#flora flutter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solxamber · 2 months ago

Text

Mage x Menace || Jade Leech

You, a struggling mage-in-training, tried to summon a majestic beast to escape your cursed fate in the botany stream.

Instead, you got Jade Leech—chaos incarnate, collector of mysterious jars, and disturbingly enthusiastic about plants.

He now lives in your dorm, calls you "Master" with a straight face and might be seducing you via herbal tea.

this is a present for @hyperfixating-rn <3 I'm very late but happy belated birthday!!

You were going to be a great mage. A legendary one. The kind they wrote poems about—long, rhyming ones with unnecessarily dramatic metaphors. You had dreams. Ambitions. A Pinterest board titled "Epic Wizard Core." You practiced basic spells in your room, blew up your mirror once, and were 96% sure your magical aura was purple (which is obviously the most powerful one, everyone knows that).

So imagine your surprise when your entrance exam results came back and you were… sorted into the Botany stream.

Botany.

As in, plants.

As in, dirt and roots and sunlight and “communing with nature.”

You had never communed with nature. You had once tried to grow a cactus—the most resilient plant known to humankind—and it had withered in protest within a week. You had named that cactus Spiky. Its death was a tragedy. A murder, some said. By you.

So naturally, you stood there on orientation day, holding your shiny new textbook titled “Green is the Heart’s Color: Love and Magic in Leaves”, with the same vibe as someone who had been given a live grenade and told to hug it.

Your fellow classmates looked excited. Eager. Too green, in more ways than one. You watched one of them gently cradle a sproutling like it was a newborn. Another was crying over the “beautiful potential” of transpiration. Meanwhile, you were googling "can you accidentally poison poison ivy."

And then, of course, came your professor. You don’t remember much from the orientation speech because you were too busy having a silent breakdown about the phrase "the gentle whisper of chlorophyll." But you do remember one very important thing:

You’re in so much trouble.

You raised your hand at one point to ask if you were allowed to… switch majors. The professor smiled.

A warm, benevolent, lethal smile.

“Oh, dear. The plants have chosen you.”

What does that even mean???

You don’t know. But the tiny seedling on your desk keeps wiggling like it’s happy to see you. You don’t trust it. You name it Vermin and pray it doesn’t unionize with the moss on your windowsill.

You are a mage in training. A powerful wizard in the making.

And now you are at war… with horticulture.

After a week of trying to bond with leaves like they were long-lost family and nearly getting strangled by a particularly enthusiastic vine, you decided you’d had enough.

You needed a way out.

Not in the dramatic “storm out of class, set fire to the greenhouse, and flee into the mountains” way. (Though it was on the table.)

You needed a loophole. An escape clause. A forbidden back door in the curriculum forged in ancient times by other students who had also accidentally murdered cacti.

So you did what any desperate, dignity-depleted mage-in-training would do.

You found a senior.

Now, seniors in mage school are like cryptids. Powerful. Elusive. Sleep-deprived. And terrifying in the way only people who’ve once accidentally turned themselves into a plant can be. Your chosen senior was sitting under a tree, drinking coffee from a mug that said “I survived Magical Ecology II and all I got was this mug and lifelong trauma.”

You approached, clinging to your textbook like it was a lifeline. “Hi. I’m—uh. I’m not vibing with the flora.”

They looked up, eyes dark with knowledge and probably caffeine. “Botany stream?”

“Against my will.”

A pause. A long, sympathetic sip. Then: “You have two options.”

Your heart fluttered. Hope! Salvation! Maybe—

“One: Fail everything, get held back a year, reapply next cycle. Pray the plants forget your face.”

“I can’t afford that. Option two?”

“Summon a familiar so powerful, the faculty has to bump you into a combat-heavy stream for your own safety. And theirs.”

You blinked. “Like. A dragon?”

The senior shrugged. “Sure. Or a demon. Or a vengeful raccoon. Anything above ‘mildly homicidal housecat’ works.”

“And then they’ll just… change my stream?”

“If your familiar is terrifying enough, yes. Preferably something with fire. Fire fixes everything. Except greenhouses.”

You nodded slowly, feeling the stirrings of a Plan™. A terrible, beautiful, questionable plan.

"How hard is it to summon a familiar?" you asked.

They smiled, and it was not comforting.

“Not hard. Doing it without summoning something that wants to eat you is the tricky part.”

You thanked them and walked off into the distance, muttering under your breath and already flipping through your grimoires.

You were going to get out of this stream or die trying.

Hopefully neither.

But if a hellbeast had to be involved, well…

You were prepared to negotiate.

You had one job.

Just one.

Summon a powerful familiar. Save your future career path. Escape the dreaded Botany Stream before you're eaten alive by carnivorous radishes with anger issues and questionable ethics.

You’d studied forbidden texts. You’d drawn your summoning circle to perfect mathematical proportions using a protractor, three compasses, and something called “Manifestation Oil” you bought off a sketchy alchemy influencer.

You even lit candles by hand like a peasant. That’s how serious this was.

You had one last step: focus your intent. Picture what you wanted. Channel all your magic and will into the ritual. A dragon, perhaps. A fearsome spirit. A beast of legend. Maybe even a war general.

Instead, the unagi you were saving for dinner—your actual, literal eel—slid off the table mid-chant and splat landed right in the center of the summoning circle.

The summoning circle hissed.

You had precisely one second to scream “NO, YOU STUPID SLIPPERY FISH—” before the circle detonated.

There was light. Screaming wind. Something smelled vaguely of seaweed and crime.

When your retinas finally stopped sizzling and your ears recovered from their astral slapping, you looked up.

And there he was.

A tall, elegant man standing in the still-smoking circle, dusting off his sleeves like he hadn’t just been yanked across the realms by an overcooked eel. His teal hair shimmered like deep water. Heterochromatic eyes. He looked like a minor sea god and a professional tax evader all rolled into one.

He tilted his head. Smiled. “That was… dramatic.”

You stared. Still holding the empty microwave-safe eel tray like a sacrificial relic.

“I was trying to summon a dragon,” you croaked.

“Ah,” he said, eyeing the smear of soy sauce in the center of the runes. “Then why the seafood?”

You didn’t have an answer. Mostly because you were too busy silently screaming.

“I suppose I’m what happens when your spell gets rerouted mid-delivery,” he continued, delight practically oozing off him. “Fascinating. I'm Jade. Jade Leech.”

You, a mage of great ambition and even greater regret, took a deep breath and said the only thing that made sense.

“…Are you allergic to plants?”

Jade Leech, freshly yanked from the dark, swirling depths of somewhere much cooler than here, watched with the amused detachment of a man who had just witnessed his summoner go through all five stages of grief in under forty seconds.

You cursed the gods.

You cursed the stars.

You cursed your entrance exam, your cactus, your birth, and at one point—yourself in third person.

He said nothing. Simply folded his hands behind his back and watched with the kind of serene interest normally reserved for people observing an exotic animal fling itself against glass.

Eventually, once your vocal cords began to shred from impassioned screaming (and possibly mild sobbing), you whirled toward him, red-eyed and wild-haired, and gestured at him in disbelief.

“Are you—” you wheezed, dragging a sleeve across your face, “perchance a dragon?”

He blinked slowly. His smile widened.

“Perchance?”

“I don’t know!” you shouted. “You’re tall! You appeared in a bunch of smoke! Your hair defies gravity! That could be dragon behavior!”

“Hm.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And if I say yes?”

You squinted. “...Do you breathe fire?”

“I’m more of a ��poison your tea and watch what happens’ sort of creature,” he replied, pleasantly.

You screamed again—this time in cosmic betrayal—and stomped your foot so hard the candles trembled.

He made a note of this. You had good stomping technique.

“Well then what are you?!” you demanded.

He shrugged, like this wasn’t a magical emergency and more of a casual day.

“A Moray Eel, technically.”

You stared at him. Then at the summoning circle. Then at the empty microwave eel tray still on the floor. Then back at him.

“Oh my gods,” you whispered in horror. “The unagi redirected the target circle. I was summoning a power dragon and the ritual downgraded to ‘long sea worm.’”

He chuckled. “How dare you.”

“I wanted to cheat the system,” you whispered, falling to your knees like a tragic protagonist. “And the gods sent me seafood.”

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

You threw yourself to the ground and started sobbing into the floor.

Jade’s smile grew wider. He might stay. This was already more entertaining than anything back home.

And honestly, watching you spiral was kind of charming.

Jade made tea.

You weren’t entirely sure how or when. One moment, you were crumpled on the floor, dramatically mourning your dreams of becoming a cool elemental mage with a dragon familiar. The next, he was handing you a dainty teacup on a saucer you definitely didn’t own.

There was a slice of lemon in it. The mug was warm. You were terrified.

“…Did you summon this tea set too?” you asked, eyeing the porcelain like it was going to explode.

“No,” he said pleasantly. “It was in your cupboard.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He smiled wider. “Was it not?”

You stared at him. He stared back, sipping his tea with the calm of someone who knew exactly where every spoon in your home was and wouldn’t hesitate to replace them with slightly longer spoons just to gaslight you.

You took a sip of the tea to assert dominance. It was delicious. You hated that it was delicious.

He watched you, unblinking. “So. Why the desperate summoning?”

You groaned, slouching like the tea had robbed you of whatever spine you had left. “I got sorted into the botany stream.”

There was a silence. You sipped your tea again to drown in the shame.

Then his eyes sparkled.

You felt it. Like a shift in the atmosphere. Like the moment before a lightning strike. Like the second someone said, “Trust me,” and you woke up four hours later in a tree, covered in glitter and mild regret.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “Botany.”

“No,” you said immediately. “Don’t do that. Don’t say it like that.”

“Fascinating field, truly.”

“Nope. You’re not going to help me switch out, are you?”

He leaned forward, chin in his hand, elbow balanced too gracefully for someone who had appeared out of eel magic and poor life choices. “Why would I do that? I think you’ll thrive.”

“You don’t understand,” you said, pleading now. “I killed a cactus.”

“Oh, I completely understand,” he said. “And I'm going to help you fulfill your potential.”

You froze. “…You mean, like, help me survive until I transfer?”

“No,” he said.

You dropped your cup. He caught it without looking. You wanted to scream.

The only thing worse than being a botany student… was being a botany student with a chaos eel who found fungi romantically intriguing as your familiar.

You were so doomed.

Unfortunately for everyone involved—and by everyone, specifically you—magic law was a clingy little thing. Once the summoning circle did its sparkly flashbang thing and delivered you one (1) butler-themed eel man, the universe basically clapped its hands, said “it is what it is,” and slapped a contract in your face.

Minimum term of servitude: one year.

“But I didn’t mean to summon him,” you argued to literally no one who cared. “There was fish involved! It was a mishap, not a magical invocation!”

Jade, very unhelpfully sipping tea that you definitely hadn’t bought, slid the scroll across the table toward you like a cheerful IRS agent. “Intent is only one part of the ritual,” he said with the infinite patience of someone who enjoyed watching trainwrecks in slow motion. “The contract is already half-formed. You really should sign it before your house explodes.”

You stared at the scroll.

Then at him.

Then at the scroll again.

“Do I at least get a trial period?” you tried.

“No,” he said, smiling.

“A free return policy?”

“No.”

“Is there, like, an eel clause I can exploit?”

He chuckled. You were going to die in this major.

With the kind of reluctant grace that only someone who’d just accidentally legally bound themselves to a smug sea-creature man could muster, you signed.

The moment the pen left the paper, the air shifted with a cozy little pop, as if magic itself was tucking you both in and whispering “congratulations on your joint custody of chaos.” A faint glow danced around Jade’s shoulders. Your window exploded.

(You’d ask questions about that later.)

“There we are,” Jade said, clasping his hands. “Familiar and mage, officially contracted. Shall I begin compiling a weekly schedule for our fieldwork?”

“Field—oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he beamed. “We’ll be revisiting the entire kingdom flora catalogue, starting with mosses.”

You suddenly understood the reason why some mages went mad.

And unfortunately, you’d just handed yours the clipboard.

The next morning, you dragged yourself to class like a condemned soul to the gallows, weighed down by a sense of impending doom and also by the deeply unsettling realization that your familiar had organized your bookshelf by spore reproduction categories sometime during the night.

Everyone else looked so normal. There was someone with a fire spirit coiled lazily around their shoulders, someone else with a giant spectral wolf that radiated unbothered energy, and even one smug jerk with a miniature dragon who was definitely using it to cheat on practical tests.

And then there was you.

With him.

Jade stood a respectful half-step behind you, dressed like a mildly menacing butler who might also commit tax fraud if given the opportunity. He carried your books. He bowed to your professor. He smiled at your classmates.

You didn’t trust that smile. That was the smile of a man who had definitely poisoned a royal court and got away with it by turning the queen into a toadstool.

Someone asked what type of spirit you’d summoned.

You opened your mouth to lie.

Jade answered for you. “They were aiming for a dragon,” he said, serene as ever. “But an eel will have to do.”

The entire class stared at you. You stared into the void.

“It was the unagi,” you muttered, already defeated.

No one knew what that meant, but it sounded stupid, so they all laughed.

Jade patted your back like a supportive guardian. You were ninety percent sure it was to check your spine for eventual harvesting.

Gods help you. It was only the first period.

The Academy was in shambles.

Centuries of magical history. Thousands of successfully summoned fire spirits, storm wolves, mildly angry raccoons. And you—a botany major with a dead cactus on your record—had gone and summoned a person.

Not a ghost.

Not an illusion.

Not even a creepy guy pretending to be summonable.

No. A fully functional person.

“Technically,” the Dean said, staring at the magical contract hovering over your heads, “you… own him now.”

You almost threw up on the ornate rug.

Jade Leech, the man in question, just smiled—sharp, calm, entirely too pleased.

“This is so cursed,” you whispered.

“Oh no,” he replied sweetly. “This is fate.”

And that was only the beginning of your descent into contractual hell.

Because Jade? Oh, he thrived under magical servitude. Took to it like a duck to water. Like an eel to crime.

He started calling you Master.

In public. Loudly. With emphasis.

“Good morning, Master,” he purred on the way to breakfast, gliding past stunned first-years who immediately assumed you were either very powerful or very into some stuff they weren’t ready to Google.

“Jade. Stop.”

“As you command, Master.”

You tried reasoning with him. You begged. You threatened to cry in front of the Headmistress.

Didn’t matter.

In fact, the more embarrassed you got, the worse it became.

“Master, shall I carry your books?”

“No.”

“Your lunch?”

“No.”

“Your emotional baggage?”

“Jade—”

“Ah, but you summoned me, Master. Now we’re bonded.”

You looked around, desperate for help, but every professor just kind of shrugged. Magical contracts were sacred. Breakable only through death, divine intervention, or, apparently, a system of interpretive dances before the moon goddess during a blood eclipse. None of which were happening before finals.

So now this was your life.

You were the “owner” of a smug eel man in a waistcoat who made you do your homework, made better tea than your own grandmother, and insisted on calling you Master while looking like a very polite threat.

You used to be a normal student with no future in botany.

You should've just failed your exams like a normal student.

Jade settled into your dorm room like he’d been planning it for years. Which was frankly insane, considering you’d only accidentally summoned him a day ago.

You woke up the morning after signing the magically binding familiar contract to find your room… different. Not horrifyingly so, just enough to make your eye twitch. Your desk had moved three inches to the left. Your bookshelf now had labels. Your cactus—previously deceased—was somehow thriving in a suspiciously fancy ceramic pot.

