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[webnavals]

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[ellewritesx]

sugar, baby

Summary: He pays in cash. You pay in obedience. a sugardaddy!harry styles x reader au series

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, kind of a corruption kink, power play, dom!Harry

A/N: i'm planning on making this a series, so excited for you guys to read it! btw i usually write in the present tense, but this is more of a prologue to the series, so that's why this first part is in the past tense. if you've got any requests for the series, feel free to drop them in the ask box on my profile ;) have fun x

Word Count: 2,984

...

You weren't supposed to be here.

The bar was tucked into the corner of a luxury hotel, the kind where the floors didn't creak and the waiters never made eye contact. Everything shimmered. Gold fixtures, iridescent chandeliers, crystal glasses. In the air was an unsettling sort of quiet that felt expensive. You smoothed your hands over your thighs, trying to hide the fact that your dress was thrifted and your heels pinched at the sides. You didn't belong, and you knew it, but still, you were here.

You'd told yourself you were just curious. Just meeting with him. Just... hearing him out.

But then he walked in.

Harry.

He didn't look like someone who needed to pay for anything. Not sex, not attention, not anything at all. But he wasn't here for any of that, not really. He was here for control.

He looked like the kind of man you'd trust with your secrets, and the worst kind to actually give them to.

He found you immediately, his steps smooth and slow, like he had nowhere to be except in front of you. He wore a dark navy suit, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tattoos peeking through his chest. His curls were slightly damp, like he'd come straight from the shower, and he smelled expensive: clean, musky, sharp. His eyes dragged over you in a way that wasn't quite polite, but wasn't necessarily crude either. It was... calculating. A man who liked knowing what was his, and it looked like you were going to be his next victim.

He slid into the booth across from you, leaning one arm on the table, and didn't speak for a long moment, just taking you in.

Then, finally, he spoke. ''You're prettier than in your photo.'' His voice was deep, heavy with power and influence.

Your cheeks heated, the words surprisingly genuine from his lips, but there was no warmth. Like he was stating a mere fact rather than actually complimenting you. You swallowed. ''Thank you.''

''You nervous?'' he asked.

You nodded. There was no point in lying. You knew he could read your body language well.

''Good,'' he said. ''You should be.''

He ordered you a drink without asking what you wanted. You didn't argue. When it arrived, you took a sip. Burnt sugar and something bitter settled hot in your throat.

''So,'' he said, eyes flicking over you like he was taking inventory. ''You know why you're here.''

You nodded again. ''I do.''

''You've read the terms?''

''I have.''

''No kissing in public. No relationships. You're mine while you're with me. No one else. And I own everything I give you. You leave? You give it all back.''

You licked your lips. ''I understand.''

He leaned in slightly. ''Understand what?'' he prompted.

You blinked. ''I understand I'm yours when I'm with you.''

He smiled.

It wasn't a sweet smile.

The contract was tucked into a leather folder. It wasn't long. Two pages, most of it simple language, with a few bolded phrases that made your stomach twist. Sexual availability. Physical submission. Discretion required. At the bottom of the last page was a little blank box, awaiting your signature.

Before you could pick up the pen, his hand landed on your wrist. Gentle, but firm.

''Let's talk about your limits first,'' he said. ''Your rules. Tell me what you won't do.''

Your breath caught. You'd read stories like this. You'd watched the porn. But sitting here, across from a man who had all the power, it felt different. It felt real. You didn't know how to handle it, how to respond to a question that intimate.

''I, um... No blood. No sharing. Nothing… painful.''

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling upwards just slightly. ''Define painful.''

''I don't know, like… hitting. Or degrading. I don't want to be called names. I take offense to that.''

He chuckled softly at your fieriness, his fingers trailing lightly down your forearm, just a touch, but it made your skin break out in chills.

''But you'll take orders?''

You nodded.

''You'll let me use toys on you?''

''Yes.''

''Let me tie you up?''

''…yes.''

His voice lowered. ''You'll beg?''

You hesitated, breath catching. ''…yes.''

''Good girl.''

Your thighs pressed together under the table, the praise hitting you deep in your belly. Shame curled around the heat there, but you didn't pull away.

''You'll have a safe word,'' he said, like it was the most casual topic to be discussed over a bar table. ''You say it once, I stop everything. You say it twice, I take you home. That clear?''

You nodded again, too fast. ''Yes.''

''Pick your word.''

Your brain scrambled. ''Um… red?''

He quirked a brow. It told him all he needed to know; you were very, very new at this. He almost smiled at that. He couldn't wait to teach you, to take you apart and put you back together to ruin you for every other man you'd ever meet.

He handed you the pen. Your fingers trembled as you signed. He flipped the folder closed without looking at it again. Like it was done now. You belonged to him.

...

The ride to his penthouse was quiet. He didn't touch you. He didn't even speak. He just scrolled through his phone, legs wide in the backseat of the sleek car, occasionally glancing at you like he was already imagining what he'd do to you when you got to his place.

You kept your hands in your lap, your thighs clenched, trying to act like you weren't already soaked.

You hadn't gone looking for this kind of job, it found you. A friend of a friend, a girl who had worked one discreet night and came back with rent paid six months in advance and a vacant stare that spoke of something darker than just money.

She'd never given you a name, only a phone number and a whispered ''a friend of my guy is looking''. Looking. That's all she told you. And maybe that should've been enough to walk away. But curiosity has sharp teeth. And money, even sharper.

You'd stared at the number for three days before finally texting it.

You'd gotten a second notice for your overdue rent that month. You were broke. Tuition was bleeding you dry, your electricity and gas bills were stacking up, and your job at the cafe barely covered groceries. So after a long, wine-heavy night and one unpaid phone bill too many, you'd sent a message: Hi. I was given your number by a friend. I was told you're looking?

The reply had come within the hour. Polite, direct, and unsettlingly composed. Yes. I offer a paid sexual arrangement. Exclusive. Intimate. You'll be compensated generously for your time, discretion, and obedience. If that interests you, we'll continue.

You'd have sworn you could almost hear his calm, grounded voice through the words on your screen. Like he had already you pegged as the type to give in.

You'd texted for a few days. He'd asked questions, not the ones you'd expected, like your measurements or your preferences, but things like, How do you respond to authority? Are you good at keeping secrets? What are you looking to get out of this arrangement? It had felt very formal, almost like a job interview.

You'd asked him questions too, though far fewer. Mostly, you'd tried to figure out if this man who texted like a lawyer and spoke like a therapist was actually offering what he claimed, if he wasn't just wasting your time for fun.

He'd sent a photo of himself per your request (you wanted to know if he was at least attractive, could anyone blame you?). It was a mirror selfie, shirtless, grey sweatpants riding low, tattoos on show and his deep V-line peeking out promisingly above his waistband. It wasn't sleazy. It was deliberate. Classy, even.

You'd stared at it for way too long.

You had sent one back. Nothing too revealing, just a casual, slightly provocative photo of you in your favorite little black dress. He hadn't commented on your body. Instead, he'd replied with, You'll do nicely. When can we meet to discuss terms?

That was the moment something had shifted in you. You'd been hesitant, cautious, ready to back out at any moment. But that text, cold, possessive, confident... it made something spark deep in you.

Your love life was a ghost town, your sex life practically non-existent. No one had made you feel desirable or wanted in months, let alone claimed. And there was something dangerously appealing about this beautiful stranger who didn't beg, didn't chase, just chose you. And suddenly, all you could think was: Fuck it.

...

His building had a private elevator. No doorman. No check-in. Just a sleek black keycard and the quiet hum of wealth.

The penthouse was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows, cold marble floors, warm lighting that made everything glow. You didn't get time to look around. As soon as the door shut behind you, his voice dropped into a calm command.

''Strip.''

You froze. ''Here? Now?''

He tilted his head. ''That's what you signed up for, isn't it?''

Your face burned as you just nodded, your hands reaching behind you to fumble with the zipper at the top of your spine. It was stubborn, just out of reach, and you twisted awkwardly, tugging, struggling in silence.

You could feel his eyes on you, the weight of them making your skin prickle and crawl. He huffed out a soft laugh, and then you heard his heavy, unhurried footsteps approach from behind until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

His ring-adorned fingers, slow and sure, brushed your hand away. ''Let me,'' he murmured, so soft it barely kissed your ear.

The zipper slid down with one slow, long tug, the sound slicing through the silence like a sigh. You shivered as cool air licked across the newly exposed skin of your back. His palm ghosted up your spine, not quite touching, hovering. Teasing. His breath was warm when he leaned in, and his mouth met your shoulder with a kiss that felt far too gentle for a man who'd promised to ruin you.

''Good girl,'' he whispered, lips grazing your skin, voice molten. ''Didn't think you'd need help getting naked for me. You're cute.''

Your lungs forgot how to take in air. The dress hangs loose now, your hand instinctively coming up to keep the fabric pressed to your chest before it slid further down.

He didn't touch it. Just waited. Lingered behind you like a storm on the edge of breaking, letting the anticipation sink into your bones.

''Go on, then,'' he murmured in your ear, standing tall again. ''Show me what I paid for.''

You hesitantly let your dress drop to the floor, standing there in just your bra and panties.

He stepped closer, his eyes dragging over your body like a slow stroke. He didn't touch. He didn't speak.

The first thing he did was unhook your bra. Slowly. Like he was unwrapping something fragile. It slid off your shoulders and pooled on the floor between you, his eyes tracking the motion with a hunger that made your knees weak. His hand came up, broad, warm, heavily ringed, and cupped one breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it stiffened under his touch.

You gasped, already on edge, your cunt already throbbing.

''You're a sensitive little thing, aren't you?'' he said, voice calm. Observational. ''Might be fun to toy with you just a little.''

Then his hand dropped to your waist.

''Come on, sweetheart. Be good for me. On the bed.''

The bed was massive. All black linens, plush and soft, and you sank into it as you crawled across. You heard the rustle of his suit jacket being slipped off, the clink of a belt being undone. But you didn't dare look back at him. Not until he gave you permission.

You stayed there, on your hands and knees, waiting.

He spoke up from behind you, his voice thick with authority. ''On your back. Legs open.''

Your body obeyed before your brain caught up. You spread your thighs wide, baring yourself completely. You were already wet, embarrassingly so. The air hit your soaked folds and made you shiver, your nipples pebbling under the warm light.

He walked to the edge of the bed and just looked at you. Silent. Intense. Like he was committing this exact moment to memory.

''Beautiful,'' he said softly. ''So fuckin' beautiful like this. Spread out for me, already dripping.''

You whimpered as he knelt between your legs, rings cold against your thighs as he pushed them wider, thumbs parting your folds.

Then he spit.

Right on your pussy.

The slick warmth landed on your clit and made you jolt. He rubbed it in with two fingers, slow circles that had your toes curling instantly.

''Gotta loosen you up,'' he muttered. ''Gotta make you nice and dumb before I fuck you. Can't have my sugar baby thinking too much, can I?''

You didn't have time to answer before he slipped one thick finger inside. It made you clench instinctively, your hips arching up, a moan breaking from your throat.

''Fuck, you're tight,'' he groaned. ''All this for me?''

You nodded, helpless. ''Yes, all for you.''

His grin turned wicked. ''Good girl.''

He added a second finger without warning.

You gasped, hips twitching, overwhelmed by the stretch. He curled them deep, hitting a spot that made your back arch off the bed, your hands clutching at the sheets.

''There it is,'' he said, almost smug. ''There's that little spot. Gonna work it until you cry for me.''

And he did.

He kept those fingers buried deep, thrusting them slow but firm, curling just right. His thumb pressed to your clit, rubbing circles, just enough pressure to make you squirm, not enough to give you what you needed and craved so badly.

Your moans turned into whines. Pleading sounds.

He didn't stop.

''Say it,'' he murmured. ''Tell me whose pussy this is.''

''Yours,'' you gasped, barely able to speak. ''Yours, Harry, please—''

''Say it like you fuckin' mean it.''

