' betrayal and the insistent pull of the bond.

You approached silently, eyes fixed only on your flame bunnies, deliberately avoiding looking at the shadowsinger.

"Ember. Sizzle. Come," you commanded, your voice neutral, as if speaking to empty air.

The flame bunnies looked up, their pink forms brightening at your approach, but neither moved to obey.

Sizzle even had the audacity to hop closer to Azriel's boot.

You continued as if speaking into a void, still not acknowledging the male's presence. "We're leaving now."

Azriel's shadows swirled around him in agitation, clearly sensing your deliberate dismissal. His head lifted, hazel eyes finding yours, but you looked right through him, focusing on a point beyond his shoulder.

"They see me," he said, his voice a broken whisper. "Why can't you? Or is it that you won't?"

You continued as if you hadn't heard him, as if the words had been merely the rustling of leaves. "Ember, Sizzle. Now."

The flame bunnies remained stubbornly in place. Ember even hopped onto Azriel's knee, pink flame brightening as he settled in like he belonged there.

Something inside you snapped.

A cold anger washed through you, and without thinking, you summoned the magic that tied these creatures to you. Fire blossomed in your palm not the gentle warmth you typically used with them, but a sharp, commanding heat.

"Come," you said one final time, infusing the word with power.

The flame bunnies froze, their pink forms flickering uncertainly. Then, as one, they vanished with twin pops of displaced air.

Azriel visibly flinched at the display of power, at the finality of it. His shadows recoiled around him as if struck.

"Please," he breathed, the word ragged with desperation. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know my words cut deeper than any blade. But this silence," his voice cracked, "is worse than any torture I've endured."

You turned without a word, without a glance, and began walking away.

"I dream of you," he called after you, voice raw with emotion. "Every night, I dream of a world where I didn't fail you."

You didn't slow, didn't turn.

"It doesn't change what happened," Azriel's voice followed you, breaking on each word. "But please... just look at me once. Just once. So I know there's still a path back to you, however long it might be."

You didn't slow, didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the words in any way.

But as you reached the edge of the garden, your peripheral vision caught his expression a flash of such raw pain that it momentarily stole your breath.

His face, usually so carefully controlled, had crumbled into naked hurt, shadows writhing around him like physical manifestations of his agony. A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek, glinting silver in the eternal dawn light before dropping to the ground.

The shadowsinger of the Night Court feared, revered, impenetrable wept for what he had lost.

You kept walking, spine straight, eyes forward, pretending you hadn't seen. Pretending the image of his devastated face wouldn't haunt your dreams.

The walk back to your chambers felt endless. Each step required focus, determination not to falter, not to let your mask slip.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, nearly drowning out the persistent hum of the bond that seemed to vibrate with the shared pain between you.

When you finally reached your door, your hand trembled slightly as you pushed it open. The moment it closed behind you, your carefully constructed composure shattered.

You slid to the floor, back against the door, as the first sob tore from your throat. The tears you'd been holding back rushed forth in a torrent, hot and unstoppable. Your shoulders shook with the force of your grief, grief for what might have been, grief for his pain, grief for your own.

"Why did you have to look at me like that?" you gasped between sobs, your voice breaking on each word. "Why did you have to cry? You don't get to cry after what you did."

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to block out the image that refused to leave you.

Azriel's face, that single silver tear tracking down his cheek. The shadowsinger of the Night Court, powerful and feared across Prythian, brought to tears by your rejection.

"I hate you," you whispered, but the bond flared painfully in your chest, as if sensing the lie. "I hate that I can't hate you."

The bond pulsed in your chest, a golden thread connecting you to him even now, carrying echoes of his anguish alongside your own. You wanted to sever it, to cut it away, but the harder you tried to ignore it, the more insistently it tugged.

"It's not fair," your voice cracked, barely audible through your tears. "It's not fair that I can feel you breaking when all I want is to be free of you."

You curled into yourself, arms wrapped around your knees as if physically holding yourself together. The sobs that wracked your body felt endless, each one torn from somewhere deeper than the last.

"You don't get to haunt me," you choked out. "You don't get to make me care after you threw me away."

