#just instead of dueling they are touching

[swordmaid]

the yves/orin dynamic I hc is so hhhhhjjmyhhhhhhdhdghh scrumptious to me bc yves was orin’s biggest tormentor. yves constantly berated orin and thought she was useless, and she made her grievance known. like yves constantly preaching abt how orin is so useless and worthless and the only thing that’s significant to her is the blood in her veins and unlike her, she will never gain bhaal’s favour and she’s always going to be a mongrel chasing her heel for a sliver of recognition…! and the fact that yves - besides being bhaal’s bride and chosen - was one of the head priestess of His church meant that she influenced others to think similarly too. orin was also one of the constant victims of yves’ nasty tantrums and when she’s feeling particularly curious and she wants to see how a shapeshifter’s inner organs work mid shifting orin is the first one she takes to experiment on. like yves in her dead three was SO nasty and horrible and her cruelty is so deliberate and calculated. unlike her god yves was not reckless nor chaotic, rather, she was very meticulous and executed everything she did with precision hence why I think she worked well with gortash bc she isn’t unpredictable like orin.

but anyway, yves being so horrible and nasty to orin so when orin FINALLY managed to stage her little coup, it is a very satisfying and vindicating moment. now she gets to see the woman who made her life living hell kneel and break open like an egg, and she WILL watch with a smile in her face. now she has a chance to prove her worth, and to show everyone that yves was wrong abt everything and she IS bhaal’s chosen, and i think yves would actually be proud of her for finally standing up for herself lol.

but then orin makes the fatal mistake of not killing yves 😔

[plumipal]

The Tattoo (part three)

After scarabias overblot, and seeing what Ace and Deuce were willing to do for you, you were so touched that you decided to get them tattooed on your body as a small heart and a spade. After that chaos ensues-

If you wanna read the whole prolouge, then it's here

Oh poor Idia, where do we even start for him?... poor guy is absolutely shattered as soon as he saw those two tattoos on you through the cameras. He felt his entire reason to live just shatter. He feels his entire world collapsing in on itself. He completely just, breaks down, sobbing to himself on the floor trying to rationalise how the tattoos were not real, to try to keep his sanity in tact.

The days after that disastrous breakdown, he has been stuck in bed, too depressed to frankly do anything but to sulk. He had not eaten, not drank enough, and his personal hygiene is downright awful.

Once Ortho has convinced him to get up because crowley demanded him to actually attend his classes or it's byebye NRC for Idia, his pity for himself has turned into rage. Whenever he sees the dumb duo he can't help but to want to do anything against them, he sure would LOVE to doxx them...

But after some reconciderence from Ortho (statistics show he would be one of the top suspects for it and therefore make the prefect hate him even more (he believes)) he instead chose to take care of himself, putting actual effort in how he looks as to win you over with that. He sure hope it works, please...

Don't think ortho is just hyping up his brother, cuz he is sure helping on the sidelines. Digging up info the students don't want anyone to know abour sure is easy when you have unlimited internet access (and some illegal ways to obtain the info)

That's the easy way of getting students away from you, but getting you trapped up with them is almost just as easy. He starts calling you his siblings as well, subtly telling you how you and idia would be the greatest siblings ever to him, even backing up and glorifying hos brother in your eyes, anything it takes to get you to chose idia.... you will all be a happy family....

Sebek, for once in his life, is stunned to silence. He cant quite grapple the thoughts and feelings swirling within him is making him feel quite sick, making him quiet for the rest of the day..

Once classes has ended, he bolts over to his dorm only to dramatically lock himself in his dorm room and let out the worst crying session ever. He is sobbing,

The whole ordeal and emotions results in him having the need to constantly watch over you, as a way to show that he too can protect you, he can be there for you, just like ace and Deuce, but better! Please, he needed you, he needs you to need him too, please...

Silver don't quite know what to think about this. He cant blame you, the heroic stunts of your friends sure are nice, but why with something so permanent? He could do what they did and so much more for you, give him an opportunity and he will show you.

After "the talk" the four of them had, he has had a hard time sleeping for the first time in his life. He feels exhausted yet can't close his eyes, pictures of you happily being with ace and Deuce clouding his poor exhausted brain. He will take this on the only way he knows, a duel for your love and your hand.

You're not dumb either, you see how tired he had been and the lack of sleep he has been getting, and feeling bad for him you let him sleep on tou if that would help him. He takes this opportunity and sure is greedy with it, wanting more and more sleep time with you. It's one way to claim you, and at the moment it's enough for him, but don't think he won't demand more in the soon future..

Lilia feels heartbroken. First that the prefect, his beloved, has shown this love that he would love to have for someone else (especially two people), it breaks his heart. What breaks his heart even more is how he needs to go against his own sons for his beloved too. But he will do whatever it takes to secure you for himself.

When he meets you after hearing about the tattoo, he tries act as normal as possible, not wanting to scare you away with his desperation. Despite that though, he will also try to advance, because he is NOT losing to all these youngsters, he's old enough to know exactly how to treat someone right. Let him treat your right, please, he begs of you....

Malleus feels like there's a storm inside him, getting worse by every second he thinks about that forsaken tattoo you have. He activately tries to think less about it, not wanting the whole school to be stuck in a storm for weeks, especially when you're situated in that poor awful old and decrepid building. He will try to smite ace and Deuce if he has the choise to though-

After the anger dies down, that's when the sadness flows in. The fact that he was not your favorite, that he was not worth his own tattoo, frankly brings him to tears. He has never been denied something in his life, especially something that he wants so badly. It's a foreign feeling, and a horrible one at that.

He is an attention hungry dragon, give him what he wants and he will give you the world without question. Just, please, give him the love and affection he both crave and deserves...

Chat, im tired. Let me sleep- FINALLY THIS SERIES IS FINISHED! or so I thought- o will focus on other comics/ideas before I come back for the endings tho, because I kinda wanna do other stuff and not just the tattoo shenanigans yknow :) one again huge thanks to @artdolliewishes for lots of support and help lmao

I hope yall enjoyed this shitshow of a series atleast, was lots of fun to create after all

[kmt123whatsthetea]

A sweet angel and her corrupting devils

Fred Weasley x reader x George Weasley

Requested by: @flowerhetal

Request: “The twins with an inexperienced reader”

A/N: Thank you for the request! I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I'm finally back and writing. Also, I really went on a tangent for this one, I’m very sorry. And I had to rewrite most of the book because I wanted it to be a BFB as Ginny's bestie, but by TOOTP Ginny is 14 and the twins are 17-18, and I knew someone would pick it up and yikes. So say hello to Ron's new bestie, who is legal. I’m gonna be honest, this one was difficult to write and I didnt like how slow it was because I was just pushing to get it uploaded after so long. I really don't feel like this is even in my top 10.

T/W: Virgin reader, Twins kinda baby reader, Umbridge causing pain, Fingering, Praise

The Twins were such sweethearts.

Despite their joking nature, they treated you like a glass statue. Even when they picked you up, they handled you with care.

Fred and George were 2 years older than you. Being Ron’s best friend meant that, at first, the twins saw you as an annoying little sister, just without the trademark hair and freckles. But then the attraction became increasingly obvious. Fred and George would pay more attention to you and always wanted to sit beside you when you stayed for a sleepover. After a brief conversation between the two, they had realised that you had become another shared trait for the twins.

It was only fair that they agreed to share your attention.

As the years passed and you all got older, that attraction never faded. The twins flocked to you. Whenever a new prank was ready, you would never be a target. But they’d make sure that you were there to bear witness since they loved the sound of your laughter.

You started going to them more often, telling them about your day and listening to theirs. They never let anyone mess with you, saying that anyone who did would become the next target for their best prank yet. However, you didn't think that threat would extend to staff members.

When Delores Umbridge walked through the doors of Hogwarts School, she didn’t plan to let you all go about your regular business. She had a plan, which involved corporal punishment. They had found you buried under a pile of duvets in your room, missing both lunch and dinner. When they first stepped into your room, they didn’t think you were even there until they heard soft whimpers coming from the blanket pile.

Pulling back a few layers revealed your shaking form. Eyes red and puffy from hours of crying and arm red raw from both Umbridge’s quill and the insatiable urge to itch that comes with any scar. The mantra on your arm read ‘I shall pay more attention in class instead of daydreaming’.

Even when you tried to hide away and burrow back into the safety of the blankets, George cradled your face in his hands.

“Sweet girl, it’s okay. She got you too, did she? Why don't you come out and let me and Freddie look after you”

The effect they had on you was pure magic. They could talk you into anything with their soft voices. You slowly emerged, clinging to George like a baby koala while Fred took the chance to examine your arm. He cooed softly as he pressed a kiss to your palm.

“Baby, you’ve been touching it haven’t you? You know you’re not meant to scratch your scars”

All Hogwarts rooms had a first aid box. Nothing too fancy, just a few bandages and elixirs for those first years who couldn't wait to duel. Although Fred could have used a spell to soothe your wound, a simple bandage had that closeness and cozy feel to it. There's something romantically tragic about bandaging your lover's wounds.

His fingers applied the elixir like a massaging oil before carefully applying the bandage. All the while, your face stayed tucked into George's neck. George splayed his fingers across your back, his lips brushing along your ear.

“We just want to take care of you. That’s all we’ve ever wanted, sweet girl”

Fred set aside the bottle and sat on the bed, his hands finding your hips. He slowly pulled you from George's lap and onto his own, his chest against your back while his hands encircled your middle. You didn't mind when his hands drifted to your abdomen, they always made you feel so safe.

“I bet no other boy has ever taken care of you, have they?”

George cooed while his own hands stroked your thighs, slowly getting higher. When you shook your head, he moved forward to part your thighs and nestle between them, causing your skirt to ride up. Fred pulled your skirt up slowly, letting you object if you wanted to.

“We know how to take care of pretty babies like you. You just have to trust Georgie and I. You can do that, can’t you?”

They already knew that you were putty in their hands, but your meek approval made it so much better. George slowly pulled your panties down and put them in his pocket before he spread your legs more. Just a glance at you told him all he needed to know. You really were a virgin. He shot Fred a glance before both boys just stared at you. Fred pressed a kiss to your ear.

“Are you sure you want this, baby? To give yourself to us like this? We can’t go back afterwards”

Your meek voice filled their ears despite how quiet you were.

“I want you both. Please? Please make the pain go away”

George leaned forwards and kissed your lips, his hand trailing down to stroke your clit. He revelled in the surprised whimper that seemed to escape you. While his thumb rubbed slow circles over your button, his fingers glided down to tease your pussy. George gathered your slick and slowly pushed his finger inside. You were tight. Too tight.

“Baby, do you ever…play with yourself?”

You looked up at Fred first before looking at George, your cheeks pink.

“No, is that wrong?”

Oh, you were sweet.

Fred pressed a kiss to your temple while George's lips kissed the tip of your nose. They wanted to teach you everything. Every kissing technique, every position, every special toy. You would be their eager little student, desperate for kisses and praise. They wondered if you got wet just from being called their good girl.

“It's not wrong at all, sweetie. It just means that Georgie and I get to spend more time with you. Practice makes perfect, right?”

George's finger slid back inside of you, keeping a slow pace to let you adjust. Fred's hand toyed with your breasts, his thumb brushing over your nipples while his other hand rested across your middle to keep you still when you squirmed. Every moan filled their ears as if you were their own private singer. Pure music. George could feel how much of your juices was coating his fingers, you were wet enough for more. His second finger joined the first, your walls practically suffocating them. His fingers angled up and pushed deeper.

A loud moan left your lips, your walls clamping down on George's fingers. Your body squirmed in Freds grip. His hand left your nipples to cover your mouth. God forbid anyone heard and interrupted them. George kept his thumb on your throbbing clit, adding pressure to keep you spaced out.

When your moans slowly subsided, George slowly pulled his fingers out of you and brought them up to his lips. Fred kept you in a tight grip, his hand leaving your mouth to stroke your cheek softly. Your body trembled between them, eyes still closed and chest heaving for oxygen.

“You did such a great job, baby. Such a sweet girl. I bet Georgie’s fingers felt so good”

They waited a while before deciding to clean you up, wanting to take in the pretty sight for a while longer.

They liked how pretty their girl looked for them.

[yourlokalescholar]

Oh my god wait. What if the blessings of the gods manifested physically? Like if a god takes an interest in you, EVERYONE is going to see it, for better or worse. And if you lose their favour? Everyone can see that, too

Jason with a peacock tail and feather-crest, both of which go faded and limp when he turns on Medea, so that they drag on the floor and get in the way

Pollux with eagle wings instead of arms, so Castor acts as his hands and that’s why they’re inseparable. When Castor dies and Pollux splits his immortality with him, they each get one arm and one wing, so one can’t fly without the other

Odysseus with a forked tongue and fangs—a subtle feature that he can hide when he needs to. When Athena feels like being helpful (like when she disguises him as a beggar) she’ll cast an illusion over it, but Penelope immediately recognises him by his lisp

When Athena gives Diomedes the blessing of seeing through the gods’ disguises, he also gets owl eyes and the ability to turn his head 180 degrees. This helps when Odysseus tries to stab him in the back on the Palladium heist

HERACLES WITH BULL HORNS. I have nothing to add I just think that sounds sick as hell

Helen grows beautiful golden feathers instead of hair. Nothing useful, just an obvious sign of her heritage that adds to her appeal to the suitors: whoever wins her hand gets to walk around with a physical symbol of Zeus’s favour

Atalanta with antlers that snap when she gets married, leaving jagged shards behind that won’t go blunt and can’t be sharpened down. She can have her husband, but he can’t touch her head without risking badly cutting himself. This can either be one final blessing or a curse depending on how consensual you interpret the marriage

Hector has pristine white raven wings, making him even more terrifying to the Achaeans, flying into battle like divine intervention, and a symbol of hope for the Trojans. Achilles plucks the feathers off his corpse, but they won’t stop growing back. Still, Achilles has a cloak made from them and wears it into battle, turning Troy’s symbol against them

Paris gets dove wings, but he tells everyone they’re too small to fly with because he’s a coward and doesn’t want to have the same responsibilities as Hector. Then he flies away from the duel with Menelaus in front of the entire army, and that’s when Troy finally loses what’s left of their respect for him

[bluemoonscape]

One of the things about Obi-Wan and Anakin that makes me the most insane is how much they touch each other when they’re fighting. When compared to other lightsaber duels, we see that it’s obviously not just a staple of Jedi fighting techniques. Like it’s not like we see Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon playing footsie with Darth Maul in TPM. Anakin and Dooku don’t stop to do a quick do-si-do when they fight. It’s a unique feature of Obi-Wan and Anakin’s fights to be so incredibly close to each other. In Mustafar, they’re constantly touching each other—grappling hand to hand in the beginning and then doing so over the lava, Anakin putting his hand around Obi-Wan’s neck and leaning over him. Other fights in the series are just not that intimate. In the Kenobi show, they literally hold hands in their penultimate duel while taking swings at each other. Even in The Clone Wars, Obi-Wan, posing as Rako Hardeen, takes Anakin down through hand-to-hand combat and then cutting off his air by locking his arm around his neck.

When they’re sparring in Anakin’s Padawan years, the interesting thing is they actually don’t touch as much as they do in their later fights when they’re on opposing sides. Instead, they’re constantly revolving around each other, dancing in close and then back again. They don’t get touchy with each other until everything between them, the resentment and tension and love with no discernible place to go, has snapped. Then and only then do they allow themselves to touch and pour out their feelings on each other with the violence. Something about that just makes me so insane.

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞

After walking out mid-argument, Dante ends up with Enzo, bad advice, and demon-grade alcohol. The goal? Forget everything. But what good is drinking your feelings away when your body won't even let the alcohol stick?

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Oneshot, romance, hurt comfort, mild Angst, Fluff!

Warnings: language, Emotional miscommunication, Mild alcohol use, Mentions of past trauma/abandonment issues

Authors comment: This idea hit me while rewatching the 2007 anime. Dante was drinking and I thought, if he can even get drunk with his regeneration?? Wouldn’t it be fun (and a kinda tragic) seeing Dante all frustrated, trying to get wasted but his demon healing just won’t let him?

It didn't start with a fight.

It started with quiet tension. A half-answer here. A missed call there. The kind of things that build in the background, until one day, something stupid stirring up the tension.

Tonight, it was the dishes.

Not the end of the world, right? Not even a big deal. Just a small, silent irritation. The sink was full. Again. You'd come home late to that same damn pile, untouched, like a monument of Dante's laziness.

"Seriously?" you asked, not even raising your voice at first. "You said you'd clean the kitchen."

Dante, lounging on the couch with his boots up and one arm slung behind his head, barely turned his head. "I will."

"When?"

He yawned. "Eventually."

You stood in the doorway to the kitchen, fists clenched at your sides. "You live here too."

"Yeah," he said, stretching, "and I kill demons for a living. One of us is clearly more exhausted."

That did it.

"Oh, you're exhausted? Try coming home after twelve hours of dealing with people who actually communicate, only to realize I'm dating a guy who thinks emotional labor is a side quest."

He sat up a little at that. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't show up, Dante. Not for the little stuff. Not when it matters."

He stood now, slowly, arms crossed, like you'd just challenged him to a duel instead of a conversation. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Physically? Sure. Emotionally? No. I have to dig to get anything out of you. You dodge every serious talk with a joke. You ghost me for hours after missions. You don't answer texts. You act like I should be grateful you're even around."

He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. "You think I don't care?"

"I think you're scared to."

Silence.

For a second, the world shrank. There was no sound, only tension in the air. His mouth opened. Then closed.

You took a breath. "You treat this like it's temporary. Like you're just waiting for me to leave. You act like I'm disposable, like everyone else who's hurt you. That's not love, that's defense"

His voice was too quiet when it came. "Everyone leaves."

"And that gives you permission to push me away first?" you snapped. "To be cold and dismissive and act like you don't need anyone?"

His eyes flashed. "I never said I didn't need you."

"Then act like it, Dante!"

He flinched. Not visibly. Not in a way most people would notice. But you knew him. You saw it, in the small drop of his shoulders, in the tight line of his mouth.

He looked at you like you'd touched a bruise he didn't know was still sore.

Then, without a word, he turned and grabbed his coat.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your anger slipping away. “Don’t walk away. Not again.”

But he was already at the door, and then gone.

He didn’t take his phone, didn’t say a word, didn’t shout, just the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.

And then, silence.

You paced the apartment, every minute ticking louder than the last. You called once. Twice. Ten times. Nothing.

And when he finally walked back through the door two hours later?

He was dragging a crate of alcohol like it was his soul in a box.

Earlier...