And then there were the jars. Oh gods, the jars. They lined the shelves now in neat, alphabetized rows. Some were normal—“Chamomile,” “Sea Salt,” “Lavender Sprigs.” Others were less so. “Tooth Collection (Domestic)” sat right next to “Rainwater (For Legal Use Only).” You wanted to ask, but Jade had a look in his eye that said whatever answer you get, you won’t like it.

He also brewed tea every morning. Not the relaxing kind. The existential crisis in a cup kind. You drank one (1) polite sip and suddenly understood what “the color eleven” looked like. Your body remained seated but your soul went on a brief vacation.

You had no idea how, but you were scoring higher in Botany. You still couldn’t identify a single plant, but Jade kept slipping you notes mid-lab with things like “This one bites. Do not sniff.” or “Lick at your own risk.”

So yes, your GPA was rising. Unfortunately, so was your blood pressure. And your heart rate. And your sense that you were, somehow, very much in danger.

Jade simply smiled every time you panicked. “You’re thriving, Master,” he’d say, and sip his tea like he wasn’t actively reorganizing your entire life.

You were not thriving. You were surviving. Barely.

The assignment was simple on paper: identify twenty local plants, label their genus, and list their magical and medicinal properties.

Which was all fine and dandy if you weren’t a person who had accidentally killed a cactus by underwatering it because you “didn’t want to overwhelm it.”

You’d gotten through most of your academic career via a potent combination of vibes, frantic late-night study sessions, and an almost supernatural level of spite. But this—this was science. With labels. And botanical terminology. And leaves that all looked the same.

So, you did what any sane, desperate mage-in-training with poor decision-making skills and a total lack of botanical knowledge would do.

You brewed a bathtub-sized cauldron of universal poison antidote and decided you’d taste-test each plant to figure out which one was lethal and, by process of elimination, identify the rest.

Jade found you leaning over the cauldron, mumbling something about statistical mortality rates and chewing on a leaf like a feral squirrel trying to beat natural selection.

“I thought you were joking,” he said, in that same unsettlingly pleasant tone he always used when you were actively concerning him.

“I wasn’t!” you declared. “This is science, Jade. And survival. I’ve made enough antidote to survive an assassination attempt—”

“You made it in your bathtub.”

“—and I’m going to lick nature into submission.”

Jade sat you down at the table, folded his hands neatly, and asked you—politely but with the weight of an ancient curse behind it—to repeat your plan.

You did.

He stared at you.

You shifted in your seat.

He continued to stare, like a disappointed headmaster.

“...Okay fine,” you finally muttered. “It is a bad plan.”

“Thank you,” he said calmly. “Would you like to identify your plants using logic, reference books, and assistance from your familiar, or would you prefer a slow and humiliating descent into gastrointestinal regret?”

“I mean, when you say it like that—”

“Wonderful. I’ll prepare the tea.”

You hated how soothing (mostly) his tea was.

You found out purely by accident.

Your friend sat down at lunch with a heavy sigh and a tear-streaked face, muttering something about how their fox familiar had gone limp and glassy-eyed after being ignored for two days straight in favor of midterms. Apparently, he needed “emotional engagement” and “frequent pets.”

You had not known this. You had not known any of this.

You returned to your dorm in a panic.

Jade, as always, was seated like an eerie portrait come to life, sipping tea and reading a book that looked suspiciously bound in scales. He raised one eyebrow as you burst through the door carrying three different types of fruits and a hand-sewn blanket you’d made in Home Ec two years ago.

“I heard that familiars need enrichment,” you blurted. “Do you—are you enriched? Are you feeling under-enriched? What’s your favorite snack enrichment type? Is it eels? Oh no wait, is that cannibalism? I don’t know your rules!”

Jade blinked slowly. “You believe I am in poor health?”

“I don’t know!” you wailed, thrusting the blanket at him. “I don’t know the maintenance routine for familiars! You could be dying from sadness and I wouldn’t know!”

He looked down at the blanket. It had uneven edges and a sewn-on mushroom that looked like it had witnessed terrible things. Slowly, he took it. Draped it over his lap. Sipped his tea again.

“You are a very considerate Master,” he said with a pleased little smile that absolutely shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d just earned an A+ in Familiar Wellness. “I feel much better already.”

You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or not. But then he let you tuck the blanket around his shoulders like a shawl, and even let you hand-feed him a strawberry.

You decided you didn’t care if he was messing with you. His ears were flushed. That was a win.

You needed Nightshade. Not the safe kind either—the real, reactive stuff that tended to hiss if the humidity wasn’t just right and once exploded in someone's bag for being stared at wrong.

Unfortunately, your professors had firmly, repeatedly, and increasingly frantically refused to let you anywhere near it. Something about “prior incidents,” “a trail of fire ants through the dorm hallway,” and “we are begging you to stop licking mystery leaves.”

But you had an experiment to finish, and a lack of official approval had never stopped a single mage in history. Which was how you found yourself sneaking into the restricted greenhouse under cover of darkness, with your overly smug eel-familiar following like he was on a stroll and not a felonious B&E.

“This is clearly illegal,” Jade said cheerfully, as he helped you pick the lock.

“You’re a summoned being. Laws don’t apply to you,” you muttered, shoving the door open.

“That’s speciesist,” he said mildly, and you ignored him on purpose.

The two of you tiptoed through rows of glowing plants, whisper-bickering the whole way.

“Don’t touch that. It screams.”

“You scream.”

“Yes, and I have a great voice.”

He huffed a laugh. You tried not to grin. You failed.

Honestly, it would’ve been a perfectly stupid and smooth heist—until the Shrike Vine noticed you. Apparently it was pollination season and it was feeling bitey. You froze as a thick green tendril snapped toward you like a whip.

Except it never hit.

Jade moved faster than you thought was possible. One hand caught the vine mid-strike, the other calmly flicked a tiny blade across it like he was trimming hedges instead of saving your life.

And then, because he was a menace, he leaned in close—just enough for you to catch the sharp gleam in his mismatched eyes—and murmured:

“I’m very good at protecting what’s mine.”

You were not about to combust in a greenhouse. You were not. Absolutely not.

Still. Your face was hot. You blamed the bioluminescent plants.

“Wh—That’s not—you can’t just say things like that,” you hissed.

He tilted his head, looking unbothered and devastatingly pleased. “Why not?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Pointed at the vine. “Is that one safe to lick?”

“Absolutely not.”

“…Cool, cool, just checking.”

The incident itself wasn’t even your fault this time, which was frankly insulting, considering you usually caused at least 70% of the department's arcane emergencies.

No, this time it was Jeremy from Spell Calculus who accidentally overcharged a fire enhancement glyph and sent a wayward jet of magic careening through the lab like a feral gremlin. It ping-ponged off three protective wards, vaporized a desk plant, and promptly singed your familiar.

Specifically: Jade’s sleeve caught a little fire. For exactly three seconds.

The sleeve was barely charred. His skin wasn’t even red. He smirked.

You, however, reacted like you’d just watched him be stabbed in the heart by a divine lance.

“OH MY GOD YOU’RE BURNING—ARE YOU OKAY?! Is it fatal? It’s fatal, isn’t it?! What’s the protocol for familiar injury?! Do you need a resurrection spell?? Should I call the nurse or the exorcist—?!”

Jade, blinked once. Then calmly patted the faintest whiff of smoke from his robe and said, “I believe I’ll live.”

But the glint in his eyes said he smelled weakness. And he would absolutely exploit it.

The next morning, you showed up with a full care basket: enchanted cooling balm, a wonky scarf you’d panic-crocheted in the night, a potion for nerve regeneration (completely unnecessary), and a whole assortment of healing snacks from the infirmary vending machine.

You even hand-fed him a soothing honey drop.

That was your next mistake.

Because the very next day, Jade reclined across your bed like a drama major rehearsing for a role in “The Dying Swan: A Magical Tragedy.” He had a lukewarm towel across his forehead, your blanket wrapped dramatically around his shoulders like a cape, and a very deliberate look of fragile suffering.

“Alas,” he whispered, placing the back of his hand to his (completely fine) forehead, “I fear the lingering effects of the trauma are… worsening. There’s a tightness in my chest. I may never wield a kettle again. My tea senses are dulled.”

You squinted at him, deadpan. “You brewed two pots this morning.”

“For you, dearest Master,” he said, with an exaggerated wince. “But at what cost?”

You refused to indulge him. For about ten minutes.

Then he started coughing. Badly. Into a silk handkerchief. That you were pretty sure he’d dabbed with food coloring beforehand to resemble blood.

“Do you think you can bring… strawberry lollipops?” he asked, voice trembling. “Before I pass on to the next world.”

You shoved five into his mouth. “You’re not dying. But you are insufferable.”

He sucked dramatically on the sweets, sighing. “I find this treatment emotionally compromising.”

You fed him another one.

And started plotting your revenge with a very bitter herbal “recovery” tea. It smelled like wet moss and tasted like betrayal.

He drank it all. Smiled. Said it “added intrigue to the healing experience.”

You were no longer sure who was winning this war. But you were definitely losing your mind.

It started subtly. Jade would casually set a teacup in front of you in the mornings, unprompted. You’d ignore it. He’d raise an eyebrow. You’d argue that caffeine was a food group and you didn’t need anything else, thank you very much.

He’d say something cryptic like “I’d rather not have to explain malnutrition-related hallucinations to the administration,” and then slide you a plate of suspiciously elegant finger sandwiches.

Somehow, you’d end up eating them.

A week later, you found yourself sitting down for actual breakfast—tea, toast, even fruit—without remembering how it happened. He’d simply adjusted your routine. Quietly. Steadily. Like a moss infestation with an agenda.

He began packing you lunch. Bento-style. With little hand-drawn labels.

You didn’t even know when he started doing it. You just opened your bag one day, reached for your emergency gummy stash, and pulled out a thermos of miso soup and a side of rice balls shaped like sea creatures.

He started accompanying you to the dining hall under the excuse of "needing seaweed access." He monitored your meals. Commented on vitamin intake. Replaced your sugar gummies with dried fruit. Told you that if he caught you drinking energy drinks for dinner again, he’d report you to botanical safety for trying to poison a living plant (Vermin had still not recovered from the one time you tried to share a Monster with it).

Eventually, your friend—sweet, concerned, possibly one skipped breakfast away from passing out—cornered you between lectures.

"Hey," she said, tugging your sleeve with wide eyes. “I need to ask you something and I don’t want you to freak out.”

You, holding a bento box labeled ‘Don’t Forget to Finish Your Spinach, Master’ with a small smiling mushroom drawn on it, tilted your head. “Okay?”

She glanced around, lowered her voice, and whispered, “Who’s the familiar here?”

You stared at her.

She stared back.

In the distance, Jade waved at you politely while handing a professor a jar of suspicious glowing jam.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Thought about how he’d reorganized your pantry by nutritional pyramid. Thought about how your life had improved and yet somehow spiraled out of your control in the exact same breath.

“I… don’t know anymore,” you whispered back.

And that was the beginning of your existential crisis about power dynamics, dietary fiber, and eel-based emotional manipulation.

The more you thought about it, the more the terrible, horrifying truth settled in: Jade had been slowly taming you.

Not in a leash-and-collar kind of way (though you weren’t entirely convinced he wouldn’t enjoy that visual), but in the slow, methodical way one might tame a particularly wild housecat. One that hissed at vegetables and believed microwaved instant noodles were the pinnacle of culinary achievement.

When you’d first summoned him—on accident, via unagi-induced chaos and a summoning circle that was technically illegal in five countries—you’d been expecting a fae general. A terrifying beast of war. A dragon, maybe.

What you got was a polite, well-dressed man with a smile that could curdle milk and the calm demeanor of someone who’d enjoy watching your academic career spontaneously combust.

You were sure he would spend his time reclining in your dorm like some cryptid, sipping tea while you panicked over assignments and singlehandedly ruined your chances at survival in botany.

That had been your first impression.

But it wasn’t what happened.

Instead, Jade made it his mission to ruin you in the most terrifying way imaginable: through care.

He made sure you ate. He brewed tea tailored to your stress levels. He reorganized your notebooks by topic and color-coded them while claiming he was “bored.” He calmly extracted you from five different poison ivy incidents. He taught you how to pronounce “photosynthesis” correctly after you spent an entire presentation calling it “plant vibes.”

And you hated to admit it—but it worked.

You stopped waking up in a panic. You stopped considering glitter glue a legitimate potion ingredient. You even passed a midterm without attempting to bribe a forest fairy.

It was subtle. Devious. Soft.

And worst of all, it was making you feel warm. Cared for. Grounded.

You used to dream of summoning a dragon—a grand, legendary familiar that would impress the entire academy and maybe light your homework on fire for dramatic effect. But now?

Now you watched Jade hum to himself in your kitchen, cooking something that smelled like lemon and dreams, and you didn’t care about dragons. Or status. Or changing streams.

You just wanted to figure out if there was a spell that could describe the exact way your heart skipped when he smiled at you and called you “Master” with that infuriating glint in his eye.

And if not… well. Maybe you’d make one.

From Jade’s point of view, your summoning had all the signs of an impending disaster—and thus, a highly enjoyable evening.

The circle was sloppy, the candles were the wrong color, and the ambient magical pressure was off by several kilopascals. The unagi that had plummeted into the center as a last-minute offering had been particularly concerning. Jade had arrived in a flash of light and fish-scented smoke, bracing for either mortal peril or at least a good laugh.

And then he saw you.

Wide-eyed. Covered in ink. Mumbling about “hoping for a dragon or something.” The perfect storm of magical desperation and zero planning skills. He had thought you’d be amusing. A novelty. A fun little side project to pass the time while bound by contract for a year.

And at first, that was exactly what you were. You were so spectacularly bad at botany that Jade was convinced you were a social experiment.

You called mushrooms “leaf meat.” You once referred to an entire genus of plants as “the crunchy ones.” And your plan to identify herbs by tasting them like a medieval poison tester had nearly given him a stroke. (Emotionally. He’s far too composed for physical symptoms.)

But somewhere between force-feeding you actual meals and dragging you out of exploding greenhouses, Jade started feeling… something. Not just amusement. Not just secondhand horror.

Affection.

It was awful.

So naturally, he did what any emotionally stunted eel-man would do—he ramped up the teasing. Called you “Master” in public. Smiled just a little too sharply. Hovered with a quiet attentiveness he pretended wasn’t genuine.

But when he thought back to that summoning—your hopeful eyes, the half-charred fish, the complete magical disaster—Jade realized something horrifying.

He owed his current happiness to a piece of grilled eel.

The next time he saw unagi on a menu, he gave it a respectful nod. After all, not every familiar bond is forged through fate, fire, and ancient prophecy.

Some are forged through sheer dumb luck and seafood.

You had always believed, deep in your feral little heart, that if you ever fell in love, it would be with the intensity of a meteor crashing into the earth. There would be pyrotechnics. An orchestra. Maybe a cursed bouquet of sentient mushrooms arranged in the shape of your initials. Something properly dramatic.

You were prepared for a sweeping romance. A declaration shouted from a balcony. A confession under a blood moon. At the very least, a sword fight followed by heavy breathing and an emotionally repressed kiss.

What you were not prepared for was... a random morning.

More specifically: today morning at 6:42 a.m., in your tragically unventilated dorm kitchen, where you shuffled in half-awake, wearing a blanket like a disgruntled ghost. Your hair looked like it had seen war. Your socks didn’t match. You were only conscious due to residual academic panic and caffeine withdrawal.