''Yours! It's yours, Harry, please, fuck, please let me come—”

He leaned in, breath hot against your neck. ''You'll come when I say so. Not a second before.''

You sobbed, your body trembling with the need to let go. His fingers never stopped. They fucked up into you mercilessly, slick and loud and obscene. Your whole body was buzzing, flushed and twitching under him.

And then suddenly he pulled out.

You whined at the loss, blinking up at him in shock, but before you could protest, he grabbed your thighs and buried his face between them.

The first lick was broad and slow, his tongue flat, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. You cried out, thighs jerking, but he held you down. His arms hooked under your thighs, keeping you pinned open as he devoured you like a man starved.

He licked and sucked and groaned into your pussy, like the taste of you was everything he'd ever wanted.

''So fuckin' sweet,'' he murmured, lips brushing your clit. ''Y'taste sweet as fuckin' sugar, baby.''

The way he said that line is something that would stay with you later, something you'd hold onto for months to come. When you were alone in bed, when you were trying not to touch yourself, when you were trying to remember that this was just an arrangement. Just money. It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

But God, it felt like something already.

Your legs were shaking. Your body was soaked. He sucked on your clit just right, tongue flicking in quick patterns, your hips bucking helplessly against his face.

''Please, please, Harry, please, need to come—'' you babbled.

He pulled back just far enough to growl, ''Then fuckin' come. Come for me, sugar.''

And you did.

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train. You screamed, legs locking around his head, your pussy clenching wildly. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, mind numbed by the white-hot, pulsing pleasure ripping through you in waves.

But he didn't stop.

Even as your body convulsed, even as you sobbed from the intensity, he kept going. Licking you through it, into the next one, tongue relentless on your swollen clit until you were thrashing under him, hands pushing at his head weakly.

''Harry, please, it's too much—''

He lifted his head sharply. ''You'll come again. You'll come until I'm satisfied,'' he barked out, his intense gaze locked onto you.

And then he dove back in.

Your second orgasm was quicker, rougher, more painful in its sweetness. You sobbed through it, thighs twitching, whole body slick with sweat. Your vision blurred, pleasure blinding and brutal.

When you came again, you screamed.

Tears rolled down your cheeks, your pussy clenching hard around nothing as your whole body shook with overstimulation. Your clit throbbed, too sensitive, too much... but he didn't stop until you were begging.

''Red, Harry, please''

That's what finally made him stop.

He pulled back, his lips wet with your slick, face flushed. He looked like a man who'd just eaten dessert and wanted another course.

He crawled up over your body, pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

''You did so good, baby,'' he whispered, peppering kisses to your shoulder. ''So obedient.''

You couldn't speak. Couldn't even think. The muscles in your thighs were still twitching, your chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

''I'm gonna train you so well,'' he murmured against your mouth. ''You'll be begging to be used. Crying if I don't touch you.''

Your eyes fluttered closed, your brain melting into the sheets.

He kissed your temple. ''And this?'' he whispered lowly in your ear like it was a secret.

He smirked.

''This was nothing.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

[ruesol]

Push & Pull | inbox (1)

(SUKUNA X READER)

PLOT:

You often find yourself complaining to your pen pal about the annoying IT tech at your soul-sucking corporate job. If only you knew that they shared the same identity beyond the screen.

or: the “You’ve Got Mail” au

MASTERLIST

prologue < chapter 1 > chapter 2

You’re a mess when you tumble out of the elevator, your feet wobbling because of the forsaken dress code for women that requires them to wear heels. The umbrella that you accidentally ripped a hole in is dripping water everywhere, because by some misfortune, you had unknowingly thrown out its cover along with the rest of your ex’s stuff that was rotting in the back of your closet. 

The price you had to pay for deep cleaning your house on a weekday was that you had to look like a complete trainwreck in front of your coworkers the next day.

Nothing seems to be going your way lately. You had accidentally added salt instead of sugar to your coffee earlier this week, had to stay past five by yourself twice in a row, and had ripped your stocking in the middle of an important meeting.

“Looking sharp,” Sukuna remarks as he walks past you with the rest of your department in tow. Shoko and Suguru throw sorry looks your way as they continue conversing with him about some show they all like. Scoffing at his attitude, you pull yourself together, throwing your broken umbrella away in a nearby trash can. You could simply buy another one at a nearby convenience store after work.

Sukuna’s attitude towards you, though? Not something that can be replaced easily. It’s been foul since you started working at the company, and you have no idea why. It’s a shame, though, if his personality were as good as his looks, you would’ve asked him out despite your lack of confidence. A man too strapping to look twice in your direction.

Your coworkers aren’t seen anywhere when you make it to your desk. You don’t blame them. There were still ten minutes till the clock struck nine, so most of them usually hung out by the IT office, which happens to be on the same floor, and right by the break room. After graduating and getting your first real job, you realized there wasn’t much difference between high school and an average corporate office. There was still a hierarchy and a system of popular kids and average Joes. A frustrating but true fact. Being a corporate slave wasn’t much different than being a loner. Well, save for the days on when you’d hang out with your coworkers after overtime.

The moment you sit, your chair lets out an odd squeak like it’s already exhausted when the day has just begun, much like you. A few heads turn, and you look down at your desk to not garner any more attention than you already have. 

You slowly blink at the email login screen, but instead of entering your password, you open an incognito window and enter an archaic website’s name.

www.anonpal.com

And instead of your company’s domain login page, your computer loads an old-fashioned website. Something like Windows XP or a government services website where the icons for options like ‘log in’ and ‘forgot password’ still had a sheen designed on them.

You enter your corny little username (orchid27–named after the first thing your eyes landed on while you were signing up) and password. You don’t realize it until your joints ache, but you were crossing your fingers, hoping that he was online for a chat, all with giddy knees bouncing with your shitty faux leather heels.

But the little grey dot next to his name lets you draw a sigh instead. So you leave him a short letter venting about the little things that make your life shittier than it already is.

———

Dear ceos4unions,

I know it’s been a week, and I’m sorry for leaving you hanging. I should’ve given you some kind of warning, but honestly, life has just been incredibly shitty to me lately. It’s not even lunchtime, and I’ve embarrassed myself in front of my coworkers.

Today was just another one of those days where everything that could go wrong did go wrong. It’s the little things that tip the scale, you know? (like accidentally mixing salt instead of sugar in your coffee)

Hoping that your week isn’t soggy and is going way better than mine,

–Orchid27.

———

You had no idea who you were sending these emails to. It could be a chatbot on the site whose sole purpose was to keep it alive for all you knew, but it was cathartic to just word vomit to him. He claimed to be a man living in the same city as you. You answered your part, but refrained from going further, stating that the anonymity was comforting, to which he agreed with no protest, doing the same himself.

It felt like throwing words out into the void, knowing that nothing was going to come back to bite you over them. A sense of safety in the unknown.

You had found the website on some shady forum after your ex had left you feeling absolutely debilitated after cheating on you. Nothing gave you the same comfort you’d get when you’d see the little green dot blinking on the screen or receive a notification with a cheerful ‘You’ve got mail’ jingle. Friends had recommended different shrinks, workout classes, and whatnot, but for some strange reason, the only thing that had finally brought you out of the pits of depression was exchanging letters with a stranger.

You had a hard time trusting people. Talking about your feelings just didn’t come as easily to you anymore (not unless it was with ceos4unions). The mystery helped you cope with the fact that there wouldn’t be any consequences.

Before you know it, lunch hour rolls around. You roll your chair a few inches away from your desk, and it makes that loud creaking sound again. This time, all eyes are on you. To escape the weird stares, you trudge to the break room, where unsurprisingly, Sukuna is already slacking off.

You instantly notice his sharp gaze on you, which already makes you want to shrink into a sad little puddle on the ground. But alas, you can only feel sorry for yourself for so long, so you walk to the coffee pot for some much-needed caffeine.

“Sorry, got the last cup,” Sukuna snarked when you noticed the empty pot.

“You could’ve at least made a new one,” you say with an exasperated sigh as you open the cabinet. However, seeing that the coffee beans hadn’t been restocked was just your luck. “Are you kidding me?”

You glare at Sukuna, and he simply stares out the window. “I hope you know this breakroom is meant for the accounts department.” You know your attempt at confronting him with facts is useless. Everyone loves him too much. He makes Shoko and Suguru laugh as they share the same humor, he lends Kento his car occasionally so they get along just fine, and Choso is his best friend from college.

“Yeah, but unfortunately for you, I’m an honorary member.” He shrugs. The red coffee cup with the Zenin group logo looks comically small in his hands. All he needs is to take one big gulp, and the drink would finish.

Shoko walks in with Suguru, and they frown when they notice the empty pot. “Ugh, not now. I’m going through serious withdrawals. Feel like I could fall asleep any second,” Shoko groans as she leans on Suguru’s bicep.

“Well, Sukuna took the last cup, so what can we do?” You roll your eyes as you walk to the pantry, surprised to find that there’s only one snack left, and it just happens to be your favorite. “We’re out of snacks, too,” you point out as you tear open the packet. You feel Sukuna’s gaze flit to you, but as soon as you catch it, he looks back at Shoko.

“Well, I guess we know who we’re sending for a coffee run today,” Suguru announces with a firm tone. All three of you look at Sukuna, and he rolls his eyes.

“Fine, but I’m taking her with me,” he says as he points to you. Your eyes widen as you scoff at his condition. “And why would I join you?”

“Because I can’t carry all those drinks alone,” he says in a ‘as-a-matter-of-fact’ tone.

“Really? You have all those muscles and can’t carry a few twelve-ounce cups?”

“It’s because I don’t wanna spill them, but thanks for noticing my muscles.” You want to roll your eyes back into your head as your cheeks burn with a temperature that could rival the Sun’s. “You’re paying,” you grumble.

“Of course I am. I make more than you,” he smirks as he walks out the door. You look at your phone, hoping that time has gone the least bit faster since you entered the room.

It had only been ten minutes. Down to the company cafe you go.

—

It was hard not to be the center of attention when you were standing next to Sukuna. The man was the definition of the perfect bachelor: handsome, smart, has a great income, and towering height. He had everything most men sought to achieve. You were pretty sure you’d heard a rumor going around that Sukuna owned an Aston Martin. It wouldn’t seem that hard to believe it. He looked perfectly suited to have one.

When you finally state your order to the barista, Sukuna scoffs with amusement. “Make that one 16 ounces,” he says as he hands over his card.

“What was that about?” you asked as you both walked out of the line and towards the pick-up station. You’re finally noticing a lot of things about Sukuna that you otherwise wouldn’t have cared about because you had a boyfriend before.

Like the way his glasses have an expensive brand’s monogram engraved on the temples, or how his chest slightly strains against his navy blue shirt. Unlike you, he wears a smart watch which shows that he’s already burned off a few hundred calories today. He leads a life different from yours. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like you as much as the other coworkers.

“I mean, if you’re gonna die, why not go all out?”

“I’m not as smart as you, so you’re gonna have to be a little more clear,” you sarcastically reply.

“Four pumps of syrup? Really? Does the idea of having clogged arteries turn you on or something?”

You chew the inside of your cheek before you dig your phone out of your pocket.

“What are you doing?” Sukuna asks, an amused smile on his face as he watches you closely. His gaze feels like a spotlight, making your fingers tremble as you unlock your phone.

“I’m not gonna die by your hands. I’m gonna return what I owe for the coffee.”

“I’ll just return the money to you. I can’t let the golden opportunity go,” he teases, and for a second, you feel like you see his canines grow, turning his smile into a wolfish grin. His eyes habitually fixate on you like you’re his prey. You don’t need your anxiety adding on to it by staring at him continuously, so you turn away, choosing to stare at the barista who was now making your drink. One pump, two pumps, three pumps, four pumps. All the syrup dripping down the walls of the plastic cup had quickly pooled at the bottom.

“Whatever. I’ve had a shitty week so I deserve at least one good thing,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him.