Dante sat in Enzo's crusty kitchen, arms crossed, sulking like a kid who'd lost his lunch money.

"I dunno, man," he muttered. "She said I treat her like she's disposable."

Enzo was already halfway through a beer and nodding slowly. "Well, do ya?"

Dante squinted. "No."

"Then it's simple: she's wrong."

"She's not wrong," Dante admitted.

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Okay," Enzo tried again, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Maybe she's just being... emotional. Women, y'know. Feelings and all."

Dante stared blankly. "You've been divorced three times."

"Exactly. I know things."

Dante dragged a hand down his face. "I shut down. That's the problem. I don't know how to talk about any of it: The nightmares, the constant fear that everything's gonna go to hell again, so I don't."

Enzo blinked.

"Jesus Christ."

Dante laughed bitterly. "I never learned how to let people stay. Mother died. Vergil left. Everyone I ever cared about either died or disappeared. She gets close and it's like... my brain starts screaming. Like she'll vanish if I breathe wrong."

"Alright, alright," Enzo said, waving his beer. "Enough of that. You're spiralin'. That's girl therapy talk."

"It's called trauma, Enzo."

"Whatever. You don't need therapy. You need alcohol."

Dante looked up slowly. "What?"

"Alcohol! Fixes everything. You drink, you talk, or maybe you don't, and then she feels bad for you and bam, makeup sex."

"That's... not how people work."

"Worked for my second wife. For a week."

"You're an emotional hypocrite," Dante muttered.

“Exactly. Look,” Enzo said, searching through his stash like it was some kind of treasure chest. “I’ve got the good stuff. Demon-proof, Hellfire brand. This stuff would probably knock Cerberus out cold.”

Dante barely registered the words. His mind kept going back to the mission, the one he screwed up. He took down Cerberus, got paid, and then… nothing. No text, no call, no follow-up. He promised he wouldn’t do this again, but here he was, pulling the same bullshit.

Enzo, oblivious to the storm rising in Dante’s head, kept on his monologue. “You know what’s crazy? You take down Cerberus like it’s a walk in the park, get a fat paycheck, and still can’t pick up the damn phone? What happened, Dante? You don’t even have the decency to say ‘Hey, I didn’t die fighting a three-headed mutt. I’m fine.’” Enzo scoffed.

Dante’s frustration bubbled over. “I—”

“I know, I know,” Enzo interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s tough, man. That damn Cerberus battle really took it out of you. Big, bad demon, yada yada… but here’s the thing, you still can’t handle texting her? You get all emotional, come back looking like a damn mess, and then ghost her? That’s cold, bro.”

Dante felt a knot tighten in his chest. He wasn’t just mad at Enzo for talking about it like it was some kind of joke. He was mad at himself. He promised his lover, he really did, but once again, he failed. He couldn’t get out of his own way.

Enzo kept going, still not realizing how much he was digging in deeper. “Look, you’re so good at demon slaying, but when it comes to basic human interaction? You’re trash. And I don’t even mean like ‘rookie-level’ trash, I mean pro-level trash. You can take down an ancient demon, but you can’t pick up the phone? Dude, even I managed not to screw things up like this in my old relationships, and I’m a disaster. Like, seriously, I’m the disaster.”

Dante slammed his head against the counter. The guilt was suffocating.

Enzo, not noticing a thing, just kept yapping. “It’s not that hard. You show up at her place, look tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically. That’s the secret. Women love that tortured crap. Hell, I love it, and I’ve been through some shit.” He smirked, clearly thinking he was dropping wisdom. “Why do you think I’m always pulling in these tragic, mysterious vibes? I sell it, man. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Dante groaned, rubbing his face. “This is not helping. That sounds manipulative."”

Enzo didn’t even notice. “You’re telling me it’s manipulative? No, no, no. It’s drama. It’s called drama, son. We’re in the business of devil hunting and trauma bonding. You think any of the girls I’ve been with cared about me picking up the phone? Nah. It’s all about the act.”

Dante looked at the Hellfire bottle in Enzo’s hand, then back at Enzo’s grinning face, and sighed heavily. “I can’t get drunk anymore.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by Dante’s crisis. “Not with that attitude."

Dante raised a brow.

"Look," Enzo said, now dragging a wooden crate out like it was treasure. "You show up at her place, looking tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically."

Dante looked at the crate, then at Enzo, then sighed like the broken man he was.

"You're a disaster."

"And you're takin' the box as the next paycheck, so shut up."

Back in the apartment, Dante wordlessly slammed the box on the counter and uncorked a bottle like it owed him money.

You stood at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, watching this demon-slaying idiot fumble with the strongest liquor in the realm.

"Are you... drinking?"

He didn't look up. "Enzo said it would help."

"Oh no."

You stepped closer. "Dante. Tell me you didn't just trauma-dump on Enzo."

He swallowed a third of the bottle and winced. "Kinda."

"You told the greasiest man alive that you're emotionally shut down?"

"Yep."

"And he said drink through it?"

Dante slammed the bottle down. "He said it would either make me cry or pass out. So far it's just making me thirsty."

You deadpan blinked. "You're half-demon. Your liver literally regenerates."

"I KNOW."

You sat down at the table, chin in your hand. "You thought you could drink away emotional repression?"

He gestured at the second bottle like a broken man. "This one has a skull on it. Maybe it'll work."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm trying," he muttered.

"By what? Hiding from the consequences of emotional negligence?"

"I don't know how to do this," he said, shoulders slumped. "I know how to kill and destroy things. But I don't know how to stay."

Silence. Just the ticking clock. His hand tightened on the glass.

"I figured... maybe if I just felt something strong enough, I could finally say it."

You blinked at him.

"...So your genius plan was to outdrink your own trauma?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "It made sense at the time."

"You're a disaster," you said flatly, but your voice cracked at the edges, not from anger now, but from relief.

He finally looked at you, eyes tired, haunted, and young in a way that made your chest hurt.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, quieter. "I wasn't trying to disappear, I just... I don't know how to do this. When you got mad, it felt like- like it was already over. So I figured if I could just feel something... anything loud enough, maybe the words would follow."

You stared at him, then exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"That's the dumbest emotional strategy I've ever heard."

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off by stepping in and kissing him. Fast, warm, and full of everything you were still too exhausted to say.

He froze, then breathed out through his nose, leaning into it like something in him had just... let go.

When you pulled back, you raised an eyebrow.

"You still owe me a full conversation, idiot."

He gave a half-smile. "Can I be drunk for it?"

"You are very sober."

"Unfortunately."

He gave the ghost of a grin.

"Honestly? When you started yelling, I flashed back to the one time my old man raised his voice at me."

You narrowed your eyes. "Sparda yelled at you?"

"Once. Real quiet. Real disappointed. Genuinely horrifying." He held up a finger. "But you? You're way scarier. Banshee-level scary."

You tried not to smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be," he muttered.

"Also," you added, grabbing the bottle and inspecting the label, "this says 'Do Not Consume If Mortal.'"

He groaned. "Enzo's gonna kill me."

"No," you said, placing the bottle on the counter. "I'm gonna kill the both of you."

Later, as he lay half-curled on the couch, shirt half-off, a bottle abandoned at his side, he mumbled just loud enough to betray himself:

"Damn it... Enzo's advice almost worked. Makeup sex counts for emotional healing, right?"

You, brushing your teeth in the next room, spit into the sink and yelled,

"You really are allergic to accountability."

Next morning:

It took exactly one full day before you marched Dante back into Enzo's trashfire excuse for an office.

You didn't knock.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the coat rack and knock over a stack of demon-hunting magazines from 1998.

Enzo, chewing a meatball like it was his final meal, froze with sauce halfway to his chin.

"Well, well, if it ain't my two favorite lovebirds-"

"You gave him poison in a bottle!" you snapped.

"Technically it's concentrated hellbrew-"

"HE TRIED TO DRINK THROUGH HIS FEELINGS."

Enzo raised his hands in mock innocence. "Whoa, whoa. I didn't tell him to turn into a drunk cowboy in your kitchen. I offered an alternative path to emotional growth. Through liquor."

Dante stood awkwardly behind you, very much regretting his life.

"You," you pointed, turning to him. "You listened to him."

"In my defense," Dante muttered, "he said it was demon-proof and emotionally numbing. I panicked."

You folded your arms. "So your brain went: 'Hmm. I have unresolved abandonment issues... Better drown them in demonic Everclear and hope for the best.'"

He gave a sheepish shrug.

"And it almost worked," he added.

You slapped his arm. "It didn't."

"Okay, but technically we-"

"It didn't."

Enzo was now watching with the same face he made when demon entrails exploded in his car: morbid curiosity and suppressed laughter.

"Look, sweetheart," Enzo said, "not everyone's good at feelings. The kid's got a sword twice his body weight and the emotional range of a wet sponge."

"Hey-!" Dante frowned. "I tried to talk about my issues."

"You tried to mainline whiskey and stare into a mirror."

"Same thing!"

You glared at both of them. "You're not off the hook either," you snapped at Enzo. "He doesn't need alcohol, he needs a therapist."

Enzo scoffed. "I've been a therapist for years."

"You once told Dante to 'punch grief in the face.'"

"And he did! It was very liberating."

You sighed, hard enough to summon storms.

Dante reached up behind his head and mumbled, "Okay, okay. Maybe I'm bad at this."

"No," you said. "You're terrible at this."

"...But I still wanna try."

Your anger melted just a little.

He stepped closer, rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know how to fix everything in here," he said, tapping his chest. "But I don't wanna lose you just because I never learned how to talk."

You held his gaze.

"You're lucky you're hot," you muttered.

He smirked. "Jackpot."

You groaned.

Enzo stood up, wiping his hands on a suspiciously oil-stained towel. "Alright, lovebirds. Get outta my office before you start trauma-bonding on my furniture."

Dante turned to leave, and Enzo pulled him aside at the last second.

"Hey," Enzo whispered, voice oddly serious. "Next time she yells, listen. And don't try to drown it out. You'll screw it up worse."

Dante nodded.

"Also..." Enzo handed him a sealed bottle with a wink. "Save this one for after you make up. You'll thank me."

You grabbed it and dropped it in the nearest trash bin.

"No, he won't."

As the bottle clattered into the trash, Dante groaned into his hands.

“She’s gonna kill me."

[skywalkoverme]

can i please please request a anakin x reader smut where they share their first times with each other, ( they’re padawans still like aotc age) and they’ve been best friends anakins whole time as a jedi and eventually end up catching feelings and becoming each others first kiss and then just cute little things like that for their established relationship yknow. but then anakin and her end up taking one night and end up sharing their first time…with anakin not being crazy dominant or anything like he is having his first time with the girls he’s like since like forever. please please 🙏

a/n: replying to the direct request because this has a longer summary

𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐞

\𐙚 Anakin Skywalker x Fem! Reader 𐙚 18+ MDNI

Summary: Two close friends; two virgins.

Warnings/contains: orignial au, best/close friends, p in v, nipple play, handjob, virgin sex, anakin is a virgin, first times etc, Anakin + Y/N are above 18!, proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 2k // More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

“It could be hurt, Ani.” You sighed, petting its feathers gently.

Anakin crouched down beside you on the blue tile and tilted his head, “I know a thing or two about these creatures; this one looks fine to me.” He turned his attention to your saddened expression… “We can take it to the medical bay…?” he suggested softly. It warmed his heart as well as his pink cheeks to see your smile.

“Do you think they’ll be able to help the little guy?” Anakin’s hands cupped yours as you held the bird, palms of his hands gently embraced your skin.

“There’s only one way to find out.” It felt so right. When his skin met yours, his eyes in yours. His gentle hands took the bird from your grasp and held it to his chest. You followed after him without much thought.

You sat beside each other in the medical bay as the bird was being tended to. Anakin tried his best to distract you from the worry in your heart, “You’re starting to fall in her image.” He smirked.

“My Master? No…she’s much more talented than me.”

Distractedly, you took his hand into yours, “You should give yourself more credit. She’d want you to.” You agreed. It was true, “Besides, I’m sure, you could take me in a duel.”

“Maybe but you’ve got more experience than me. After what happened on Xea, I won’t be going on many missions.” He shook his head with a chuckle, your interlaced hands rest on his thigh.

“She’ll take you on more missions!” He wagged his finger, “Y’know, sometimes, you’re more---”

“--Pessimistic than you look.” You both said at the same time. He smiled sheepishly. He’d been telling you that since you first met three years ago and each time, you’d only smile. A nurse walked back to you both with the blue bird in her hands; its leg was bandaged in white. “Thank the force.” You both sighed simultaneously.

You let go of Anakin’s hand and took the bird back, “Thank you!” Anakin bit the inside of his cheek as he watched your tender touch on the bird’s head. It chirped happily as you walked to the balcony. His eyes followed your hands as you encouraged the bird’s wings to spring open. In a sudden flutter, the blue bird left your hands and took flight in the air above before diving towards the shrubs below. “That’s quite beautiful.”

“…yeah.” He muttered as you stared out at the setting sun. “You…care so much.” He said softly as you rest your hands on the balcony ledge.

“What do you mean?”

“Even when a creature can’t repay you, you care for them just the same.”

“It’s the Jedi way.” Anakin nods once. When he’s with you, he forgets about that sort of thing. The codes, the mottos, any and all of it. You’re the only person that treats him like a human being instead of a prophet. It wasn’t that his destiny meant nothing to you; you were proud that one day, one day soon, he’d be a savior--- “My room?” You took his hand soon after he agreed. Attached at the hip was an understatement. Wherever Anakin was, you weren’t far behind. It’d been this way for years so Obi-wan paid no mind to the sight of Anakin closing your room door behind himself.

Anakin helped take off your boots and you hung his robe on the back of the door. “I learned something last night.” He said excitedly as he joined you on your bed. You curiously watched as he took a glass of water from your bedside. With a tense hand, he studied the liquid in the glass, slowly lifting it from its confinement. Anakin passed you the empty glass and continued to play with the water in its buoyant state. Droplets separated as he spreads the water between you both…

You leaned forward, staring at him through the refracted window. When you smiled, he could feel how proud you were. Your fascination with him wasn’t the kind he was used to: your tenderness and passion, both unwavering since the day he met you. Every word you spoke of him, you meant.

He adores you beyond belief.

Anakin’s heart raced as he thought of that night in the Old Palace grounds. The Old Palace has been long abandoned for many decades, and it was your idea to explore the grounds. You sat beside him near the far cliff as the cool night breeze grazed your skin, your hands on his waist as you kissed his lips. Anakin melted under your touch; his hand cuffed your cheek all the while.

By now, you’d changed into matching pajamas and socks. You lay on your back beside him in bed, your fingers interlaced with his. “…all I know is: you can’t sit beside me for tomorrow’s exam.” He was turned to you as you spoke, facing your ceiling.

“Why not?”

“You’ll make me nervous.” You sighed.

“You have nothing to prove to me.” He reassured while your shifting eyes met his gaze. In your eyes, he could clearly see the doubt you held for your talents. He wished he could tell you of how perfect you are, how you could do do no wrong. Failing is impossible for a person like you. “You know that, right?” He brought your hand to his lips and pressed his lips against your skin.

“I know.” You pushed away the barrier between you both and rest your forehead against his, “I guess we can sit together…”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think Shaak Ti will allow us to be this close in the exam room…” He said as your lips grazed his.

“Woe is me.” Anakin chuckled as your body pressed against his. “...we can’t get any closer.” You said softly. You were unsure if you were speaking to him or reminding yourself of the miserable truth.

“We can.” Your two sweating palms clung to each other tightly. You could feel his body tremble, his breath on your skin. “I want to be closer.”

You regrettably muttered: “We can’t.” He was silent, disappointed to hear you say such a thing. “The purity of the force depends on it.” He shut his eyes. This tension was killing him softly, so softly. Your kiss was sudden on his lips, as velvety as your voice. His eyebrows rose as your tongue slipped between his teeth and ran across his own. Through his long nights of celibacy and awkward sweats, he was practically begging to free himself from the constrains of the Jedi ways. “I…” You swallowed your words. Anakin’s hand planted on your side as he brought you closer. “I love you.”

Anakin’s chest burned in the heat of your body; his heartbeat so fast, he thought it had ceased to move. He could die right now and join the force happily. It’s too late to stop now. Your tongues continued its passionate embrace, saliva shared between you both without a second thought.

His arms wrap tightly around your waist and your embrace became as desperate as you felt. He moaned in your hands as they held the sides of his head. Anakin felt the need to bury himself inside of you until you were one. He lost himself in the forbidden touches as you undressed him.

Beyond that, his curiosity got the best of him; a nervous hand cupped your breast, and massaged the soft swell as small moans left your lips. “Does that feel good?” You guided his thumb and forefinger to the nub of your nipple, and he softly pinched. Your head fell back as he rolled the nipple under his finger. The sight of you melting under his touch was enough to make him perfectly aroused. He unbuttoned your pajama shirt and gently licked your nipple. Your breathing sped up as he flicked the hard nub.

“S- suck on it~” You held the back of his head, your fingers submerged in his sun-tanned hair. His lips engulf your aching nipple. The sensitive skin against his tongue sent a wave of arousal through his body. His cock twitched and leaked pre-cum on his skin in his pants. Her breast fits perfectly in my mouth…her skin tastes so nice. His hands roamed your body, kneading your curves hungrily. He brought you closer, grinding his cock against you as he suckled harder. Inside of his mouth, he flicked his tongue up and down the pointed nub. You moaned into his hair while he moved to the next tit, a shy and lust-stained expression on your face.

You could see his raging boner as it stood proudly in his pajama pants. Anakin followed your gaze and swallowed his mouthful of saliva. “May I?” He nodded eagerly. You moved the waistband of his pants down his hips. The sight of a penis is foreign to you--- aside from diagrams from your studies. Anakin guides your hand around his shaft.

“Squeeze it when you move your hand.”

“Like this?” You squeezed his cock and gently pumped his shaft in your hand. He nods breathlessly and sat back on his elbows. His whimpers filled the small room as his hips buck to the rhythm of the pleasure. I can’t take this for much longer. Anakin’s eyes squeeze shut as his chest heaved with ragged breaths. You watched his muscles as they flexed tightly, a hand rubbed your thigh while he grew harder in your grasp.

“Wait.” His hand covered his mouth, “I- I don’t want to finish yet.” Anakin brought your body under his, careful with his passion, he didn’t want to hurt you in any way. The young man found it hard to think as the nude body of his closest friend rests under him. You looked at his shaft nervously, biting the inside of your cheek. I need to be with her. He positioned himself at your soaking entrance and used your wetness to coat his cock. Anakin holds back as you shook your head. “I heard it…it’ll only hurt for a bit.”