And there Jade was. Crisp and awake and annoyingly gorgeous, as usual, humming some eerie little tune while cooking god-knows-what on your stove. The sunlight framed him like he was in a toothpaste commercial. There were suspicious jars open on the counter labeled things like “Fenugreek??? (Maybe)” and “Do Not Inhale.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, amused. “Good morning, Master.”

You grunted. It was too early for sarcasm or formal titles.

So, with the sleep-deprived logic of a creature who had survived exclusively on coffee and academic desperation, you trudged over to him, latched onto his waist like a needy koala, and rested your cheek against his back.

You did not plan this. Your body moved on its own, possessed by the Spirit of Affection.

To his credit, he didn’t question it. Jade simply chuckled, adjusted his stance, and offered you a spoonful of something suspiciously green and steaming.

You tasted it. Your neurons barely fired. It was delicious and probably illegal.

And then, without thought, without warning, still pressed against him and one brain cell away from sleep, you mumbled, “I love you.”

There was a beat of silence.

You blinked.

Wait.

Wait—

What the hell did you just say—

YOU SAID THAT OUT LOUD—

Jade paused with the spoon still in his hand, his entire body going still like a predator that just heard something interesting. Then—slowly, like he was savoring it—he turned.

He looked at you. He really looked at you. And then, in true chaos spirit fashion, he grinned.

Not his usual polite smile. No. This was different. This one had teeth.

“Oh?” he said, softly. “Oh?”

And that was the moment you realized: you had said those three words to a man who considered emotional vulnerability an invitation to hunt.

You tried to backtrack. Tried to say you meant “I love you—r soup.”

Or “I love you as a friend. A colleague. A sentient eel.”

But before you could decide on your lie of choice, he leaned down and kissed you.

It started sweet. Gentle. Thoughtful, like maybe he was giving you time to flee.

You didn’t. That was your mistake.

Because then his hand slid around your waist, and the kiss deepened, and suddenly your kitchen felt too small, and too warm, and definitely not rated for public indecency. Your legs threatened to give out. Your brain flatlined.

When he pulled away, you were breathless and dazed. You looked at him, heart hammering, pupils blown wide.

He tilted his head, still grinning, and said, “You taste like honesty. How rare.”

You briefly considered combusting on the spot.

And as he turned back to the stove like nothing had happened, humming again, you realized something terrifying:

You were in love.

And you were the prey.

And you were kind of okay with that.

When familiar contract renewal season arrived—accompanied by the usual administrative chaos, enchanted paperwork that bit fingers, and panicked first-years realizing their mushroom toadlings had exploded again—you were… calm.

Weirdly, suspiciously calm.

You should have been stressed. You were, after all, still a mage in training with a botany grade being held together by duct tape, blind luck, and the sheer force of your familiar’s passive-aggressive hovering.

But no. You weren’t worried. Because somehow, over the past year of accidental poisonings, illegal greenhouse heists, and near-romantic tea-induced hallucinations, you and Jade had fallen into something far more dangerous than summoning magic: mutual affection. Possibly even love. Terrifying.

And yet, when the day came, you expected a conversation. A little back and forth. Maybe some dramatic flourish on his part—Jade had a flair for drama and mild emotional terrorism, after all. At the very least, you thought he’d present a contract with a smirk and some cryptic line about “servitude never being quite so delightful.”

But he didn’t.

You woke up one morning to find him already seated at your desk, as if he’d been waiting all night. The early sun filtered through your window, highlighting the soft teal of his hair and the amused glint in his eyes. You were still blinking the sleep out of yours, shuffling over in your raccoon-print pajamas with all the grace of a zombie when he slid the document toward you.

A thick, arcane-heavy contract. One that glowed softly at the edges. Titled:

“PERMANENT FAMILIAR CONTRACT — LIFELONG BOND”

Your eyes snagged on the signature line.

His name was already there.

Signed in an elegant, curling script with a wax seal that looked like an eel tail. No jokes. No teasing. No loopholes.

You stared at the paper. Then at him.

“…You want to be stuck with me forever?” you asked, because your brain short-circuited and apparently decided that was the most romantic response it could muster.

Jade raised a brow. “You make life—interesting,” he said, voice inflected with all the warmth and amusement of someone who once watched you attempt to eat a venomous berry “for science.”

You blinked again. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s a yes,” he said easily, his smile softening. “I’d like to be yours. If you’ll have me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You picked up the pen and signed your name beneath his. The moment the ink dried, the paper vanished in a swirl of moss-green smoke, the pact sealed with a pleasant little magical ding.

“So,” you said, heart thudding in your chest as you looked up at him, “we’re really doing this.”

“We are,” he said.

“Forever is a long time.”

“Not nearly long enough.”

And you had to kiss him after that, because what else do you do when your familiar—not-quite-boyfriend-but-very-possibly-soulmate says something like that?

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting years. And you let him, sinking into his arms like it was the only place you’d ever belonged.

You, a chaotic disaster of a botany student. Him, a merman familiar who brewed tea that could bend time.

A perfect, absurd, slightly terrifying match.

Later that evening, when you sat together on the windowsill, legs tangled and laughter echoing, you realized something else: you'd meant to find a way out of the botany stream. A bigger future. A stronger school of magic.

But with Jade by your side, maybe botany wasn’t a prison—it was just where you bloomed.

It started, as most disasters in your life did, with you tripping over your own feet. Specifically, you’d tripped face-first into a rare carnivorous plant while trying to impress your professor with your “innovative approach to hands-on learning.” (Your professor had screamed. The plant had screamed louder. You still didn’t know plants could do that.)

And while you were nursing your slightly-bitten pride and applying salve to your dignity, some golden-haired, obnoxiously perfect fourth-year had wandered over, all pristine robes and condescending smiles.

“You know,” he said to Jade, completely ignoring you like you were a decorative shrub, “it’s a shame. A familiar with your magical potential? Tied to someone who’s clearly... not invested in their future.”

You scoffed. Loudly. “Excuse you. I am very invested in my future. I just think the universe should meet me halfway and stop putting venomous moss in my study patch.”

The student didn’t even blink. “You deserve a master who challenges you. Who brings out your best.”

Jade tilted his head, politely smiling the way a shark might if it had impeccable manners and was about to swallow a surfer whole.

“I see,” he said, sipping his tea. “And that would be… you?”

“Why not?” the student said, and you hated how confident he sounded. “They're wasting you.”

You froze.

You knew it wasn’t true. Jade had chosen you. Signed a lifelong contract. Literally brewed you soup after you set your eyebrows on fire.

But the words stung in a way you hadn’t expected.

You tried to play it cool. Shrugged. “If he wants to leave, he can. No one’s stopping him.”

Jade’s eyes flicked toward you, a tiny crease between his brows. “Is that what you think?”

You shrugged again. Forced a smile. “Why wouldn’t it be? Go ahead. Take your tea. Find a master who challenges you.”

And with that, you walked away, head high, hands clenched so tight your knuckles cracked.

You spent the rest of the night trying not to cry into your pillow.

The next morning, your pillow was suspiciously warm. And breathing.

You cracked open one eye to find Jade wrapped around you like a clingy snake with boundary issues and an attitude problem.

“What—Jade—get off—!”

“I’m sleeping,” he said.

“You are not! You’re emotionally ambushing me!”

He didn’t move. Just curled tighter.

You squirmed, shoved, flailed. Nothing worked. The man had the tensile strength of a vine and the stubbornness of ten toddlers.

Eventually, you gave up and pouted at him. “You were mean yesterday.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he admitted cheerfully, his tone dangerously close to smug. “But in my defense, I expected my master to realize I have taste.”

You sulked harder. “You owe me.”

“Oh?”

“And I’m cashing it in later.”

“Of course, Master.”

“…Stop calling me that in the dorm.”

“No.”

You didn’t bring it up again. But the next day, as you passed that fourth-year in the hallway, he looked pale, shaken, and was clutching a charm pouch so tightly it might’ve become a fossil.

You glanced at Jade. He looked serene. Suspiciously serene.

“…What did you do?” you whispered.

“Me?” he smiled. “Nothing serious.”

You stared at him. He sipped his tea.

You decided you definitely weren’t asking.

But later, when he draped himself across your bed again and offered you a cup of calming lavender-citrus tea with a wink, you realized one thing:

You may be a borderline disaster of a mage, but Jade Leech was yours. And gods help anyone who forgot it.

You'd been holding back.

It wasn't that you were scared. Okay, no—you were absolutely terrified. Because the “what are we” question carried the weight of galaxies, of shifting dynamics and possible heartbreak, and you weren’t emotionally prepared to deal with that when you were already behind on your fungal studies and had just accidentally set your robe on fire trying to dry herbs.

Still, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that Jade Leech, your familiar, your chaos partner, your maybe-something-more, had kissed you good morning again that day. Just a soft brush of lips while you were half-asleep, before you could even form coherent thought. And you’d just blinked at him, dazed and blushing and maybe a little dead inside.

And then that horrible, arrogant, no-chin-having senior from the advanced familiar studies track said—loudly—that if someone like Jade were his familiar, he’d “treat him properly” and “not waste potential on a person who still mistakes fertilizer for potion ingredients.”

You saw red. Possibly green. Maybe fuchsia, depending on how much of Jade’s tea was still in your system. But whatever the color, something snapped in your soul.

Because no one was taking Jade from you.

Not when he brewed you anti-headache tea with honey because he knew you hated bitter things. Not when he cleaned your desk with the gentleness of a man legally married to your organization system. Not when he smiled at you like you were a curious algae bloom he couldn't stop poking at. Not when he kissed your forehead, your temple, your nose, your cheek—like loving you was as natural as breathing.

So.

You marched.

You stormed into your dorm room where he was casually rearranging his jar collection (you didn’t ask, you'd learned not to the hard way.) and pointed an aggressively trembling finger at him.

“Be mine!” you shouted.

Jade blinked once. Then tilted his head, that infuriatingly pretty smile already forming. “I thought I already was, Master.”

Your brain combusted. You flailed. “Huh?!”

“I assumed the constant kissing and emotional intimacy might have been a clue.” His eyes sparkled. “Should I have drawn a diagram? I could make a chart—”

You launched yourself at him in mortified fury. “No charts!”

He caught you with practiced ease, laughed that horrible, lovely laugh of his, and kissed you again—this time slower, deeper, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

You melted. Fully collapsed like overwatered moss in his arms.

When you finally came up for air, dizzy and giddy and mildly offended at how good he was at this, he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and murmured, “Now that we’ve established that… shall we discuss what we’re calling the wedding mushrooms?”

You screamed into his shoulder.

He laughed again.

And that night, you dreamed of rings made of sea glass and mushrooms that glowed softly in the dark.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #jade leech x reader #jade x reader #jade leech #jade leech x you #twst jade

1K notes · View notes

kami-pants · 1 year ago

Text

UPDATED VERSION !!

Flora Flutter

#welcome home #welcome home oc #flora flutter #welcome home puppet show #welcome home arg #original character #welcome home fanart #welcome home art #howdy pillar #wally darling #barnaby b beagle #julie joyful #sally starlet #poppy partridge #frank frankly #eddie dear #artwork #my art #art

131 notes · View notes

teachyouhowtodothesponge · 2 years ago

Note

I love Insane Howdy, but what about an Insane Flora? 👀

Thank you! 👀 Here is a doodle of Insane Flora! I wonder what drove her insane?

Extra doodle:

#welcome home #welcome home arg #my art #doodles #flora flutter oc #flora flutter #not my oc #InsaneHowdyAU

83 notes · View notes

pupkashi · 8 months ago

Text

satoru is the kind of boyfriend that you are constantly falling in with over and over again

he takes out a spider that you found in the hallway, promising he’ll let it into the backyard and won’t kill it. he’ll tease you relentlessly for running to the other side of the house while on the phone with him, begging him to come home to take care of the ‘grave danger’ you were in. satoru never once tells you how his heart flutters knowing your instinct is to cal him for help.

satoru is the kind of lover to pick flowers for you when you walk hand in hand, giggling as a spring breeze hits the two of you. he smiles, bending down and picking the daisy from the ground.

“look! i got you a flower” he grins, handing the small flower to you with a smile on his face.

“oh wow this just for me? you broke the bank with this one” he can’t help but laugh loudly, “I’m in deep credit card debt,” he replies, “think you can cover dinner for tonight?” you laugh, nodding your head- knowing he’d never let you pay for anything as long as he was around.

the kind of boyfriend to run late, but pick up flowers on the way to make it up to you, buying extravagant bouquets on a whim and making sure every vase in your home is filled with flowers at any given moment. there comes a point in the relationship where you have to sit him down and ask him softly to cut down the flower buying to once a week, as you’d run out of vases to put the flowers in.

satoru ends up buying you more vases, but realizes it’s gotten out of hand when you have no free surfaces in your home due to the overflowing amount of flora. he cuts it down to once a week after he found a bee in the house one day.

your lover brings back souvenirs from all the places he goes when on missions, trinkets that he knew you’d love spilling out of his pockets as he walks into your shared home.

“i think you’d love this little bunny figure so i got it!” he’s beaming at you, his face lights up even more when he sees how excited you are, gushing over the small figure and thanking him with a plethora of kisses.

satoru is the kind of boyfriend to tell you ‘told you so’ when you get cold because you didn’t bring a jacket, all while simultaneously taking his off and giving it to you. he tries his best to hide how much colder he is to try and make sure you stay warm, but his shivering six foot something body is hard to miss.

“satoru i think you’re colder than i was, please just take it back” you beg, shoving his jacket back into his hands, he just shakes his head, teeth slightly chattering as he lies to your face.

“im not even cold, you need to stay warm” he’s steadfast and stubborn on his stance, only taking his jacket back when you two enter a cafe and make it a point to say how hot you felt when you stepped inside.

satoru is the kind of boyfriend to hang mistletoes all over the house, giggling when he pulls you in by your waist and places a giddy kiss on your lips.

“man i love christmas” he sighs, pointing at the fourth mistletoe in the last hour as you two decorated for the holidays.

“seriously how many of these did you buy?” you laugh, pulling him closer to you and placing your lips on his. satoru smiles into the kiss, chasing after your lips even when you pull away and managing to steal one last kiss.

“mmm, alot” he whispers, snowy hair tickling your face as he presses a kiss to your cheek before continuing on with the tree lights.

satoru gojo is the kind of boyfriend to kiss you from 11:59 pm on New Year’s Eve to 12:01 am on New Year’s Day, just to say he made out with you into another year. he also does it just to make sure you can’t say you haven’t kiss him since last year.

“you’ve been kissing me since last year sweetheart just admit you’re crazy about me” he teases you, his cheeks and ears flush from the two cups of champagne he’s had.

“angel boy you have no idea” you giggle, taking in how beautiful he looks as the fireworks pop around the two of you, making his crystalline eyes shine a little brighter.

satoru gojo is the kind of boyfriend that makes you believe in soulmates, because there was no other way to describe what he was to you other than that.

satoru gojo was your soulmate, and you were his.

a/n: hi hi ! just wanted to write something short and sweet to get me back into the flow of writing <3 hopefully this help kill my writers block :3

masterlist

taglist (send an ask to be added!): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi @kentocalls @sadmonke

2K notes · View notes

helluvatimes · 9 months ago

Text

Fluttering In The Wind

A Yellow–barred Flutterer (Rhyothemis phyllis) clinging on tightly in the wind and a drizzle in the meadows. Photo credit: Jonathan Chua.

The aperture of f/8 was used for this one as a deeper depth-of-field was needed in this close proximity work. That aperture happened also to be where the lens performed best. But under an overcast sky, the ISO was inadvertently pushed up to 6400 resulting in double-digit noise level. This was fixed easily enough in post.