It was not like making conversation with him had any real direction at all. For him, it was always about running in circles or catching you at dead ends. For you, it was all about getting him off your tail, like holding your pigtails together so the bully wouldn’t tug on them during recess.

When you both go upstairs, all your coworkers are overjoyed to see the drinks in his hand (turns out the fucker can hold the drinks by himself). You quietly grab your drink as you shuffle away to your desk, the ache in your back decreasing by an increment when you get back into your bubble.

When Sukuna gets together with your coworkers, the group is bound to get loud. You look over your shoulder and notice just how much he preens when he gets attention. You think of him as a pompous peacock, trying to do odd mating dances to attract his mate, and snicker to yourself.

And once again, you notice that he is the complete opposite of you. No wonder you both butt heads so much.

–

Your superior had dumped a few last-minute reports on your head right when you were finally looking forward to getting out of your tight work clothes. When the files hit your desk, you wish to hurl them at his head instead, but instead, you smile because the extra overtime pay would really help you.

Also, because you’re still new at the company, you couldn’t get too comfortable with refusing extra work when you were just a rookie.

You go to the washroom to freshen up before leaving. The veins in your eyes were getting more prominent by the hour, and you needed a splash of cold water to give you that last bit of energy to put yourself through the gruesome hour-long train ride back home. You want to shriek at the sight in the mirror–unkempt hair, eye bags, and dry skin. It’s hard to be kind to yourself when life keeps kicking you in the gut with different problems like student loans, high rent, and the indignation of taking public transport. Add a shitty coworker to the mix and you’ve hit the jackpot for modern day struggles.

You think the day cannot get worse when you see heavy rain blurring the view outside, but when you walk to your desk, you’re surprised to find an umbrella sitting on your desk. There’s not a drop of water on it, like it had been drying since the morning. You assume that possibly one of your coworkers might have left it, but the thought is diminished when you remember that Nanami and Choso carpool, and Suguru and Shoko have their own cars.

Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying that life can be kind after all. So you silence all doubts and click the ground-level button in the elevator, with a new umbrella in hand.

TAGLIST : @numblytemporary @sttaejoon-blog @gojoscumsluttt @lik0 @sukubusss @cherryredkissez @fushiguroooozzz @curlsnchxos @toffeebrat @lazypostfandomer @ttrinity @abbyy54 @poopooindamouf @veluoriaaa

[theangryhistoriananna]

I think one of the most interesting and overlooked moments between Lucien and Feyre is when they are escaping to Night through Autumn and they have this exchange:

"They didn't like you?" His jaw tightened. "As the youngest of seven sons, I wasn't particularly needed or wanted. Perhaps it was a good thing. I was able to study for longer than my father allowed my brothers before shoving them out the door to rule over some territory within our lands, and I could train for as long as I liked, since no one believed I'd be dumb enough to kill my way up the long list of heirs. And when I grew bored with studying and fighting.....I learned what I could of the land from its people. Learned about the people, too." He eased to his feet with a groan, his unbound hair glimmering as the midday sun overhead set the blood and wine hues aglow. "I'd say that sounds more High Lord-like than the life of an idle, unwanted son" A long, steely look "Did you think it was mere hatred that prompted my brothers to do their best to break and kill me?" Despite myself, a shudder rippled down my spine. I finished off the apple and uncoiled to my feet, plucking another off a low-hanging branch. "Would you want it-your father's crown?" "No one's ever asked me that," Lucien mused as we moved on, dodging fallen, rotting apples. The air was sticky sweet. "The blood-shed that would be required to wear that crown wouldn't be worth it. Neither would its festering court. I'd gain a crown-only to rule over a crafty, two faced people." "Lord of Foxes" I said, snorting as I remembered that mask he'd once worn. -ACOWAR (page 106)

I feel like this exchange is telling us a lot about who Lucien is. Honestly I think people should pay a lot more attention to the entire escape from Spring chapters than they do, because I think Lucien is being his most honest and open and vulnerable with Feyre than he ever is in ACOTAR and the rest of the series.

But this exchange is particularly interesting.

Lucien was allowed to learn sword fighting for as long as he liked. Feyre mentions that Lucien prefers to use his words over his swords, but this shows that Lucien has studied swordplay extensively and that he only stopped because he grew bored with it (along with studying). We know Lucien is alot more handy with a sword then he often lets on-Feyre also notes she's seen him training with Tamlin in Spring before, with the insinuation that she found him to be able to hold his own with a High Lord that was raised in the war camps. This also is led credence by the fact that Lucien was able to behead Hyburn's niece who was over a thousand years old and had fought in the original war, cutting through her neck in a single strike. He was also able to dodge Hybrun's nephew. And in the infamous frozen lake scene, Lucien is noted to be fighting two brothers at once, and has somehow wrested a sword. Just because Lucien is uninterest in fighting in another war, and just because he seems keen always to avoid using violence to solve problems, that doesn't mean he's not dangerous when he chooses to be.

Lucien's brothers saw him as a threat despite him also saying "no one thought I would be stupid enough to try and kill my way up the long list of heirs". Lucien had won the love of the people, and that scared his brothers enough that they wanted him not just dead but ruined.

Lastly Lucien's retort to Feyre's question about his father's crown has always kind of piqued my interest. He seems almost surprised "No one's ever asked me that" and then he doesn't immediately disavow ruling. He ponders her question, and then replies that no, Autumn court has no appeal to him. But his reply, alongside with the fact that he never refutes her statement that he acted like a High Lord in his youth could have some interesting implications about his own ambitions.

I do think it's obvious Lucien plays down alot of what he is. He doesn't even use magic all that much, outside of healing and winnowing, and as mentioned above he only uses violence as a last resort and even then he may downplay how skilled he is.

SJM has been showing us in little glimpses that there is waaaay more to Lucien, and has also been showing us that everyone keeps overlooking him when they shouldn't. Feyre thinks Cassian could knock Lucien on his ass, and yet we see she was wrong about Cassian when Lucien high lord commands and dominates him as easily as breathing. They send Lucien off on a suicide mission in lands deemed too dangerous for even the strongest High Lord in Prythian history and never stop to truly think about the fact that Lucien made it through those lands and completed his mission. Lucien slips out to the library shortly after arriving in Night Court and later we find out he's pulled one over Rhys and Feyre without them even considering being suspicious of him or his motives.

There is so much to his seemingly "side character" and I can't wait to hear more about the Lord of Foxes.

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 12.6k words

★ notes; welcome to part one! this takes place in the luofu campus of xianzhou university, where the reader is a senior graduate student on the cusp of completing her degree~

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

I. A (NOT-SO) TACTICAL RETREAT

You weren’t meant to be here.

The original assignment was to shadow Professor Ying in the literature department—a comfortable, quiet position where you’d spend most of your time buried in books and chasing poetic metaphors, close-reading rhymed stanzas like they held the meaning of life. That was the expectation. That was the plan.

But somewhere between administrative mishandling, departmental reshuffling, and what you now suspect was a clerical error left to rot uncorrected, your file ended up on Professor Jing Yuan’s desk.

You didn’t even know he took teaching aides. Most of his lectures were rumored to be self-contained and independent. Maybe even untouchable.

Now you sit in the back of a cavernous lecture hall that smells faintly of chalk and dust, scribbling frantic notes about ancient war strategies while Professor Jing Yuan sketches battle formations in sweeping, confident strokes on the whiteboard.

Your pen can barely keep up.

“Logistics encirclement,” “passive resistance formations,” “Sky-Faring Enforcers.” You underline terms in your notes like you’re planting flags in hostile territory, planning to Google them later and pray for footnotes. The names come fast, the dates blur. It’s all so large, so steeped in legacy and consequence, you feel like you’ve shown up to a war reenactment with a library card.

Jing Yuan's voice doesn’t help. It’s calm and steady, the kind of voice you trust even when you don’t understand. He talks like he’s walked the paths he’s teaching—knows these stories not as facts, but as decisions someone once had to make.

You try not to stare, but fail spectacularly.

He’s taller than you expected; taller still when he moves. His hair is pulled back into a loose tail, strands of silver catching the overhead light when he turns. His sleeves are rolled up, cuffed carelessly, and you catch the edge of an old scar ghosting the inside of his forearm.

His coat hangs on the back of his chair like a flag surrendered at half-mast, and his posture is entirely too relaxed for someone discussing high-casualty engagements and tactical collapses. You almost forget he’s describing events soaked in blood.

You hadn’t planned on being so attentive. But now that you’re here, the world you were trained for—the poetry and delicate metaphors—feels thin by comparison. It’s only your second day, and you feel like you've already sat through half a semester's worth of material.

You’ve barely spoken in class. You’ve mostly kept to your corner, quiet and watchful, like a misfiled document waiting to be retrieved. You’re not even sure if anyone else knows why you’re here. You certainly don’t.

But then—

Jing Yuan calls out, and your name lands like a pebble breaking the surface of a too-still lake. He follows up with a question, and it's a miracle you even catch it.

“You’re familiar with the Siege of Ardent Vale, aren’t you?” The professor asks resonantly.

You swallow thickly as your heart misfires. He doesn’t even look at you—just flips a page in his notebook as if it’s natural to say your name and ambush you with a question like that.

And now half the class is glancing at you, curious and expectant.

Your voice is softer than you want it to be. “Uh, it's where General Haoran ordered a tactical retreat that's still being debated to be an act of treason to this day.”

Jing Yuan nods without pause. “Good. Then you’ll understand why the general’s retreat wasn’t a failure—it was a calculated sacrifice.”

It’s not a compliment, but it lands in you like one anyway. Thank gods you actually bothered to go over the two-hundred page reading he emailed you this morning. The lecture resumes and the world starts to right itself. Yet, something in you seems to have tilted just a few degrees off-axis.

You stare at your half-filled notebook and realize you haven’t written anything since. You’d been holding your breath. You don’t know why.

When class ends, you linger. 

Your hands are slow on the zipper of your bag. The last to stand, the last to move, like inertia has taken root in your spine. You glance toward the front of the room, where he’s gathering his notes with unhurried precision. The classroom empties around you like sand draining from an hourglass.

You’re not sure what you’re waiting for—until you remember the time card.

The slip of paper feels flimsy between your fingers as you approach his desk. It’s a mundane task. Routine. He’s supposed to sign off your weekly hours so the department can track your contributions. You’d meant to drop it off without ceremony. Now it feels like a pretense.

He notices you before you speak.

You hold out the time card like it’s a peace offering.

“Ah,” he says, and it’s not quite a greeting. He takes the paper from your hand, glancing over the numbers with the same attentiveness he gives to maps and casualty reports. His pen scratches softly against the corner of the desk.

“Everything in order?” he asks.

You nod. “I think so.”

The silence stretches.

He doesn’t hand the paper back right away. Just rests it on the edge of his desk, fingertips still grazing the corner like he might anchor it there. He looks at you, now fully—no pretense of distraction.

Those golden eyes of his remind you of those lions carved in temple stone: half-asleep, all-knowing. He looks at you as though he already understands the shape of the question you haven’t asked yet.

Your breath sticks behind your teeth. You can’t name what you feel, only that it’s too much for the narrow distance between you.

Jing Yuan finally nudges the signed card back toward you with one finger. “Let me know if the hours change.”

You nod again. It’s the only thing that seems safe.

You take the paper and slip it into your bag like it might wrinkle if you move too fast.

You don’t look back when you leave. But all through the day—when you sit in the library, when you wash your lunch thermos, when you try to reread the notes you’d scribbled—it stays with you.

Not the words. Not the moment.

Just the way Jing Yuan looked up like you were supposed to be there.

Like it wasn’t a mistake at all.

The café smells like cardamom and warm bread, and the door chime rings out as you push it open, a little breathless from half-jogging the last block. The air inside is golden with late afternoon light, caught in the leaves of the hanging plants and the steam curling from ceramic mugs. You spot Jiaoqiu instantly—no one else has hair like that, long and peach-soft, tucked lazily into a half-knot like he just rolled out of a dream.