You didn't know how long you sat there, tears flowing freely as you mourned something you'd never actually had. Something you'd rejected before fully understanding what it meant. The bond had been a violation, an intrusion but the male himself...

"I could have loved you," you whispered, the confession torn from your very soul. "That's what hurts the most. I could have loved you so easily."

Eventually, the tears subsided, leaving you hollow and exhausted.

You dragged yourself to the washbasin, splashing cold water on your face. In the mirror, your reflection stared back eyes reddened, face blotchy. You barely recognized yourself.

"Get it together," you told your reflection. "Tears doesn't erase what he did."

But even as you spoke the words, you knew they were a lie.

Because the pain you'd glimpsed in Azriel wasn't manipulation or self-pity.

It was raw, genuine agony the pain of someone watching their last hope walk away.

Your fingers slipped into your pocket, touching the silver bracelet you'd taken from the drawer earlier that day. Its weight felt both lighter and heavier than you remembered.

The metal caught the eternal dawn light streaming through your windows, reflecting it in golden hues that matched the bond pulsing in your chest.

"It doesn't change anything," you whispered, echoing his words.

But as your fingers closed around the bracelet rather than putting it back in the drawer, you wondered if that was truly still the case.

Azriel carefully eased the small leather bound journal from his pocket, unable to suppress the hiss of pain as the movement pulled at the wound in his side.

Fresh blood seeped through the hasty bandage he'd applied before leaving the battlefield at the Autumn Court border, the metallic scent mingling with the perpetual dawn sweetness of Thesan's realm.

Three more of Beron's assassins would never report back to their master.

Three more threats to you eliminated.

He'd have done it a thousand times over. Would bleed out a thousand times if it meant keeping you safe.

The journal's pages were worn from constant handling, the first half already filled with his neat, precise handwriting. This small book had become his most treasured possession over the weeks in Dawn Court an archive of you.

Or rather, the strange, fascinating things you said that no one in Prythian seemed to understand.

Today's entry made him smile despite the fire burning through his veins.

"That's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine." [Sketch of what appears to be a metal tube with a door made of crossed lines] Note: What is a submarine? Some kind of underwater house? Why would anyone put a door with holes in it underwater? Filed under: Makes no sense but I understand completely.

He'd overheard you muttering it to yourself when a haughty Dawn Court healer suggested an ineffective treatment for one of your patients.

The sunlight had caught in your hair as you'd said it, turning the strands to living flame. Even in your irritation, you'd been beautiful.

Azriel had no idea what a "submarine" was, but the imagery was somehow perfectly clear something meant to keep water out being rendered useless.

The phrase was so distinctly you.

The journal contained dozens of these oddities.

"Well that escalated quickly." Note: Usually said when Thesan's fussy assistant starts crying after simple criticism. "Not my circus, not my monkeys." [Small sketch of what might be monkeys with question marks] Note: No actual circus observed in Dawn Court. Does she have a secret circus? Must investigate. "Plot twist!" Note: Shouted when discovering her patient had been faking symptoms to stay longer. "Houston, we have a problem." [Sketch of a star with a question mark] Note: Who is Houston? Some kind of authority on problems? Have checked all records of Prythian nobility. No Houston found. "This is giving me major déjà vu." Note: Correct pronunciation: day zhah voo. Sounds Continent based but she has no accent. Used when entering Dawn Court's west wing. Why? What happened there? "Sweet baby Jesus, that hurts!" Note: Unfamiliar deity? No known religion in Prythian worships infant gods. "That's what she said." Note: Said after completely innocent comment about "it's too big to fit." Makes everyone uncomfortable for reasons unclear. "I'm going to need coffee for this." [Sketch of a steaming cup] Note: Unknown beverage. When I asked kitchen staff, they were confused. Apparent withdrawal symptoms observed in mornings. Addictive substance?

Azriel traced a gloved finger over today's entry. Someday, perhaps, he would ask you about them.

Someday, when you finally acknowledged his existence again, he would show you this collection of linguistic curiosities and watch your face as you explained their origins.

If that day ever came.

The thought sent a fresh wave of anguish through him, sharper than the poisoned blade that had caught him in the skirmish hours earlier.