He leaned down onto you and kissed your swollen lips, every curve of your body a new valley for his eyes to traverse. I must be careful with her…I hope this feels good to Y/n. He placed open mouthed kissed along your sensitive throat. “I’ll go slow.” He promised. You took a few deep breaths and hold your arms around his throat. His hips flex forward, his cockhead slowly spreads your pussy lips as he slipped into your virgin cunt. He listened to your whines as his cock stretched your cunt. “I- I’m sorry!”

“Keep going…” He heard your breath hitch and watched as your eyes pricked with tears. Anakin was almost ashamed to admit he was receiving such breathtaking pleasure from this. He slowly pumps in your cunt as you take a few deep breaths. “…it…it’s not bad.” You mutter as he planted a kiss on your forehead.

He grits his teeth as your warm, velvety walls envelop him. This was infinitely better than his fist, better than what he could ever do to himself. “Y~ so tight~” His words escaped him as your pussy cherished the inches he gave you.

He watched your eyes as they slowly shut to his rhythm. Anakin fought the urge to cum as you let him in deeper. “Look at me.” His twitching eyes turned down to you, “Breathe.” The way you spoke to him nearly made him cum. He breathed with you as he pushed his hips into you. He could feel every quiver and spasm of your cunt as he buried himself inside.

We fit so perfectly together…she’s so beautiful. I’m~ “I’m gonna cum, Y/n!” He cried; his arms that supported his body began to tremble harshly. “I- I~” You watched as he weakly pulled himself out of your cunt. Anakin came on your bedsheets and lay across your hot body. Your orgasm spilled onto the covers beneath you.

After changing the sheets, you lay against Anakin as he braided your hair back. “You’re very beautiful.” He said softly as you shyly hid under the covers. “…I love you.” He said as he joined you under the shadows of the covers.  

“I love you too.”

a/n: I enjoyed writing this a lot 😫 felt like a pervert though lol

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

Interact with my Anakin master list to be tagged: (sorry if I missed you, it's a rotation)

@meowmeowjang @slingggshot @cdfvgbhnjm @peachpit31 @carterc15 @smithcaityy @sisterofreverance @hellomwah @blondiebatter @aqqjjk @radiantvader @anthrais @xhino3 @valyna27 @wuxianwrld @discobronzer @melaninswift @justthingzsblog @stanyuqisworld @ppoppy-seed @mcxdiaz @maneater97 @swiftiesimonriley @yeonjinnie @laddle @daughterofstairs @edenizzyx @eymie @xxhvzelxx @bored-as-fuck @skywalkershootme @viviennebloom @jujustarwars1 @kaaaatta-blog @javierpenaspentis @cherrylvrsworld @finnyboob @nouschkaa @blackkhir4 @ilovepurple31 @smiling-is-suffering @akariakanji-blog @daddysbitchybaby @sythethecarrot @thescxrpio

[darkmatilda]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer takes care of you after a serious accident.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: hospital, rehabilitation, neck and brain injury, nud1ty

𝐚/𝐧: this is one of the potential endings of my fanfiction "with the light off" which officialy remains open up to your own interpretation. this version written to comfort all the hearts i've broken <3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 11k

Spencer felt embarrassed by how, just an hour after leaving the apartment, he already wanted to call her.

She had already occupied a near-constant presence in the back of his mind, slipping in like a shadow—elusive and playful—darting between his thoughts, flitting from one corner to another whenever he tried, even briefly, to forget about her. But now? After that night they had spent together?

Spencer knew a lot about obsession. He understood the weight of the word and was acutely aware of its gravity. Yet he couldn’t deny it—he was obsessed with her. Physical contact had always been a sensitive yet profoundly significant subject for him. He didn’t allow many people that close. 

For him, touch was the ultimate proof of closeness and trust. Intimacy bred attachment. This wasn’t about desire in its rawest form—it was something else… though he wasn’t entirely sure what. He couldn’t define the bond they shared.

He felt bored, detached from the world when she wasn’t in it, and the only thing keeping him tethered to some semblance of normality was the thought—the imagining—that at this very moment, they were breathing the same air.

He was starting to think he might be losing his mind.

He held off on calling her precisely to avoid coming across as a lunatic in her eyes. He managed to restrain himself only once he was at work, where the seriousness of his profession demanded it. In a way, though, he felt lighter. Throughout the day, he was buoyed by the thought of their upcoming meeting, the excitement it brought—and the nerves. That mixture of emotions was enough to make the entire team glance at him with curiosity.

Garcia was handing out case files, her hair recently dyed a vibrant shade of red. Rossi, instead of opening his folder like everyone else, was watching Spencer from across the table, leaning on his elbow.

“Did you win the lottery or something?” he asked, so unexpectedly that Spencer glanced around at the others, unsure who the question was meant for.

When he realized the question was directed at him, he swallowed hard. Morgan’s raised eyebrow seemed to challenge him to a duel.

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Because you’re practically glowing, sweetheart,” Penelope chimed in with a sly smile. “Don’t think you’re getting away without telling me everything later. I’ll get it out of you, don’t you worry. But for now, let’s get started…”

They immersed themselves in the case, but a few hours later, during a brief moment of downtime, he realized he was looking for an excuse to call her. Was a simple desire to ask what she was up to reason enough?

He wondered if she was still at his apartment. He hoped she was. He knew she’d eventually have to leave to prepare for the shift she was starting later that afternoon, but he couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at him about the whole situation with her roommate’s ex-boyfriend.

Realizing he’d been staring at his phone for far too long and that he’d soon need to get back to work, he made a snap decision and called.

But no one answered.

Logically, he reasoned that mornings were probably her time to sleep. Afterward, he tried sending a text message. But by late evening, when he finally returned to his apartment, he was starting to feel genuinely worried.

The question nagged at him: could it have been about the previous night? Maybe he’d done or said something wrong, something that had put her off completely?

Slowly, he walked into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway as his eyes landed on the perfectly made bed. It definitely hadn’t looked like that when he left it.

Then his gaze fell on the slightly ajar safe, and he froze. The combination was incredibly complicated, so he must have left it open when he took out his gun and badge. Besides those items, there was one more thing inside.

He had once again fallen into the trap of keeping Dilaudid close, even though he wasn’t using it. Was it possible she found it, and that’s why she hadn’t reached out?

It wasn’t that he had lied to her about being clean. She had seen how much effort it took for him to talk about it, so she approached the subject with incredible subtlety, never asking directly, but watching him closely, carefully, yet without pressing.

If she had really found it in his safe, she might have felt betrayed. Or maybe she decided she didn’t want to get involved with someone who had such a problem. Perhaps she had seen the whole previous night as one big mistake and then decided to throw him out of her life. Spencer, though it pained him, couldn’t help but feel that he deserved it.

He sat on the bed, crushed by his own thoughts. Something didn’t sit right with the version of events he had imagined. First and foremost, she wasn’t the type of person who would turn him away because of this. Her heart ached to help others; she couldn’t ignore someone else’s troubles. Even if he had hurt her, her immense capacity for understanding would have remained intact. Empathy was imprinted on her, like a deep, unshakable mark.

Driven by a hunch, he reached for his phone to call her again. That’s when he noticed two missed calls from an unknown number, just fifteen minutes ago.

He pressed the phone to his ear, his brow furrowing in confusion as he heard the first sound on the other end… a sob?

The sound went on and on, and Spencer was too confused to utter a single word.

“Who am I talking to?” he finally asked. Unable to stop himself, he stood up. He didn’t even know what was going on or who he was talking to, but he sprang to his feet anyway. His body compelled him, his insides twisting with unpleasant spasms.

It could just as well have been some stupid prank. The problem was, it wasn’t.

“H-hey, it’s J-Jude,” a voice came from the other end. Female, shaky, and choked with sobs so severe that if he didn’t already know her name, he would never have guessed he was speaking to her roommate. He stopped pacing the room. “I-it was me…I called earlier. S-she doesn’t have any…any family, and I didn’t know…I didn’t know who to inform…I can’t handle this on my own…they just took her away again…”

It wasn’t as if the world suddenly came to a halt. It simply became both sharper and blurrier at the same time. Spencer could see that single, bright strand of hair on the pillow with perfect clarity, yet his own legs seemed out of reach. When he looked down, all he saw was darkness stretching below him. Somehow, he was still breathing.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. Later, he couldn’t explain how his voice—those first words—had sounded so composed. “W-who took her… where… and why…?

“I have no fucking idea!” she shouted, followed by a long silence during which Jude took a desperate gasp of air. “I mean, I do, I do know! They just brought her in, but... but suddenly they took her back because there was some kind of…bleeding…”

“...ding?” he blurted out, the first syllable swallowed entirely by his panic.

“No, I don’t want anything to calm me down, I am calm, can’t you tell?” Her voice grew distant, as if she’d pulled the phone away from her mouth. Then it came back, clear and pleading. “Please, come here…”

She hung up. The phone slipped from his hand as if it burned him. In a frenzy, he bent down to grab it, only to drop it again. Finally, he fell to his knees, managing at last to pick it up. As he stood, he felt as though some substance was spreading through his brain—black, toxic, and utterly destructive. Its effects left him barely tethered to reality. He could hear and see, but everything was overlaid with Jude’s words, looping in his mind like printed text on a screen.

The next thirty minutes were a blur.

How could it be logically explained that, in a state of complete detachment from the outside world, he somehow managed to figure out, based on the map of the area imprinted in his memory, which specific hospital she was in? How did his panicked, trembling hands manage to cover that distance by car without causing an accident?

The only thing he knew was that he ended up at the nearest hospital, wearing just a shirt with no outer layer. It was shocking that he even had shoes on. 

He should have been looking for the woman who had called him, demanding every bit of information she had. But somehow, instinctively, his eyes searched for someone else—a familiar face. He prayed it was all some sort of misunderstanding. Maybe he was fooling himself, hoping to spot her among the people passing by. A part of him simply refused to accept the possibility that anything could have happened to her.

Nothing had happened.

She was fine.

Her blue eyes were soaking in the surroundings, their gaze carrying that faint sparkle that always appeared at night. Maybe there was even a smile on her lips. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow himself to imagine what might have happened to her. It felt as though the universe itself should be ashamed for ever entertaining the thought of harming her.

"Are you family?" the man at reception asked. Spencer nodded. "I'm sorry, but I can't provide you with any information,"

"Just tell me, is she alive?"

"I can't…"

"Just fucking tell me…"

"They’re operating on her right now," a voice spoke from behind him. Spencer turned and blinked. Only then did he realize he was in a hospital. Before, he’d only had a goal—an urgent need to get there. The surroundings were just beginning to take shape in his mind. He had never seen this woman before, but he guessed it had to be Jude. Her face was swollen from crying, but she seemed less shaken than during their call. She had probably accepted the sedatives. "Again. First, they spent almost four hours working on her neck… they said she was stable, asleep, but then suddenly there was that bleeding… I watched them take her out of the room right in front of me…"

“Did you see her?”

Unexpectedly, she hid her face in her hands.

“I didn’t know who to call. She mentioned you a few times, and I had your number, and I didn’t know what to do…” she began explaining chaotically, as if it mattered at all. “It’s my fault, you know, all of this is my fucking fault…”

They were standing right in front of the receptionist, blocking his access to others who needed help. Spencer snapped back to the moment, pulling her a few steps aside.

“W-what did you say? That they operated on her for four hours?”

“Yes, the first time…”

So, she had been there for at least four hours. Longer, considering the time needed after surgery before visiting a patient. Pain spread across his chest. While he was wondering why she hadn’t answered his calls, coming to various conclusions, she had been fighting for her life?

He... had been at work, moving around, talking to others, living, while all of this was happening? He felt as if... as if he had betrayed her. It was absurd, even he knew that. Despite the state he was in—tragic, to be precise—he understood just how absurd that thought was. But he couldn’t stop the guilt and shame that washed over him every time he tried to imagine her on the operating table while he had been completely unaware of her condition.

“I need to sit down," Jude muttered, and after a moment, they found themselves on narrow chairs lined along the hospital walls. Spencer barely managed to force his knees to bend, his body to settle into the seat.

He was only beginning to adjust to the foreign gravity that was pressing down on him.

In his head, there was only one thought, one resolution, one desire. The only thing that could save him from losing his mind in this waiting room.

"I need to see her."

"We have to wait," Jude replied, pressing her hand to her forehead. More tears appeared in her eyes. She wasn’t just terrified, she was completely falling apart. "We... we once gave each other permission to access information about our health. You know, in case of an accident. The doctors told me everything. A neck sprain. A concussion. Two broken ribs and a broken forearm." Although her speech had been unclear earlier, when she listed the injuries, she sounded like a movie announcer.

Spencer quickly realized that these words must have been echoing in her head since they were first told to her. The same thing had been happening to him. Each word was like a blow delivered with full force, and his extensive medical knowledge wasn’t helping him avoid panic. He was too aware of the danger and too aware of the suffering her poor body must have endured.

They both squeezed their eyes shut tightly. Spencer felt as though his temples might explode. Waiting. Was there anything worse in the world than waiting? Being stuck in ignorance, teetering between uncertainty, relief, and utter despair? Feeling all of it at once?

"How did this even happen?" he asked the woman sitting next to him.

He was sure he already knew the answer to that question. She didn’t even need to say it. It was enough to see how she dropped her gaze, heavy with pain, and how tightly her jaw clenched.

“She... fell down the stairs.”

Spencer wanted to scoff at the understatement. The real version of events couldn’t pass Jude’s lips, but in some way, he considered that a blessing. If Jude had openly admitted that she had been pushed, he might have crumbled under the weight of the fury flooding him. But for now, his anger didn’t matter. Only the passing time did.

He felt as if he hadn’t taken a single breath since leaving his apartment. Leaning his head back in his seat, he endured what felt like two whole days, then glanced at his watch only to realize that exactly forty-seven seconds had passed.

Time—a relative concept. In physics and in human perception. Einstein had proven it, and so had that particular moment.

He started to fear that he might never leave the waiting room. Memories and emotions began to blur together. He formed a theory: that he had been trapped there for quite some time—weeks, perhaps. Back when another loved one had been on the operating table, and he’d been losing his mind in much the same way.

Could it be that, under the strain of this torturous waiting, he’d lost his sanity? That his brain, desperate for relief, had simply imagined everything that followed? The trip to the library that night, finding himself at her door, the string lights on the Christmas tree, the Venus flytrap, the bar, opening the door that night and seeing her on the stairwell—at once flushed from a night spent at the club and chilled from the December air?

And now that illusion had simply shattered, like a fragment of broken glass. He was back in the waiting room again, waiting, hurting too much—and yet feeling as though he had no right to. His pain was nothing compared to what she was going through. He should be doing something, anything, to make himself useful, to not succumb to the weight of his own helplessness.

When the doctor finally approached them, Spencer almost knocked over his chair in his haste to stand. The doctor, however, focused solely on Jude as he delivered the update, leaving Spencer questioning whether he even existed.

“We managed to stop the bleeding. That’s the good news,” he began, his dark eyes unreadable—at once cool and concerned, with the practiced composure characteristic of people in his profession.

“Thank God,” Jude whispered, rubbing her chest as if trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart.

Spencer, on the other hand, felt no relief. Not even a sliver.

"‘That’s good news,’" he repeated the doctor’s words, drawing the man’s gaze to him. ‘But… but is there something bad?’

That brief moment before the doctor answered felt longer than nearly the past two hours of waiting.

“Due to suspected brain swelling, we had to induce a coma.’

“What?’ Jude mouthed silently. “How… how could she be in a coma? Why? Was that necessary?’

“They needed to reduce the intracranial pressure,’ Spencer replied, the words spilling from his mouth without him even realizing he was speaking. ‘The coma prevents further damage and minimizes the brain’s oxygen consumption. But will she… how long will she…?’

“Only for a few days,’ the doctor assured him, understanding the question he couldn’t quite form. “As long as there are no further complications or additional bleeding. But I can reassure you for now: there’s no indication of that. Her condition seems stable. She was… incredibly lucky. It was a serious accident—a miracle, a sheer miracle—that she didn’t break her spine.’"

For a moment, he couldn’t utter a single word, his throat still tight, and the relief never came. He knew he wouldn’t feel it until he saw her, fully conscious and awake. Until that happened, he would grimace every time he heard the word miracle. 

"When will I be able to see her?" he asked, surprisingly calm and composed. The question was so important to him that his voice didn’t tremble even once. In fact, it was the only thing that mattered right now.

"You’ll need to wait a few hours before visiting. We have to make sure there’s no risk of a sudden deterioration in her condition. Also, only authorized individuals can visit her."

The last part of the doctor’s statement felt almost like a slap in the face.

"How many hours?" he pressed, impatience creeping into his voice. "Two? Four? Six?"

"Please, calm down," the doctor asked, making a gesture with his hand.

“Eight?”

His voice grew increasingly sharp, desperately demanding an answer. The doctor opened his mouth to respond, but Jude interrupted with a question.

"As an authorized person, can I, on behalf of the patient, allow him to visit?" she asked, catching Spencer’s gaze for a brief moment before quickly turning away. "She would want this, I know it."

The doctor shook his head in refusal, providing them with a few more details about the surgery before turning to leave. Spencer watched him leave, something in him wavering between a sigh and a snort. So they wouldn’t even let him visit her? He understood the hospital procedures and rules perfectly well, but when it came to his own case, he hated them with all his heart. They wouldn’t allow him to see someone who meant so much to him, simply because they weren’t bound by blood or a ring on his finger. A ring on his finger… maybe he should lie and say they were engaged?  Although, would it really make any difference in the eyes of the hospital staff?

Before the loose fragments in his mind began to form a plan, he noticed that Jude was staring at him. She had sat down again, pressing her back tightly against the chair's backrest. She hadn’t cried for a while now; a certain relief had settled on her face when she heard the surgery had been successful, but then the old devastation returned, stronger than ever before.

"I won’t be able to visit her," she said, her voice hollow. "Not even while she’s unconscious. And when she wakes up, look her in the eyes. Tell me, how could I do that after everything? After all of this was my fault?"

Spencer turned away and walked off.

He knew that if he didn’t, something inside him would break. He couldn’t stop the anger he felt toward Jude. From what he knew, she had repeatedly refused to report her ex-boyfriend to the police, perhaps more or less aware of the danger he posed. She had the right to do so, theoretically. But that didn’t change the fact that someone else had suffered because of her foolish decision.

In his eyes she deserved the guilt she felt.