Things looked fine at this size but a larger image would show somewhat patchy noise reduction. As with almost all context-sensitive type of noise reduction, spots close to areas with greater contrast tends to have untreated noise left here and there. This might’ve been the masking algorithm, I guess.

#photographers on tumblr #dragonfly photos #flora fauna #insect pics #lumix photography #macro photography #panasonic lumix dc-s1 #photography editing #photography tips #Rhyothemis phyllis #sigma 18-300mm #yellow–barred flutterer

21 notes · View notes

rafesteddy · 7 months ago

Text

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕨𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕃𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕤

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: older!rafe, age gap (college senior with rafe in his 30s), secret dating, angst, fighting, suspected cheating, name-calling, swearing, pet names, rafe grabs the reader’s face, spanking, spanking with a belt, bdsm, wet and messy, squirting, edging, multiple orgasms, threats, unprotected p in v, orgasm denial and control, rough sex, fingering, manhandling, soft!rafe at the end, praise, dirty talk, brat taming, teasing

📖 All of my asks got deleted 💕😭 so I'm not sure who requested this, but thank you! This was not a kinkmas ask, but I made it one 😋 The premise is that Professor!Rafe has been distant and now after cancelled plans you want to know what the hell is going on.

Reader’s POV:

The brisk December air bit your cheeks as you stepped out of your apartment and headed downtown. Christmas lights glowed warm along the street, but your mood was anything but light. You stuffed your hands into your pockets; your arm looped in your friend’s, head tilted on her shoulder as you suffered in silence.

All your finals were done, a long, relaxing break to look forward to, but all you could do was think about him…

For months, you had been navigating your whirlwind romance, secretly dating your Professor—sexy, intelligent, successful… And you had fallen hard against your better judgment. It was wrong… It was risky as hell… But it was real. Or, at least, you thought it was.

Lately, though, Rafe has been pulling away—canceled plans, vague apologies— his lingered gaze that you had gotten so used to fizzling away. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. A night away, just the two of you, celebrating your completion of the semester and a week of rest and relaxation for the both of you.

He hadn’t even brought up winter break… Rafe wasn’t looking toward the future anymore. He was completely checked out.

But tonight was different… He canceled, and unlike before, you didn’t ask for an explanation. And to your disappointment, he didn’t give one either.

“Forget him,” you grumble, momentarily wallowing in self-pity.

“Forget who?” Your friend asks with a laugh as she squeezes your arm a little tighter.

You bite your lips, taking a shallow breath as you let those two words slip your lips. “This guy from my econ class,” you lie. “He blamed our B on me…” Another lie.

”Who complains about a B in college?” Your friend scoffs and laughs, tipping her head on yours. “Forget him? Fuck him…”

“Agreed,” you smile, the wavering in your tone making her raise an eyebrow, pressing again.

“Is that why you didn’t want to come out?” She asks as she softens her voice. You flutter your lashes, feeling the emotion you’ve been pushing down bubble up in your chest.

It’s not like anything has happened… Nothing has happened, as a matter of fact. He was giving you nothing, yet you felt his silence was speaking louder than any words could. And who could you talk to about it? No one.

“Babe?” She tries again as your friends walk across the bustling street, heading into the flooded downtown area.

“Just not feeling like myself lately…” Your voice floats away with the winter wind as you see Rafe open the door, holding it open for a woman to pass through.

He looks handsome in his fitted suit and black wool overcoat, his hair brushed back, giving you a glimpse of his perfect face and chiseled features.

Your friend coaxes you forward, but your body freezes in the middle of the sidewalk. You watch as Rafe and a beautiful woman in a powder pink dress fall out of sight, disappearing behind the doors of The Flora Room.

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” She asks, shaking you playfully to get you out of your daze.

“Where do you guys wanna go?” One of the girls in your party calls out. You look around the little town square, seeing bar after bar, knowing it would be a tough sell to get your friends to sit down even for a single drink in there when they could buy three shitty drinks for the fee of one overpriced martini.

You watch your friends drift to one of the downtown sports bars, but you keep your feet grounded. Your friend reads the room, hanging back with you, following where you lead, her curiosity piqued.

“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?” She mumbles from the corner of her lips as the two of you pass through the doors.

There’s no bouncer at the door; your shoes don’t stick to the ground with each step. Screaming, laughing, and a deep bass rumbling from the speakers are exchanged for light conversation and piano music. It’s rich and elegant, the polar opposite of what the two of you are used to on a typical night out.

“We’re just gonna sit at the bar,” you smile at the hostess, who extends a hand, ushering you back. Your eyes dance around the space, looking for Rafe and the women as you feel your anger and unease fester.

So busy you couldn’t see me, huh? You seethe as you position yourself just far enough away from him.

The situation is hard to read—a party? You look at the group he’s with; the lot of them dressed to the nines. Watching with your breath held as she laughs, his head tilting slightly as if the woman said something clever.

She looks sophisticated and expensive, her curves hugged in a dress that seems to have been made for her. She reaches out, squeezing Rafe's bicep as she chuckles again, making your stomach churn.

The bartender rests your martinis in front of you. You keep your eyes locked ahead; the tears in your eyes sparkle in the bar lighting. It's impossible to see without blinking, but you know the second you do, they’ll fall.

Your friend's hand rests on your thigh, and with that little bit of physical contact, your eyes shut. Tears roll down your cheeks and fall off your chin. She looks ahead, following where your attention was paid before looking back at you and back at him again. “Oh…” she breathes, before her eyes widen.

“Yeah,” you whimper, knowing she put two and two together. ”Just don’t-”

”I won’t say anything,” she assures before you can even finish, reaching over, blotting the tears off your cheeks with a bar napkin.

You reach in your purse, hands tightening around your phone, and without thinking, you open the text thread… The one where Rafe left you on read.

You: We’re done.

You watch as Rafe’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He adjusts slightly, looks at the lock screen, and sees the notification with your name on the front before stuffing it back in his pocket, not giving it any more attention.

Missed call after missed call; text after text… It only took a few blocks before Rafe finally pulled his phone out of his pocket and gave you the time of day.

You couldn’t help but give him a similar treatment, watching as all his attempts rolled in, you not making any effort at all. You look over your shoulder as you walk into your apartment; there are so many texts from Rafe that you know he can’t be far behind.

You pace your apartment, just waiting for the inevitable. Regardless of what that was or what that wasn’t, he’s been ignoring you. How simple would it have been to let you know where he was going and the real reason why he canceled?

That woman—who the fuck was that? A friend, I’m sure… But you couldn’t even fathom Rafe watching that all go down. He would feel the same fucking way, especially if you were giving him reasons to worry before.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You hear Rafe’s heavy footsteps on the other side of the door, making your stomach sink, jarring you out of your thoughts.

“Baby,” Rafe’s familiar voice called from the other side. “What the hell is going on, huh? Open the door.”

Your fingers curl into fists by your sides, annoyed at how easily Rafe could demand your time. How he only seemed to care when you sent those three words. “Go away!” You shout, feeling goosebumps spread across your body.

“Not fucking happening,” his tone was firm—the frustration bled through his words. “Open the door.”

“No.”

“You kiddin’ me?” BANG. He bangs his fist against the door in frustration. You hear his voice soften as he gets closer to the door's seam. “What the fuck is going on?” He hisses.

“Why don’t you tell me,” you step a little closer as well.

“If I knew, I would apologize. Alright? I got nothin’ to hide from you-”

”Bullshit,” you cut him off. “Who was she, Rafe?”

“What?” He cries out as he jiggles the door handle rapidly, testing it and then testing it again. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“The women from the bar, Rafe. I was there.”

“Princess… What the hell?” He breathes. “You don’t understand, baby. C’mon.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly, Rafe,” you snap as you bang against the door yourself. “You’ve been ignoring me for days, you barely look at me anymore, you're canceling our plans, not telling me where the hell you’re going, and then I find you on the night we were supposed to actually spend some goddamn time together flirting with someone else. Yeah, Rafe. I understand. You’re a liar.”

Silence falls heavily outside the door. You furrow your eyebrows, looking through the peephole straight at your neighbor's door, your heart breaking when you don’t see him on the other side.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, making your heart leap.

Rafe: Have a great night, sweetheart.

“You’re joking me,” you huff as you push out into the hall, gasping as Rafe pushes you back in.

“I love you. But you’re being a fuckin’ brat,” he grunts as he lets the door clap shut behind him before dragging you a few steps to your room, slamming that door as well.

“You have five minutes to explain, Rafe,” you shout, “then I’m kicking you out.”

“Five minutes, sweetheart? After all this time? That’s generous of you.”

“Talk or leave,” you snarl before Rafe shoves you down on the bed, making you gasp again as he mounts you fast, his hand slapping against your mouth, holding it shut.

“Stop fucking testing me and listen. Alright?” You mumble underneath his trembling palm. “If I lift my hand, you’re gonna listen to me, do you understand?”

Your eyes narrow on his, and he cocks an eyebrow at you. “I’ll tape your mouth shut if you won’t listen to me. You know that, right?” He asks in a gentler tone, contrasting his dark words.

You roll your eyes, finding yourself getting more annoyed by the second. “The fuck has gotten into you, huh?” He asks as he looks down at you below him, wearing a new defiance you’ve never shown before.

He lifts his hand, and you huff out a breath, scowling as you look up at him. The older man looks back at you with the same disgusted look.

“What, Rafe?”

“There’s been a rumor circulating around the campus that a professor has been sleeping with a student… I’ve been dealing with that—I have not been avoiding you for any reason other than that. And that woman… That woman who could never be you, princess, is not who you think. Okay?”

“So, who is she, then?” Your glare softens slightly, the bite of your tongue still there. “Because you sure seemed like you were enjoying her company, Rafe.”

Rafe sighs deeply, dragging his hand through his hair as he steps off the bed. “She’s the new University President… That was the faculty Christmas party. I forgot to tell you because I was too caught up in all this shit.”

”You forgot?” You ask. Rafe is taken aback by your attitude, even after telling you everything.

“Yes. I forgot,” he answers, his tone sharp. “Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to protect us,” he chides as he gestures between you. “The scandal, the risks… You kept sayin’ everything was fine, so I wasn’t worried. I have never worried about you.”

You feel a slight guilt creep in, seeing him so vulnerable. You would be lying if you said you didn’t assure him everything was okay and that the two of you were fine. “Well, maybe if you’d told me, I wouldn’t have assumed the worst.”

“Assumed the worst?” Rafe’s scoffs, his frustration crystal clear. “You mean accusing me of cheating and ending things over a text? A text? Because that’s a rational response right there, sweetheart. Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?”

”You don’t get to turn this shit around on me, Rafe. You’ve been distant. When I told you I was “okay,” I wasn’t… Didn’t you notice a change between you and me? Couldn't you hear it in my voice that I clearly was not okay? You’re so distant. It’s like we’re not even together-”

“I’ve been distant because I’m dealing with this—this shit has real consequences, princess. This isn’t a fuckin’ game. If anyone finds out about us-”

“Then talk to me!” You yell over him as you step closer. “You’re acting like I’m irrational. I would have understood. All you had to do was tell me what’s going on!”

“And all you had to do was ask instead of throwing a fuckin’ tantrum,” he shoots back.

Your jaw drops, temper flaring even more. “A tantrum?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, his gaze unwavering. “A tantrum. You’re acting like a spoiled brat-”

”Fuck you,” you hiss. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“What the hell?” He laughs at you weakly, looking back at you like you’ve gone completely mad. “Where’s my girl? What the fuck is happening?”

“Do you need help finding the door or what?”

His eyes widen; the man struck utterly silent. “Please tell me you haven't been feelin’ this way the whole time we’ve been together,” he asks, the exhaustion of the fight wearing on him as he looks back at you, shoulder slumped, breathing heavy.

“The last few weeks, yeah-”

“But not the whole time, right?” He asks, the tone of his voice letting you know you both know the answer.

“No… Not the whole time,” you mumble.

“Couldn’t have given me the benefit of the doubt, princess? I mean hell, sweetheart. You could have looked around the goddamn bar. What the hell would I be doin’ hanging out with your Econ teacher if I could be spendin’ the night with you? Why would I be rubbin’ shoulders with Dean Richardson— your Dean, by the way, unless I had to, huh? Don't you think I’d rather spend my night with you?”

You look back into his piercing blue eyes, your cheeks burning with a mix of shame and anger. You open your mouth to speak, but he steps toward you fast, standing above you as you sit on the edge of the bed. You squeak as he grips your cheeks in his big ringed hand, forcing your gaze.

“I love you, princess… But you need to grow up. Use your words. Stop jumpin’ to conclusions and start cuttin’ me some fuckin’ slack.” You mumble, but he pinches your cheeks even more. “Stop cuttin’ off before I can explain myself.” Rafe slots himself between your thighs, loosening his hold slightly.

“I…” You hesitate, taking a little breath as you look at him. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“No.” Rafe silences you as he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss on your lips. “Apologies are fine, but you need to listen. This isn’t some fling. This is real. And if we’re gonna make this shit work, you have to trust me. Even when it’s hard,” Rafe whispers, letting his lips graze against yours.

Your heart pounds in your chest, thighs drawing in slightly. “I trust you, baby,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe pulls away, his gaze softening more than before, but his frustration hasn’t completely faded from his beautiful blue eyes. “Then show me… Stop playin’ these games.”

“I wasn’t playing games,” you protest, but he cuts you off with a look that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

“You sent me a breakup text, then ignored me when I came here to fix it,” he chides. “I’m not some frat boy—not some college kid you can pull that shit with. Aight? And if you don’t think that little stunt you pulled is a game, I don’t know what is. Do you know how many times I called you?”

“I texted you too, and you ignored it,” you mumble as you look away, feeling the weight of his gaze as your face heats up.

“N’why do you think I had to do that, huh?” He adds condescendingly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Knowing that answering a text from you, a mid-faculty party in the light of a scandal, probably wouldn’t have been Rafe’s best move.

“We’re done with this little back-and-forth bullshit. If you have a problem, tell me. And if I screw up, I’ll do the same.” You nod, looking at Rafe again as he cups your face, his rough thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“Rafe…” You pout.

“Yes, baby,” he responds gentler than before.

“Why aren’t you talkin’ about the future anymore? I know you wanted to take the heat off us but didn’t even ask what I’m doing for break. You didn’t even make plans with me-”

“Shh…” He shushes you as he looks down at you tiredly, about ready to lose his mind that you’re still challenging him in some way. “Take out my phone,” he mumbles. You lower your gaze slightly, reach into the pocket of his dress slacks, and pull out the device. “Your birthday, baby,” he hums his passcode. You unlock the phone, looking up at him again. “Open my email…”

You pull up Rafe’s Gmail and see the confirmation for the Four Seasons Resort and Residences in Vail, with your name attached to the reservation made a week ago.

“You drive me insane, you know that?” He murmurs as he grabs the phone off your hands, tossing it to the side.

“I’m sorry-”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“I mean it, Rafe. I-”

“You think you can sass me, throw a tantrum, and walk away without consequences?” He mumbles. “I think it’s time someone teaches you a lesson about being a brat, princess,” he whispers as his lips find your neck, licking and sucking your hot skin, making your pulse race.

Rafe’s loosened tie hangs from his neck, sweeping against your thighs as his teeth graze along your ear. You grab it, pulling him toward your lips, making him chuckle against yours.

“Got some shit you wanna say, sweetheart?” He laughs darkly.

“Maybe I like being a brat, Rafe,” you whisper, feeling him smile against your lips.