His shadows recoiled as if physically struck, curling protectively around him before lashing out at nothing, responding to his pain in ways his face never would.

He carefully returned the journal to his inner pocket, close to his heart, where it always remained.

Dawn was approaching as Azriel made his way to Lucien's quarters with his latest intel. Blood dripped steadily down his side, each step leaving faint scarlet drops on the polished marble, the trail quickly dissolving into shadow behind him.

What was physical pain compared to the hollow ache of being unseen by the one person whose gaze he craved?

"You look terrible," Lucien said by way of greeting, his metal eye whirring as it took in Azriel's pallor and the blood soaked leathers.

"Beron has deployed his elite guard," Azriel reported, ignoring the comment as he handed over maps marked with troop positions. His voice remained steady despite the room tilting sideways. "They're converging from three directions. The attack will come within two days, possibly when Thesan's power ebbs slightly."

"And his objective?"

"Extraction," Azriel said flatly. "He wants her alive."

Lucien studied the maps with a frown. "How reliable is this intel?"

"I extracted it personally." The words were emotionless, but the shadows around Azriel churned with remembered violence, briefly taking the shapes of the assassins he'd interrogated before ending their lives.

Lucien's gaze flickered to the steadily spreading bloodstain on Azriel's side. "You need a healer."

"It's nothing."

"It's poisoned," Lucien countered. "I can smell it from here."

Azriel's expression remained impassive. "I'll handle it."

"She's on duty in the east wing healing chambers," Lucien said carefully. "The best healer we have for poison."

The shadows around Azriel contracted violently, betraying the control he maintained over his face. One shadow tendril reached briefly toward the east wing before he brutally reined it back. "She doesn't see me, remember?"

"Perhaps if-"

"No." The word was final, though it cost him dearly to say it. "I'm not asking for her help when she's made her position clear."

Lucien sighed, running a hand through his russet hair. "Your pride will kill you."

"It's not pride," Azriel said quietly, shadows writhing. "It's respect for her choice."

He left the maps with Lucien and retreated to his small quarters at the edge of the Dawn Court grounds.

Today's gift for you was already prepared a small vial of rare Night Court starlight distilled into liquid form. When applied to wounds, it accelerated healing without scarring. Rhys had sent it at Azriel's request, no questions asked, though his High Lord surely wondered at the urgency.

Azriel wrapped the vial in midnight blue silk and penned a simple note.

For the burn patient in the east wing. Three drops in her evening tea will ease her pain. -A

He would leave it where Alis would find it. The head healer had become his unwitting accomplice in these deliveries, recognizing the value of his gifts even if she didn't understand their source.

Before that, though, he needed to tend to his wound.

The small chamber he'd been assigned was spartan, but he'd added one indulgence. A carved wooden stand beside the bed, displaying each of the gifts you had returned.

The silver flame bracelet. The healing salve. The rare book of ancient techniques. The carved flame bunnies.

Each one delivered back to his doorstep, sometimes within hours of your receiving them.

Each rejection a fresh wound, deeper than any blade could reach.

Yet still he created new gifts, still he left them where you would find them.

What was insanity, after all, but doing the same thing repeatedly while expecting different results?

Azriel removed his armor with careful movements, a strangled sound escaping him as dried blood made the leather stick to his wound. The gash along his ribs was ugly, the edges tinged with a greenish black that spoke of powerful toxins.

The vile magic of Autumn Court assassins designed to kill slowly, painfully. He cleaned it as best he could, applied what healing salves he had, and wrapped it in fresh bandages.

It would have to do.

His shadows whispered of your movements through the palace a benefit of the bond that remained even when you refused to acknowledge it.

You were finishing your shift in the healing chambers, tired after treating a particularly difficult case. Even exhausted, you moved with a grace that mesmerized him. The way your hands worked, sure and steady. The slight furrow between your brows when you concentrated. The scent of you healing herbs, dawn light and something uniquely, perfectly you.

Foolishly, pathetically, he wondered if you ever asked about the source of the mysterious gifts that continued to appear.

If you ever suspected they came from the same male who hunted in the night to keep Beron's assassins from your door. If you ever felt the bond tugging you toward him, as it constantly pulled him toward you.