Not knowing what to do with himself, he found a place far from her, far from anyone, where he spent the next few hours, hardly moving. Sometimes he observed the relatives of other patients in the hospital, also broken, but he had some selfish feeling that even they wouldn’t understand what he felt. He placed himself on some distant, elite orbit of suffering and felt almost embarrassed by it. 

Pain always makes sure that a person feels as lonely and misunderstood as possible in it. That is when it has the most power over them.

He kept away from the windows, the darkness outside, slowly losing its intensity, putting him into a state of shock and contemplation. Maybe time was a relative concept, but that didn’t change the fact that it existed. Somewhere far away, there was light beyond this waiting room.

For some time now, he had been occupied with a certain task. He was aware of the hours passing and how, with them, his desperation grew. He felt he would go mad if he didn’t see her. The designated time during which the patient should be ensured complete rest after surgery had ended, yet he knew they wouldn’t let him in to see her. But he had a brain for a reason, right?"

He found the room where everything that mattered to him at that moment was. A young doctor was just leaving.

"Excuse me, ma'am,” he approached her politely, trying to appear calm, though his appearance and trembling hands clearly suggested otherwise. “I need to visit this patient.”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, actually…” He knew this was a desperate move and resorting to a lie, but he didn’t care. What was morality in his situation? Just a word. He reached for the badge he had with him and cleared his throat. “I’m with the FBI. I’ve been assigned to see this particular patient; it’s a matter that cannot be delayed."

Believe it or not, but people often lost their minds at the mere mention of the FBI. Spencer suspected that such a young doctor might have some gaps in experience and not know what procedures were in place in such a situation.

The surprised woman took a half step back.

“But she’s in a coma…” she said uncertainly, turning toward the room. “Are you sure it’s this patient?”

“Absolutely. And as I said, there’s no time to waste.”

He didn’t put his badge away, still holding it raised, with a serious expression on his face, as if he were interrogating someone. It was clear she was torn with doubt, but fortunately for him, she decided to give in without consulting the decision.

Spencer almost ran into the room, unable to hold back his impatience any longer. At first, he felt as if in a dream, one where you achieve your greatest goal. However, it quickly turned into a nightmare, all because of what he saw.

Whatever he had imagined, he was not prepared for this sight. 

Especially because before he even noticed her face, the face he was so desperate to see, he first noticed everything else surrounding it. The hospital equipment, the machines and devices monitoring her vital signs. The wide orthopedic collar tight around her neck. The sterile whiteness of it all, obscuring her and making her almost disappear against its backdrop. It wasn’t until he approached the bed, his legs weak and unsteady, that he started to look at her, but again, not specifically at her, but at the injuries. The sight of swollen temples, the sunken eyes, pale and dry lips, skin like a sheet of paper. Every injury on her body caused him unimaginable pain, so intense it almost stopped him from breathing. He felt so much anger and injustice that she had to go through this that he almost wanted to fall to his knees and apologize to her, beg for forgiveness. For what? He couldn’t decide. It wasn’t a need driven by logic, it was something deep inside him.

And that’s what he did, even though there was a place beside the bed where he could sit. He slowly knelt down, his hands touching the edge of the bed, but not her body. After all, he wasn’t about to risk causing her any pain due to his lack of control. But he had such an overwhelming desire to take her hand, the one whose fingers shyly peeked out from under the cast.

"I should have gone with you," he said, after about five minutes spent in complete silence, undisturbed even by his breath, which he was holding back. "I should have. Walked you to the door and made sure you got inside safely. I’m sorry…"

He felt that with his pitiful apologies, he was disturbing her peace. She needed it to fully rest. So, he fell silent again, alternating between looking at her with furrowed brows in tender concern and resting his forehead against the edge of the bed whenever the sight became too painful. While before, time seemed to crawl at the slowest possible pace, now it was racing forward wildly.

In his perception, barely a minute had passed when someone’s presence appeared behind him. He turned over his shoulder, noticing the young nurse who had let him in, and it took him a long time before he even realized it. After all, he had lied to her, saying it was some professional matter, yet she had found him kneeling by the hospital bed.

He quickly got to his feet, nervously rubbing his face.

“For the patient’s well-being, no visits should last longer than twenty minutes,” the woman said surprisingly gently, leaning slightly against the door with her shoulder. An unidentified expression lingered in her eyes, making them seem...warm.

He didn’t answer, just nodded. He no longer felt the need to play that little charade that had helped him get inside. He allowed himself one last long moment, looking at her face, peaceful in sleep. He passed the doctor in the doorway, feeling her eyes turn to him, and he did the same, out of curiosity. She smiled, sadly and with compassion.

"This had nothing to do with any FBI assignment, right?”

Her understanding seemed almost touching. However, Spencer, caught in the moment, quickly withdrew, once again making his way down the hospital corridors, now completely unsure of what to do with himself. He leaned against one of the walls, slowly feeling the fatigue from the entire night spent waiting to see her. He found his phone in his pocket, realized it was already morning, and that… Hotch had called him.

It was a quick collision with the outside world. He called back, as nothing else came to mind that he could focus on.

"Reid," the serious voice of his boss came through on the other end. "Why aren’t you at work, and why aren’t you answering?"

He needed to take a breath before he could respond.

"Sorry, Hotch," he said, trying not to sound weak, but that’s exactly how he sounded. Weak, a little pitiful, and on the verge of exhaustion. "Something... something really important happened, and... I... I won’t be able to come in today..."

Spencer realized he had no idea how to explain himself in this situation.

"I can’t remember the last day you were even late. What happened?" He didn’t answer. "Where are you?" Silence. "Spencer."

"It’s... a personal matter."

There was a brief silence from his boss, and Spencer could almost imagine how he furrowed his dark brows in confusion.

"I understand." His voice was tense, but not with disapproval, which surprised Spencer. More with... concern. Had he managed to read the seriousness of the situation just from his voice? Probably, after all, he was the best profiler Spencer knew. "You’ll need to explain later, but for now... take care of yourself. Do you need any help?”

He assured him insincerely that everything was fine and found an empty chair to sit in, hunched over. A strong pressure formed in his head, amplified by the helplessness and uncertainty about what he should do next. She was in a coma, and according to the doctor, she would be in it for the next few days. And what was he supposed to do during that time? He felt that physically, he could spend another hundred hours on that specific chair. Occasionally stretching his legs. It was his plan, one that seemed more real with every passing minute. At least, until a figure cast its shadow over him.

"Reid," a familiar voice spoke.

He looked up, surprised, at Morgan. His mouth was slightly open in confusion, his forehead deeply furrowed.

"What are you doing here?"

"How... how did you know where I was?" That was the first thing that came to his mind.

"Penelope. How she knew, I have no idea, but I’m starting to suspect that her joke about having us all chipped wasn’t really a joke. But anyway, what’s going on? Hotch told me you called, and you sounded... unsettling."

His friend was watching him closely. His wrinkled clothes, his tired face.

"So... Hotch sent you to find me?"

"Reid, you’re our friend. Did you really think we wouldn’t be worried about you?"

Spencer lowered his head, listening to his words. Derek was silent for a moment, his hands resting on his hips, his tense face scanning the surroundings. After a while, he focused his gaze back on him.

"Who is the person you’re visiting?"

He hesitated before answering, not because he didn’t want to share the information, but because he wasn’t sure how to refer to her. What should he call her? After all, it wasn’t like they were in an official relationship, and the word friend seemed to leave something unsaid.

“Someone... someone very important to me. She had an accident. She has... a cervical spine injury, and the doctors, suspecting brain swelling, decided to put her into a coma for a while.”

Morgan's eyes widened.

“Damn, Reid. I’m so... I’m so sorry.”

He sat down on the empty chair beside him, his face still showing shock. Exhausted, Spencer simply rested his head on his knees, no longer able to keep his posture straight. He felt drained, yet at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to leave—couldn’t leave her…

Morgan’s hand fell onto his back, and finally, then sighed.

“Come here, man.”

With a firm pull, he drew him into an embrace.

Spencer found it hard to admit, even to himself, how much he needed this. No words left their mouths for a long while; only that brotherly, supportive embrace remained between them.

“Have you seen her?” Morgan asked after a while.

He confirmed, but didn’t reveal the circumstances. His friend paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

“Okay, listen to me. You need to get back to yourself.”

Spencer scoffed and shook his head, ready to argue.

“Let me finish. I know you don’t want to leave her right now, but with all due respect, you look like death. You need to eat and get some sleep.”

“I can’t,” Spencer replied firmly.

“You’re going to collapse soon. You said she’ll be in a coma for a few days. You won’t make it sitting here, think realistically. No one’s asking you to go back to work, you just need to rest.” He looked at him seriously, knowing how hard it would be to convince him. Finally, he sighed once more. “Do it for her, alright? Do you really think she’d want you to wear yourself out like this?”

He had no ready answer for that. Well, he did, but it sounded like no, she wouldn’t want that.

“I’ll take you home. For God’s sake, you came here without even a coat?”

It's a strange feeling to let someone take care of you. Completely. Derek not only drove him to his apartment but also came inside with him. There was no emotional discussion between them, which he found to be a relief. Silent support, he thought.

His relationship with the other team members had been tested after Emily's death—or at least, that's what he had thought up until now. He had begun isolating himself, not wanting to intrude on their grief or burden them with his own problems. But in reality—something he hadn’t seen until now—it had been the opposite. It strengthened their bond.

The next few days revolved mainly around hospital visits. Somehow, he had managed to gain visiting rights, and the time spent by her side filled him with a certain sense of calm. He could see how stable her vital signs were, and he clung to the doctors’ reassurances that she would regain consciousness in just a few days.

He once read a series of articles and interviews with people who had been in comas. Their accounts sometimes contradicted medical facts and often included embellishments, but a significant number of them mentioned remembering the voices of loved ones and certain sounds.

He didn’t want her to remember only the sounds of medical equipment from this period. But he also wasn’t sure what he could talk to her about. Would she want to hear about the overly salted carbonara that Garcia had forced an entire pot of on him? Or about the abstract mural being painted across from his apartment—something he was sure she would have liked?

In the end, he decided to read to her, though choosing what to read proved challenging. Sleeping Beauty seemed too ironic, even though she would probably laugh about it later. She had once told him Girl, Interrupted was her favorite book, but its hospital setting made him suspect she might prefer something that let her escape this place, even if only in her imagination. The Silence of the Lambs referenced one of their past conversations, but if a doctor overheard him reading it to her, he would surely be banned from visiting altogether.

“All right,” he began one day, sitting down in the chair by her bed. “I know you’re not a big fan of fantasy. And yes, you’ll have every right to call me out on this when you wake up. But still, I hope you’ll like it.”

Arabian Nights was a collection of tales and stories originating from the Middle East, India, and Persia. Somehow, he assumed that the mysterious, often nocturnal atmosphere might resonate with her, even soothe her. After all, night had always been her favorite time of day—the backdrop to so much of her life.

That day, as he was about to leave, he leaned slightly over her bed, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"Tomorrow, I'll read you a romance, how does that sound? But I’ll have to go to the bookstore because, despite your beliefs, I don’t have any in my collection. I wish I’d had more time to get to know your reading preferences better."

During none of his previous visits had he touched her, afraid it might disturb her peace in some negative way. Besides... in the state she was in, she looked so fragile and delicate that he feared even the slightest touch could hurt her. But that time, he simply couldn’t hold back. After a long internal struggle, he placed a very brief kiss on her forehead.

Spencer couldn’t keep his promise. While he did buy a romance novel recommended to him with enthusiasm by a young bookstore clerk, he never had the chance to read it to her.

The next day, he received a message. 

She had woken up. 

*

You didn’t remember much.

Only fragmented scraps. The memories began with a brief moment of complete physical helplessness, a terrible pain in your neck, and a series of flashing lights mingling with raised voices—even shouting. Then came silence, vile and terrifying.

But that wasn’t the end. Something came after the silence.

Softly spoken stories. For some reason, they were comforting. In your mind, only a few blurred images remained—no clear events or words. What you remembered most was that soothing, calm voice. It felt like an embrace, like warm bedding, the first rays of cosmic light piercing through clouds, or the gentle chill of evening air.

It was… beautiful. But it couldn’t last forever. After an indeterminate amount of time, your body decided to reject that comfort and tried to open its eyes. It was an excruciating effort. You sighed with the strain. The first colors and surreal shapes began to appear before you. Slowly, you started to become aware of your existence, yet at the same time, you felt suspended somewhere outside your body and mind—alone and terrified.

The sensations were both faint and overwhelmingly intense, making you want to hide, to somehow cut yourself off from them. Yet you were equally afraid to close your eyes again. You muttered things that made no sense. You remained in this panicked state until two tiny brown points hovered above you, widening with concern. Only then were you able to calm down—at least enough to stop straining your body with attempts to move. Attempts, because your body seemed entirely unwilling to follow your commands.

The fear buried itself deep within you, drilling into your chest. At first, it suffocated you, but eventually, it began to weaken and fade.

This was how the first hours after waking from the coma unfolded.

Weakness, disorientation, mumbling, pain, discomfort, and light sensitivity.

It took a long time before you regained awareness of being in a hospital. Even more time passed before you remembered why. And then, your own condition and state.

You were so incredibly weak that it filled you with disgust, terrified by how much effort even the smallest movement required—like the twitch of a finger or the blink of an eye. Frustrated by it all, you cried, and he cried too. But his tears were born of relief and joy.

Those two specific emotions reached you the latest—only after they transferred you to a different ward, and your thoughts began to clear. Relief and joy. Hand in hand with fear and anxiety. 

It felt so unreal, yet it was real—real like nothing else, and it held you tightly, exactly the way you needed it to.

*

Spencer was aware that her awakening was just another step in a very long journey.

His medical knowledge, modestly speaking, was fairly extensive, and he understood the gravity of the injuries she had sustained. Their first meeting after she had opened her eyes for the first time was nothing like a scene from a movie. She was confused, still drowsy, and as she slowly started to comprehend everything, she was primarily terrified. Her body, after the time spent in the coma, though brief, was extremely weak, and every little movement exhausted her as though she had just run a marathon.

The fear on her face pierced his chest.

He had the impression that none of the words he spoke, almost whispered in an attempt to calm her, were having any effect.

"I... I can't move," she stammered as one of the first things she said. Her eyes intensely focused on his face, searching for safety in it, and he feared he wouldn't be able to provide it for her.

"It's just temporary," he reassured her gently, leaning over her bed and trying to smile, but it came out uncertain, he was too worried about her condition. "The doctors say so, and that's the truth. Your body is just very weak right now."

"Will... will it be like this forever?"

"No, no, it will pass. I promise, it will pass," he nodded fervently. She hesitated and took a breath, as though discovering an entirely new action. But as soon as she did, out of fear, it became fast and irregular. He was terrified that his touch might cause her pain, but he didn't know what else he could do to help her. Gently, as gently as he could, he placed his hand on her cheek, barely grazing it with his thumb. "You'll feel better soon. Really, it won’t be long now. For now... just don’t overexert yourself, please, breathe."

At first, she flinched. He wanted to withdraw his hand as quickly as possible, but then he felt her press her face against it, almost nuzzling into it. A shy tear danced in one of her eyes, barely noticeable.

"It’s good to see you," she said after a brief silence, a soft sigh escaping her lips—almost like a laugh, though it didn’t quite make it. Her breath was still shallow and uneven, but with each passing moment, it seemed to steady as he held her close.

And in that moment, seeing her like that, feeling her presence so close, a smile spread across his face—a smile so genuine, so long-awaited—and with it came the tears he’d been holding back for what felt like forever.

"I feel the same," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You have no idea how much."

*

The orthopedic collar pissed you off like nothing else.

It wasn’t even the discomfort that bothered you, it was just... the collar was such a painful reminder of your condition, a testament to what you had been through. And you were supposed to wear it for another six to eight weeks.

Two weeks after waking from the coma, preparations for leaving the hospital were beginning. The risk of brain swelling had subsided, the injuries were healing, and the concussion still made its presence known, but the pain was no longer as intense. You could even have a normal conversation, which you seized almost immediately, striking up a chat with the teenage girl in the bed next to you, her sad expression tugging at your heart.

Few people visited you; you preferred that the two most important ones could spend as much time with you as possible, rather than inviting coworkers or acquaintances you hadn’t spoken to in months. The two most important people.

Spencer had been with you since the moment you woke up, and as the doctor confessed to you with a small smile, he had also stayed by your side while you were in a coma. You were in shock. Not because he had done it—it made perfect sense, given his caring nature. The shock came from the simple fact that one person could care so deeply about another, about you.

It didn’t take long for you to realize that the moments when he visited you became your favorite part of the entire day. And not just because they revolved around checking your condition, tests, and the first, incredibly light rehabilitation exercises. You simply found yourself waiting for the moment he would appear in that doorway again, holding his coat in hand, smiling.

"Hello, handsome stranger," you greeted him one day, the first day you were starting to feel better.

 Spencer stopped at the sound of that term, tilting his head with an even wider smile.

 "How else did I used to call you?" you mused aloud. "Ah, I used to call you Mr. Mysterious. But I suppose that's no longer fitting, you smile too much to seem mysterious."

 "Because I have a reason," he replied, stopping beside your bed and glancing at the flowers placed there, the ones that had greeted you when you woke up that day. "But in that case, 'Handsome stranger' doesn’t fit either, since you know me now."

"But you are handsome. Half of it fits, so I have the right to call you that. Who... who sent me these flowers?"

"Better question would be, who didn’t send you those?" he muttered, referring to their large number. You could only admire them—the beautiful, colorful arrangements—but you hadn’t had the chance to read the notes and messages attached. Spencer glanced at one of them, his smile fading, though not in a bad way... somehow, the expression that appeared on his face was even more pleasing than his smile. "This... this one’s from my team."

You were simply speechless.

 "They... they even know I exist?"

 "Of course they do, how could they not?" Spencer paused for a moment, looking at you thoughtfully. "They... they were with me the whole time you were in a coma. They helped me keep my head together."

 "Don’t exaggerate," you tried to dispel the sudden serious mood. You didn’t want to delude yourself into thinking he had been that worried about you during that time. 

 "It’s not an exaggeration," he replied briefly and seriously, his face almost motionless.

For a moment, you fell silent, your hands resting on the blanket in front of you.

 "Sorry, Spencer. I just realized I’ve never thanked you for this..."

"What?" he asked, surprised, his brows furrowing. "This isn’t something you have to thank me for..."

"But I feel like I have to. This... this isn’t some small, silly favor. You really did so much for me... I still don’t fully understand why..."

 "You don’t understand why?"

"Yeah," you sighed uncertainly, not sure how to put it into words. "Don’t get me wrong... I’m so grateful to you, it’s just... look at it this way. We didn’t know each other that long, we saw each other rarely. We slept together once. It’s not like you were…obligated to help me."