He’s already claimed your favorite booth by the window. There’s a croissant on a plate, torn neatly into halves, and he nudges one across the table the second you slide into the seat across from him.

“You’re late,” he says, voice mild, eyes just a little too knowing.

“I was in a war,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. “Mentally. Strategically. And then I got hit with a pop quiz from a man who talks like he’s personally lived through four dynasties.”

Jiaoqiu blinks, slowly. “So... you’re telling me your new job is time-travel.”

You stare. “He called on me. By name. In front of the entire class.”

“Was this before or after you fell in love?”

You toss a sugar packet at him.

Your best friend catches it midair, smug. “I’m just saying. You’re glowing.”

“I’m mortified.” You sink into your seat and take a too-big bite of croissant to muffle the noise you’re pretty sure is your soul detaching from your body. “This was supposed to be literature. I was prepared for stanzas and symbolism, not high-casualty engagements and dead generals.”

“And yet,” Jiaoqiu says, tilting his head with mock-gravity, “here you are. Survived the siege. Braved the great halls of strategy. Emotionally wounded, perhaps. But alive.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re already smiling. “I hate that you’re not taking this seriously.”

“I’m taking it very seriously,” he says, all calm sincerity—until the mischief flickers at the corner of his mouth again. “Just not in the way you want me to.”

The two of you lapse into a familiar rhythm after that—sips of coffee, flaky pastries, the kind of conversation that loops and winds like a lazy river. Jiaoqiu tells you about his med school rotations with the kind of offhand grace only someone wildly competent and chronically underslept can manage. You talk about those pests in your apartment, and missed laundry cycles, and the way one of the undergrads in Jing Yuan’s class looked at you like you’d committed war crimes for getting the answer right.

Eventually, though, it creeps back in—the anxious hum under your skin, the question that’s been rolling around your brain since the semester started.

“I still don’t get it,” you say, tracing the rim of your mug with your fingertip. “How I even ended up there. I was supposed to be working on poetry, Jiao. I had a plan.”

He leans back against the bench, arms stretched out like he’s anchoring the entire booth. “Yeah, well. Maybe the universe decided you needed a bit more bloodshed.”

You make a face. Jiaoqiu chuckles.

Then, more gently: “Maybe it’s not a mistake, you know. Maybe it’s just a reroute.”

You glance out the window, where the sky is streaked peach-pink, like his hair. The thought settles somewhere in your chest—still foreign, but a little less unwelcome.

“You really think that?” you ask.

Jiaoqiu shrugs. “I think you’ll make it meaningful, wherever you land. You always do.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. Just sip your coffee, warm and a little bitter, and try to believe him.

You triple-check the office number before you knock.

Jing Yuan’s email was short. “Stop by this morning when you're free—let’s get you started on grading.” Just that. No smiley face or further elaboration. Not even a signature.

You tell yourself it’s a normal request. Reasonable, even. But your heart doesn’t seem to care about reason. It’s already doing that off-rhythm thing it does when you're called on unexpectedly in class or when your dissertation adviser uses phrases like “reassess your direction.”

Still—you go. Because it’s your job. Because you need this assistantship to keep your funding. Because your name already ended up on the wrong file, and backing out now would feel like letting the wrong choice define you.

You raise a hand and knock twice.

There’s no immediate answer, but you hear voices inside. You hesitate, shift your weight. When no one tells you to come in, you crack the door open and peek in carefully.

Jing Yuan’s office is brighter than you expected—sunlight cutting across stacks of annotated books and meticulously arranged models of warships. A collection of plants of varying shades of green sits along the windowsill, and they look cared for, well-tended to. The professor himself is seated at his desk, sleeves rolled up, fingers laced in front of his mouth like he’s pondering the meaning of life—or a particularly difficult chess move.

Across from him sits a boy.

He can’t be older than fifteen, maybe sixteen at most, all sharp eyes and a serious expression. His hair is long and pale gold, tied back neatly. He looks like he belongs on a fencing team or in a school for gifted prodigies—not in a university professor’s office.

They both look up when you step inside.

“Ah, there she is,” Jing Yuan says, voice warm but unhurried. “Come in.”

The boy sizes you up immediately, not unkindly—just with the open curiosity of someone who doesn't think he needs to explain why he’s here.

You linger near the door. “Should I come back later?”

Jing Yuan waves the idea off with a tilt of his hand. “You’re on time, and Yanqing was just leaving.”

The boy—Yanqing, apparently—rolls his eyes. “You always say that when you want me to stop winning.”

Jing Yuan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile. “A good general knows when to retreat.”

Yanqing stands, slinging a sports bag over one shoulder. “You’ve definitely been hanging out with academics for too long. You used to be cool.”

“You’re imagining things,” Jing Yuan says smoothly. “Go.”

Yanqing sighs but turns to you before heading out. “If he makes you grade multiple-choice by hand, complain to the department. It’s a trap.”

You blink, not understanding how he can possibly know that. “Noted.”

Then he’s gone—just like that—leaving the office a little quieter in his wake.

You take the seat across from Jing Yuan, still a little off-balance from the encounter. 

“Is he—?”

“Not a student here, no,” Jing Yuan answers, already reaching for a folder. “He’s much too young to be in college. However, I’ve known his family for a long time.”

There’s no further explanation. Just a calm slide of papers across the desk toward you. 

“Here’s the rubric,” he says. “Most of the essays won’t follow it. That’s half the battle.”

You pick up the folder and scan the first page, heart still slowly decelerating.

“I’ve never graded for military history before.”

“Good,” Jing Yuan says. “You’re less likely to let nostalgia cloud your judgment.”

You glance up at him.

He doesn’t seem like someone you could ever catch off guard. And yet… there was something softer, just for a moment, when he spoke to Yanqing. Not gentle exactly, but familiar. Like someone who knew how to be responsible for another person’s well-being. 

You wonder what kind of man that makes him—what parts of that softness, if any, he shows to students. Or if it’s only visible in moments like this, when the door is shut and he forgets to perform being unapproachable. Not that he's much of that either way. 

You flip the folder open again. “Is this all of them?”

“For now,” Jing Yuan says with an encouraging smile. “Let’s see how you do before I trust you with the full onslaught.”

You try not to grimace. You also try not to overthink why that made you feel a little proud.

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Tuesday, 10:14 AM

Hi Professor Jing Yuan,

I've left the the first batch of graded essays on your desk (rubric applied, comments included). Please let me know if any of them made you want to revoke my assistantship.

Sincerely hoping none of your students write to the Chancellor about me

P.S. One essay compared ancient siege tactics to online gaming strategy. I didn’t dock points for creativity, but I did question my own existence.

 

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Jing Yuan  To: Me Date: Tuesday, 11:02 AM

Hello,

Thank you for the thorough grading. You’ve managed to strike the rare balance between mercy and mild academic intimidation. Well done.

As for the siege/gaming comparison—don’t question your existence. It’s a generational phenomenon. At least they weren’t trying to sell me a crypto pyramid scheme disguised as a thesis on empire-building (this has happened).

I’ll review your notes in full today. Unless you hear otherwise, assume you passed the test.

— JY

P.S. You may be entitled to financial compensation for psychological distress after reading these papers. Check with HR.

 

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Me To: Jing Yuan  Date: Tuesday, 11:45 AM

Professor,

I appreciate the reassurance, and the HR tip. I’ll submit my trauma claim immediately—would you recommend “excessive passive voice” or “unexplained references to Machiavelli” as the primary cause?

Also, not to alarm you, but one student believes your class is secretly a metaphor for late-stage capitalism. I didn't have the heart to tell them it wasn’t.

P.S. Your plants looked happy this morning. What’s your secret? Is it war crimes?

 

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Jing Yuan  To: Me  Date: Tuesday, 12:07 PM

Ah, yes. The Capitalism Conspiracy student. They also referred to siege towers as "vertical expressions of socioeconomic anxiety." I nearly gave them extra credit for commitment.

And no—no war crimes in the plant care. Just sun, water, and unflinching honesty. Plants appreciate consistency. People, I find, are more complicated.

Keep the essays coming when you're ready. You're doing well.

— JY

P.S. If you ever do submit that HR form, let me know. I’d like to include a supporting statement titled: “The Emotional Toll of Watching Students Cite Wikipedia Without Shame.”

You drop by Jing Yuan’s office later that week to return another stack of graded essays. Despite not being able to interact with him much outside the usual lectures you assist with, that email thread from a few days ago was enough to bolster your confidence a little. There’s a skip to your step as you approach his door—which is already ajar when you arrive, but the Professor is not at his desk.

Instead, he’s crouched near the windowsill, scowling at one of the plants like it just insulted his ancestors.

You pause in the doorway. “Should I come back when you’re done interrogating the ficus?”

He glances over his shoulder. “It’s not a ficus. It’s a Dracaena marginata. A fine, resilient species. Or it was, until about three days ago.”

You step inside, amused. “Looks more like it’s staging a slow, quiet rebellion.”

The plant in question is, in fact, not doing well. Its once-straight stalks are drooping slightly, and a few of the leaves are browning at the tips. You can practically hear it whispering help me in chlorophyll.

“Sunlight’s good,” you say, setting down the folder on his desk. “But this one’s rootbound. See how it’s curling at the base? It needs a bigger pot.”

He frowns, lightly touching the edge of a leaf. “I bought it a new ceramic pot last year. It was hand-painted. Expensive.”

“You bought it art, not space,” you say, kneeling beside him to inspect the plant more closely. “They like to stretch out.”

There’s a pause. Jing Yuan watches you for a moment like a siege leader waiting for an opening. Then:

“…You garden?”

It’s not a question you expect, but it’s nonetheless welcome. You nod, pulling a loose leaf free and tucking it into your sleeve. “I’ve got a balcony garden in my apartment. Helps me think.”

“That explains the bonsai-level precision in your grading.”

“It would also explain why I noticed when your Dracaena is crying for help.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of him. It’s low, a little tired, but real.

You reach for the pot instinctively, gently rotating it. “If you’ve got an extra container and some soil, I can help you replant it. Or you can let it suffer quietly in the name of aesthetic minimalism.”

Jing Yuan considers this. Then stands. “Give me a moment.”

He disappears into the adjoining storage room—who has a storage room in their office?—and returns with a clean terracotta pot and a small bag of soil.

You blink. “You were ready for this.”

“I prepare for many things,” he says mildly. “Plant crises among them.”

Together, you settle in on the office floor, scooping soil and untangling roots like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You talk about nothing in particular—the heat outside, a student who cited Sun Tzu and SpongeBob in the same essay, Yanqing’s latest complaint about Jing Yuan supposedly cheating his way out of their most recent chess match.

At some point, you glance up to find him watching you. Not in a way that feels invasive. Just… interested.

You clear your throat and look back down. “You know you can name it something more inspiring than ‘General Shu’ now.”

Jing Yuan hums. “I thought it was fitting. Resilient. Stubborn.”

You pat the soil around the base of the newly potted plant. “That explains why it was dying.”

He chuckles again, softer this time. “I’ll let you name it, then.”

You freeze. “Really?”

“Consider it compensation. I suspect this plant now belongs to both of us.”

You look at the little thing, now sitting straighter in its new home.

You smile. “Okay then. Let’s call it Commander in Leaf.”

There’s a long pause. Jing Yuan’s expression goes carefully blank. Then—

“I take it back.”

But he doesn’t. And the plant stays in his office.

And from then on, so do you—more often than before, under the excuse of checking on its progress. But sometimes, you don’t even bother pretending anymore. The plant’s recovery has become a shared mission. 

Jing Yuan is at his desk when you arrive with the intention of dropping something off. The Professor is reading something on his tablet, and he doesn’t look up right away. Instead, with absolute solemnity, he lifts a hand and salutes the windowsill.

“Commander in Leaf,” Jing Yuan says. “Still holding the line.”