The mating bond pulsed in his chest, a golden thread that stretched across the palace to where you worked. Once, he had feared it. He had rejected it with cruel words that he would spend eternity regretting.

Now, it was his only comfort, his only connection to you, even as it tore him apart from within.

When darkness fell, Azriel slipped through the palace to leave the vial where Alis would find it. His wound protested every movement, sending waves of agony through him with each heartbeat.

The shadows helped hold him upright when his own strength began to fail, weaving a cocoon of darkness around him that hid the worst of his deterioration.

The healing chambers were quiet this late, only a skeletal staff remaining for emergencies. Azriel's shadows guided him through blind spots in the guards' rotations, past dozing attendants, to the small office where Alis kept her records and supplies. The familiar scent of healing herbs surrounded him, but underneath was a trace of you you had been here recently.

He was placing the silk wrapped vial on her desk when a voice behind him froze him in place.

"Still leaving your little presents?" The words were sharp as winter frost.

Your voice.

For a moment, Azriel couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His shadows contracted around him in shock, then flared outward in response to the sudden hammering of his heart. Several tendrils reached instinctively toward you before he yanked them back.

Slowly, he turned.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest like a shield. Your face was carefully blank, but your scent betrayed you. A volatile mix of anger, sorrow, and something sweeter, something that matched the golden bond still pulsing between you.

Even now, even refusing to look directly at him, you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The way the eternal dawn light caught in your hair. The stubborn set of your jaw. The slight tremor in your hands that you tried to hide by gripping your own arms tighter.

"I told Thesan to send you away," you said, your tone clipped and final. "Yet you linger like a ghost."

Azriel remained perfectly still, afraid any movement might shatter this moment the first time you'd spoken directly to him since that night in the garden.

"I know they're from you," you continued, your voice flat and empty of emotion. "All of them."

His shadows curled inward, as if trying to shield him from the blow. "They help your patients," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

"I don't need your charity." You picked up the vial from the desk and tossed it back at him. He caught it instinctively, though the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his side. "I don't need anything from you."

"Beron has dispatched his elite guard," Azriel said, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. "Three strike teams converging on Dawn Court."

For a moment, something flickered in your expression annoyance, perhaps even contempt.

But your scent shifted, betraying a flash of genuine fear quickly suppressed. "I don't need your protection either."

"I already informed Lucien," he added quietly, even as the room began to tilt alarmingly. His shadows condensed around him, helping him remain upright.

"Then your usefulness has ended." You stepped aside, a clear dismissal. "You should go. Permanently."

Azriel didn't move. His side throbbed viciously, the poison working deeper with every heartbeat.

"Why do you say things no one understands?" The question escaped before he could stop it.

Your eyes narrowed, briefly flicking to his face before returning to the wall.

In that split second of eye contact, the bond flared painfully between you, and Azriel couldn't quite suppress his slight intake of breath.

"I don't owe you explanations."

"Screen doors on submarines," he said quietly. "Not your circus, not your monkeys. Houston having problems."

Your jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath your skin. Your scent changed again surprise mingled with something almost like embarrassment. "You've been spying on me."

"Protecting you," he corrected.

A shadow tendril escaped his control, reaching toward you before he could stop it. It brushed against your ankle for the briefest moment before he yanked it back, a silent apology in his eyes.

You tensed at the contact, the first crack appearing in your mask a flash of something that might have been recognition, might have been longing. It disappeared so quickly he thought he might have imagined it.

"I never asked for that." Your voice was ice, but your scent had warmed slightly. "I never asked for any of this."

Your gaze dropped momentarily to his side, where blood was now seeping through his leathers despite the fresh bandage. Something that might have been concern flashed across your face, quickly replaced by calculated indifference. But your fingers twitched slightly at your sides, a healer's instinct to help warring with your determination to remain distant.

"You're bleeding on Thesan's floor," you observed.

"It's nothing." The room spun again, and Azriel leaned imperceptibly against the desk.

"It's poisoned," you said flatly. "The servants will have to clean up after you. Again."

Those words cut deeper than the physical wound.

Azriel's face remained impassive, centuries of discipline keeping his pain from showing.