Rafe kisses you deeply, sucking off your bottom lip, taking it between his teeth, nipping with enough pinch to make you whimper into his open mouth. “Then I guess this is going to be a long night for you, princess,” he rasps as he grabs your tights between his fingers, ripping them open. You inhale sharply as he cups your pussy in his big hand, rubbing your sex over your wet panties.

“Fuck,” you whimper as he slaps your cunt, making your thighs draw in just for him to force them apart. He continues to tease you over your panties as he gathers your hair with his other hand, tugging it back.

“These last few weeks… Fuck, they’ve been frustrating, huh?” He asks as he pushes his big fingers into your entrance, the threshold of the wet cotton blocking him from going any deeper than a knuckle deep. “And you’re gonna misbehave? Make it harder on me? You know I could have just taken my frustration out on this pretty little pussy, baby,” he mumbles as he hooks his finger around your panties, pulling the fabric tight, making you whimper.

“Rafe, please-”

“We’re at the finish line. Two days away from a vacation that I’ve been plannin’ for weeks. That I was gonna surprise you with… and you’re actin’ like a fuckin’ brat? What’s that about, huh?” He asks as he paws off his tie, tosses it on the bed, and pops open the buttons of his shirt one by one.

You take in his gorgeous body as he exposes more skin—his broad chest and his cut abs, the deep ridges of his v-lines kissing the top of his pants. You bite your lip, stripping yourself of your tattered tights and clothes as he undoes his leather belt, releasing it with a crack before tossing it on the bed.

“Stand up,” he orders, and you do as your tummy flutters. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.” Rafe reaches for his tie, running it through his big fingers as he takes in your body. “Wrists, baby,” he mumbles against your neck as he stands close, his rock-hard cock pressing against your ass.

Rafe binds your wrists and grabs your hips, sitting down on the bed, guiding you to lay over his big thighs, your ass in the air. Rafe’s rough fingers drift up the back of your legs, making you tremble, your wetness already weeping from your aching hole.

He chuckles as he runs two thick fingers right through it, taking it between his lips, moaning around his digits. “Fuck, princess… You’re a problem aren't you? Gettin’ wet off this shit, huh? Like gettin’ yelled at and punished.”

“Yes,” you whimper.

“Yes, what, princess?” He groans as his hand comes down on your ass, making you cry out.

“Yes, sir,” you sniffle. “I like getting yelled at and punished.”

“Atta girl… Look at you. Already turnin’ that little attitude of yours around, huh?” He asks as he thrusts his fingers in your pussy, making you wail. He fucks them into you fast and hard, your warmth squelching lewdly.

You crane your neck, eyes widening as he goes for his leather belt. You struggle slightly, your natural reaction to move away, but his big arm wraps around you, holding you in place. “Think you’re gettin’ away from me?” He chuckles. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

CRACK.

Rafe delivers a loud smack on your supple flesh. You let out a loud cry, feeling the sting and tears welling on your waterline.

“You had a lot to say before, baby,” he mocks as he drags the leather up the back of your thighs. “Where did my bratty little bitch go, huh?” He mumbles as he lands another hit, making the tears spill over.

Rafe tosses the belt to the ground, plunging his fingers into your slickness again, only to find that you’re even wetter than before. “Stop enjoyin’ this shit so much, pretty,” he breathes, his smug smile heard in your tone as he curls his fingers inside you.

“Yes, baby,” you moan as your head falls forward, feeling yourself about to cum around his big fingers. “Oh, Rafe.”

“Mmm… I should stop, shouldn’t I?” He asks as he continues his brutal pace.

“No… No, please,” you sniffle as you feel your body tighten around him, your peak approaching fast. You lift your ass in the air, following his fingers as he pulls them away gradually, yanking them out right before your body gives way. You gasp, breathing heavily as Rafe robs you of your orgasm, your heart banging in your chest.

“How do you think it felt gettin’ that text tonight, hmm?” He asks as he lifts you off his lap, shoving you on the bed—your chest on the mattress, and your feet on the floor. “The love of my life… The only thing-” CRACK. He spanks you yet again, making you scream. Rafe laughs mockingly into his next couple of words, “The only thing that has ever truly mattered to me,” he mumbles as he lowers himself to his knees. The warmth of his breathing hits your throbbing cunt. “Broke up with me… through a text message. Fuckin’ insane, right?”

His tongue plunges into your drooling hole, fingers swirling on top of your throbbing clit making your thighs tremble. Rafe sucks and tongue-fucks you like a god, taking you right to the edge of ecstasy again. Your muscles clench, fists balled up, rising on your tippy toes reeling, and right when you're about to break, he pulls away again.

“Rafe, please!” You sob.

He steps forward, the front of his muscular thighs flush with the back of yours. You whimper as he draws away just enough; his swollen head rubs through your drenched folds, teasing your clit, toying with your glossy hole ‘til you’re burying your face in your comforter.

"Beg for it, princess. C’mon…” He whispers as he taunts you with his tip.

“Please…” You beg, lips quivering with every breath. “Please… I’m begging you, daddy. M’sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” you whimper. “I love you… I love you so—oh, fuck,” you cry as he sheathes his cock into your swollen cunt.

Rafe grabs the edge of his tie, knotted around your wrist, using it as a hold to fuck into you deeper, gliding into your greedy hole, your body quickly cumming around him, pussy flutter wildly, but he just keeps on going.

He yanks the tie, pulling it loose. He flips you to your back, looping your legs over his shoulder before plunging in again. Rafe brings his big body closer to yours, folding you in half, toned hips clapping against your body with each rough stroke.

“Didn’t ask for permission, princess. Creamin’ around my dick when I should be usin’ you like my personal fuck toy...” You follow his gaze, looking down at the place where you context the creamy ring of your arousal glistening around his thick base, the picture alone leaving you feeling like you could cum on sight. “You better ask… I know you're about to cum again. And if you do-”

“Rafe, I-” You grit your teeth, fighting back another orgasm you know he’ll deny.

“I’m not done talkin’. Fuck, have you learned nothing?” Hot tears roll down your cheeks, wetting the bed below as your body shakes. “If you cum without askin’, I'm gonna tape those pretty little lips of yours shut, grab that vibrator from your nightstand, and have you cummin’ ‘til you pass out.”

“Please. Please. Please,” you sob.

“Might do it anyways, princess. It’ll be good for you…”

“Rafe!”

“Cum for me, baby.”

You grab the edge of the bed, holding on tight as Rafe makes good on his words, taking his frustrations out on your tight cunt as you squirt around his length.

"There you go, fuckk. There's my girl,” he murmurs, smiling smugly, tilting in and kissing your forehead sweetly, his punishing strokes telling a different story entirely as he chases his climax, emptying himself in your fluttering cunt with one final thrust.

Rafe lowers your trembling legs, dragging back, but you grab his hips, pouting your lips and shaking your head ‘no.’ He smiles down at you, lowering himself to your lips, kissing you deeply.

“I’m sorry…” You whisper.

“Don’t be, baby. I never want you to think I don't care. Okay? I'm sorry… Should have let you know what was goin’ on. I should always be takin’ care of my girl,” he mumbles between gentle kisses. “You were right. Alright?” He whispers before kissing your forehead.

“I thought you didn't want to be with me anymore…”

“That’s crazy, baby. ‘Course I do. I was serious; you're the only thing that truly matters to me…”

You bite your lip, smiling into your kiss. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, princess.”

tags: @rafesthroatbaby @littlelamy @kisses4angels @watchmerora @buckybarnessweetheart @anamiad00msday @namelesslosers @cades-outsider @romaescapes @starkeysprincess @oxpogues4lifexo @unrealmirrorball @sleepiibunniiii @gri959 @rafesgiirl @daryldixon83 @akobx @hyperfixationgirl @lhhlver @rrafeswhore @slut-4-gojo @blair-bears-blog @loveesiren @cameronwillow @rafegf-real @alphabetically-deranged @ariana2saucyy

#professor!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #older!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #rafe cameron x reader #my library ᝰ.ᐟ #rafe one shot 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#kinkmas event .𖥔 ݁ ˖❄️˚. ᵎᵎ #rafe #rafe smut #⋆.°🧸๋ྀི࣭⭑ office hours

1K notes · View notes

slylittleprincess · 4 months ago

Text

I want you to try something for me.

Try looking up for a moment in whatever room or space you’re in right now and just imagine what a creature double your size would actually be like. Perhaps they would have to hunch over just to fit. They certainly wouldn’t get through the door without significant compression.

Imagine what a creature double your width would be like. A creature that size would carry themselves with a sense of scale, a sense of magnitude that would be humbling to observe. It would feel powerful, dangerous perhaps.

Imagine that creature was made entirely of flora, lush waxy leaves and flowers. A face constructed of a wooden mask that would almost be the size of your chest. It would look down on you, it would be impossible not to. Your eye-line would reach their waist, and with your arms outstretched you would maybe reach their petal constructed pectorals.

A creature like that would bring with it a smell. Anyone who has been in a greenhouse knows that a volume of plant matter that dense generates a rich perfume of life itself. Sweet and grassy and floral.

A creature like that would flutter and tremble with every movement, ripples from the sheer weight of it running down with every fabricated breath and subtle adjustment. Imagine each shifting change, how noticeable it would be. How much of your animal brain would be dedicated to those observations, making sure that you were not in danger.

Envision how piercing its gaze would be, focused and attentive on you from those massive eyes so high above you. How it would make your heart race if that huge wooden mask clicked and clattered as it adjusted into a thorny smile.

Consider how it would actually feel to be lifted off the ground by this figure. You wouldn’t become weightless under them. You would be just as strong as you currently are, just as beholden to your own centre of gravity, simply supported by their tremendous arms and careful vines. The strength necessary to make such a manoeuvre effortless would be immensely tangible. Fear inducing perhaps. Or maybe it would be like a profound surrender, to be so easily carried in a way you haven’t felt since you were a child.

Consider all of this. And look back up. Really try to place this creature in your room.

Now imagine that it loves you.

That is what biorhythms are.

That, is what an Affini is.

#hdg #human domestication guide #affini #floretposting #writing #size difference

1K notes · View notes

dragongirlie56 · 16 days ago

Text

The Flower Girl 💐 (Mystery X Mute!Fem!Reader)

Summary: Reader works at a flower shop and after delivering an order from fans to the Saja Boys, she catches the attention of a certain purple haired idol.

Word Count: 2.5k

Anon! Thank you for your request!! And it’s your first time requesting?! I’m honored 😭❤️I really loved the concept and the plot I was so excited to write it!! I made it so the reader knows sign language! I hope that was okay! And I hope you like reading this!!

Here’s Mystery Boi <3

OG request -> here

Info:

signing will be in italics without quotations ex: Huntrix <—- reader will use this to communicate since she’s mute

speaking + sign will be in italics and quotations ex: “Huntrix”

and just speaking will be normal in quotations. “Huntrix.”

Warnings:

-Not beta read (though I did read through it a couple of times I probably missed things)

-Made up personalities (How I view the characters from the little bits we saw in the movie since we got barely anything from the rest of the Saja boys.).

-Nothing else to my knowledge

I tried my best to accurately write a character who is mute and the struggles with that to the best of my ability. It isn’t by any means perfect but I tried!

——————————————————————-

This was officially the biggest order in all your time at ‘The Flower Boutique’. Sure, Valentine’s day and Mother’s day were extremely busy days, but this was something else entirely. You’ve never had 100 people order bouquets at a time.

That was for today’s delivery alone.

And not only that, they were all for the new k-pop group that just started gaining fame, the Saja Boys.

Your boss, Flora, was ecstatic to hear that business was through the roof! The same flowers given to the Saja Boys at the fan signing event weeks ago were from the shop you worked at. So naturally, everyone flocked to your doors.

But now, you were given the task to deliver them.

By yourself.

The wind brushed past you as you waited near the deliveries section of the building. It was certainly more of a hustle than you imagined it would be—a clear contrast from your peaceful workplace. Cars, trucks, and various workers were rushing around in all directions. You wondered how the managers dealt with it all.

You raised your hand, trying to motion for an employee to see you or for someone to help you in this organized chaos. However, every person rushed past you, ignoring the cart of bouquets at your side.

A woman cleared her throat behind you and you jumped, a small, breathy gasp leaving you as you clutched your clipboard closer to your chest.

Her brown eyes glanced down at the flowers and asked for your name.

You started to sign out of habit, but stopped yourself. You gave her a small smile and handed her a card, your name printed in an elegant font.

She read it out loud before nodding. “Come along please.” She smiled, turning towards the sliding doors. “I’m Willa.”

Your nerves tickled beneath your skin and your stomach fluttered with butterflies as the elevator number reached higher and higher. You liked the Saja Boys and their music.

Your favorite out of the five?

Mystery, it’s always been him. His voice captivated you the most. He never really spoke to fans which is also what drew you to him. Perhaps he was just shy or very reserved, it didn’t matter, you related to him.

Your fingers brushed your throat. You were never able to express yourself in a normal fashion which was challenging especially when people didn’t know sign language—you usually had to use cards or your phone to have a conversation with others. People often talked down to you or assumed you couldn’t think like they could.

Despite all this, it didn’t deter you from being kind to everyone you crossed paths with.

“Wait right here, hon. I’ll ask where the manager wants them unloaded.”

You gave her a nod, glancing around the room.

The door opened and you turned toward the sound, expecting it to be the nice lady again however you were met with someone else entirely.

None other than Mystery himself.

Your eyes caught on his lavender hair. He was wearing his usual attire: his purple vest and his yellow turtle neck with his matching hand warmers. He looked good in the pictures but seeing him in person? Next level.

It made you even more curious about what his face really looked like.

You both stared at each other, stunned. You broke from the spell first, opting for a shy wave and a light smile.

His shoulders dropped slightly and he waved back.

You thought he was going to speak but Willa beat him to it. ”Oh Mystery! What are you doing here?”

He turned his head toward her, quiet for a few seconds more. “Wandering.” His voice was soft. “What’s this?”

”Fan gifts.”

He nodded, his head turning toward the assortment of bouquets.

“Anyways.” She turned toward you once more. “Their manager said in the loft area. Follow me, hon.”

Okay. You signed with a nod. You gave Mystery one last fleeting smile before waving and pulling the cart with you.

Little did you know, you had caught the attention of the purple-haired idol.

<><><>

A week later, as you were clocking in for your shift, your boss entered the room with an excited smile. She gestured for you to follow her with a skip in her step.

She pushed her computer screen in your direction.

From what you could see it was a normal order. Though, you soon saw why your boss was eager to show you.

Your eyes skimmed the page before your jaw dropped. It was from the Saja Boys manager. ‘I’ve been asked to order from your shop and we will accept none other than the kind woman who delivered them last week.’

The request had you blushing to your toes. Not only did the Saja Boys themselves buy more flowers because of you but they requested you deliver them yourself.

Flora raised her eyebrows. “Whatever you did, they liked you! Will you please go again?” She spoke and signed at the same time which made you smile.

You agreed. Mainly at the chance to see Mystery again.

So there you were, standing in the same spot as the day before. But this time? You only had one bouquet and Willa immediately ushered you inside.

You nodded as she talked, filling the silence since you couldn’t.

<><><>

Mystery perked up when the loft door opened, his eyes widening when he realized it was you. Your eyes met and you gave him a shy wave, your gaze retreating so you could set the flowers on a nearby table.

“I‘ll grab a vase for you.” Willa placed a hand on your shoulder before walking away.

“Who ordered more flowers?” Baby raised a brow, briefly glancing from his phone to the girl.