You pause in the doorway, blinking. “Did you just… salute the plant?”

“Of course,” he replies, deadpan. “He’s earned it.”

You glance at the potted Dracaena, now thriving in its new pot. “I didn’t realize we were running a fully militarized photosynthesis unit.”

Jing Yuan gestures at the neat little placard resting beside it—carved from a scrap of wood, inked in neat calligraphy: Commander in Leaf. Beneath it, someone (probably him) has scribbled in smaller letters: Current status: maintaining strong morale.

You try not to laugh. (You fail.)

“Tell me you don’t do that when other faculty stop by.”

“I do,” he says calmly. “It’s a good way to find out who I shouldn’t share committee duties with.”

You step closer, pretending to inspect the plant seriously. “Well, I’ve been keeping a care log, if you're interested.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Have you?”

You pull a folded scrap of paper from your bag and read off:

Day 1: Showed exceptional resolve in the face of partial shade. Day 3: Stood tall during unexpected drafts. Day 5: Fought off one fruit fly. Took no casualties. Day 9: Received verbal affirmation. Responded with photosynthetic vigor.

Jing Yuan sets down his tablet, clearly trying not to smile. “Have you considered publishing?”

You shrug. “I’ve been advised to reassess my direction.”

He chuckles at that, but there’s something softer behind it too—quiet appreciation, a flicker of something he doesn’t name. You place a tiny watering can you found in the campus gift shop on the side of his desk, one he eyes with abject curiosity.

“Figured the Commander might appreciate the upgrade.”

Jing Yuan studies it, then glances at you. “You’re enabling him.”

“I’m nurturing morale,” you say. “There’s a difference.”

And then—for just a moment—his expression shifts. Gentle. Fond. Like he's not just looking at a joke between colleagues anymore, but something growing beneath it.

Something worth tending to.

The steam curls around your face as you lean over the bubbling pot. Red broth on one side, bone broth on the other. A perfect yin-yang of culinary comfort. Jiaoqiu’s already dropped half the fish balls in, muttering under his breath about the soul-crushing nature of med school exams.

“I swear, if I see one more mnemonic about cranial nerves, I’m going to lose my actual nerves.”

You try not to laugh as you scoop tofu into your bowl. “Which one’s the ‘some say marry money but my brother says big brains matter more’ again?”

“That’s all of them,” he groans, dragging a ladle dramatically across the broth. “All twelve. Living in my head rent-free.”

“Sounds crowded in there.”

“You have no idea.” He glares at the simmering pot like it personally betrayed him. “My coffee budget is bigger than my rent. The library staff know me by name. I may have hallucinated an anatomy diagram giving me a thumbs up.”

You grin and offer him a slice of lotus root like a peace offering. “That’s the med student experience, right? Caffeine, despair, and aggressively highlighted textbooks?”

“Don’t forget emotional repression,” he adds, biting into a fish cake. “Anyway, you look good. Suspiciously good. What’s going on over there in the land of tragic poetry and military strategems?”

You pause, mid-stir. “It’s been… weirdly okay?”

Jiaoqiu raises a brow. “Okay? Hey, blink twice if you’ve been replaced.”

You toss a mushroom at him. “I mean it. Jing Yuan’s—” You stop, chewing on the words. “—surprisingly easy to work with. He’s smart, obviously, but not the ‘talks over you and steals your points’ kind of smart. More like the ‘lets you flounder on your own and then makes one comment that solves everything’ kind.”

He narrows his eyes with a subtle nod. “That sounds… vaguely hot.”

“It’s not,” you say way too quickly. “He’s just—good at what he does. Calm. Thoughtful. Weirdly into plants.”

“Uh-huh,” Jiaoqiu says, dragging out the syllables. “And do you always bring up your professors at hotpot, or is this a new kink you’re developing?”

You shove a ladle of noodles into his bowl to shut him up. “I’m trying to vent here!”

“About a professor you lowkey admire and keep accidentally bonding with over greenery.”

You glare at each other for a second before dissolving into laughter, the kind that makes you tear up a little and clutch your stomach.

Eventually, Jiaoqiu leans back with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. So maybe med school hasn’t completely wrecked me. This was a good call.”

“Hotpot heals,” you agree.

“It really does heal,” he says, quieter now. “I’ve missed this.”

You poke at the broth with your chopsticks, always grateful for his company. “Me too.”

Subject: Slide revisions for Monday From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Saturday 6:57 PM

Hi Professor,

Attached are the updated Week 5 slides. I rearranged the treaty discussion to come before the maps, and trimmed a few of the citations that were threatening to become sentient. Let me know if it’s structurally sound or if anything still feels haunted.

Also: question four might be too spicy for undergrads. I stand by the phrasing but am prepared to be talked down.

Hope you’re enjoying your weekend and not, I don’t know, reorganizing your succulents alphabetically.

All the best.

 

Subject: RE: Slide revisions for Monday From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Saturday 8:21 PM

Hello,

Structure looks solid. I made two margin notes, both minor—one redundant citation and one slide where the background image appears to be a JPEG of despair. Excellent work overall.

Re: question four. It is a bit incendiary, but I admire the confidence. Maybe save the academic provocation for Week 6. Let them breathe.

On the subject of breathing: I wasn’t reorganizing succulents (though they could use it). I was reading. Found something… uniquely on-brand for this correspondence:

“Flora as Archive: Botanical Symbolism in Pre-Exodus Military Texts.” Dense. Ridiculous. Potentially cursed. Naturally, I thought of you.

Let me know if you make it past page five without losing your will to live.

— JY

 

Subject: RE: Slide revisions for Monday From: Me To: Jing Yuan  Date: Saturday 9:08 PM

Professor,

Your faith in my tolerance for cursed material is… flattering? Concerning? Unclear.

I skimmed the abstract. I have questions, the first being: who writes a thirty-page metaphor about turnip cultivation and post-conflict identity? And the second being: why is it kind of compelling?

Also, for the record, that JPEG of despair is a historic mural fragment. I spent twenty minutes photoshopping the cracks out. I’m choosing to interpret your comment as affectionately brutal.

Will report back once I emotionally recover from this plant propaganda.

 

Subject: RE: Slide revisions for Monday From: Jing Yuan  To: Me Date: Saturday 9:44 PM

That mural fragment is effective—if the desired emotion is melancholy existential drift. Still, I commend your editing. The cracks are barely visible.

Glad the turnips spoke to you. I suppose there’s a fine line between madness and brilliance. Or at least between absurdity and your inbox.

Enjoy the descent into leafy symbolism.

— JY

Two months since the semester started, your workload decides it’s time to blossom into a full-grown monster.

Between juggling your assistantship under Professor Jing Yuan, keeping pace with your regular course load, and trying to carve out coherent progress on your dissertation, you’re starting to feel like one of those historical figures who attempted a three-front war. Spoiler: they never win.

Jing Yuan isn’t exactly demanding—at least not in the traditional sense. He rarely gives direct orders, but his casual suggestions tend to multiply into tasks that somehow land squarely on your to-do list. A guest lecture outline here. A batch of annotated readings there. The occasional deeply cursed archival article on botanical semiotics in military treatises that somehow, maddeningly, ends up being... useful.

Meanwhile, your own classes don’t pause for breath, and your dissertation committee’s emails are starting to read less like check-ins and more like distant threats in polite academic language.

You’re not drowning yet. But you’re definitely treading water with a stack of books on your head.

Which is the main reason why you slip into the campus greenhouse, where the door clicks shut behind you with a soft hiss. Warmth folds around your shoulders like a thick cloak—humid, tinged with the scent of loam and crushed stems. You let yourself breathe for the first time all week.

The air is golden. Not just from the lamps, but the hour—late enough that the sun threads through the glass in ribbons, catching on leaves, pooling against the tiles. You step lightly, careful not to disturb the quiet.

And then, in the corner, past a curtain of broad banana leaves—you spot movement. A glint of silver-white, not mechanical but alive, shifting as someone bends low over a planter bed.

Jing Yuan.

His coat is folded neatly on a bench. He wears something simpler now—sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark fabric dusted with soil. His gloves are peeled halfway off like he started removing them and got distracted. You can see the way the light catches in his hair, bright against the foliage, and the gold of his eyes when he glances up.

You hadn’t expected him here.

He doesn’t seem surprised by you. “Evening,” he says, as though this were routine, and you both belong here, quietly orbiting the same sunlit corner of campus.

“I didn’t think anyone else came this late,” you say, still hovering just past the herbs.

He gestures without looking up as he smooths out the soil at the base of a plant. “These don’t wait for office hours.”

You make your way over, the soles of your shoes silent on the damp stone. There’s a long planter in front of him—lavender, mint, and something else you can’t quite name.

“What’s that one?”

He glances at it. “Scutellaria lateriflora. Skullcap.”

You blink. “Is that the one from the cursed plant paper?”

His expression twitches, clearly amused that you recall. “The very same. Though I promise this variety won’t inspire an existential spiral. Unless you steep it improperly.”

You squat down beside him, close enough to smell the greenery, and just a little of him—clean, herbal, something sun-warmed.

“Are you always this poetic about tea?”

He hums, brushing stray soil from his wrist. “Only when I think someone’s listening.”

The silence that follows doesn’t feel heavy. If anything, it feels… held. Like both of you are aware of it and choosing to let it stretch.

He glances sideways. “When I was freshly inducted into the military, stationed out west, the field medic used to grow this in cracked pots behind the barracks. Said it calmed the nerves. I didn’t believe him until he gave some to my superior before an inspection and she started smiling at clouds. That Master of mine hardly ever smiled at anything.”

You bite back a laugh. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Terrifying,” he agrees.

There’s something in the way he says it—offhand, but with an undertone that feels oddly personal. Not quite nostalgic. Not quite casual, either, but you appreciate the fact that he trusts you enough with that piece of himself either way. 

You nod, gently. “You talk about those days sometimes. Like they’re far away and close all at once.”

Jing Yuan doesn’t respond right away. He looks at the plant again, brushing a thumb along the rim of the planter. The movement pulls his sleeve just enough for you to glimpse the faint scar curving along his forearm—old, pale, out of place in a space so gentle.

“Some things grow where they shouldn’t,” he says quietly. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t belong there.”

The words settle between you like pollen. You’re not sure what to say to that. You’re not sure you need to.

He stands, brushing off his palms, the motion fluid. “You’re welcome to help yourself to the skullcap, by the way. Though I’m not liable for any poetic side effects.”

You look up at him. “You think I need calming?”

“I think you’re the kind of person who’d try it just to prove it doesn’t work.”

That gets a smirk out of you. You don’t deny it.

As he heads for the exit, he glances over his shoulder. “Try not to start a revolution in here. The basil’s still recovering from midterms.”

And then he’s gone—coat in hand, a soft echo of steps fading into the evening.

You sit for a while longer, listening to the greenhouse breathe, your fingers trailing along the edge of a leaf as if it might answer back. And maybe you’re considering what turnip metaphors and medicinal tea have to do with feeling seen, and why you haven’t quite stopped thinking about that faded scar of his.

The next day, you’re expecting a quiet office when you head to Jing Yuan’s door—a folder of notes tucked under one arm and your brain already cycling through exam revisions. Instead, you find two undergrads you recognize from Jing Yuan's afternoon lecture hovering outside, looking like they just escaped something mildly inconvenient.

“He’s not in,” one of them says, clutching a half-finished iced coffee. “A note in there told us he’d be in the faculty lounge if we needed him.”

They give you that look students give teaching aides—half pity, half solidarity—and shuffle off. You hesitate a beat, then turn toward the lounge.

The history department’s faculty lounge is tucked behind a nondescript wooden door with a plaque that reads STAFF ONLY in fading gold letters. You knock twice before pushing it open and stepping into a room that somehow smells like old books and even older coffee.

Jing Yuan is there, of course, lounging like he owns the place. He’s leaned back in a battered armchair, coat draped over one armrest, silver hair catching the afternoon light. He lifts his gaze when you enter and gives you a lazy two-finger wave.