"I didn’t have to be obligated to do it," he said after a moment of hesitation, circling your bed and sitting on the edge, just barely touching it. "And I didn’t have to know you for years. I just wanted to do it because of how much I cared about you. And if that explanation doesn’t convince you... then..." He swallowed hard. "Remember, you were there for me during one of the worst moments of my life."

“It’s not the same...”

 “Oh, but it is. For me, it is. But I don’t want you to think that I was there for you because I felt like I owed you something. Or that I had to... I don’t know... repay you in some way. That’s not it at all.”

You didn’t answer, something tight gripped your throat. You just tilted your head, overwhelmed with emotion, speechless. The only thing you truly wanted to do was stretch out your arms and drape them around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder. Spencer sighed, surprised and tense. It wasn’t until a brief moment passed that his hands gently touched your back.

“How much longer are you going to act like I’m made of glass?” you asked.

You knew his caution was justified, but Jesus. You just really wanted to hug him properly.

“Probably forever,” he replied, to which you rolled your eyes.

He was the one to break the hug, but in compensation, he quickly kissed the top of your head. You leaned back against the bed, feeling a pleasant sensation in your stomach. Spencer returned to the flowers to tell you who had sent them all.

“So these are from my team,” he picked up the lost thread, pointing to the arrangement of white and pink carnations. He chuckled. “And I’m pretty sure Penelope picked them out, not just because her name is listed first. White represents perseverance and strength. Pink stands for admiration and respect.”

“That’s really thoughtful. And beautiful. I’ll have to thank them. And these tulips?”

Spencer took the note attached to the mentioned flowers between his fingers.

“From... Jerry.”

“What? My husband sent me flowers?”

 “What?” He jerked his head up in surprise.

You laughed so hard at the look on his face that it made you wince in your ribs.

 “I’m fucking kidding, you fool,” you replied, clutching your side with a groan. “Jerry is the librarian. You should know him. He once asked me what flowers he should buy for his wife, and I suggested yellow tulips. By the way, it's so nice of him”.

You said it affectionately, but it sounded incredibly weak. Along with the pain in your ribs, a headache joined in, and suddenly all the energy you'd had earlier evaporated.

“What's happening? Should I call a doctor?”

“No,” you shook your head in refusal. “I just need to lie down for a moment. Come here.”

Spencer followed your request and sat beside your bed, his body a little stiff, as if in guilt.

"I'm sorry I made you laugh."

"That's probably the strangest thing you could apologize for," you muttered, lying down in the position that was best for your neck, one you almost hated as much as the orthopedic collar. "Well, I guess I could come up with something stranger. Sorry I left that million dollars in your nightstand. It won't happen again."

"I'm not sure if this kind of chatter is particularly good for your condition."

"It helps me mentally, and that's what matters most. Besides, stop complaining."

"How could I possibly dare?"

He fell silent, simply watching you with quiet concern. You closed your eyes for a moment, unsure if you might accidentally drift off. After spending a week in a coma, your sleep routine had become completely erratic. You slept through the nights, mostly because there was little else to do, and you didn’t want to disturb the other patients in the ward. During the day, Spencer would visit, and you wanted to be as rested as possible when he was around.

When he wasn’t there, you sometimes napped during the day as well. According to the doctors, it was one of the best things you could do for your recovery—sleep and rest as much as your body needed.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked.

You hesitated for a long moment, because yes, something was weighing heavily on your mind. Had he guessed, or had he read it on your face?

“It’s just…” you began with a sigh. “You know Jude barely visits me? I mean, she shows up every day, but… she’s so tense and distant when she’s here. She doesn’t say much, and she won’t look me in the eyes.”

"She’s blaming herself," Spencer said softly.

“God, that’s so stupid,” you muttered.

You had a strange relationship with the accident. You thought about it as little as possible, keeping it at arm’s length. You knew Richard had been arrested, but you didn’t want to know the details of his sentencing. In no way did you see any of it as Jude’s fault, and it hurt you deeply to think that she did.

You spent a quiet moment together before Spencer leaned over you again, intending to kiss your forehead.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to go now,” he said, to which you nodded in understanding.

But then you shifted your head, pulling back just enough to stop him from brushing his lips against your forehead. He looked at you, puzzled, since you’d never minded it before.

This time, though, you wanted him to kiss you on the lips.

He kissed you slowly. You had almost forgotten how he tasted.

After that, you didn’t bother opening your eyes again. You let yourself imagine that he wasn’t leaving at all, and with that comforting thought, you drifted off to sleep.

*

Spencer had felt strange since the morning.

 Energized and excited. In the absolute best possible way.

That day, he could finally take her home. Well, to his apartment. She needed someone to take care of her, and he felt honored to be that person.

The day before, he had made a very important, yet difficult decision. He invited JJ over and confessed everything to her—about the past few weeks and his struggles with relapsing into addiction. He needed to rid himself of that burden. Besides, he had promised himself that as long as she was living with him, not even the smallest dose of Dilaudid would find its way inside. Never again.

In his worst moments, he imagined that his friend would react with disgust—pure, painful disgust—and push him away. Instead, her eyes filled with something strange the moment he began to speak about how he had felt after Emily's death. Over and over, she whispered apologies, as though she were the one responsible for it.

He still missed Emily, of course, and he knew he would always miss her. That was just the way of things—people left, and it was up to you to decide whether you would remember them with heartbreaking despair or with a wistful sigh. In fact, these were merely two ends of the same spectrum, and it was very easy to get stuck at the beginning, unable to move forward.

She was surprisingly quiet in the car and seemed depressed. Actually, it was hard not to blame her. She had spent a long time in the hospital, gotten used to that routine, and the change made her feel lost. Sitting in the passenger seat, she kept her gaze fixed ahead, but not on the road. She couldn’t see where they were headed, which made it difficult for Spencer to tell her something… at least important.

 When they stopped, she furrowed her brow in surprise.

 “Why are we here?”

They were parked under his apartment, and she had been under the impression they were heading to her place.

 “Sorry, I should’ve told you earlier, I really apologize,” Spencer blurted out in one breath, chaotically. “I absolutely realize that this is like putting you in a situation you didn’t expect, but… but when you were in the hospital, Jude found herself a new roommate. She didn’t really know how to tell you, but she had to do it because she couldn’t afford the rent on her own.”

For a long moment, she stared at him in silence, her face a mixture of shock, followed by understanding. She took a deep breath.

 “Okay,” she muttered. “I understand her, I just… I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me this herself.”

Their relationship still remained deeply complicated, put to the test by guilt. Spencer couldn’t say much about it. It was something between the two of them, and he hardly knew Jude at all.

 “I’m also sorry for asking you this so late,” he continued after a moment. “But… you can’t live alone, you know that. Someone… someone needs to be with you over the next few weeks and… I’m willing to be that person.”

Her lips remained slightly parted for a moment.

“You want… no, wait, you want me to move in with you?” It was clearly a rhetorical question, because before he could answer, she started shaking her head. “Spencer, I can’t. I can’t be that burden for you.”

“A burden? You’re not…”

“But I will be. In the next few weeks, I definitely will be.”

He took his hands off the steering wheel, placing them loosely on his knees.

“Can you… can you look at me for a moment?” he asked.

It took a moment before she hesitantly met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with embarrassed tears, tears full of unjust shame. Seeing this, pain spread through his chest.

“If the accident hadn’t happened, would you want to live with me?”

 Her lips remained pressed together, and she sighed.

 “It’s a big decision. Aside from the fact that if it weren’t for the accident, I wouldn’t even have to consider this option…”

“I just want to know if you would want to. Don’t think of it as an option, just as… a completely normal, life decision. Do you think you’d be able to handle having me around every day?”

She couldn’t help it, and her lips curled into a slight smile.

“We could try,” she finally replied.

Spencer straightened his arms.

“In that case, let’s go inside.”

 “No, wait, it’s not that simple! My opinion shouldn’t matter; it’s you who needs to think about whether you want this…”

 “I do.”

She snorted, resigned, not knowing what else to say.

“I can’t even tie my own shoes,” she tried one last time.

“I’ll gladly do it for you. What’s more, I know all kinds of knots. Simple, sailor’s, Chinese…”

“Spencer Reid, you’re impossible.”

For the rest of the day, she tried every possible way to talk him out of his decision. But when she finally accepted it, she struggled to accept his help with tasks she couldn’t do on her own.

 It wasn’t until later that he realized how much she had been pretending in the hospital. He had only seen her for a fraction of her day, and she seemed so positive then. But this temporary disability had really taken a toll on her mentally. He could repeat and assure her, completely sincerely, that she wasn’t a burden to him, but deep down, she still believed otherwise.

So, when two days later, she timidly appeared in the bedroom doorway with the question of whether he could help her wash her hair, Spencer felt like he had won the lottery.

“Sure,” he agreed, probably a bit too enthusiastically, jumping to his feet so quickly that he almost tripped.

She pretended not to notice.

In the bathroom, he slowly helped her pull the shirt over her head, careful not to catch it on the collar still around her neck or accidentally cause her any pain. 

“Be careful not to tilt your head too much, okay?” he asked, wetting her hair with the showerhead. She closed her eyes when a few drops of water splashed onto them. “Sorry!”

“For god's sake, Spencer, you're doing it more carefully than I would have done myself.”

It was true; he was acting as if he were performing some task at work that required absolute precision. He shrugged, massaging the strawberry shampoo into her hair. Foam quickly appeared, smelling sweet.

Suddenly, her hands tightened around the front of his shirt.

“Sorry,” she whispered, loosening her grip. “I got a little dizzy.”

Spencer immediately pressed his hands, still covered in shampoo, to her waist, afraid she might fall. He stared at her face for a long moment, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

And just then, her body suddenly went limp, falling forward.

Terrified, he let out a strangled cry.

“Hold on, please, don’t fall!” he kept repeating, doing everything he could to keep her upright.

Her hands hung limply on his shoulders, the foam and water soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t care at all.

“I’m right here, hold on to me as much as you can. C-c-can you hear me at all?”

He wondered whether it would be better to stand her up or lay her down while he could get to the phone and call an ambulance, when suddenly her weak touch grew stronger, and she let out a soft groan.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologizing. I’m still holding you, can you hear me?”

His heart was pounding incredibly fast as she gently pulled her head away from his chest. He, of course, didn’t let her stand on her own, constantly supporting her body, protecting her from a fall that could be disastrous.

Together, they left the shower cabin, her hair still covered in foam.

“Are you aware that this is how it’s going to look now?” she asked seriously.

Completely unfazed, he wiped the foam from her forehead, which was dangerously close to her eyes.

“I’d rather have you lose consciousness in my bathroom, right next to me, than risk… I don’t know, cracking your head open.”

For a moment, she was silent, the color beginning to return to her pale face, her gaze becoming more alert. He had a strange feeling that she was about to start crying, and since he really didn’t want that, he pulled her close again, in his usual protective gesture. Everything around them smelled of strawberries.

“Do you really have to be this good?”

Spencer snorted.

“I’m afraid it’s just my curse.”

*

“Are these people really arguing about whether a cucumber is a fruit or a vegetable?”

Sitting on the couch, you jumped when a voice spoke right behind you. At the last second, you caught your laptop before it slipped off your lap. You had been reading some absurd discussion on an online forum you stumbled upon completely by accident. And yes, these users were indeed arguing about whether a cucumber is a fruit or a vegetable.

“Damn it, Spencer!” you shouted, putting your hand over your heart, which was pounding in an agitated rhythm. You looked at your boyfriend with a scowl. “You almost gave me a heart attack. How is it possible I didn’t hear you come in?”

He shrugged. Leaning his elbows on the back of the couch, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealed the skin of his forearms. In that position, he had a perfect view of the screen on your laptop. He had just returned from work, a rainy July evening, his hair slightly damp.

“I wasn’t sneaking around. You must’ve just been lost in thought. Want to tell me what’s occupying that beautiful mind of yours?” He leaned in to place a kiss on your temple.

“Beautiful mind, huh?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Just a few days ago, you told me that if a 19th-century priest heard even one thought from my head, he’d go into anaphylactic shock. Whatever that was supposed to mean.”

"In a big simplification, what I meant is that even though I love you, sometimes your way of thinking scares me."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"By the way, I bought land for Alexander."

Alexander was your new flycatcher, which had grown so much that it completely prevented the other flowers on the windowsill from growing. Due to its conqueror tendencies, you decided to name it after one of them.

"Do you want to repot it into a new pot now...?"

"No. Now you need to come to me."

You set the laptop aside and waited for him to take a seat on the couch. Before fully snuggling into him, you untied and removed the tie from his neck, then unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, just the way you liked.

You sighed almost instantly; his body was more comfortable than a pillow. Warm, with your favorite scent. You rested your head on his chest as his fingers gently combed through your hair.

In the first few weeks after you were discharged from the hospital, you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed. There was a risk that, in his sleep, he might accidentally bump into your neck and cause damage. Spencer enforced that rule strictly, as he did with every precaution related to your health.

Six months had passed since the accident, and for the past four months, you hadn’t worn a neck brace or needed help with daily tasks. But that didn’t change the fact that, sometimes, when you showered together, he would wash your hair just like he used to. Anyway, you were still attending rehabilitation and would need to for a long time, but despite that, you felt like you had fully returned to normal life.

You lifted yourself slightly to look at his face.

"I was walking to the bar today," you began.

You’d been considering going back to work for a while now, and the doctors had assured you there was no reason you couldn’t. You wanted something to occupy your hands and craved the sense of purpose that came with a task. You’d mentioned it to Spencer long ago, so he didn’t seem surprised when you brought it up.

"And? Will they take you back?"

"No. I mean, it’s not that they don’t want to, I just didn’t get there. That’s why I said I was walking and not that I went to a bar. Are you following?"

"I'm trying."

"So, listen to this. I took the subway and got off at that station near the room I used to rent."

The landlord had asked for the keys back shortly after your accident. Your arrangement had been that, in exchange for using the space, you cleaned it daily. Of course, you hadn’t been able to keep up with that anymore.

"...And I don't know, I was overwhelmed by this strange feeling, like I wanted to go back to it. Helping people."

"You help people all the time," Spencer reminded you. "All our neighbors come to you to vent about everything happening in their lives."

"That's true, but I mean, you know, professional help," you said, taking a deeper breath. You couldn't decide whether you were more excited or nervous about the decision. "I've been thinking about going back to uni, Spencer."

He straightened up, almost causing you to slide off his chest. Filled with tension, you watched his reaction closely. You’d spent the entire day wondering what he might say. Would he share your enthusiasm and support your plans, or would he try to talk you out of it, reasoning that you’d dropped out of school once and might not manage it again?

These thoughts were incredibly silly. Spencer—knowledge-obsessed, ever-curious Spencer—would never say something like that.

Instead, he pulled you into a tight embrace, whispering how incredible the idea was. You melted into it completely, feeling more elated than ever and unable to stop thinking about the crazy chain of cause and effect that had led to this specific moment, this particular relationship, and above all, this exact happiness. 

do you accept this overly sweet ending as my apology? :> tagging: @nightfullofparadox @lillaberry @fortheloveofgubler @opheliahotchner @cowboy1ikereid @penelopegarciaismygf

sorry if i forgot about someone!

[zarvasace]

Whumptober day 18: possession. Image description under cut!

Edit: next>>

This comic is done in tall pages with a gray background. All the lines have a pencil-like texture to them, and it is not colored. Most lines and text are in black, with white and red being used symbolically and sparingly.

Page One

Panel one: A sketched landscape that evokes the Dueling Peaks of Wild’s world, lit in bright red by a full and bloody moon.

Panel two: A line of silhouettes, lit slightly in red light for some detail. They are walking toward the right side of the page. From right to left: Wolfie, facing forward. Time. Warriors, looking backward. Wild, looking up with his slate in his hands. Legend looking around. Hyrule, jogging to catch up. Wind, shading his eyes and looking up. Sky, glancing backward. Four, fully stopped and looking back down at his shadow on the ground. The text reads, in quotes as if recalling something from a memory: “Monsters stalk the shadows here, once they’re dead. Blood moons bring them back.”

Panel three: We see Four’s head and hand, reaching out toward something slightly below him. His expression is concerned. He’s lit in red light, including two little reflected red blood moons in his eyes. The text is not in any quotes or speech bubbles, as if they are Four’s thoughts: “...bring them [underlined] back. Could it?”

Panels four and five: Four, still in silhouette, kneels next to a puddle of bubbling shadow, lit in red light. First he reaches down toward it, and in the next panel, his hand pulls back suddenly as the shadow begins to extend upward. Flecks of red evoke the Malice in the air, and become more intense in the fifth panel. The fifth panel is interrupted by a large (loud) exclamation from an unknown source, with a dash before to indicate that the speaker interrupted themself: [all caps] “—FOUR!”

Page Two

Panel one: Four glances over his shoulder, still lit in red light with flecks of red flying around him. There are tiny tears in the corners of his eyes, and he’s smiling. He says: “Calm down, its [underlined] okay!”

Panel two: A copy of the previous panel, except for a few differences. Four’s tears are gathering a little bigger. The red flecks in the air have turned to flaming shapes. Four says: “It’s just my S—” but is cut off by the next panel.

Panel three: Four is still looking back, but a bright flash of red interrupts what he’s saying. His eyes go round, his tears fall, and he stops speaking. The red lights in his eyes are bigger. 

Panel four: Four kneels down in the middle of the panel, while shapes that suggest the other Heroes gather around him, indistinguishable from each other. Red flecks fly around them all. Text fills the background, as if from the Heroes muttering, but there is now way to tell who is saying what: “FOUR! That doesn’t look good. What happened? He doesn’t usually linger behind. Give him some space. He said to calm down? That’s the opposite of what we should be— Who has the Ma— [cut off by shapes] He has a moon pearl, right? He never touches the thing.”

Panels five, six, and seven: These panels are a sequence left to right, separated by dotted lines instead of solid ones. In them, we see Four, but not any of his facial features. In panel five, he stands up (there’s a word to make it clear: “RISE”.) In the next, he raises his hands to look at them, and lines indicate that he’s wobbling. His feet are turned in ever so slightly. In the last panel of this sequence, he is still looking at his hands, but there is less wobbling and he’s standing more firmly. All through these panels, he doesn’t say anything, and red wiggly lines surround him. 

Panel eight: A shot of Hyrule, looking grim with a shield already out, Legend, looking a bit worried with a hand on the hilt of his sword at his back, and Wild, who’s definitely worried. They’re all outlined in red light, but don’t have any red shining in their eyes. Wild, in a wobbly speech bubble, says: “...Four?”