“Hmmm. That’s a mystery.” Romance glanced at his purple-haired friend. “Though whoever did is quite the romantic,” he added with a smirk.

Baby glanced between Romance and Mystery before letting out a snort. “I’m not even surprised.”

“Is that her?” Abby whispered loudly.

”Definitely.” Jinu nodded.

Mystery shook his head, ignoring their antics. He made his way over to you and gave you a small smile.

“Thank you for the flowers,” he spoke as he signed, his voice soft. His hand started at his chin and pushed forward the motion followed by another, him pressing his fingers together and tapping both of his cheeks.

You lit up, quickly signing, You’re welcome. A sweet smile made its way onto your face. You know how to sign? That’s amazing! A faint breathy laugh escaped you and his stomach dipped as his face warmed. I don’t know what to do with myself to be honest. Not many know sign.

His heart fluttered against his ribcage. You really had the prettiest smile that could instantly warm an icy heart—he could stare at it for days.

What’s your name?

You signed the letters as he pieced your name together. His smile softened as he said it out loud, noting the blush on your cheeks.

Willa returned with a vase much sooner than he’d like. You cut the bottom stems before placing it in the glass.

You spared him one last shy glance before Willa walked you out of the room.

When you left, all of the Saja boys turned to Mystery, the shock apparent on all of their faces.

“Since when did you know how to sign?”

Mystery shrugged. “I took something called a crash course every night.”

“You remembered everything?” Jinu questioned. “You’re telling me you learned a language in one week?”

“I have a good memory.” He gave another shrug.

“And it takes you how long to learn a dance?” Jinu mumbled to which Mystery gave a faint smile.

“And I thought I was the romantic.” Romance put a hand to his chest. “Learning a language for a girl you just met?”

“Careful.” Baby threw a spicy chip into his mouth. “If the fans find out they’re going to start writing fanfiction about you two.”

“Fanfiction?” Abby questioned, raising a brow. “That’s a thing?”

Baby returned his gaze to his game. “Tell me you aren’t chronically online without telling me you’re not chronically online.”

”Not mad about that.” Abby shrugged, readjusting his beanie.

”It’s where fans make up stories about characters or singers or whoever. A lot of them are about relationships and stuff.”

“You think they have some of me and Mira?” Romance lit up, pulling out his phone.

Abby smirked, leaning back against the counter. “No way. People obviously ship me way more with her.”

“Let’s check-“

“Do not look it up.” Jinu pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need to rehearse, especially if we’re going to beat Huntrix for the awards later this year.”

“You just want to impress your girl.” Baby retorted with a deadpan expression, earning a couple of snickers from the rest of the group.

“Just get to the dance studio.” Jinu shot him a look. “All of you.”

“Okay, mom.” Baby discarded his lollipop stick in the trash.

Jinu let out a heavy sigh, like he was keeping track of a bunch of five year olds. “Make sure to water those every couple of days.” He patted Mystery on the back before walking out of the room.

The purple-haired boy glanced down at his bouquet, a smile settling on his lips.

<><><>

The smile wouldn’t leave your face. Not when you were brushing your teeth, not when you were driving, not even when you stubbed your toe. (Okay maybe it faltered for a moment when that happened.)

The point was, you felt like a ray of sunshine.

The bell jingled as you entered the shop, the floral scent immediately hitting your senses making you grin wider.

Like the day before, Flora was practically bouncing off the walls.

”You’re not going to believe this! But your presence has been requested again! I’m beginning to think one of them has a crush on you.”

A crush? Your face warmed at the thought. Your mind couldn’t stop itself from jumping straight to Mystery. Oh man you were in too deep.

The order was for a bouquet of yellow tulips, blue salvias, and dwarf sunflowers. Yellow tulips typically meant ‘sunshine in your smile,’ dwarf sunflowers meant ‘adoration’, and blue salvias typically meant ‘I think of you.’

You doubted that Mystery knew the language of flowers… however, the thought didn’t seem so outrageous.

But did he think those things about you? That’s what left you in a spiral. Because if he did know the language of flowers, he basically admitted to being interested in you.

The order had a request near the bottom. ’Bring your favorite flower.’

You gave Flora a nod before printing out the form and moving toward the back to ready the bouquet.

Your favorite flower? You had so many you loved. Though, instead you wanted to put special meaning behind it. You grabbed a red and blue carnation. Red meaning affection and blue meaning mystery.

If he really did know about the symbolism, then you could confirm your suspicions.

<><><>

You entered the room, though, Mystery wasn’t the first to greet you.

”More flowers!” Romance grinned. “I think she just wants an excuse to see me.” He winked, causing you to flush.

”Like anyone would ever make up an excuse to see you.” Baby threw a chip at Romance which he easily dodged.

“Ever the charmer.” The pink haired idol rolled his eyes before his signature grin returned. “You’re pretty!” He leaned closer, staring into your eyes like he was searching for your soul. “It’s like your eyes have stars in them.”

”Do you even talk?” Baby raised a brow, hopping up from the couch and walking closer.

You kept a slight smile as you shook your head.

”Why?”

“She’s probably just very shy, Baby,” Abby intervened, appearing beside Romance to get a better look. “Hi. We’re friendly. I promise. Well some of us.” He glanced at Baby.

The blue-haired boy raised a brow. “Mystery is shy but he talks to us.”

”That’s because he feels comfortable.”

“She’s been here three times…”

You glanced back and forth at the three with wide eyes, your head starting to feel dizzy. It was too much with all three of them talking back and forth, especially about you while crowding you at the same time.

You wanted to scream. For once in your life you wished that you could.

“STOP!” Mystery pulled you away from the three and stepped in front of you. “All of you! She’s obviously overwhelmed! So stop pestering her!”

Romance’s eyes were as wide as yours. Did he just… shout?

Baby held up his hands. “Ooookay lover boy-“

“You.” Mystery pointed at him. “Insensitive nosy gremlin. You’re worse than Romance.”

Abby choked on his spit, letting out a loud guffaw.

”Hey now!” Romance protested.

Baby glared at Mystery before folding his arms. “Whatever.“

”New contact name unlocked.” Abby pulled out his phone.

”Do it. I dare you.” Baby turned his sharp glare to Abby but the latter only grinned wider.

Mystery let out a sigh before turning to you. I know somewhere that’s quiet. He signed before holding out his hand toward you, ignoring the raised eyebrows of his friends.

You glanced from him to his hand before accepting it. He led you away from the room, passing a very confused Jinu, before he took you to a balcony that overlooked the entire city.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, resting his hands on the railing and staring down at the bustling streets below. “They’re a lot. And they’re just trying to get under my skin… I’m sorry you were in the middle of it.”

You put a hand on his arm signing, it’s okay, after he looked up at you.

He signed no. “It isn't."

Under your skin? You tilted your head. Why?

He scratched his cheek before he responded. “Complicated. I forgot how to sign that.”

You showed him the sign and he repeated it. It’s complicated.

You nodded, taking a breath. Thank you for… Your face warmed as you signed. …standing up for me.

Of course. He signed back.

Your eyes gravitated to the busy streets, watching as the cars navigated through the back to back traffic.

Then, you perked up, remembering the two flowers you carefully stored in your bag. You tapped his shoulder, holding them up.

He tilted his head. ”For me?”

You nodded.

He accepted them with careful hands, your fingers brushing with his. ”I… I read about these.”

Your smile grew.

”Mystery and… affection? Do you mean it?”

Yes.

He didn’t respond, instead he hid his face in his hand. You could see the tips of his ears turn red.

Cute, you thought.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, brushing his hair slightly out of his face to reveal his light blue eyes. Your heart did a little leap.

I like your eyes. They’re pretty.

His jaw dropped slightly.

You let out a laugh, it wasn’t loud, just a small breathy wheeze.

Thank you. His lips twitched into a sweet smile. You’re beautiful.

You both stared at one another with warm smiles and flushed cheeks as everything faded into the background.

_____________________________________

Literally dying of cuteness my god-

Thanks for reading! Likes, reposts, and comments are always welcome and appreciated!

If you’d like to request a x reader you can use the ask/request box!

Read this first —-> Rules —> then KPDH Requesting Guidelines :)

KPDH master list <—- all my fics for KPDH will be here.

#kpop demon hunters movie #kpop demon hunters fanfic #kpdh #baby kpdh #kpdh jinu #kpdh x reader #mystery x reader #kpdh mystery #mystery kpdh #mystery saja #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpdh fanfic #kpdh fanfiction #dragongirlie fanfics

375 notes · View notes

mahalachives · 4 months ago

Text

Part 8: Everything I Am, Everything I Will Be

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

Azriel had first noticed you in Velaris, long before fate had decided to intervene.

It had been an ordinary afternoon in the Rainbow.

Azriel had been returning from a briefing with Rhys, his shadows trailing behind him like gentle wisps of midnight.

Most people gave him a wide berth—the Shadowsinger’s reputation ensuring his solitude even in crowded streets.

She’s coming, his shadows whispered suddenly, their tone unusually bright, almost melodic. The one who speaks to plants.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, curious.

His shadows often brought him snippets of information about the residents of Velaris, but rarely with such… delight.

That’s when he saw you.

You were hurrying along with an armful of ancient scrolls, humming softly to yourself about deadlines and temperamental flora.

Before he could step aside, a particularly ornate scroll adorned with painted lilies slipped from your grasp, rolling toward his feet.

Catch it, his shadows urged eagerly, already curling toward the falling parchment.

He caught it before it could unravel completely, his gloved hand gentle with the delicate parchment, careful not to damage the exquisite illustrations of rare night-blooming plants.

“Oh! Thank you,” you’d gasped, “These are absolutely irreplaceable botanical records, and my supervisor would have my head if—”

You froze mid-sentence as you finally looked up, eyes widening in recognition, a small pressed flower falling from between the pages of your notebook.

“You’re Azriel,” you whispered. “The Shadowsinger.”

He’d simply nodded, extending the recovered scroll with one hand while quietly retrieving the fallen flower with the other.

Her heartbeat sounds like hummingbird wings, his shadows observed, sounding almost… enchanted. She smells like lavender and old books.

Your fingers brushed as you took both items, a fleeting touch that sent an unexpected warmth shooting up his arm like gentle sparks.

His throat tightened pleasantly, a subtle flutter spreading across his chest as his shadows curled briefly toward you like morning mist reaching for sunlight.

Warm, they murmured happily. Bright. Remember her forever.

“Thank you,” you’d said again, softer this time, a small smile lighting your features.

He'd inclined his head in silent acknowledgment before continuing on his way, gently quieting his shadows when they tried to urge him to follow you, to learn more about the female who’d caused such a stir among them.

We’ll see her again, they whispered confidently as he walked away. She matters to us.

Azriel had dismissed their unusual behavior with fond exasperation.

His shadows could be fanciful at times, prone to innocent fixations that often proved meaningless.

Besides, his heart had belonged to Mor then.

Had for centuries. Would for centuries more, he'd thought.

He was wonderfully wrong.

Five centuries of life had prepared Azriel for many things.

Torture. War.

The darkest corners of Prythian's courts. The weight of secrets that would break lesser males.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the paralyzing uncertainty of preparing for his first date with his mate.

"You look like you're planning an assassination, not a romantic evening," Cassian drawled from where he lounged against the doorframe of Azriel's private chambers in the House of Wind. He eyed Azriel’s fourth—or was it fifth?—tunic choice of the evening. "I mean, if you’re aiming to impress her with murder skills, go for it. But I’d suggest toning down the ‘serial killer’ energy at least a notch."

Azriel didn't respond, busy adjusting the collar of his tunic for the fourteenth time.

The fabric embroidered with silver stars seemed simultaneously too formal and not formal enough.

He'd never cared about his appearance beyond functionality before.

But tonight... tonight mattered.

You mattered.

"I've never seen you this rattled," Cassian continued, his grin widening. "Not even when we infiltrated the Winter Court during the Frost Solstice and you got cornered by that deranged—"

Azriel shot him a warning look, shadows coiling tightly around his scarred hands. "I'm not rattled."

Liar, his oldest shadow whispered in his ear. Your heart races at the mere thought of her.

His shadows had been insufferable since the day you'd fallen on him in the archives—growing more vocal, more insistent with each passing day.

They'd recognized the mate bond before he had, whispering your name when he tried to sleep, urging him toward you at every opportunity.

Centuries of perfect control, undone by one female with a talent for calamity and eyes that saw straight through his carefully constructed walls.

"Have you decided where you're taking her?" Rhys asked, materializing from the shadows of the hallway. The High Lord's violet eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement.

Azriel nodded once. "The oak grove."

Cassian raised an eyebrow. "The treehouse? No one knows about that place."

"Exactly," Azriel replied, finally turning away from the mirror. He didn't need to explain further.

Both males understood the significance—he was sharing something private, something he'd kept hidden for centuries.

Rhys's expression shifted, something knowing gleaming in his eyes. "Interesting choice," he said, the words weighted with meaning Azriel couldn't quite decipher. "There's something... fitting about it."

Before Azriel could respond, Cassian clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make lesser males stagger. "Well, don't keep the lady waiting. And remember—" he winked "—I've got a favorite blade riding on you sealing the bond by the full moon."

Azriel growled low in his throat. "Get out."

Both males laughed as they retreated, though Rhys paused at the doorway.

"Az," he said softly, all humor gone from his voice. "You both deserve this. Remember that."

The words struck deeper than Azriel wanted to admit.

Five centuries of darkness and solitude had convinced him he deserved nothing but shadows.

And then you had crashed into his life—literally—upending everything he thought he knew about himself.

She is your light, his shadow whispered. Your starlight. Your home.

He had one final thing to retrieve before leaving.

From his desk, he took a small wooden box containing the gift he'd spent hours carving.

A ridiculous gesture, perhaps, but one he hoped would make you smile.

That smile.

It haunted him.

Brightened corners of his soul he'd thought long dead.

With a deep breath, he unfurled his wings and stepped to the balcony.

Before launching into the evening sky, he allowed himself one moment of vulnerability, one whispered confession to the sunset.

"I am terrified."

You had faced many terrifying things in your life.

Cave-dwelling monsters with too many teeth.

That one particularly aggressive goose on the mountain trail.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared you for the sheer, overwhelming panic of getting ready for your first official date with Azriel.

"I have nothing to wear," you wailed, flinging another dress onto the growing pile on your bed. "Nothing."

Lira, sprawled on your one comfortable chair, didn't even look up from inspecting her nails. "You have approximately seventeen outfits on that bed alone. Not to mention the three I brought over. And the one Mor sent with a note that said—and I quote—'wear this if you want to see a shadowsinger blush.'"

"None of them are right!" You held up a midnight blue gown with silver accents. "Too formal."

A casual tunic and pants. "Too boring."

A revealing red number that had somehow found its way into your closet. "Too... Mor."

Lira sighed dramatically. "He's seen you with bedhead, covered in mud, drenched in the Sidra, and tripping over literally nothing. If you showed up in a flour sack, he'd probably still look at you like you hung the stars."

"That doesn't help!"

"Fine." Lira finally stood, sifting through the fabric mountain with expert precision. "Wear this. It's pretty but comfortable, and the color brings out your eyes."

She held up a simple but elegant dress in a deep violet hue with subtle silver detailing.

The fabric was light and flowy, perfect for a summer evening in Velaris, yet structured enough to look intentional rather than haphazard—something you desperately needed help with.

"Are you sure?" you asked, taking the garment with reverent hands.

"Positive. Now..." She gestured vaguely at the disaster that was your hair. "Let's tackle that next catastrophe."