“You found me,” he says. “You’re getting better at that.”

You open your mouth to respond, but someone beats you to it.

“Gods, can you not flirt with your assistant in front of the rest of us?” The voice is sharp, unimpressed, and belongs to a petite woman with cotton-candy pink hair and the energy of someone who’s never lost an argument. She’s curled up on the couch with a mug that reads I WARNED YOU.

You recognize her as Professor Fu Xuan.

Jing Yuan doesn’t even flinch. “Who’s flirting?”

“You, constantly,” Fu Xuan mutters, before turning her attention to you. “You poor, brave soul. Blink twice if he’s making you carry the exam load.”

You blink. Twice.

“That’s what I thought.”

Before you can recover, another woman rises gracefully from a nearby armchair. Her dark green hair is tied back in a neat twist, and her grey eyes are warm behind gold-framed glasses. She offers you a small bowl with individually wrapped candies.

“Don’t let her scare you,” she says kindly. “I’m Yukong. You look like you could use something sweet.”

You take a candy, half out of politeness, half because you haven’t eaten since morning. It tastes vaguely like rose and citrus, delicate and grounding.

“Thanks,” you say, a little overwhelmed. “I didn’t expect—”

“A small army?” Yukong finishes for you, smiling.

“You get used to it,” another voice adds, smooth and unbothered. You turn and see a man leaning against the bookshelf, flipping casually through a thick volume without actually reading. He has platinum blonde hair, tied loosely back, and green eyes that give away absolutely nothing.

“Luocha,” he says, not quite bowing. “You must be the one keeping our dear general from turning into a full-blown recluse.”

“He does that anyway,” Fu Xuan mutters, blowing on her tea.

“I’m just here to go over the exam revisions,” you manage, glancing at Jing Yuan like he might rescue you from whatever this is.

“Of course,” he says, rising from the armchair and stretching. “Come on, we’ll take the corner table. Ignore the others—they thrive on chaos.”

“That’s slander,” Fu Xuan calls out.

“That’s true,” Yukong corrects, gently.

Luocha chuckles and disappears behind a newspaper.

You follow Jing Yuan to the far end of the lounge, still holding the candy. It’s strange—being here, surrounded by people who know him as more than just a professor. It makes him feel a little more human, and for some reason, that’s both comforting and dangerous.

Banishing any unnecessary thoughts, you settle into the chair opposite him, placing your folder between you. It’s strangely quiet in this corner, despite the low hum of faculty chatter around you and Fu Xuan loudly proclaiming that if one more student confuses “Sun Tzu” with “Sun Wukong,” she’s going to eat her own syllabus.

Jing Yuan pulls out a copy of the exam from a slim folder, annotated in a neat, looping hand you now recognize from your inbox. He flips it open, tapping a question midway down the page.

“This one,” he says, voice low and even, “asks students to compare the leadership strategies of Commander Yushi and General Heizen during the Exodus conflicts. Too broad?”

You glance at it. “A bit. They’ll just regurgitate what we covered in lecture five.”

“Which is unfortunate,” he sighs. “That lecture was supposed to make them think.”

“Half of them were barely conscious,” you remind him. “You said ‘dual-pronged encirclement maneuver’ and someone in the front row started drooling.”

He chuckles under his breath. “True. You proposed trimming the essay section. We could cut question five. I won’t miss it.”

You flip through the pages. He really did design the entire thing himself—questions layered like tactical puzzles, some straightforward, some clever enough to make you pause and think, Wait. That’s mean. It’s a good exam. Annoyingly good.

As you jot a quick note in the margin, you glance up at him. He’s leaning on one elbow, watching you work with the kind of patience that doesn’t press, just… waits. His eyes are warm and a little sleepy, like the afternoon light has started to soak into him, and the soft gold in his gaze reflects it.

There’s that tiny beauty mark under his left eye you’ve never really noticed until now. His lashes are unfairly long. And his voice—still murmuring something about a possible bonus question—is the kind that sneaks into your bones when you’re not paying attention. Smooth. Low. Like warm tea before bed.

You blink.

Oh no, you think, with a brief internal panic. Is this how it starts?

“I’m not saying we have to keep the trick question about forged supply manifests,” he says lightly, still watching you. “But I did go to the trouble of disguising it as a logistical analysis. I’m proud of that one.”

You exhale, grateful for the distraction. “Fine. Keep your sneaky logistics trap.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

You scribble “Q5: CUT” in your notes just as Yukong passes by and sets down a small dish of ginger candies between you both. “For concentration,” she says, and pats your shoulder with such sincerity it nearly undoes you.

Across the lounge, Fu Xuan is arguing with a vending machine. Luocha is still pretending to read.

“Do you usually hold meetings out here?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

Jing Yuan shrugs. “My office gets too quiet sometimes. The lounge is… alive. Easier to think when people are talking about unrelated nonsense nearby.”

“Is that why you dragged me into the chaos?”

“No,” he says, smiling now. “That was just a bonus.”

You roll your eyes and try not to look directly into the sunlight pooling over his hair.

You really, really get why students throw themselves at his RateMyProfessors page now.

You were fine before, totally unaffected.

And now?

Now you’re thinking about things that have nothing to do with military history.

Focus, you tell yourself, flipping to the next page in your folder. You’re here to revise the exam, not psychoanalyze your supervisor’s face.

Still, the corners of your mind itch with the question you don’t want to look at too closely. You scrawl a note about formatting consistency just to drown it out.

Jing Yuan takes one of Yukong’s ginger candies without a word and pops it into his mouth like it’s some ancient rite. “Question nine,” he says, voice a little muffled, “do we like the phrasing? ‘Assess the ethical implications of fabricating casualties in war records—’”

“Sounds like you’re goading them into starting a campus debate club.”

“Isn’t that the dream?”

You snort. “Your dreams are chaos.”

“They’re very well-structured chaos,” he replies, then frowns at a smudge of ink on the corner of the page. “You know, I designed this whole exam with the intent of provoking deeper thought. Stirring unrest in the soul. That sort of thing.”

You lean back in your chair. “So basically, you want them to suffer, but elegantly.”

He taps the exam. “Academically suffer.”

You both laugh, and it’s easy in the way that most things with him have become lately. The weight of the lounge fades, backgrounded by Fu Xuan’s lecture on historiographical incompetence and the clack of Luocha’s polished shoes as he walks past humming something vaguely ominous.

You glance at the clock. Time’s slipped by.

“We should wrap this up,” you say, but your hand doesn’t move to close the folder.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You know,” Jing yuan starts, quieter now, “you’ve been doing a good job.”

Your eyes flick to his face, uncertain.

“Managing the assistantship. Handling your own coursework.” His gaze is steady, kind. “Even keeping up with my overcomplicated exam drafts. I believe not everyone who's been unceremoniously thrust into the wrong department can handle all this with the same amount of grace.”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how warm your ears feel. “It’s… been a lot.”

He nods. “I imagine.”

And there’s nothing grand about the moment. No swelling music. Just sunlight on polished tile, the echo of faculty voices, and a long look from the professor who’s never raised his voice in front of you, who listens like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You gather your papers. “I’ll send the revisions by tonight.”

“Don’t rush,” he says as you rise. “But I’ll look forward to them.”

You’re halfway to the door before you realize you’re smiling.

Me: Jiao...

Jiaoqiu: what happened?

Me: I think I understand now.

Jiaoqiu: what exactly are you understanding at 4pm on a tuesday

Me: Why students are weirdly obsessed with Jing Yuan

Jiaoqiu: ah.

Me: He’s—

Me: Warm eyes. Calm voice. Good posture. Intelligent but not condescending. And the emails make sense now. They’re part of the charm offensive.

Jiaoqiu: i see. you’ve developed an awareness of your supervisor’s aesthetic qualities.

Me: HE GAVE ME CANDY

Me: Well, Professor Yukong gave us the candy, but he gave me one himself too

Me: He also thanked me. Sincerely. Like a real person. Not a professor-shaped cryptid.

Jiaoqiu: was he wearing that coat again? the long one?

Me: Uhh, he wasn't, but it was hanging on the back of his chair.

Jiaoqiu: just confirming the visual.

Me: He has a beauty mark under his eye. Did you know that?

Jiaoqiu: i do now.

Me: And he smells like rain and maybe some kind of medicinal herb and I feel like that should be illegal in academic spaces

Jiaoqiu: i mean, they let me into med school. the bar can’t be that high.

Me: He made a skullcap joke

Me: Botanical skullcap

Jiaoqiu: the way i don't even know what in the world that is

Me: He said he wasn’t liable for poetic side effects

Jiaoqiu: that’s either flirtation or an extremely specific form of mentorship

Me: What do i DO

Jiaoqiu: nothing rash. nothing career-ending.

Me: I keep rereading his emails like they contain subtext

Jiaoqiu: do they?

Me: Maybe. 

Me: I can’t tell. They’re so calm. TOO calm.

Me: I think he could talk me into planting an herb garden on the moon and I’d just nod and ask about soil quality

Jiaoqiu: honestly, that tracks

Me: Jiaoqiu

Jiaoqiu: look. you’ve had a long day, you’re a little enchanted, and you’re tired. this is a potent combination.

Jiaoqiu: sit with it. don’t panic. just… notice.

Me: You’re no fun

Jiaoqiu: i’m the right kind of fun. the kind that keeps you from embarrassing yourself in front of your professor-crush

Me: He is NOT—

Jiaoqiu: skullcap, rain, and calm emails

Jiaoqiu: not a crush at all

Me: I hate how reasonable you are sometimes

Jiaoqiu: you’ll thank me at graduation

You don't see him for a few days. Which is fine. Healthy, even. Distance. Perspective. Emotional regulation. Jiaoqiu would be proud.

So when you finally do spot him again—across the corridor, carrying a stack of books and talking to a first-year—you have exactly two seconds to remind yourself: professionalism.

He notices you immediately. Of course he does.

“Hey, there,” he calls, with that same infuriatingly composed tone and a smile that's too warm for comfort. “Do you have a moment?”

No, your brain screams. I’ve had too many moments already.

“Yes,” you say, like a normal, rational adult. “What is it?”

You catch up, walking beside him now. He smells like rain on stone and, faintly, dried basil. You are not thinking about that. You are thinking about exams. Revisions. Your future. Commander in Leaf.

Yes. Focus on the dracaena.

By the time you’re in his office, that becomes a little easier—mostly because the aforementioned plant is right there, perched on the windowsill in a spot of prime sunlight, looking suspiciously healthy.

“Look at him go,” you say before you can help yourself.

Jing Yuan follows your gaze. “I’ve been misting him in the mornings. It seems to be working.”

“Diligence suits him.”

He smiles faintly. “He’s doing better than some of my students.”

You snort. “Don’t let him hear that. You’ll spark an insurrection.”

“Commander in Leaf would never.”

The two of you share a brief look, the kind where something unspoken but light passes between you. And then the moment ends, and he’s pulling out a printed copy of the revised exam.

“I tried to balance the military context with a few of the more… symbolic prompts,” he says, handing it over.

You skim through it, grateful for the distraction. “Number four’s going to make someone cry.”

“I did wonder if it was too cruel,” he muses. “But they’ve had two weeks to prepare.”

“Academic cruelty builds character,” you mutter, deadpan.

He hums in agreement, his gold eyes glinting just slightly. You don’t dare look too long. Not with the sunlight catching in his silver hair. Not with the faint scar on his forearm visible today, a quiet reminder that this is someone with more layers than he lets on.

And then, softly: “I appreciate all the work you’ve put into this.”

“It’s part of the job,” you reply quickly.

“Yes,” he says. “But you do it well.”

You nod, uncertain what to say to that—what to do with the way it makes your chest feel a little too full. You glance toward the dracaena again, like it might save you.

It doesn’t.