Page Three

Panel one: This panel takes up most of this page, and shows Four looking up, with one hand on his head and a huge, maniacal smile on his face. His eyes are fully red, and he’s still lit in red light. Flecks of red fly around him, and the panel is shaded and has more detail than the others have had. A series of “AHAHAHA” laughing is repeated behind him. He says, in all-caps with a red speech bubble: “I KNEW THE LITTLEST WOULD BE EASIEST TO TAKE!!”

Panel two: This isn’t Four, but it is his body. Not-Four laughs, one hand up by his face, and keeps speaking with red speech bubbles: “The idiot let me right in! Me, his dead friend?”

Panel three: All eight of the other Links with swords and some shields out, making angry eyes as they stand in a line. The sky is red behind them. We see the top silhouette of Not-Four’s head, and he says: “oh… uh…”

Panel four: A copy of the last panel, except now each of the other Links looks either surprised or even angrier. They all shout: “STOP!” but the silhouette of Four’s head is now dissolving into red light. He says, “catch you suckers later!”

Page Four

There is only one panel on this page, and it is quite spread out to illustrate a lull in the action.

At the top, we see the moon outlined in red, but now with white on the inside and around it, as if the blood moon is disappearing. 

Text, without speech bubbles but staggered so that each sentence seems to come from someone else, without any hints as to who says what: “Does anyone have any idea what that was? …nobody? Where’s Four? What was that? He’s possessed?!” And at the bottom of this block, there is more text: “Guys… Who’s that?”

At the bottom of this page, we see a Four-like figure lying slumped on the ground, a few sparkles of white around him. He looks to be asleep. The end of his hood is curled above him without a charm, as if floating with a mind of its own.

The very bottom has text in white, the artist’s signature: “mina @ zarvasace”

[dioslesbianwife]

What would the stardust crusaders do for/with reader when they've fallen for them?

sure! i hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting <3

How the stardust crusaders act when in love

Jotaro Kujo

Small acts of protection. If you get a scratch, he just casually patches you up without saying anything. If you trip, his hand is already steadying you before you even realize it.

Gets annoyed at himself whenever he feels jealous but won’t say anything. Instead, he glares at whoever has your attention.

If you’re in danger, he loses his cool. Normally level-headed, but if you get seriously injured, he’ll break enemy bones with Star Platinum in under a second.

Eventually, he might say something short like, “Tch. You’re so damn troublesome.” But his actions speak louder than words.

Kakyoin

Charming and playful, but with a layer of genuine warmth. He naturally flirts, but you start noticing that his attention is only on you.

Casually buys you small gifts- souvenirs from their travels, a drink he noticed you liked, or even something hand-made.

Watches you carefully in battle. Not overbearing, but he positions himself in ways that make it easier to cover for you.

Compliments you often. But they aren’t just for flirting, he genuinely wants you to feel confident.

Playfully teases you. If you get embarrassed, he just smiles knowingly.

Polnareff

Immediately obvious. He’s not subtle at all.

Loud and dramatic about his affection. Compliments you constantly, “You’re absolutely stunning, mon amour!” even if you’re just drinking water.

Very touchy. Will casually throw an arm around you, hold your hands to show you something, and gets visibly flustered if you return the touch.

Would absolutely duel someone over you. Even if they were just being nice, he’d challenge them like an old-school knight.

If you’re upset, he drops the jokes and gets gentle, reassuring you with a soft voice.

Loves making you laugh. If you so much as chuckle at his antics, he puffs up with pride.

Avdol

Very mature and patient with his feelings. He won’t rush into anything, but his emotions run deep.

Always considers your safety first. He’ll step in if he sees you struggling before you even have to ask.

His kindness becomes extra personal. He naturally looks out for others, but with you, it’s different. He remembers small details, your favorite foods, things that stress you out, what makes you smile.

Long, meaningful eye contact. He doesn’t speak his feelings outright, but you can see them in his gaze.

If he really trusts you, he shares stories of his past, his hopes for the future, and gently asks about yours.

Joseph Joestar

Loud, boisterous, and full of dumb schemes to impress you.

He’s constantly bragging about his skills, even if it’s something ridiculous like, “Hey, did you know I can open a jar with one hand? Pretty cool, right?”

Finds excuses to be around you. He’ll drag you along for shopping, training, anything just to spend time together.

Absolutely the type to fake a tragic injury just to get your attention. “I think I’m dying- wait, no, don’t walk away!”

Flirts shamelessly, but if you flirt back, he gets more excited.

If you’re actually in danger, the goofy act is gone. He will protect you, no matter what.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Seventeen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None. Some angst. Some fluff. AHHHHHHHHHH just look at the gif guys

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“I will.” 

The wet cloth soothed his burning skin as you carefully cleaned away the smattering of blood dashed over his high, bruised cheekbones like freckles. You were both holding your breaths, only daring to move when your lungs demanded it. Azriel sat on the chair you’d dragged into your bathroom, face level with yours as you leaned down to inspect his face with two fingers tucked beneath his chin. 

Azriel’s fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch you somewhere. Anywhere. 

“You said you’d tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not hurting me, Y/n.” 

Azriel could have told you that he was well versed with cleaning blood off his body and clothes. He could have reminded you back in the dining room that Feyre and Rhysand stood only ten feet away and could have whisked away his injuries and the bloodstains with a single touch or snap of their fingers. But instead he’d said nothing. He’d let you close your hand around his, fingers dangerously close to his thrumming pulse, and followed you to your bedroom while ignoring the throbbing pain of his cracked ribs. 

Feyre called your bedroom The Wisp after having decorated it with all manner of airy, cream-colored furniture accented with soft browns. Your desk was overrun with neat piles of papers, books, and journals. The windowsill by your bed was dedicated to pre-sleep novels and clusters of lavender tied with twine and left to stand upright in vases fashioned from ink bottles. The scent of old books and parchment paper clung to every surface along with something that smelled clean and entirely like you.

Your bathroom was similarly orderly. Bottles of perfumes, lotions, and oils were laid out on the countertop like little soldiers, catching and scattering the moonlight from the window in a rainbow of color. 

You brushed the cloth over his lips, eyes lingering on the two splits already scabbing over, then down the curve of his jaw to his chin. 

It was reverently quiet here in your bathroom. Nothing but the faint and steady drip from the faucet into the quartz basin and your breathing filling the space. 

Color had been spilled over Azriel’s face like a watercolor painting, equal parts painful and beautiful to look at. Because he was still so, so beautiful looking up at you with those whisky eyes that made your head spin. Those dark curls that hung over his forehead like seafoam waves. Your hands fluttered over the bottles on the countertop before settling on a pale green one that smelled strongly of mint. You smoothed the oil over Azriel’s face, leaving a cool, tingling sensation wherever you touched.

“I’m sorry about Lucien,” You whispered. “And Helion. I never wanted you to get hurt like this.” 

“Don’t apologize.” He smiled sadly. “Cassian was right when he said I had it coming.”

You winced. “How bad was it when you fought Lucien the last time? When you invoked the Blood Duel?”

Azriel didn’t shy away from the question, and his gaze never left yours as you quietly restoppered the bottle. “I was a second away from stabbing him through the heart when Elain stopped us. There are a fair number of scars we both left that fight with, but we did walk away,” He stiffened at the memory, “Barely.” 

“Do you… do you regret it?”

“Yes,” Azriel said quickly. Firmly. “I will regret what I did and what Elain and I did together until the day I die.” His hands flexed by his sides and he dared to lift them up to your hips, anchoring himself with the feeling of you beneath his fingertips. When you didn’t shy away from his touch, he continued on. “I wanted what my brothers had and in my desperation I think Elain and I chose each other because we just wanted to do something. I wanted a mate and proof that I belonged alongside Rhys and Cassian, and Elain wanted to break the rules for the first time in her life. To feel in control. But we never should have done it knowing everyone would get hurt.” 

“Sometimes love is like that,” you murmured, “Messy and hurtful… or so I’ve read.” 

“I didn’t love Elain. I don’t love Elain. At least not romantically.” Not the way that I love you. 

You tried to ignore the flutter of relief in your chest. It didn’t feel like the right time for it. Not with Azriel bruised and hurting before you. You dropped your eyes to the pale green tiles and caught sight of Azriel’s gloved hands. 

“You’re wearing them again.”

Wordlessly you picked up one and gently began tugging the leather off his fingers. One by one. The whole time you kept your eyes on him, tracing the tension in his shoulders and between his eyes as his ruined skin was exposed inch by inch. The air felt foreign on the skin of his palms. The feel of your body so close to his felt exhilarating. 

“I’m so sorry,” Azriel whispered, “I never meant to hurt you in all the ways that I did. What I did—” 

“I know, Azriel.” 

His eyes traced every line of your face, hands shaking. “You’re not a fourth choice. You’re not broken... But I think I might be,” he confessed. The words hung in the air between you two. Words you could wrap around his neck and hang him with. 

He felt every stroke of your fingers over his knuckles. Every flutter of your eyelashes as you looked at him with the faintest tilt of your head. 

“So what?” You breathed out. 

Azriel shook. “Y/n?”

“So what if you’re broken? Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t,” You leaned your forehead against his, noses brushing, “But you’re still Azriel.” You smiled gently at him, eyes fluttering closed as you sighed. “And I think that’s a wonderful thing.” 

Azriel stopped breathing as you brought his hands up to your lips and brushed them over every scarred knuckle. Every touch of yours was sacred. In their sincerity. In their rarity. In their preciousness to him. 

“Do you… do you like me, Azriel?” Your words were nervous and soft. Softer than the finest bed Azriel had ever laid his head down on. Softer than the clouds that turned to rain when he flew through them. Softer than your ink-stained fingertips landing on the sprinting pulse of his neck. 

“Yes,” Azriel murmured, “You can’t even begin to know, Y/n.” 

And then your softness was all around him. It was your lips against his lips, pillowy and tasting faintly of the sweet wine you’d drank at dinner. It was your hands and arms looping around his neck and keeping his head squarely on his shoulders so he could experience this vibrance. It was the feel of your body as he held onto your hips and then flattened his hands against the small of your back, pressing you as close as he dared. River-soaked robes long since forgotten. 

You were like water threatening to slip through his fingertips. 

You hoped you were doing this right. Reading about kissing was very different from the actual thing. Your lips felt too stiff or too fervent. You worried your hands were too greedy as you plunged them into his raven-wing hair and tangled silken strands. But while you lacked experience, Azriel surely seemed to be making up the difference. He held you as close as possible, until it felt more like breathing than kissing. 

Salty tears landed in between your lips until you could both taste their sharp tang on your tongues. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he kept saying over and over in between shaky gulps of air. “Y/n, please believe me. I—” 

You kissed him harder just to make him stop, swallowing his pain as best you could until his breathing evened out. 

“I’ve got you, Az.” You brushed his black waves away from his forehead before kissing him there too. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. 

Azriel’s shadows chanted in his ears. But he made them go silent. 

Another day. 

Let him just hold you like this for now. For as long as you would let him. Here in the stillness with you — the only person who’d ever brought him a real sense of peace and quiet — he felt it was safe to hope again.

The long stream of kisses ended too early for his liking, although he didn’t dislike the sight of your heaving chest and blushing cheeks. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, and you seemed to be thinking the same thing as you stood between the walls of his legs, his arms wrapped loosely at your sides and yours dangling off his shoulders. 

You’d kissed him. You’d kissed him. 

You touched your fingertips to your lips, worry in your eyes. “Was it bad? Did I do a bad job? I’ve never—” 

Azriel would have none of that. He tightened his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest and kissing you all over again. You relished in his heat and the faint tickles of shadows that encased you both in darkness, like a veil had been thrown over the room leaving everything gauzy and soft. 

“You, my Y/n,” his lips brushed over the corner of your mouth, trailing down to your neck when he sighed so, so softly, “Are a marvelous kisser.” 

Had you melted into a sack of bones on the floor? It certainly felt like you had. You were blushing uncontrollably, searching for something, anything, to comment on. You thought your heart might just burst out of your chest. 

“You have frosting in your hair.” You plucked the white blobs off his head, feeling the sugar grains crumble between your fingers. 

“I think that was meant to be dessert.”

“I think you might be right.” You tried controlling your breathing when Azriel leaned forward and kissed the bare skin of your shoulder, and failed miserably. “It’s a real shame,” you stammered, “I was looking forward to cake.”

He kissed the center of your chest next and your heart skipped a beat. “I’ll buy you all the cake in the world to make it up to you.” 

“That’s a hefty promise, and a waste of cake.” 

“Do you doubt me?” Azriel asked honestly. You could ask him for moonlight in a bottle, or a dress spun from spider silk, or all the stars in the sky and he’d find a way to make it happen. Some way. Somehow. He’d give you everything that was his to give, and then some. 

“No. I don’t doubt you.”

“Good.”

He couldn’t help himself. He kissed you again, reveling in the faint sighs that he swallowed up and the few that escaped between your locked lips to sing in his ears. You traded kisses for hours on end, slipping them in between conversations and gentle touches. It was an exploration in intimacy that you worried might sweep you away, but Azriel was as he always was — patient and gentle — from the tips of his black hair to his scarred hands to his leather boots. And you loved every inch of him. 

You clung to his shirt, the scent of soap still clinging to his skin after he’d returned from his bath and laid down in bed beside you in cotton instead of leather. 

“Azriel,” You said, your voice thin and tired. The candles burned low casting shadows that flickered and twisted on the wall. But you didn’t pay any mind to shadows any longer, not when you knew they belonged to Azriel as surely as you did. “Stay.”

And who was he to deny you? He held you close, your cheek pressed against his chest. You fell asleep to the sound of his heart, and he fell asleep to the rhythm of your breathing. 

You woke up to the weight of Azriel draped over your body, face pressed against your breasts, arms wrapped around your waist, and the rest of him nestled in between your legs. He grounded you, wings splayed out and bathing in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. 

You were pleasantly surprised that he was still asleep and you took the time to lightly trace his features, weaving your fingers through his hair until he made a sound that had your heart speeding up. Something halfway between a sigh and a groan. 

He was slow and sluggish to wake, eyes blinking languidly as he registered the warm, supple body beneath him. 

You. 

He’d fallen asleep here with you, wrapped up in your scent until the world had faded away into blissful nothingness. He could have been asleep for eight hours or eight years and he would be none the wiser. All he knew is that you were running your fingers through his hair, and he didn’t want you to stop. 

“Hey, you,” You murmured when his whisky eyes fluttered open, eyelashes casting spidery darkness over his cheekbones where his own shadows curled as if still asleep. 

Azriel hummed, burying his face in your chest and sighing with his whole body. His arms rubbed up and down your sides leaving molten heat in their wake. “Please don’t tell me it's morning.” 

“I’m not above lying, Azriel. It’s the middle of the night.” 

His wings shook with quiet laughter, the movement of his body tickling your skin until you were grinning unabashedly. 

“Then why are you awake?” Again, his words were muffled by your skin. 

“Because I’m currently being crushed beneath the weight of an Illyrian warrior.” 

His head shot up in alarm. He was no small male and although he’d spent centuries gaining enough strength for his wings to feel weightless on his back, he knew they were anything but. And you’d let him stay like that all night. It was a miracle you hadn’t suffocated.

Stupid. Stupid. 

“I’m sorry. Gods, I didn’t mean—” He began to slide off of you. But you were laughing. 

“Wait! No! I was joking. I was joking. Come back!” You wrapped your legs around his back, the sudden movement pulling him flush against you in a rush of heat that made him go stone still. 

Mother, help me. He thought to himself, feeling blood travel both up and down his body. 

You guided his head to your chest by the strands of his hair until he was following the curves of your silhouette once again. “I like it when you hold me like this, Azriel,” you confessed. “I don’t feel like I’m going to float away anymore. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” he whispered. He felt the same way. “You make the world go quiet, Y/n.”

It wasn’t until the clock struck twelve bells and the House’s cooking wafted through the hallways that you and Azriel finally peeled yourselves off one another, shuffling to the bathroom in a cluster of wings and loose night clothes. 

Azriel watched you closely, finding new ways to love you even as you brushed your teeth side by side, bumping hips and smiling at one another shyly. He watched as you brushed your hair and washed your face, stealing kisses that left minty cool tingles on his skin. 

Lucien was noticeably frowning when you and Azriel walked into the dining room, Azriel’s scent still clinging to your skin and yours to his. You’d done nothing more than sleep in the same bed, everyone was looking at you with shit-eating grins like you’d taken Azriel on the living room couch for the whole House to hear. 

“You look well rested, brother,” Cassian noted over the lip of his coffee cup. 

It was the best night of sleep Azriel had gotten in centuries, perhaps in his entire life. 

You wordlessly traded seats with Elain at the table, leaving you and Azriel on one side and Lucien and Elain directly across. When no one was looking, he reached down and pulled your chair closer, pressing his knee against yours beneath the table. Lucien noticed — of course he did — but the blush on your cheeks was so innocent and the love in your gaze so honest that he couldn’t bring himself to make any comment. Although, he did throw a few dangerous looks Azriel’s way, looks that plainly said, If you hurt her, you’re a dead man. 

Azriel only nodded faintly in reply, as if he knew what Lucien had been thinking all along and was in agreement. 

But in the following weeks your brother would come to be grateful that your care for one another was not loud. It wasn’t desperate, groping hands in hallways or sultry looks that heated up crowded rooms and made people uncomfortable. It was reserved smiles and knowing glances when you independently formed the same thought at the same time, eyes latching onto one another until one of you inevitable broke away laughing.

For the first time in his life, Azriel had someone who wanted him back just as fervently, even if it was difficult to believe. 

Azriel always needed to be touching you, whether it be a hand at the small of your back or the press of your shoulders together as you leaned over one of the desks at Cagniv — now that Azriel was allowed inside — with papers strewn about like dove feathers. 

You were no better. You stuck close to his side where shadows lingered and sought him out in every room until you may as well have owned the space within the curve of his wings. 

But things were changing. Koschei loomed taller and taller over the House like an avalanche ready to wipe Velaris off the map. Once again, everyone heard Vassa’s cries at daybreak and nightfall, and when Jurian slipped out of the attic for his own rest, he looked a little thinner and paler each time and no amount of medicine or food you and Lucien brought upstairs seemed to be helping. 

Azriel tried to steal every extra second with you in the mornings. If he had his way, he’d never leave his bedroom again, content to admire the splash of sunlight over your body and your sleepy sighs. But he was still the Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court and you quickly got accustomed to waking up to an empty bed with only a note on the nightstand. On those days you migrated out of whatever room you’d spent the night in — yours or Azriel’s, although the lines were blurred — often trekking to Cagniv to escape a house where strange, new faces were coming and going with more frequency: ash-pale fae from Winter, a white-haired female from Summer with skin so dark it was almost black, and golden males from Dawn with downy hawk wings. They locked themselves in Rhysand and Feyre’s office where bargains and plans were made in blood and salt. 