An hour later, you stood before your mirror, barely recognizing yourself.

The dress fit perfectly, highlighting curves you didn't know you had. Your hair was pinned in an elegant-but-not-too-fussy style that somehow made you look like you belonged in the Night Court's fashionable circles.

"See?" Lira said smugly, adjusting one final pin. "You clean up nicely when you're not falling into things."

"Don't jinx it," you muttered, nervously touching the moonbloom pendant that hung around your neck.

The delicate flower seemed to pulse with life in the fading evening light, a constant reminder of Azriel's feelings.

Gregory bubbled energetically from his bowl, performing what looked suspiciously like approval laps.

"Even Gregory thinks you look good," Lira commented, tossing a pinch of fish food into the bowl. "And he has very high standards. Don't you, Gregory?"

A loud knock interrupted your nervous fidgeting.

"He's early," you hissed, panic rising again. "He said sunset! It's not sunset yet!"

"It's close enough," Lira pushed you toward the door. "Now go. Be awkward. Be romantic. Be yourself. And for Cauldron's sake, try not to fall into the Sidra again."

With one final glare at your so-called friend, you took a deep breath and opened the door.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Azriel stood there, not in his usual Illyrian fighting leathers, but in formal Night Court attire—well-fitted black pants and a deep blue tunic that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His wings were meticulously groomed, the membranous material almost glowing in the late afternoon light.

But it was his face that caught you off guard.

The usual carefully controlled mask had slipped, revealing raw appreciation as his hazel eyes swept over you.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words coming out rougher than usual, like he hadn't meant to speak them aloud.

Your cheeks heated.

"You too." You winced immediately. "I mean, not beautiful—well, yes, beautiful, but handsome. You look handsome. Good. Nice. I'm going to stop talking now."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I brought you something."

From behind his back, he produced not flowers—which would have been the conventional choice—but a small, intricate wooden box.

"For the menace," he said, gesturing toward Gregory's bowl. "From one guard to another."

You opened it to find a tiny, perfectly carved castle tower—a fish hideout for Gregory's bowl.

"You got my fish a present," you said, staring at the delicate woodwork, complete with miniature windows and a tiny door. "Did you... did you make this?"

A rare flush crept along Azriel's cheekbones. "I had time."

The image of the Night Court's most feared spymaster whittling a tiny castle for your emotional support fish was almost too much to bear.

"Gregory appreciates your dedication to home security," you managed, placing the tower carefully in the fish bowl. Gregory immediately swam through the tiny doorway, clearly approving of his new quarters.

"Shall we?" Azriel offered his arm—a formal, courtly gesture that somehow seemed both foreign and perfectly natural coming from him.

"Where are we going?" you asked, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow and trying not to focus on the firm muscle beneath your fingertips.

His shadows curled playfully around your wrist. "It's a surprise."

Your eyes widen with wonder as you take in the treehouse, your lips parting in surprise.

You can't believe Azriel has brought you here—to a place he built with Cassian centuries ago and maintained alone for three hundred years.

"You're taking me to your secret hideout?" The words tumble from your mouth, wonder filling your voice.

Azriel's hand moves to adjust the moonbloom pendant at your throat, his fingers lingering against your skin.

The touch sends a flutter through your chest, your pulse quickening beneath his fingertips.

"I wanted to share something with you," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "Something private. Something no female has ever seen."

The weight of his admission isn't lost on you.

Five centuries of guarding his privacy, his secrets—and here he is, offering a piece of himself so willingly.

"I'm honored," you say, meaning every word.

"You should be," he replies, a rare lightness in his tone. "Cassian doesn't even know I still come here." He pauses before adding, "The wards only recognize my blood... and now yours."

Your heart skips a beat at the revelation that he'd altered ancient wards for you.

As you climb the stairs, your foot catches on the lip of a step—your usual gracelessness making an appearance at the worst possible moment. Before you can tumble backward, Azriel's hand snaps out to steady you. Instead of a polite rescue, he pulls you flush against him, his palm splayed across the curve of your lower back, fingers edging just a little lower than strictly necessary.

Heat floods your body at the contact.

The thin fabric of your dress does nothing to hide the firmness of his chest against yours, and you can't help the quiet gasp that escapes your lips as you look up at him through half-lowered lashes.

His shadows coil around your legs, bold and hungry.

You can feel them reaching for you, as though they want to slip under your dress and map every inch of your skin.

"Careful," he murmurs, but his dropped voice makes the warning sound more like an invitation.

When you try to straighten, he doesn't let you go immediately.

Instead, his fingers flex over your lower back, pressing you firmly against him. Your breath hitches as something pulses between you—an unspoken promise of what could happen if you just gave in.

With visible effort, he loosens his grip, drawing a shaky breath as he eases you upright. But his thumb grazes the curve of your hip in a final caress that feels like a claim.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Try not to fall again," he teases softly, his tone laced with sin. "Next time, I might not let go."

"Sorry," you murmur, your cheeks flushing. "Gravity and I have a complicated relationship."

"So I've noticed," he replies, fondness warming his voice.

As you enter the treehouse, you're struck by the beautiful details—floating faelights, a moving star map, a low table set with foods that somehow match exactly what you like.

But it's the walls that truly capture your attention.

Maps, notes, sketches—centuries of observations, thoughts, a private world spread out for you to see.

"What is all this?" you ask, moving closer to examine a map of the Night Court.

"Records," he answers, standing close enough that his wing brushes against your back. A small shiver runs through you at the contact. "Observations. Memories."

You realize what you're looking at—his personal history, his private sanctuary where he keeps the parts of himself he shows to no one.

"Why did you bring me here?" The question comes as a whisper, vulnerability plain in your voice.

"Because you deserve to know me. All of me. Not just what others see."

For a male who has spent centuries in shadows, who has built his life around secrets and silence, the offering is monumental. He is giving you the power to truly know him—and with it, the power to truly hurt him.

"I don't know what to say," you admit.

"You don't have to say anything," he assures you, guiding you to the table with his hand at the small of your back. "Just... be here. With me."

As you sit across from each other, Azriel's shadows refuse to stay contained. They reach for you, wrapping around your wrists, tracing the line of your neck with a boldness that makes your skin heat.

"Your shadows are very... hands-on," you observe, watching as they caress you like living extensions of his desire.

You notice the heat creeping up Azriel's neck. "They've grown fond of you," he says, clearly understating. "They've never... responded to anyone like this before."

"Just the shadows?" you ask, surprising yourself with your boldness.

His eyes drop to your lips, and you can almost feel the phantom touch of his mouth on yours.

"No," he says, his voice dropping to a register that reveals his desire. "No, starlight. Not just the shadows."

The endearment sends warmth blooming in your chest.

Throughout dinner, you watch Azriel relax in a way you've never seen before.

He tells you stories he's never shared with others—mishaps and adventures with the Inner Circle, lighter moments that few would associate with the fearsome shadowsinger.

You laugh freely, entranced by the way he watches you, the way his lips curve when you throw your head back in amusement. Around him, you feel lighter, brighter, more than you've felt in a long time.

Your peaceful dinner is interrupted by a faint sound outside—one that Azriel's trained ears catch immediately.

"Was that...?" you ask, peering into the darkness.

"Ignore it," he sighs.

"But it looked like—"

"Cassian," he confirms, caught between exasperation and amusement. "And if my shadows aren't misleading me, Mor is with him."

Your eyes widen. "Are they spying on us?"

"They're attempting to," he corrects dryly. "Rather poorly."

You burst into laughter at their friends' antics, finding humor where others might find irritation.

"We could give them something to spy on," you suggest, mischief dancing in your eyes.

Azriel arches a brow, heat visible in his gaze. "What did you have in mind?"

The idea of acting out an exaggerated romantic scene to scandalize your friends delights you.

"Oh, Azriel," you exclaim in an exaggerated breathy voice. "I had no idea you could do that with shadows!"

He plays along with surprising enthusiasm, his voice dropping deliberately lower. "It's a rare talent. One I've been saving for the right person. For you."

His shadows put on a dramatic display, swirling around the room with theatrical flair. But some use the opportunity to touch you in more intimate ways—tracing down your arm, caressing your collarbone, stealing touches that make your breath catch.

"The right...angle?" you continue, your tone deliberately suggestive. "Or the right... position?"

When Cassian crashes outside, you have to bite back your laughter. But beneath the amusement is a rising heat, a dangerous awareness of Azriel—of how beautiful he looks with rare humor in his eyes, of how much you want to turn this playacting into reality.

"Both," he says solemnly. "It requires... flexibility. And endurance." He leans forward, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "Fortunately, I have centuries of practice."

One bold shadow caresses your neck.

You break into laughter, the tension momentarily diffused. "That," you gasp between laughs, "was the most fun I've ever had fully clothed."

When your laughter subsides, you find Azriel studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart race.

"I've existed for over five hundred years," he admits quietly. "And I can't remember the last time I laughed like that."

The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep within you.

"Well, I'm happy to make a fool of myself anytime if it makes you laugh," you say with a warm smile.

"You weren't the fool," he counters, rising and moving to the window. "Come. There's something I want to show you."

When you join him at the window, his wing brushes against your back—a casual touch that sends a shiver down your spine. The view of Velaris at night stretches before you, a tapestry of lights and shadows.

"It's beautiful," you whisper.

"This is how I see the city," he tells you, his voice an intimate murmur. "From above. In shadows and light."

When you turn to face him, he's already watching you—his hazel eyes reflecting the faelight, turning them to liquid gold.

"What are you thinking?" you ask.

"That I never thought I'd have this. That for centuries, I accepted solitude as my due. And then you—" He shakes his head, wonder in his expression. "You fell into my life. Literally."

You reach for his scarred hand, tracing the ancient burns with gentle fingers. The tissue is rough beneath your touch, but you don't hesitate or flinch. These marks are part of him, as essential as his shadows or his wings.

"These are part of you," you say softly. "Just like your shadows. Just like your wings. Parts I wouldn't change." You pause, realizing something. "You haven't worn your gloves since the library incident."

The observation seems to startle him, as if he hadn't realized it himself.

"Why?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

His shadows curl closer as vulnerability passes over his face.

"Because I've spent centuries hiding these scars." His scarred fingers intertwine with yours, the contrast between his damaged skin and your softness both stark and beautiful. "But after you fell on me that day, after you touched me without flinching... I found myself yearning to feel your skin against mine, even if by accident."

He moves closer, the bond between you drawing taut. "Do you know what it's like? To want something so badly you can hardly breathe with it? To have your skin ache for a touch you've convinced yourself you'll never deserve?"

The raw emotion in his voice makes your heart ache.

"Most people avoid touching them," he says, his voice rough as you continue to trace his scars.

"I'm not most people," you remind him, your tone dropping to match his. "I'm your mate."

The word hangs between you—mate—sacred and true. The bond between you flares at the acknowledgment, a rush of warmth that suffuses your entire being.

"Yes," he agrees, his voice rough with possessiveness. "Mine."

He reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip in a touch that makes you tremble. His scarred hand against your skin feels right—as if you were made to complement each other, to balance his darkness with your light.

"In Illyrian tradition," he says, barely above a whisper, "the first kiss between mates is a sacred vow. A promise more binding than any words." His shadows embrace you both, creating a cocoon of privacy. "I do not make such promises lightly."

Your heart pounds as you understand the weight of the moment.

"What are you promising me, shadowsinger?" you ask, the title feeling right on your lips.

His eyes meet yours, centuries of loneliness and newfound hope converging in his gaze. "Everything I am. Everything I will be."

The words feel ancient, powerful, true.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he declares, the words both a warning and a vow.

"Good," you reply, unable to resist lightening the moment. "Because my knees are about to give out, and I'd hate to fall again."

A smile touches his lips, tender and full of promise. "I'll catch you," he promises. "I always do. I always will."

And then he's leaning in, his eyes never leaving yours. Finding no hesitation, he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours.

The first touch is gentle, reverent—a question, an offering of his heart. His shadows engulf you both, creating a world where only the two of you exist. He cradles your face like you're something precious, something to be cherished.

The mate bond explodes between you, a surge of sensation so intense it nearly buckles your knees. Colors, scents, feelings—all sharper, brighter, more vivid than you've ever experienced. You can feel his heartbeat as if it were your own, can sense his emotions mingling with yours in a tapestry of wonder and desire and rightness.

You slide your fingers into his hair and pull him closer, wanting more. A growl rumbles in his chest as he backs you against the window, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that matches your own. The feeling of him against you is more intoxicating than anything you've ever known.

"Azriel," you gasp against his mouth, unable to contain the emotion swelling within you.

"I can feel it too," he murmurs, wonder threading through his words as the mate bond flares between you. "The bond. It's singing."

Kissing him is like finding a home you never knew you were missing. His taste, his scent, the way he responds to you—it's intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect. His wings curve around you both, shielding you from the world in the most ancient Illyrian tradition.

Your scent and his mingle—your parchment and lavender now blended with his night-chilled cedar, marking you as his. Every nerve ending in your body feels alive, hypersensitive, attuned to each small movement.

You slide your tongue along the seam of his lips, drawing a feral sound from his chest that sends heat pooling low in your belly. He answers with a rough, devouring kiss that makes you moan softly into the quiet space around you.

His shadows take on a life of their own, swirling in a dizzying dance over your shoulders, skimming down your arms and waist—touching, tasting, exploring in ways that make you shiver with need.

The moonbloom pendant at your throat suddenly flares with bright, shimmering light, bathing you both in ethereal glow. You clutch at him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

When you finally pull apart, you're both panting. His eyes gleam possessively, making your breath catch. Your hair is mussed from his restless fingers; your lips feel swollen, tingling with the evidence of his kisses.

"Well," you manage, voice quivering with excitement, "as far as first kisses go, that was…"

"Insufficient," he growls, low and ragged, already leaning back in. He drags his thumb across your lower lip, collecting the lingering taste of your kiss. His wings flare behind him in a display that screams possession. "We should try again. For thoroughness."

Your laugh comes out breathy. "Thoroughness? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

His eyes narrow in challenge, the corners of his lips tilting into a predatory smirk. "I'm over five hundred years old," he reminds you, his voice decadently deep. "I'm no kid. And I'm very, very thorough."

A delicious tension crackles between you, heightened by the knowledge of just how far that promise could go. The mate bond pulses like a physical tether, tightening around your souls.

"Thank the Cauldron for that," you whisper, already tipping your head for another kiss. "Think of all the practice you've had."

His shadows flare, enveloping you both in a cocoon of midnight.

They skim across every curve, every hollow, every dip of your body they can reach, impatient for him to join them in full exploration.

Azriel swallows a groan, every muscle tensing as he fights for control. But one look at your parted lips and the flush darkening your cheeks, and you see the moment he decides to let go, to show you exactly how long he's waited, how desperately he's craved this moment.

"Practice," he echoes roughly, his breath skating across your mouth. "You have no idea."

Then he bends his head and captures your lips again, the kiss far from soft—raw and hungry, a promise that the thoroughness has only just begun.

You practically skip into the Botanical Archives, a goofy smile plastered on your face as you clutch a small bag of pastries in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other.

The memory of last night—Azriel’s treehouse, that kiss (kisses!)—still swirls in your mind like a flock of delighted starlings, making your heart flutter every time you replay it.

The Archives are quiet at this hour, mostly hushed librarians and scholars drifting between shelves.

But one voice shatters the hush the moment you step inside.

“Well, well, look who decided to waltz in here like she’s the High Lady of Good Moods,” Lira crows from behind the reception desk. “Did someone have a fun night, perhaps?”