For the next twenty minutes, you pretend to reread the same paragraph on the exam sheet while the silence stretches. Jing Yuan doesn’t fill it. He rarely does. His silences are never heavy—just still. Like something has settled, not ended.

Eventually, you speak. “Do you ever miss it?”

He glances up.

“The field,” you clarify. “Before all this.” You gesture vaguely to the office, the syllabus-covered corkboard, the stack of ungraded papers like a small, judgmental monument to academia.

Jing Yuan leans back in his chair. The sunlight catches at the edges of his hair, silver turned almost gold. “Sometimes. Not in the ways people expect.”

You raise a brow.

“I don’t miss the orders. Or the politics. Or the cold.” His fingers drum once against the table. “But I miss the quiet moments. The calm between chaos. Sitting in the brush, waiting for dawn, and realizing you still remember the name of the flower growing next to your boot.”

You don’t expect that answer. You don’t expect how much it stays with you.

“Is that why you started gardening?”

He gives a small shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe the plants started growing in spite of me.”

You glance at the dracaena, upright and glossy-leafed in the window. Commander in Leaf, steadfast as ever.

“He’s come a long way,” you say.

“He had good guidance,” Jing Yuan replies, and though his eyes are on the plant, you feel the words land somewhere else entirely.

Your heart does a very annoying thing.

“Anyway,” he says after a beat, pushing his chair back with a soft creak, “I’d say we’ve got a solid draft now. Unless you have other edits?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s good. Pretty balanced.” You add, “Almost disappointingly so. I expected more trick questions.”

“I’ll save those for the final.” His tone is dry.

You stand, smoothing your shirt automatically. “Thanks for looping me in.”

“Thank you for being looped.”

The reply makes you smile—helplessly, almost.

As you turn to go, he calls your name. You pause, hand already on the doorframe.

“If the Commander ever starts looking droopy again,” Jing Yuan says, “I’ll know who to call.”

You nod. “He’s tougher than he looks. You both are.”

He tilts his head. There’s something unreadable in his expression—not solemn, not quite soft. Just… present.

You leave before you can overthink it.

You didn’t plan on running into Professor Fu Xuan.

You just wanted a quick lunch—something solid to ground you after spending way too long noticing the warm timbre of Jing Yuan’s voice instead of focusing on actual exam logistics. You end up at a tucked-away dumpling stall behind the philosophy building, a personal favorite, quiet and slightly out of the way.

Fu Xuan’s already there, halfway through a steaming bowl of noodle soup and eyeing you over the rim of her cup.

“Fancy seeing you out in the wild,” she says. “The aide emerges from the general’s office.”

You blink. “That makes it sound like I’ve been stationed there.”

“Am I wrong?” She gestures to the empty seat across from her with a flick of her chopsticks. “Sit. You look like you’re still digesting something complicated.”

You do sit. And to your surprise, she pushes over a bamboo steamer. “Pork and chive. I don’t share these lightly.”

“You don’t do anything lightly,” you mutter.

Fu Xuan smirks. “True.”

There’s a lull as you both eat, and then she says, “So. Jing Yuan.”

You pause mid-bite. “What about him?”

“You tell me. You’re the one he trusts enough to help rewrite his midterm.” She sips her soup like it’s a perfectly timed dramatic pause. “You’re also the one currently wearing a very conflicted expression.”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin that suddenly feels too thin. “He’s… fine.”

“‘Fine’ is the most suspicious word in the language.”

You sigh, leaning back a little. “He’s good at what he does. Smart. Weirdly thoughtful. Doesn’t crowd people.”

Fu Xuan gives a snort. “No, he broods from a comfortable distance. Very scenic.”

You glance down at your food. “There’s a reason he keeps that distance, right?”

That gets her attention.

“I mean, he listens. He remembers things you say. But I don’t think he lets people in.” You pick at the edge of your chopsticks. “It’s not just about professionalism. It feels older than that. Like something that stuck long after it was supposed to.”

Fu Xuan’s expression shifts—less teasing, more thoughtful. “He’s not a bad man. He’s just someone who’s lived through more endings than beginnings. You’d know that if you looked closely.”

You do. That’s the problem.

“Anyway,” she adds briskly, “don’t make those eyes at him unless you’re prepared to see it through. He’s not built for half-measures.”

You bristle. “I’m not making eyes.”

She raises both brows, unimpressed. “Then you’d better tell your face that.”

You glare. Fu Xuan passes you another dumpling.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says, but her voice is gentler now.

You both fall into silence again. Outside, campus life carries on—students laughing, bikes whirring past, spring trying to force its way through lingering chill.

Eventually, Fu Xuan taps her chopsticks once against the edge of her bowl. “Still. I haven’t seen him this animated about course planning in years. So whatever you’re doing... keep doing it. Just don’t lose yourself while you’re at it.”

You nod. It’s not a promise, exactly. But it’s something close.

It’s late.

The kind of late where the campus forgets it’s alive—hallways hushed, the library glowing like a last ember, vending machines buzzing like distant wasps. You told yourself one more hour, just until you finished the last essay question on a mock exam you prepared for yourself. That was two cups of coffee and half a pack of mints ago.

You should be heading home. Your body knows it. Your bag’s already slung over one shoulder, keys in hand. But instead, your steps drift—not toward the exit, but down the corridor that passes the history department. Familiar territory by now. Not on your way, not exactly. But close enough to pretend.

You don’t expect him to be there. It’s almost midnight. The building’s cold. The corridors echo with the kind of quiet that usually only follows snow or grief. But still—something tells you to check.

The office door is ajar.

And there he is.

Jing Yuan’s hair is put up haphazardly, the lamplight casting a quiet halo behind his head. He’s leaned over his desk, one elbow propped as he reads through a stack of papers with the slow patience of someone unhurried, even this late. His coat is folded over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up. The warm gold of his eyes shifts slightly when he notices you in the doorway.

“…Burning the midnight oil?” he asks, voice low and warm as ever. The kind of voice that could lull even the most caffeine-wired grad student into sleep.

“Could say the same to you,” you say, stepping inside. The door shuts softly behind you. “I was studying at the library. Figured I’d check on Commander in Leaf.”

He glances toward the plant in the corner—green, lively, unmistakably proud in its new pot. “Still standing. Though I suspect he’s angling for a promotion.”

You smile. It’s automatic now, the way banter slips between you. Like water finding the grooves already carved into stone.

You nod toward the stack of papers. “Grading?”

“The midterm,” he confirms. “Figured I’d get ahead of it before the weekend. It’s not as bad as I expected.”

“You mean they actually listened to our review slides?”

He hums. “A few of them, anyway. One of them referred to the Heavenly Kings of Wuwang as a ‘well-dressed disaster cult,’ which… technically not wrong.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. “Do you want help?”

He looks at you for a beat too long, eyes flicking down to your slightly wrinkled sleeves, the shadow of fatigue under your eyes. “You should go home.”

“I should. But I won’t.”

He says nothing, just gestures to the second chair near his desk. You take it.

For a while, you grade together. The silence is companionable—no background music, no clacking keyboards. Just the faint scribble of red ink and the occasional mutter of disapproval from either of you when a student tries to cite a fictional general as precedent for wartime tax reform.

It’s only when you glance over at him—when the light hits just right—that you notice the scar along the inside of his left forearm. Faint, but long. Old, but not forgotten. You’ve never asked. He’s never told you.

You don’t mention it now, either.

Instead, you say, “You ever get tired of it? Teaching, I mean.”

Jing Yuan’s pen pauses mid-mark.

“Sometimes,” he tells you eventually. “But I like seeing which parts they remember. What sticks. What they misunderstand in interesting ways.”

You nod, understanding more than you want to admit. You don’t ask if he’s talking about the students.

After a while, you find yourself reading the same sentence three times in a row.

“You’re tired,” he says.

“So are you.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be.”

He exhales, slow and even. “You’ll make a very kind professor one day.”

“Kindness doesn’t get you tenure.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it keeps you human.”

You don’t realize how long you sit there, papers forgotten, silence stretching. Not tense—just full of the kind of things that don’t need to be said aloud. You catch yourself watching him—his steady hands, the way he rests his chin in his palm, the quiet gravity of him.

And you wonder, not for the first time, when this stopped being just an assistantship.

You’re in the department office, waiting for the ancient copier to finish spitting out the last of Jing Yuan’s annotated lecture slides, when you decide to check your TA hours.

170 out of 200.

You blink at the number on your spreadsheet like it might change. It doesn’t. You’ve been diligent about logging every hour—lectures attended, exams proctored, papers graded, a few mildly deranged office hours. It shouldn’t surprise you. You’re nearly there.

You feel… weird about it.

You’d expected relief. And part of you is relieved—fewer commitments, more time for your own coursework, your looming dissertation. But there’s another part of you that lingers. That doesn’t want to check the final box just yet. The part that’s gotten used to the rhythm of those quiet mornings in Jing Yuan’s office, sipping tea while parsing Warring Alliance era strategy memos. The part that’s started to anticipate his dry comments and rare, unexpected smiles.

You shake yourself out of it, grabbing the warm stack of papers from the machine.

Back in the shared TA office—a cramped but surprisingly functional space Professor Yukong somehow wrangled into existence behind the college’s back—you set the stack of papers down and pause.

Something’s on your desk. A small, folded bundle. It wasn’t there this morning.

It’s wrapped in soft linen, tied with a bit of twine. No name. No note. Just a familiar, earthy scent curling upward. You untie it carefully.

Inside is a small bunch of dried skullcap—the same herb you spotted growing in his plot at the greenhouse.

You stare at it for a second, a little dumbfounded. Your first thought is, Did he just leave this here? Your second thought is worse: Did anyone else see this?

A gift, technically. But not the kind you can laugh off or easily categorize. It’s thoughtful. Personal. Quiet. Not the sort of thing a professor normally gives their assistant.

You sit down slowly.

Maybe he left it as a joke. You had poked fun at him for being into medicinal plants. Or maybe it’s a peace offering—your last meeting had been… intellectually heated. Or maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

 

Jiaoqiu: just checking in.

Jiaoqiu: how’s your day going? have you eaten something that isn’t instant noodles?

Me: Hey, I only did that during undergrad

Me: Also… Jing Yuan left me herbs.

Jiaoqiu: What kind of herbs are we talking? Romantic gesture or assassination attempt?

Me: Skullcap. Dried. On my desk. No note.

Jiaoqiu: So… romantic assassination. Got it.

Jiaoqiu: Want me to counter with a medicinal bouquet and a handwritten card that says “Talk to her, coward”?

 

You don’t reply immediately.

Your eyes flick back to the bundle. He’d mentioned it once, in the greenhouse. A quiet offer tucked between jokes about turnips and revolution. Back then, it felt like a kindness. Now, you’re not so sure what it feels like.

You’ve logged 170 out of 200 hours. Thirty left. Maybe less. Then it’s over. Someone else will sit in that chair beside him, revise his lecture slides, edit his exams.

You’ll go back to your classes. Your dissertation. Your own little world.

So why does it feel like something else is beginning, just as this chapter is supposed to close?

 

Jiaoqiu: btw did commander in leaf make it through the cold snap??

Jiaoqiu: i have this theory he’s absorbing all your suppressed emotions

Me: He’s thriving actually

Me: New growth and everything

Me: Better adjusted than me

Jiaoqiu: ok so he’s the emotionally stable one in this situationship

Me: It’s not a situationship

Me: He just left me a bundle of medicinal herbs on my desk

Jiaoqiu: ah. the classic “here, soothe yourself” move

Jiaoqiu: brutal. tender. textbook.

Me: He just gave me some skullcaps

Me: ..which we talked about once, like, months ago

Jiaoqiu: oh no

Jiaoqiu: he REMEMBERED a SMALL DETAIL

Jiaoqiu: you’re doomed

Me: Shut up

Jiaoqiu: never

Jiaoqiu: also: how long until you hit 200 hours?

Me: 30 to go, maybe less

Me: then that’s it. new TA, new semester, everything resets

Jiaoqiu: ...you okay?