Other days you carted your books to Feyre’s studio with Nesta and Ione in tow, perching on a stool while the High Lady crafted life out of brushstrokes like she was the Mother herself. 

Feyre stood at her easel, as she had been every day this last week, with her pencil clenched between her teeth as she ignored the faint aches in her lower back and her wrist. Every line, every detail, was attended to with painstaking precision as she mapped Nesta and the old woman’s faces onto the blank canvas first with graphite, then with a thin wash, then with layers of paint that added dimension and familiarity to the two stoic faces. Feyre didn’t let her passion overtake the more clinical approach she was taking with this piece. This was not the time for free flowing movement and modernism. 

This was all about realism. 

Exactness. 

When the High Lady placed her brush on the muddied water cup beside her, you jumped up. “Is it finished, Feyre?” 

“As finished as it will ever be,” Feyre responded gravely as you took in the sight before you. Three women: Nesta, Ione, and some mixture of the two. Feyre had captured their likeness with incredible precision, using the painting to familiarize herself with their faces and the ways they could be warped and molded.  

You peered over the corner of the canvas to where the two women were standing side by side. Ione lengthened her spine, cane clasped in her hands that you’d never seen her lean on with her full weight. Time had condensed her bones and stolen some of the height from her frame, but none of her sharpness. It was a trait that granted her a strange degree of likeness to Nesta, as if you’d glanced into a future where she’d never turned fae. 

You looked at Feyre, then down to the vials of blood you’d collected from the pair. Already your magic was seeping into the burgundy bottles, testing its boundaries with such an unfamiliar medium as you released any hold you had on it. You looked at the High Lady and nodded. 

It just might work. 

“My brilliant daughter,” Helion praised, kissing you on the top of your head before disappearing in a flash of light. His empty teacup spun on the saucer. 

You felt a familiar flicker of pride grow within you. Helion had spent hours pouring over your notes, your manuscript, and leaning his ear towards your plans. He was in agreement. 

It just might work. 

Lucien slunk out of his room after Helion’s voice disappeared and sank into the abandoned couch with his whetstone and white-bone blade. The ring of metal echoed through the room, melting into the birdsongs that slipped in through the cracked open window and the clatter of sugar spoons against a porcelain plate.  

“You should tell him,” you said again, pushing a teacup over to your brother. It was a common refrain after Helion’s visits. 

Lucien stared at the three cups now strewn across the coffee table. Two empty. One full and untouched. Had Helion noticed the extra one? 

“I’ve had enough of High Lords for a while,” Lucien said as you poured yourself another strong cup, “When this is over, I’m taking Elain, Jurian, and Vassa back to the Human Lands.” His eyes flickered over to you briefly, “You should come live with us. You’d find it interesting how they conduct themselves. You might even learn something.” 

“I’ll visit for a short time, but nothing longer than that.”

“Why not?” You lowered your gaze and blushed, unconsciously tugging your sweater higher up your neck. The sweet marks Azriel’s lips had left on your skin were long gone, but you swore you could still feel them. “You know why.” You murmured softly. 

Your swollen eyes spoke of restless nights without the Shadowsinger’s hands to lull you to sleep. Azriel had gotten into the habit of stroking your cheek while you talked in bed, until the steady brush of skin against skin finally had your eyes closing shut. You missed him. 

“Lucien, I understand that you want nothing to do with Helion or any other High Lord, but… You could be better. I know you could be. You could be the best High Lord of them all, if you’d only be open to it.”

Because that was Lucien’s worst fear, wasn’t it? That a time would come when Helion would leave this world and any hope for a quiet, peaceful existence with Elain would be gone.

“And what if you’re wrong?”

You touched his wrist and the blade stopped its strange singing. “‘It’s often those who think they deserve it least, that deserve it most.’ Pippin Clodshot from—”

“A Duel of Two Faces by Aechtion.”

You reared back in surprise and Lucien grinned, tapping your nose. “I do read, sister.” 

The sarcasm in his voice was laid on so thickly you could only grumble in response. “I wasn’t aware you had two brain cells to rub together, brother.” 

Lucien laughed so heartily and for so long that Elain and Ione stuck their heads out from the kitchen in conern. 

“I thought someone was dying.” Ione rolled her eyes before her grey head disappeared once again. 

You slid further under the covers, burying your face in Azriel’s pillows as the sun finally slipped behind the mountains and shadows raced each other to the Sidra. 

Seven days. 

Seven days of waking up to empty sheets after Azriel had jerked awake halfway through the night, bloodshot eyes searching for something you couldn’t see and that he didn’t tell you about. He’d only kissed your forehead, smoothing back your hair and murmuring something about a task he needed to take care of before shrugging on his leathers. You’d sat in bed, comforter tucked under your arms and over your chest even though you were fully clothed, and watched Azriel move around the room with a practiced air as weapons flashed in the moonlight and disappeared into his bag. 

You knew all the hiding places in his room now — one of the many secrets you’d unearthed — so you didn’t find it at all strange when he captured your lips before dipping his hand beneath the mattress and pulling out a long serrated blade, perfect for sawing rope and wood. 

“Where are you off to this time?” 

Azriel had gone still, taking his time to shake away his thoughts before sweeping a handful of stoppered vials off his desk — sleep potions, draughts for pain and healing, subtle, painless poisons. You would know because you had helped make them. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, Y/n,” He’d whispered, eyes boring into yours with a haunted look that hadn’t left him since that day in the market square. 

Ten days.

Ten days of carrying around a heavy ache that every so often tightened with a feeling you couldn’t name. Almost as if it didn’t belong to you.

You paced back and forth in Azriel’s room, trying to calm a heart that hadn’t stopped racing for the last hour. You’d tried opening, then closing the windows as you curled up beneath the covers of his bed, mountain air blowing the curtains open and chilling your too hot skin. But none of it helped. 

Chasing his scent in the sheets wasn’t enough anymore. 

You tiptoed out of Azriel’s room, copying his silent steps and sticking to familiar shadows as you slipped through the House. Like Lucien, you tended to stay hidden whenever representatives from other Courts visited the River House. They were people Rhysand and Feyre trusted, but that didn’t mean you could erase centuries of wariness from your bones. 

You heard nothing coming from Feyre’s studio, but you knew that if you were to sneak through the layers of air she’d sealed around the space, you’d meet a male carved from molten heat. 

You waited in one of the spare studio rooms for the High Lord of Autumn to leave, eyes peering through the slit between the door and its hinges. If you stared for long enough, you swore you could see the air beside the door rippling with Autumn heat. 

Finally, Eris Vanserra stepped into the hallway in all his striking glory, followed closely behind by Lucien. Violently red hair hovered over a pale, freckled face composed of angular lines — striking but not unkind. You thought he looked like a lit match with his wiry frame wrapped in resplendent browns, reds, and golds that spoke of forest riches. Or maybe he just looked narrow when standing next to Cassian. That was always a possibility.

“Thank you, Eris.” Feyre squeezed his hand reassuringly. She wore similarly decadent clothes. The moonstone and diamond crown perched atop her light brown hair was a rare sight, but Feyre wore it as naturally as she wore her paint splattered overalls. She was an artist and a High Lady in equal measure, and she sacrificed no part of one in favor of the other.  

The newly minted High Lord of Autumn chuckled darkly, eyes flashing like a living flame. You’d heard horrible tales about Beron Vanserra, his cruelty, and his violence. But whatever traits Eris had inherited from his father he’d sloughed off like a second skin. The molting process had been full of its own pains, but as you assessed him now, you saw only the characteristics he shared with Lucien.  

“Don’t thank me yet. Not until my feet have touched the Continent.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

Eris tipped his head, a smirk on his face, then disappeared in a flush of woodsmoke. 

Spring, Winter, Summer, Day, Dawn, and now Autumn. The seven courts had slid into an uneasy alliance once more, weary but willing after decades of war. Feyre wasn’t sure how much more Prythian could take if this transformed into another bloodbath. But if the fledgling plan you’d all helped nurse came to fruition, it wouldn’t come to that… at least that’s what Feyre kept telling herself every night so she could sleep. 

The High Lady jolted back when you slipped out from your hiding spot, cast in a halo of cool-toned light from the dying sun. Cassian shared in Feyre’s surprise. They hadn’t heard you come up the stairs or pass by the door. They hadn’t even sensed you until you made your presence known.

Maybe she’s picking it up from Azriel? Feyre said with some amusement. 

Gods help us all. There’s two of them.

“Where’s Azriel?” You looked to the High Lady for an answer, hands held stiff at your sides. You felt that strange anxiety clawing at your throat. It had dripped into your feelings slowly since the morning, growing like a weed until you couldn’t stop clenching your fists. “I haven’t heard from him in days.” 

Feyre felt a familiar coil of guilt settle in her stomach. 

Don’t tell her about this, Fey. Azriel had begged her, his eyes hard and tired before taking off from the back porch towards The Warren. 

He’d made all of them promise not to tell you about that place. About what he did. About what he was doing. But you weren’t a fool. You knew of his reputation as a Shadowsinger and a Spymaster and the work that came with it. You’d traced some of the scars on his body, plucking the stories from his skin whenever he let you, and you woke up when he did from his silent nightmares. The slightest change in his breathing pattern, the barest flinch of his arm wrapped around your waist was all it took for you to open your bleary eyes and shake him awake. 

But there were some secrets he was still too afraid to reveal, and some secrets he’d buried so deeply he didn’t even know what their monstrous faces looked like anymore. 

“Y/n—” Feyre began.

“I want to know.” You reached for Feyre’s wrist, grasping it so tightly your knuckles paled and Cassian stepped forward. It was a silent reminder that you had the power to take that knowledge from her if you wished. You loved Feyre. You considered her a friend. But the panic wasn’t leaving you. You stared at her desperately, pupils blown wide open. “I need to know he’s alright.” 

Feyre opened her mouth to speak, then froze as Rhysand’s velvety voice entered her mind, strained to the point of breaking.  

Feyre, you need to bring Y/n to The Warren.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

85K+ WORDS AND FINALLY THEY'VE FUCKING KISSED HOLY SHIT

I really must applaud you all for your patience because hot DAMN I am FLOORED!!! And yes, yes, I know, I know y'all want Y/n to figure out their mates and I will simply be pleading the fifth and hiding in my room and not telling anyone of you when that will actually happen because I simply cannot! ASFDK;JABSLDFIGUH

*takes a deep breath* Thank you all so much for reading and for your engagement whether that be leaving comments or liking or literally anything because it makes my day and I'm just happy that my passion project/hobby is able to bring people some smidgen of joy because the world really sucks but hey at least we have fanfics

[rose24207]

hey girlie, I have a brain itch and I love your writing so it's where I've come to get an idea scratched.

how about a fantasy!au with oscar or lando where they were a villain (if you've ever read assistant to the villain, I'm thinking like that kind of villain) and they end up married to a princess and years later when they have kids, they tell a story of a princess and a villain and they kind of reminisce on their lives together.

The best part

Summary: Years after marrying a princess, retired villain Lando tells their daughter a bedtime story about “a fearsome villain and the beautiful princess who ruined everything.”

villain!Lando x princess!reader

Navigation

Once upon a time, in a kingdom draped in twilight, a little girl with a head full of curls sat cross-legged on her bed, clutching her stuffed dragon.

“Daddy,” she whispered dramatically, “can I have a story? But not a boring one. Not the one about the nice prince who plants flowers.”

Lando Norris—retired villain, infamous sorcerer, devoted husband, and, apparently, expert bedtime storyteller—arched a brow.

“You don’t want Prince Everhart and his magical tulips?”

“No,” she groaned. “He’s boring.”

“Alright then,” Lando said, settling on the edge of her bed. “How about a story about a villain?”

She gasped. “Yes! But not too scary. Mama says I shouldn’t have nightmares anymore.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry, little dragon. This one has a happy ending.”

And so he began.

“Once upon a time, there was a villain.”

He was feared across all the kingdoms—powerful, clever, charming when he wanted to be, but mostly known for stealing things that weren’t his. Crowns. Secrets. Magic. Hearts.”

“He lived in a castle built into the cliffs, surrounded by stormclouds and shadows. Everyone said he had no heart. And he was fine with that—until one day…”

“…a princess wandered into his lair,” their daughter whispered, eyes wide.

Lando grinned. “Exactly. She wasn’t supposed to be there. She’d escaped her guards, climbed the cliffs herself, and marched right into the villain’s domain just to yell at him.”

“What for?”

“For kidnapping her court mage. She said he was a coward and a tyrant.”

“Was he?“

“Very much,” Lando said with a wink.

His daughter giggled.

“But the princess wasn’t afraid of him. She was clever, stubborn, and wore a crown like it was a sword. The villain should’ve sent her away. Should’ve locked her up. But instead… he let her stay.”

“Why?”

“Because he was curious. Because no one had ever called him a ‘spoiled, self-important goblin’ to his face before.”

“You were the villain,” she said, pointing a tiny finger.

“I never said that,” Lando replied, mock-offended. “Maybe I was the princess.”

“You were definitely the villain.“

He gave a lazy shrug. “Guilty.”

“So the princess stayed. And over time, the villain changed. He laughed more. Slept better. He taught her how to duel with daggers and she taught him to dance. He let her paint sunrises on his grey stone walls. She sang in his hallways. And when she left… he realized he didn’t like the silence anymore.”

“She left?”

Lando nodded softly. “She had to. Her father was ill. Her kingdom needed her. But she left something behind.”

The little girl leaned forward. “What?”

“Her heart.”

“And what did the villain do?”

“He gave it back,” Lando said gently. “In person. Wearing his nicest cloak and a rose he stole from someone’s garden.”

“Did she take him back?”

“She kissed him in front of the entire court.”

The girl squealed. “That’s the best part!”

Lando smiled—but there was something soft in his eyes now, distant and warm. He was no longer looking at the walls of a nursery carved into a palace.

He was seeing a torch-lit corridor in a crumbling tower. A girl in a torn ballgown throwing a dagger at his head.

He was hearing the laughter echoing through his old fortress when she tripped him into a fountain.

He was feeling the moment she said, breathless, “You’re not a villain. Not to me.”

He blinked.

The little girl touched his hand. “What happened next?”

Lando cleared his throat.

“They married, of course. The villain became a king—not the kind who wore golden robes or ruled with laws. But the kind who stood quietly behind the throne, making sure no one ever touched her crown without permission.”

“And eventually…”

“There was a little girl,” she said proudly.

“Exactly.”

He leaned down, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “The princess and the villain raised a daughter who was braver than both of them.”

“Is it really true?” she asked sleepily. “Was Mama really a princess?”

“The fiercest,” he murmured.

“And were you really a villain?”

Lando paused, eyes glittering.

“I was,” he said softly. “Until she ruined everything.”

“Good,” the girl whispered, already half-asleep. “She saved you.”

Later that night, you found him on the balcony—his arms folded on the railing, gaze lost in the stars. The wind tousled his hair.

“You told her the story,” you said.

He nodded. “She hates the prince with the flowers.”

You laughed. “So did I.”

You stood beside him in silence, letting the breeze carry memories between you. The tower. The blood-soaked cloak he’d thrown at your feet the day he gave up his empire. The way you said I do with a dagger strapped to your thigh.

You reached for his hand. “Do you miss it?”

Lando glanced at you. “The castle? The chaos? The absolute fear in every noble’s eyes?”

You raised a brow.

He grinned. “Not even a little.”

You smiled. “Not even the lightning crackling every time you walked into a room?”

“I get the same feeling now when she calls me Daddy.”

You kissed his cheek. “You’re a softie now.”

“Only for my girls.”

He turned to you, eyes darker now, hand at your waist. “But if anyone ever threatens what we built—what you gave me—I can be the villain again.”

You leaned into him, heart full. “We don’t need villains anymore, Lando.”

He kissed your knuckles. “Maybe. But I’ll always be the man who would’ve burned the world just to see you smile.”

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

[acosmicbee]

Little Dancer

(Heads up! This is the fic based on my poll from a bit ago. If you didn't see it, this fic is going to be darker than the other stuff I've written! Please don't read it if you aren't comfortable! TW: References to underage prostitution, underage alcohol consumption NOTHING WILL BE GRAPHIC BUT IT WILL BE THERE)

You'd always admired the pretty dresses and costumes the grown up ballet dancers got to wear. They were sparkly and shiny and eye catching. Of course, now that you were older, you understood the duel purpose. One was to look beautiful on stage, to play their parts as they twirled and leapt and danced. The other was to attract customers.

You'd lived at the opera house for as long as you could remember, just another orphan taken in who had some semblance of movement. They taught you ballet, but not in the way you longed for. Not like the fancy dance schools nobles could afford to send their children to.

One of the ballerinas who had first taught you, as well as a mix of twenty other boys and girls, had told you one very important lesson. When you were old enough to take clients after shows, if they offered to buy your way out of the opera house and send you to a real ballet school, you should take it. No matter the cost of what they wanted in return.

You could still remember the hurt and pain in her voice, as she had to tell a group of children that 'almost anywhere is better than here'. She had been bought out by a noble a few months later, and just as quickly replaced by another ballerina who continued the dance lessons. You never saw her again.

˖ ݁𖥔🩰˖୨୧˖ ݁🦢𖥔 ݁˖

You both counted down the days and dreaded the coming of your fifteenth birthday. That was the cutoff where the opera directors would 'allow' you to take your first clients after shows. Allow was a bit loose considering they practically forced the ballet dancers into it, taking a cut of whatever the nobles paid to get up close and personal with their favorite dancer.

Soon enough you'd be one of those people, forced to entertain men four times your age with a smile. Forced to sit pretty as they treated you like an object, some pretty little thing to just be ignored. Then, when they needed you, their hands would-!

No. No, you couldn't afford to think like that. You had to tune out the thoughts, the same way you tuned out the sniffles and cries of some of the other people in your bunk room. Thinking too hard was dangerous. It was painful and it was forbidden as far as you were concerned.

Instead, you focused on your makeup in one of the cracked dressing room mirrors, touching up any kind of fault. Today was another performance, each one marking a day closer. From now, and for another week and a half, the opera was doing Swan Lake.

You had a small role, but one still coveted by other dancers. After all, you didn't get paid if you couldn't pass the audition and get a part. You were one of the swans, just another faceless person wearing white, dancing in unison.