You try to tamp down your giddy grin—but fail spectacularly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, setting your tea down and carefully ignoring the fact that you nearly trip over a stack of dusty tomes.

Lira narrows her eyes. “That’s not your I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about face. That’s your oh-mother-above-I-think-I’m-in-love face.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “Shh! Keep your voice down or the entire Archive will know I have…a reason to be happy.”

She laughs, straightening. “Please. The entire Archive already suspects you have some reason to be happy. You’re glowing like a star under a Cauldron-blessed spotlight.”

You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth curl upward anyway. “Anyway, are we cataloging the new Day Court scrolls this morning? Or are you just going to stand there and harass me?”

“Bit of both, probably,” Lira says brightly.

She taps a wooden crate with her foot. “We got a new delivery—again—like those Day Courtiers have nothing better to do than bury us in half-translated manuscripts. Go forth and sort.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, picking up the top scroll. “Ah yes, I shall valiantly bury myself in dusty documents for the sake of botanical advancement.”

Lira pretends to salute. “What a trooper. Let me know if you start missing that shadowsinger so much you can’t function.”

You open your mouth for a scathing retort, but she wiggles her fingers in a sassy goodbye and flounces away, leaving you alone with your scrolls, your warm tea, and approximately one million butterflies in your stomach.

You set to work at a large wooden table in a back alcove, where the morning sun filters through high, arched windows.

The gentle hush of the Archives usually soothes you, but today you’re too antsy—your mind keeps wandering to Azriel.

To the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of his scarred palms, the way he promised to catch you if you fell. (And, to be fair, you are pretty inclined to falling.)

A silly grin curls your lips.

You find yourself humming a jaunty tune, tapping your quill on the table.

At one point, you even spin in a small circle, the skirt of your lilac day-dress flaring around your legs. If any of your coworkers see, you’ll deny it.

Forever.

“Snap out of it,” you mutter, unrolling a parchment with care.

The Day Court has included a thorough treatise on cacti. Instantly, your mind conjures Azriel’s shadows swirling around spiky succulents, and you stifle a giggle.

You’re so lost in daydreams that you almost miss the moment the alcove falls too silent.

A cool draft brushes the back of your neck, sending a ripple of unease across your skin.

Your humming halts.

You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see Lira or one of the other scholars.

But there’s no one—just row upon row of towering shelves and the gentle flicker of faelights.

Maybe it’s just a draft, you think, trying to steady your heartbeat.

You turn back to the Day Court scroll, pressing its corners flat against the table.

Then you hear it—a voice so soft it barely registers over the faint rustle of parchment.

“Hello…”

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, you set your quill down, dread curling in your stomach.

The fine hairs at your nape prickle as a memory stirs—one you can’t quite place.

“Lira?” you call softly, forcing a calm you don’t feel.

No answer. Just eerie silence.

You let out a forced laugh. “I’m hearing things. Perfect.”

You try—try—to read the neat calligraphy on the scroll. But your eyes keep flicking to the edge of your vision, half expecting some lurking figure to emerge.

“She’s here…” another whisper comes, colder this time. “She’s back.”

Your blood runs cold.

The timbre of that voice claws at something old inside your head.

Your hands tremble as you half-rise from your seat.

You open your mouth, intending to speak—but the words never come.

Because suddenly, the hush around you fills with whispers, overlapping voices, some trembling with desperation, others echoing with a cruel, mocking tone.

“Do you remember us…” “You left us…”

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, and a jolt of raw terror streaks down your spine.

Flashes of old nightmares rise in your mind, a dark corridor, flickering torches, voices that taunted you in the corners of your dreams.

“She hears us again...” “Help us…let us out…” “You never should have run.”

Your vision shivers, the edges going hazy.

This isn’t real, you tell yourself.

Except it feels so real, the air turning frigid, your lungs refusing to draw breath properly.

You clutch your ledger like a shield. “W-who’s there?”

You hate how shaky your voice sounds.

No answer, just a chorus of nearly soundless laughter—both sorrowful and cruel.

It wraps around you like cold fingers.

And in that overlapping cacophony, you catch snippets of an old plea, your plea, from long ago.

“Leave me alone—please—go away!”

You slap your free hand over your ear, as though you can block them out.

“Stop,” you manage, voice cracking.

A chilling breeze seems to swirl around you, rustling the edges of the scroll. The ghosts’ voices crescendo.

“She fears us still…” “She remembers nothing…” “Don’t forget the blood…”

Tears prick your eyes, your throat tight with panic.

You don’t know what they’re talking about—you don’t recall any promise, any them.

“Stop,” you beg again, tears threatening to spill. “Please—”

A hand seizes your shoulder.

You yelp, spinning with your ledger raised defensively—only to find Lira, her face etched with alarm.

“Whoa!” she exclaims, hands up in surrender. “Easy! I come in peace!”

You blink rapidly, tears and panic making everything blur.

The voices vanish as if yanked away by an unseen thread.

Suddenly, you’re in the quiet Archives again, the morning sunlight streaming like nothing’s wrong.

Lira lowers her arms, stepping closer. “You okay? You look like you just saw the Bogge itself.”

“I—” You struggle to breathe normally.

Your pulse still pounds, and your ears ring with phantom echoes. You never should have run. “I thought I heard…” You shake your head, shame creeping in. “It’s nothing. I’m just—tired.”

She lifts a brow, unconvinced. “That was more than just tired. You were talking to someone, or something.”

You swallow, gaze darting to the corner of the alcove.

The weight of old nightmares lingers in the air, but the ghosts are silent now—lurking behind the veil, waiting.

“Maybe I… dozed off for a second,” you finally mumble, the excuse tasting sour in your mouth. “I’m really not sleeping well lately.”

Lira’s expression softens. “Then let’s get you some air. Trust me, inhaling stale parchment fumes isn’t gonna help if you’re feeling faint.”

Normally, you’d protest.

But the thought of staying here, alone, at this table—where those voices might return—makes your stomach churn.

So you nod, following her toward the exit, your heart still hammering.

As you pass through the high-arched doorway, Lira chatters about random Archive gossip, clearly trying to distract you.

You manage a weak smile here and there, but your thoughts remain fixed on those voices, how they echoed the nightmares you once had, how they accused you of leaving them behind.

Leaving who behind?

You can’t remember.

A final chill scutters down your spine as you glance over your shoulder.

In the alcove’s corner, the shadows are thicker than they should be, almost shaped like hunched figures.

Watching. Waiting.

A faint echo flickers in your mind, too familiar—childish whimpers, fear overwhelming your small body as you clung to blankets at night, wishing the voices would go away.

As you hurry after Lira, the rasping whispers claw at your memory.

“Don’t forget the blood… She’s still ours…”

Azriel appears so suddenly you nearly drop your ledger—one moment it’s just you and Lira in the corridor, and the next, the spymaster stands at your side, wings half-flared, shadows swirling restlessly.

His hazel eyes flick over you in a swift, razor-sharp sweep, cataloging every inch as if looking for injuries or signs of distress.

“Az,” you whisper, your voice still shaky from the lingering terror.

Lira startles, almost dropping the scrolls in her arms. “Cauldron,” she mutters, stepping back to give him space. “I’ll just…yeah.” She shoots you a worried look, then disappears around a corner, leaving you alone with Azriel’s intense gaze.

He doesn’t move for a beat—just stares, tension radiating from every line of his body.

The hush of the Archives thickens.

His expression is pure spymaster: unreadable, assessing, tinged with lethal calm.

Finally, in a voice carved from steel, he asks, “What happened?”

A wave of guilt crashes over you. You attempt a weak, tremulous grin. “Nothing. Just—library chaos. You know how it is.”

His jaw clenches, shadows uncoiling around his wrists like they’re ready to hunt.

“Don’t lie,” he says quietly. “I felt your fear through the bond.”

Your chest tightens at the reminder of how strong your panic must’ve been for him to sense it.

“I—” The words stick in your throat.

This man has faced wars, horrors you can’t fathom; the last thing you want is to burden him with ghost stories you can’t even explain. So you plaster on an overly bright smile. “It’s fine. Seriously, you can relax your wings now.”

He doesn’t.

If anything, they flare wider, as though to shield you from whatever threatened you. “Your hands are still shaking,” he observes grimly, eyes flicking to your trembling grip on the ledger.

A lump forms in your throat.

You force a laugh that comes out sounding like a pathetic squeak. “Must’ve been a dizzy spell. Too much dust. Really, Az, stop worrying.”

His nostrils flare with impatience—he’s clearly not convinced. Before you can protest, he steps forward, gathering you into his arms in one swift motion, ledger and all. The sensation of his firm chest against yours sends a jolt through your system that’s part embarrassment, part relief.

“Az!” you protest, cheeks heating. “We’re in the middle of the—”

He lifts you just enough to curve his arm beneath your knees, his other arm bracing your back. A neat little scoop that leaves you clutching at his shoulders, eyes wide. You can practically feel the hush of the Archives intensify as a few onlookers peek around corners.

But Azriel doesn’t seem to care.

His shadows swirl closer, forming a hazy barrier of privacy.

“You’re pale,” he says simply, as though that justifies everything. “And I’m not putting you down until you stop pretending this is nothing.”

“Az, I—” Heat flutters across your cheeks.

You glance around, mortified to be cradled bridal-style in front of whoever might pass by. But there’s no ignoring the steady thump of his heart against your ear, the secure hold of his arms.

It makes you feel…safe.

He looks down at you, his usually controlled features pulled taut with worry and frustration.

“You terrified me,” he admits low enough that only you can hear. “I’ve felt you anxious before, but never that close to panic.”

Guilt churns in your gut. “I’m sorry,” you manage, voice tight. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

His gaze lingers on the lingering tears clinging to your lashes, and the hardness in his face softens just slightly. “Tell me what scared you.”

“It’s nothing you need to hunt, I swear,” you say quickly, wanting to stave off the spymaster in him. Your voice trembles with the weight of the half-truth. “Please—just stop worrying.”

For a moment, he just studies you.

Then, releasing a sigh that ruffles your hair, he nods toward the nearest reading nook, a cozy alcove by a tall window. “We’re talking. Properly. Somewhere less exposed.”

He moves—with you still in his arms.

Your stomach swoops. “Azriel,” you hiss, mortified, “put me down. I can walk!”

His mouth presses into a stubborn line.

“You’re shaking,” he repeats. “Until I see you steady on your feet, I’m carrying you. You can glare all you want.”

You do glare. Furiously.

But you don’t exactly hate the warmth of his hold, or the reassuring solidity of his body. So with a defeated huff, you bury your face in the soft fabric of his tunic, hoping to hide from the curious glances of passing scholars.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach the alcove, where he sets you gently on a cushioned bench. One of his wings curls protectively around you in a half-shield, blocking out the rest of the Archives. Even as your feet touch the floor, he keeps a hand on your shoulder, as if afraid you might vanish.

“Tell me what happened,” he says again, voice firm but edged with a tenderness that tugs at your heart.

Your gaze drops to your ledger, your voice catching.

You can’t bring yourself to explain the whispers, the shadows, the half-buried nightmares you don’t fully understand. “I was just…overwhelmed,” you mumble, blinking rapidly against fresh tears. “I’m so sorry. I know you must have a thousand better things to do than rush here for no reason.”

Azriel’s expression darkens, and you sense that protective fury simmering behind his calm facade. “You are never ‘no reason,’” he says, each word clipped. “I’ll always come if you need me. You know that.”

“But—”

He slides onto the bench beside you, capturing your trembling hands in his. The warmth of his scarred palms steadies your breathing. “I can’t fix what you won’t tell me,” he murmurs, “but I can sit here until you feel safe again.”

The bond pulses gently, your chest loosening. You sniff, nodding gratefully. “I’m okay now,” you whisper, daring to meet his gaze. “Really.”

Azriel’s eyes remain narrowed, but you catch the barest flicker of relief. “If you say so.” His grip tightens just a fraction. “But if I sense that level of fear again, I will tear this place apart until I find the cause.”

The conviction in his voice sends a shiver through you. “Not sure the Head Archivist would appreciate you wrecking her shelves.”

He arches a brow. “Let her try to stop me.”

Despite yourself, a shaky laugh escapes your lips.

The absurd image of Azriel tearing down entire rows of rare scrolls in search of some imaginary threat is enough to dispel a bit of the tension knotting your gut.

“You’re impossible,” you say, but there’s no heat in your words.

He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maybe.” Then, more quietly, “I’d rather be impossible than let you face your fear alone.”

The sincerity in his tone nearly breaks you.

Emotion swells behind your eyes, though you manage to keep from crying again. Carefully, he shifts you closer, tucking you against his side. With his free arm, he drapes one dark wing around you like a shield.

Your heart flutters. The pressure of the wing against your back, the lingering hint of his soap-and-leather scent—together, they feel like an unspoken promise of safety.

A heartbeat of silence passes, your pulse steadying in time with his. Then, in a clipped tone that can’t entirely hide his concern, Azriel says, “Next time you sense anything—anything—off, you call me. Immediately.”

You open your mouth to argue—maybe you don’t want to feel like a damsel in distress—but the unyielding determination in his eyes melts your resistance.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He relaxes. Just a fraction, but enough that you feel the tension ebb. “Good.”

For a moment, you sit there in the hush, wrapped in Azriel’s wing, the rustle of his shadows quieting. You can practically hear his mind whirring, but he refrains from interrogating you further. He simply stays, presence unwavering, until the trembling in your limbs finally subsides.

Eventually, Azriel shifts.

You expect another question, another gentle demand for honesty. Instead, he lowers his head, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your forehead. It’s brief—barely more than a brush of his lips—but it speaks volumes.

A silent vow of protection. Of understanding.

Warmth unfolds in your chest, and you lean into him just a little more. Grip the fabric of his tunic a little tighter. Silently thank him for coming.

Even if you can’t tell him everything, even if your nightmares remain locked away, at least he’s here, fierce and unyielding, ready to chase away whatever haunts you.

You might not be entirely free of fear, but in his arms, with his protective wing folded around you, everything feels just a little more bearable.

Author’s Note: Azriel may be the king of quiet brooding, but she is the queen of secrets she doesn’t even know she’s keeping. I adore writing their soft, chaotic romance, and watching the shadows stir as her past begins to claw its way back. Things are only just beginning. 🖤 Tag List: @songbirdpond @tothestarsandwhateverend @lovely-susie @kksbookstuff @ladycaramelswirl @gamarancianne @writtenbypavani @bubybubsters @moonlitscrolls @valyas-corner @iris-lavender @lreadsstuff @nebarious @azrielssgirl @lamimamiii @fantasydreamwalker @dallynjennasgirl @tenshis-cake @lilah-asteria @sweetsugarcoffee @fall-winter-heart97 @lovely-susie @lreadsstuff @sofi03 @songbirdpond @nico707 @justtryingtosurvive02 @yourlocalcancer @saltedcoffeescotch @thatacotargirl @happypeanutstrawberry @theverseoftheblackpearl @tele86 @highladyofhogwarts @fuckingsimp4azriel @thegoddessofnothingness @lovelyflower7777 @stressed-reader @karespocketboyfriends @lreadsstuff @yourdarkroses-blog @plants-w0rld @oldernotwiser26 @ashduv @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @adventure-awaits13 @thegoddessofnothingness @fuckingsimp4azriel @highladyofhogwarts @stainedpomegranatelips @i-am-infinite @arcticfoxxes @hellohauntedturnstudent @yourallaround-simp

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #nesta acotar #feyre acotar

565 notes · View notes