But his shadows betrayed him, contracting violently before lashing out at nothing, leaving frost patterns on the nearby window. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Don't apologize. Just leave." Your voice was final, brooking no argument. But your eyes darted again to his wound, lingering longer this time.

Azriel inclined his head slightly, accepting the dismissal.

He moved to leave, his shadows wrapped tightly around him like a shield. As he passed you in the doorway, careful not to let even his shadows brush against you again, a wave of dizziness struck. The poison reached his heart in that moment, sending a surge of burning agony through his entire body. He stumbled, one hand bracing against the wall.

For a heartbeat, your hand lifted slightly, an aborted gesture to help him. But you caught yourself, forcing your arm back to your side. Your scent shifted again concern fighting with resolve.

"The book of healing techniques," he said quietly, fighting to remain upright. "The section on poison extraction. Page ninety four."

"I don't need your advice on how to do my job," you replied coolly. But beneath the ice, there was a note of something else a question unasked.

Then he was gone, slipping into the darkness of the corridor, his shadows barely concealing his increasingly unsteady gait. As he rounded the corner, a small leather object dropped, landing silently on the floor. His journal, dislodged when he stumbled.

You watched him go, your expression never changing, your posture rigid and unyielding. Only when he had disappeared completely did you let your shoulders slump slightly, one hand rising to press against your chest where the mating bond pulsed. Only then did your mask slip, pain and conflict washing across your features.

You moved to follow the trail of his blood, something in you unable to let him die, no matter what he'd done. But as you stepped into the hallway, your foot caught on something. Looking down, you saw the small leather bound journal.

You picked it up, intending to leave it on the desk for him to find later.

But it fell open in your hands, revealing page after page of your strange sayings, carefully documented in his precise handwriting. Not just the words themselves, but observations the way your eyes lit up when you said certain phrases, the musical quality of your laugh, the exact pattern of your movements.

It wasn't the journal of a spy. It was the journal of someone who saw you really saw you in a way no one ever had before.

You slipped it into your pocket, your face returning to its mask of indifference as you made a choice. Not forgiveness not yet. But something close to understanding.

Back in his quarters, Azriel collapsed onto his bed, the toll of the night's injuries finally claiming their due. The missing journal was a distant concern as darkness closed in.

His skin burned from within, the poison reaching every extremity now. His shadows swirled helplessly around him, unable to fight an enemy they couldn't touch.

He wondered, as consciousness slipped away, if you would ever look at him truly look at him again. If you would ever ask him about submarines and Houston and all the other mysteries he'd collected like precious gems. If there would be a next gift at all, given the poison now burning through his veins.

The door to his quarters opened, letting in a shaft of perpetual dawn light.

A figure stood silhouetted there, familiar and beloved.

"You're an idiot," came your voice, still cold but now threaded with something else. "And this doesn't mean I forgive you."

His shadows swirled toward you, reaching, yearning, before he could stop them.

"But I won't let you die," you continued, approaching the bed with your healer's kit. "Not like this. Not before you find out what a submarine actually is."

His shadows curled protectively around him as he surrendered to unconsciousness, carrying his final thought like a prayer.

The cruelest part of immortality, he breathed, is knowing I might spend eternity remembering the moment I lost her.

we’ve got trauma, blood, reluctant healing, repressed feelings, and one journal full of submarine-related confusion. no one is okay. especially not me.

Author’s Note:

hi besties! :) welcome back to the emotional battlefield 💕 in this chapter: azriel cries (again), your flame bunnies commit light treason, and the bond is out here acting like a clingy ex with GPS.

please hydrate. scream into a pillow. tell azriel to stop bleeding on things. and remember: just because he’s broody and poetic doesn’t mean you have to forgive him. yet.

do I regret writing this chapter?

yes.

will I do it again?

also yes.

see you next chapter for more romantic pain and possibly an accidental kiss or full emotional collapse. who’s to say. 🫶💀🖤

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[lastofdanny]

hi babess so i was wondering about this and i put these 4 characters here bc they are the ones i already have ideas for, but pls let me know if you'd like to read about a different one ♡ xo

[chaoticsolsworld]

lord, I need Danny Ramirez' Ash Garver in ways that concern humanity