You didn't mind though, dancing your best and taking your bows at the end. The second it was over, you dashed off through the wings back towards the bunk room. The dressing rooms would soon be overrun with noblemen who had too much money and too little care for who was over 15 or not.

You had almost made it when a hand grasped your arm. Your breath caught in your throat as you turned, your eyes wide. The man holding you was definitely a nobleman, he was wearing a nice suit and crisp white gloves. He scanned your face before finally releasing your arm. "You did well, little dancer."

All you could do was stutter out a weak 'thank you' as you turned, making your way towards your shared bedroom. The area he'd touched felt like it was on fire and you rubbed it as you finally shut the door behind you. The way he'd looked at you... didn't feel normal. But he was probably just looking for whatever dancer he was sponsoring.

Thinking was dangerous, especially when it came to strange noblemen. Just be happy nothing happened Y/N. Get changed, wash your face and sleep. Nothing happened.

˖ ݁𖥔🩰˖୨୧˖ ݁🦢𖥔 ݁˖

He was there again the next night. Your legs were sore and aching after your bows but you'd still tried your best to be fast as you made your way through the dressing room. He'd caught you yet again, a gloved hand on your wrist as he studied your face.

Whatever he saw had a dark flash of emotion go through his eyes before he finally released you, a dark smile painting his face. "Great work, little dancer."

You could feel how his eyes never left you as you darted off towards your room. Could feel them burning into your back before you ducked around a corner out of view.

It became a pattern. Every night he was there, waiting for you. He easily picked you out from the other white dancers, easily caught your wrist as you tried to make your escape. Every night he'd whisper some kind of praise to you, always calling you 'little dancer'. Every night he'd release you, watching as you ran off before the dressing room filled with more noblemen who would be less willing to let you go.

Eventually Swan Lake came to an end and the next ballet, Giselle, started up. You didn't have a part in it, which was a great misfortune when you started to run out of money rather quickly. You couldn't even afford new ballet slippers, dancing as best as you could in your old ones.

It was sheer luck that when auditions were held for the next ballet after the current one, Cinderella, you managed to get a part. You were cast as one of the fairies the fairy godmother summons, a quick part with only one scene. But, it was your very first solo dance. Your very first performance where you weren't just another face in the crowd.

It would also be your first performance at 15, your first performance where you weren't allowed to hide away from the leering gazes of noblemen. Needless to say the closer you got to opening night, the more and more nauseous you felt.

You spent the daytime during your birthday in rehearsals. The pretty costume you wore as the fairy of spring feeling less and less special by the minute. One of the older dancers, the one playing the prince, offered you a few sips of brandy backstage before the curtain opened.

It dulled your nerves enough that you were able to make it through your solo without puking, twirling around the stage as you counted in your head to the music. Spin then leap then twirl then jump. You focused only on your body and the music, feeling a mix of relieved and terrified once you finished.

You sat in the wings for the rest of the show, nervously rocking back and forth as you waited for bows. The older dancers, ones who'd been taking clients for a long time, shot you pitied looks backstage. They offered you whispered pieces of advice when they had the time.

'They like it when you smile.' 'Stay in your costume, don't wash off your makeup.' 'If they offer you alcohol you drink it. It'll numb the pain.' 'Take any tip they offer you and hide it.' 'If they offer to sponsor you, never turn it down.'

Finally, just as bows finished, the ballerina who had played Cinderella took you aside. She hugged you close for a second before whispering a familiar piece of advice, one you'd never forgotten. "If someone offers to buy your contract with the opera, to take you away from here to a real ballet school or just to be a pretty face in their manor, take it."

You had barely made it into the dressing room, this time unable to escape the crowd of nobles and smog of cigar smoke and the other dancers flirting when a familiar hand caught your wrist. It was the same strange nobleman and he grinned down at you, a hand coming up to cup your face.

"Well done tonight, my little dancer. You were truly a sight to behold." He murmured, stroking your face. His words made your stomach drop. Never before had he referred to you as his, like you were an object to be owned. He gently took your arm, leading you away from the the crowded room of leering gazes to an empty room.

You held your breath, your heart racing. You felt naked in your costume, the pink and green fabric feeling not nearly thick enough to protect you. That was until your eyes widened in shock when instead of trying to undress you or touch you, like the other dancers had warned of, he draped his suit jacket over your trembling shoulders.

"Isn't that better, my little dancer? You're trembling like a dandelion in the wind." He said, settling down onto a plush chair. You just stood there, staring at him as you pulled the jacket closer around yourself. The fabric smelled of fancy cologne, the type you'd heard some of the male dancers lamenting over being nearly three shows worth of pay.

"Come closer, little dancer. It's hard to see your face from so far away when you perform. Every time I've gotten close you dash away like a little bunny." He chuckled. You reluctantly got closer, shivering with how intense his gaze was as it scanned over you. Whatever he saw in your defensive posture and trembling figure he must've liked because his smile widened.

"I have a... proposition for you little dancer. I have already talked to the opera directors about buying your contract." The words made you freeze. He wanted to take you away? You felt sick, even more than before but you had to remember the advice that had been drilled into you. If someone was giving you an out, you were to take it.

"What do you want in return...?" You asked, cursing the way your voice wavered with uncertainty and fear. After all, there was always a price, especially when it came to nobles.

"Smart bunny." He grinned, leaning a little closer to you. "Here's the deal. I'll give you the life you deserve. If you want to continue with dance I'll make sure you have the best lessons, that you can perform at a theatre where no one will ever make you feel unsafe. You'll be a sparkling jewel. In return, you will play the part of my child."

His... child?! That was... unexpected. Most of the deals you'd heard of involved romantic relations, not something like this. You were conflicted between a feeling in your gut telling you it was more complex than that and the lesson that had been drilled into you since you were a child.

In the end, all you could do was nod. This was probably the best deal you were ever going to get, your only escape from a miserable life of entertaining men for money. This was your way out.

It didn't stop your heart from stuttering at the wolfish grin that spread across his face as his eyes gleamed with something darker than happiness. What had you just agreed to...?

˖ ݁𖥔🩰˖୨୧˖ ݁🦢𖥔 ݁˖

You only felt free during your lessons. The man Your father had designed an entire room for you to practice your dancing in. He had costumes custom crafted for you, you outshone all the other dancers when it came to performances.

The second the lessons were over though, you could see the envy in the other dancers's eyes as they watched you enter the carriage he sent to get you. They didn't know what you had to give up for this, what you were still giving up.

He was a strict man, but more than that he was possessive. He liked owning things, owning people. Every maid and butler that worked under him was indebted to him in some way and he held it over their heads like a cruel god. His rules were harsh and his punishments for disobedience were harsher.

He owned a gramophone, something even few nobles could attest to with how new they were. He'd play music and have you dance for him, twirling around your practice room in a private performance.

He could be so harsh, but at the same time he could be so nice. He'd dress you up in the most recent trends, taking you to all the fancy parties he attended. He'd show you off, his precious child, and watch as the other nobles's faces contorted in jealousy when they realized he was the father of such a famous dancer.

You were never allowed to dance with others at these kinds of parties. Never allowed to go to any tea parties you were invited to by other noble children. Never allowed to go anywhere at all without an escort or your father accompanying you.

All you could do was push everything down and smile. After all, thinking was painful, too painful. Thinking about the future hurt just as much as thinking about the past. But sometimes, when you were all alone in your room at night, lying on silk sheets and a soft mattress, you wondered if this place was actually better than the opera house.

[slytherin-princess-x]

Falling for the enemy

Theodore nott x yn

An: hi guys I’m back, still got a lot on atm but writing is that little escape I need so here I am.

The rain hammered against the Gryffindor tower windows, mirroring the tempest brewing inside me. We’d lost. Again. And not just lost, but been utterly outplayed by Slytherin in the Quidditch match. Nott had been a nightmare on the field, a blur of green, and his team had celebrated their victory with the smug, self-satisfied air that only Slytherins seemed to possess. I slumped onto my four-poster, kicking off my boots, the bitter taste of defeat clinging to my tongue.

A hesitant knock followed by a quiet "Y/N?" had me groaning and burying my face in my pillow. “Go away, I’m not in the mood,” I mumbled into the fabric, more to stop the tears that threatened than to actually discourage whoever was at the door.

The door creaked open anyway, and the familiar figure of Theodore Nott stepped inside, shedding a trail of damp cloak and exhaustion. He looked like he'd been through a war more grueling than a Quidditch match. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed, and a thin layer of sweat glistened on his skin. Clearly, I wasn't the only one who had poured their everything into the game.

He said nothing, simply closing the door behind him and trudging towards my bed like a wounded animal seeking shelter. Wordlessly, he dropped to his stomach beside me, face down on the duvet, letting out a low groan. "Rough game," he mumbled into the covers, the words muffled.

Now, Nott and I had what one might call a…complicated relationship. We were sort of friends, sort of enemies, and often teetered on the edge of something else entirely. It was a delicate dance we’d been performing for years, one filled with unspoken feelings and sharp wit. I couldn't deny, however, that seeing him in such a vulnerable state, so drained and defeated, tugged at something deep within me.

I sat up, my own anger momentarily forgotten. “You okay?” I asked softly.

He just groaned again, lifting his head slightly. "My back… it’s been hammered by a bludger."

Without thinking, I scooted closer and reached out, my hands hovering over his back. His muscles were tense, cords of them visible beneath his damp shirt. "Here," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Let me."

He didn’t protest. Instead, he lifted his arms, pulling his shirt up over his head and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. The sight of his bare back stunned me into silence. It was broader than I remembered, the skin pale in the dim light of my dorm, scarred with a network of pale lines that spoke of long years of Quidditch and the occasional scrape during dueling practice.

My fingers, hesitant at first, began to knead the tight muscles along his spine. The heat of his skin radiated against my palms, a strange, exhilarating feeling that sent shivers down my own back. He sighed in contentment, a low rumble that vibrated against my fingertips. My gaze drifted over the lines of his back, taking in every curve and angle. He was beautiful, in a raw, untamed kind of way.

Then, my eyes fell on a particular scar, long and jagged, tracing a path from his shoulder blade down to his lower back. It was an old scar, faded but still stark against the smooth skin. It was a violent reminder of his past, a history I knew lots about and somehow wanted to know more. A daring, reckless impulse struck me. I trailed my finger down the length of it, my touch featherlight, and then lowered my head, pressing a kiss down the scar from his shoulder blade to his lower back, lingering only for quick moments.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. I pulled back, my cheeks flushing. What had I just done? I had crossed a line, a boundary that I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

He rolled over with surprising speed, his eyes locked on mine, a question in their depths. He reached out, his hand cupping my cheek, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through me. He was suddenly on top of me, his weight pressing us both into the mattress, but I found myself unable to move away.

His lips found the skin at the base of my neck, soft and warm, and he trailed kisses up my jawline. "You’re beautiful," he murmured against my skin, his breath tickling my ear. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

My heart hammered in my chest. This was crazy, reckless, everything I shouldn’t be doing, and yet… I found my hands curling into the back of his hair, pulling him closer. As he nuzzled into the crook of my neck, his words a soft, sweet cadence against my skin, I knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever happened next, I would not regret it.

Taglist: @yootvi @redeemingvillains @littlemadamred @smut-anarchy

[almostdecaffeinatedfun]

Curse – Jegulus Microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 136 words

James was enveloped by tension thick enough to touch. Regulus had lost his mind. He had just challenged Marlene to a duel in the middle of the quidditch pitch in the air.

Marlene was equally insane. She goaded him into it after making more than a few comments about playing easy on James because he was Regulus’ boyfriend. Regulus was definitely going easy but James wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, he tried every tactic in the book to diffuse the fight.

When the first spell flew over his head, James was at Regulus’ side instantly with the most intense shield charm he had ever cast. Marlene whined for the next two weeks about the overprotective boyfriend never letting them have any fun. James was just glad that nobody got hit by one of Regulus’ curses.

[abusivegymrat]

fuck me (pumps) p1

hey so this is the horny soap i promised(???), this was going to be a longer thing butt i realized i havent been posting anything in terms of writing so i just copied half of it from my google docs haha

the second part will be down if i can sit my ass down and write the smut

feel free on giving me tips on how to write it in fact i might not ever finish it if i don't get any so HELP ME

you know what they say, no trick, no treat. feed me with your wisdom and I will gift you a submissive soap. how bout that?

wc: 1350

Your body slowly slips forward on the faux leather, creating a squeaking noise when your soaked clothes cling to it. Your legs part in a wide manspread as exhaustion wears over your slumping form heavily like a hefty cloak, but you’re relaxed, glad that you can let yourself go after hours of physical and mental strain. You know that you will probably wake up with the worst backache known to man with this stupid decision, but you also know that you don’t fucking care about that right now. The captain jammed dirt into your brain with his foolish barking, then proceeded to water it like it was some beautiful spring flower. 

Turned it to mushy mud instead.

Your face is pale like bleach, your eyes are as empty as your brain, your hair is dripping like a damn faucet, your mind is foggy– uneven, only there in some parts. It’s patchy and fuzzy and swirling. You’re tossed around the truck each time Price drives over a bump and your forehead gets a good beating from the window. 

Swirling around like that one glass of bourbon you’d fucking kill for right now. You can see it behind your closed eyelids: looks like the late afternoon daylight peeking from your curtains, smells like the fucking sun, tastes like–

Fuck. 

You let out a groan mentally, throwing your head back in delight covered up as fatigue, pathetically daydreaming of what seems like luxury at the moment. You try to blow a lock of hair from your face, but it doesn't move, weighed down by water. You’re fighting sleep in a crude duel, with a spear and a damn leaf around your arse when Simon’s voice worms you out of your cave. 

“Y’dreamin’o’bourbon too?” He croaks out lazily, the sound stuck between his vocal cords like it was too much effort to blurt that out. 

You hum in an affirmative response, then take a deep breath, lips parting to accommodate your lungs as they fill. You expect (and hope) that you’ll find your lips wrapped around the neck of a bottle when you close them.

You don’t. 

Instead they’re chapped and dry and they fucking hurt. 

You cling your teeth to your bottom lip, chewing on it to calm your nerves and ease the shuddering the cold gives you. 

“You lot be good, and I’ll take you out for a drink.” You see Gaz’s eyes practically shimmer when Price grumbles in his usual deep voice rumbling from his chest. Then suddenly, the entire vehicle is bustling with energy again as their rambling about the place evolves into white noise: you drift into deep slumber.

From what Simon told you, Price wanted to go to his usual pub, but Gaz swore he knew a place. Either way, you’re seated on a wooden stool that is dangerously high and was quite difficult to get up to, eager to switch to a more reasonable and comfortable seat. You’re woolgathering still, staring into nothingness and taking a sip of your drink here and there, depending on it like it would stop your shivering. 

The longer you stay there, though, the more warmth spreads through your body like wildfire. You blame your drink, or rather, drinks for it, since you couldn’t keep up with the counting part when that bitch has her hands all over Johnny. Your brain is fuzzy, but this time, it’s the alcohol, and you couldn’t be more grateful. You’d rather forget this or whatever the hell is going on. Especially when Gaz touches your shoulder with a smug grin, telling you to ease your jaw. Something about grinding your teeth to dust. You huff through your nose like a bull, though now you know why the muscles in your face were squeezing a bit too hard. 

Your breathing becomes more shallow when your eyes lock on their figure a little more, your heart might beat its way out of your ass. Simon could smack you into consciousness with a rifle in your face, and you’d thank him. Pitch black is better than whatever this is.

Your blood is boiling like a hot pot, and you wish you could dip Johnny’s meat in it to cook it. Ironic when you visualize it, but not so when you imagine his pained screams just the way he deserves them. 

“I thought he was grabbing drinks.” You snit, earning no response whatsoever. Instead, when you look around, it’s the guys grinning at you like a pack of mutts. “Oh fuck off…” you groan into your hands. “You’re not helping.”

“Jealous, aren’t you?” Simon observes, and you wish you could deny. Instead, you sit there and swallow it like a good fucking girl instead of trying to deny it and look stupid. It’s true, he’s right, you’re jealous. 

How can you not be jealous when she’s running her hands all over his chest and caressing his chin like he’s some good fucking pussy? You’re expected to stay neutral when her hands roam his thick thighs like that? Might as well jerk him off in front of his girlfriend. Don’t miss out on that, yeah? 

Logically, you have no reason to be jealous. You’re pretty, smart, violent when you need to be, and Johnny is head over heels for you. Besides, you could pull any man you wanted. But fuck it if you didn’t want to rip her teeth out. You don’t blame Johnny though– okay, you do, but look at her, I mean… Her tits are almost spilling out of that shirt, that makeup would drive any man crazy. And you don’t blame the woman for being attracted to Johnny either: his baby blues, arms as big as your quads, and that stupid mohawk, you see the vision, to say the least. 

And your nerves start to ease, because at the end of the day, you are the one that will drag tears of pain and pleasure out of his eyes, and run your fingers through his hair and smother him with your cunt. 

Only if you knew that the only reason your nerves were easing was because you were already up on your feet, moving towards the two as Garrick whistled behind you, and you could imagine Price’s weird, triangle-shaped, sly smile. Though their expressions faltered, instead twisting into pure horror when they realized Johnny’s bottle of beer was about to be used as a murder weapon. Next thing you know, Simon is pulling your arms around your body and pulling you back towards the table as you thrash in his grip, murmuring in your ear about how he’ll be back and he still loves you, how you have no reason to be jealous, just shit that you told yourself minutes ago. 

“Look at ‘er, Simon! Practically wavin’ her fuck me pumps a’ me!” 

“Calm down–”

“I can’t even tell who he’s lookin’ to–”

“Calm down–”

“Can’t even sit right ‘cause her jeans are too fuckin’ tight–”

“Calm. The fuck. Down–” 

“Jesus fucking christ Simon! Look at him!” You snap, shoving him away from the chest. 

“I know, come ‘ere.” He pulls a chair for you, and you sink, fury adorning your face. 

The piece of shit finally meets your eyes at the commotion, swallowing harshly, awkwardly clutching the drinks and making his way towards you. You click your tongue, not wanting to look at him in the face. He lowers himself onto the seat in front of you (the audacity of him) so naturally (also reasonably) you ignore him. 

All night long. 

You don’t dare look into the eyes you’d usually get lost in, laughing, joking, but never looking at him. Never answering a question, never laughing at his jokes. You’re acting like he doesn’t exist. And he doesn’t to you, not right now. Not when the night is over and you’re on base. Never. Not today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that, and after that, and after that–

Until he’s banging his fists on your door like a madman, and you’re trying equally stubbornly to ignore. But it’s loud, and it’s annoying, and it’s Johnny.

So you open the door.