Me: I don’t know...

Me: It’s like... It’s ending. But it’s also not.

Me: Like I’m supposed to be wrapping up a job, but instead it feels like I’m standing at the edge of something I don’t have a name for

Jiaoqiu: emotions.

Jiaoqiu: you’re standing at the edge of emotions. they’re terrifying. i respect that.

Jiaoqiu: want me to come over and bring aggressively flavored ramen?

Me: Please.

Jiaoqiu: say less

You don’t mean to pull away at first.

It starts with little things. A quieter tone when you speak to him. Choosing to stay behind and tidy up the lecture hall instead of walking with him back to the office. Opting to eat lunch in the shared TA workspace, even though you know Jing Yuan usually takes his in the garden courtyard behind the department.

It feels responsible. Professional. Healthy, even. You’re nearing the end of your hours—just under thirty to go. Soon, your time as his assistant will be over. He’ll request someone else next term. And you? You’ll move on, return to your thesis, maybe pick up another departmental job. That’s the way these things go.

So you draw the line early. Just enough to avoid the sting of missing something before it’s gone.

Jing Yuan doesn’t comment. He never has been the type to call things out directly. But the shift doesn’t go unnoticed.

You see it in how he pauses, just barely, when handing you papers. How his eyes flick to yours when you walk in, and then back to his desk before you’ve settled in. How he thanks you more often, in small, unassuming ways—like leaving a fresh cup of tea at your elbow without saying anything, or gently replacing the pen you snapped between your fingers during grading with a sturdier one from his drawer.

Once, you find Commander in Leaf repositioned on the windowsill beside your usual seat, basking in the filtered light. A silent reminder of something shared. A joke you no longer make.

Even the emails change. Not in content, but in tone. Still warm. Still punctuated with occasional dry humor. But more deliberate. Like he’s carefully preserving what remains.

On a Thursday afternoon, he passes you a stack of prefinal drafts without looking up.

“You’ve been making great time on the grading,” he says. “Thank you.”

You nod. “Of course.”

He watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit down, but he doesn’t press. Just goes back to marking answers with his usual steady hand.

The silence is companionable. But not quite the same.

And as you glance at the hours left on your timesheet, you wonder if you’ve made the space too wide. If it’s possible to miss something that hasn’t even ended yet.

You hand him your timecard on a quiet afternoon, the department office door clicking softly shut behind you. No ceremony, no lingering goodbyes. Just the two of you, like always—though this time, the space between you feels more final than it ever has.

Jing Yuan accepts the card without a word at first, his fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. He glances down at the total hours—200/200 neatly inked in your handwriting—and then back up at you.

The look on his face is hard to describe. Not surprised, not even disappointed. Just… sad. A quiet, unassuming kind of sadness that doesn’t sit easily on his features. His usual calm composure is still there, but this—this is something else. Something more human.

He recovers quickly, because of course he does. The corner of his mouth lifts into a wry half-smile.

“I see you didn’t pad your hours with invented emergencies,” he says. “I was starting to think you’d start making things up. ‘Accidental syllabus combustion,’ maybe. ‘Commander in Leaf went rogue.’”

That earns a faint smile from you. “Commander in Leaf wouldn’t betray us. He’s too loyal.”

Jing Yuan chuckles, then leans back slightly in his chair. “I suppose that’s true. You’ve trained him well.”

The silence after stretches for a beat too long.

Then, with a small nod, he says, “You’ve done well. I hope the rest of your work treats you a little more kindly. You’ve earned it.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else. You thank him. For the opportunity. For the patience. For everything.

You mean to say more, but your throat tightens before the words can form. So instead, you leave.

And you don’t come back.

You avoid the history department for the rest of the semester—not out of pettiness, but preservation. It’s easier this way. Easier not to walk past his office door and wonder if he still keeps the same tea stash. Easier not to run into Professor Yukong, who always had sweets tucked in her drawer for you. Easier not to catch Professor Fu Xuan’s narrowed eyes and her sharp-tongued comments that somehow still carried a note of reluctant fondness.

You miss all of it. But you keep your distance. It’s what you chose, after all.

And then graduation arrives.

It comes cloaked in the usual chaos—ill-fitting gowns, last-minute speeches, cords that won’t sit right, and students buzzing like the summer’s already begun. You move with the tide, hood slung neatly over your shoulders, name card clutched in your slightly sweaty palm.

You don’t expect to see him. Not really. The ceremony’s enormous, and the history department graduates early on. You assume he’s long gone by the time your name is called.

But later, after the recessional, as you’re navigating a sea of photo ops and teary-eyed classmates, you catch a flash of silver hair near the edge of the crowd.

Jing Yuan stands under one of the shade trees, away from the noise. A few faculty still linger nearby, chatting or clapping former students on the back. He’s holding something—probably a program—and he’s not in academic robes. Just his usual dark button-up, sleeves neatly rolled, and that calm, unreadable expression. He wears the scar on his forearm, not quite like a badge of honor, but something he doesn't bother keeping a secret. Like it was always a part of him.

Regret blooms in the back of your throat when you remember that you never once asked about it. 

But you can't pay it much mind when his yellow eyes find yours, making you freeze. 

Jing Yuan lifts his hand in a small wave. Not beckoning, just... acknowledging. And then, like always, he gives you the chance to decide.

Somewhere in the crowd, Jiaoqiu is probably scanning faces, phone in hand, ready to shout your name. He'd come all this way just to cheer you on, stepping in for your parents with that easy, unshakable loyalty of his—even with a mountain of exams waiting for him by the end of the week. 

You should go. Return Jing Yuan’s gesture with a polite wave, a quiet goodbye. It would be the sensible thing. Clean and uncomplicated.

But your feet are already moving.

You don’t think. You just go.

The shade under the tree is cooler than you expected. Closer now, you can see he’s tired—creases around his eyes a little deeper, hair pulled back a bit less carefully than usual. But his smile is soft.

“Congratulations,” he says, quiet enough to drown in. “I meant to send a message, but this seemed better.”

You nod, words caught somewhere in your chest. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Professor.”

His mouth curves slightly. “I’m very good at showing up when I’m not expected.”

You almost ask why he came. Almost. But instead, you say, “Thank you. For everything.”

He glances at the program in his hands, then back at you. “I should be thanking you. I’m still finding things in the office that you organized without telling me.”

That gets a smile out of you, small but genuine. “Somehow I knew you’d never notice until I was gone.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, and for a moment it feels like nothing’s changed.

Until it does.

He looks at you a little too long, then says, “I kept cultivating the skullcaps in the greenhouse.”

You blink, surprised. “Really? Until now?”

He nods, almost sheepishly. “Made a surprisingly decent tea,” he adds with a quiet chuckle. “Though I can’t say it helped my sleeping habits.”

Your lips twitch, unsure how to respond to the unexpected admission. You wonder, for just a moment, if he's saying it to bridge the growing gap between you two, or if it's just an offhand comment like so many others he's made. Either way, the words settle between you like a lingering warmth.

You smile, feeling a hint of nostalgia tug at you. “Tell Commander in Leaf I’m proud of him.”

“He misses your pep talks.”

Then, he pauses, real and full of the unspoken.

“If you ever want to come back,” Jing Yuan says carefully, “there’s always a place for you.”

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

You both know you won’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But as you turn to leave, you hear him call out, just once. The way he says your name reminds you of the first time he did in class, soft yet resonant. Enough to make your heart ache for something that wasn't even there to begin with. 

You look over your shoulder, he’s smiling again. That same soft smile, gold eyes warm despite the distance.

“Be well.”

You nod. “You too.”

And this time, you really go.

The Lit Department’s post-graduation celebration was supposed to be the culmination of everything you’d worked for. You'd dressed up, laughed with your peers, toasted to your future, and enjoyed the camaraderie that had become familiar over the past few years. The music was loud, everyone’s smiles seemed just a little too bright, but it was fine. You were supposed to be fine.

You even managed to have a good time, at least for a while. You wandered through conversations, shared some drinks, and even found yourself laughing at the absurdity of being a part of something so transient. The thought of moving on, of never seeing these faces again, was supposed to be exciting, but there was an underlying emptiness to it all—something you couldn’t quite shake.

You found yourself excusing yourself early, mumbling something about needing to check on your plants or pretending to have a deadline to meet, something that would get you out of the door and away from the questions of “What’s next?” and “Where will you go now?”

So you left.

By the time you step into your apartment, it hits you—the silence, the fact that you didn’t really feel like celebrating anymore. It’s not the career prospects or the future you’re afraid of. It’s the realization that this chapter has ended, and with it, the strange feeling that something you never really had is finally gone.

You’re drunk. It’s been a while since you’ve had this much to drink, so the buzz makes it harder to shake the feeling of having left something unfinished behind you. Something that was never really yours to begin with.

Before you can think, your fingers are already tapping in Jiaoqiu’s number. He answers groggily.

“What's up?” His voice cracks slightly. “Is anything wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you slur, even though you know you’re not. “I just—Jiaoqiu, I don’t get it. I don’t get why I’m—” you choke on your own words. “I’m still thinking about it, about him. It’s just stupid, right?”

You hear him shift on the other end, his voice more alert now. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. What happened?”

“I thought I was fine,” you continue, voice breaking as tears blur your vision. “I thought I was—God, I thought I was fine. I had this whole plan to just go, graduate, and move on. But knowing that... that was it, that's where it all ended, I just…”

Your voice falters.

“He doesn’t even know. I never said anything, Jiaoqiu. I never told him, and now it’s over. It’s over and I can’t even…” Another sob escapes, and you bury your face in your hands, feeling the sting of missed words, missed chances.

You hear him let out a slow breath. “You knew it was ending. You knew this wouldn’t last forever.”

“I know,” you whisper, feeling the ache in your chest. “But I didn’t expect it to hurt like this. It was just... nothing, but now it’s everything. And now I’ll never know what could’ve been. I’ll never know if I could’ve said something. Or if he even cared.”

“I know it feels like that right now,” Jiaoqiu says, his voice steady, but soft. “But I think you’re putting a lot on something that wasn’t really yours to carry. It’s okay to let go. You don’t have to hold onto it anymore.”

You choke back a sob, wiping your tears away furiously. “I know. I know, but it’s not that simple.”

You fall silent for a moment, only hearing the soft hum of the phone against your ear.

“I should’ve told him,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “I should’ve said something. Maybe I wouldn't feel so fucking torn up if I did. But I never got the chance, and now it’s just… over.”

“Maybe you’ll get that chance someday,” Jiaoqiu says gently, the words careful but sincere. “But you’ll be okay. You’ve always been okay.”

You laugh bitterly, wiping your eyes. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But for now, I’m just an emotional mess, huh?”

“You always are, but you’re still my favorite mess.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head even though no one can see you. “Thanks, Jiaoqiu. I’ll survive. I always do.”

After the call ends, you sit in the silence of your apartment, still aching, but feeling just a little bit lighter. Even if you couldn’t say the words to Jing Yuan, even if you couldn’t let him know what had been growing between you, you had to accept that it was over. It had to be.

But for now, all you could do was let the tears flow, and let time do what it does best.

Heal.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[ellesthots]

code of ethics

iii. “possessive”

read on AO3 🤎

parts: previous / next

plot: things become a bit easier between you and your professor (now mentor)—but something isn't adding up.

pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader

cw: 18+

word count: 3k

a/n: listened to 'bad decisions' and 'hands on me' by ariana grande on loop while writing this—if this were my main fic, i would've written like fifty bajillion scenes of lusting and personal time, but this is a miniseries, so, we move right along! trying new things <3

A one-on-one mentorship didn’t require a classroom, so you found yourself sitting across from Professor Wayne in his minuscule office. Evidently, billionaire or not, every faculty member got the same 100-square foot space that left barely enough room for one student in addition to a desk, filing cabinet, and two chairs. Deep brown tones filled his office, making it appear stuffy. 

You felt awful watching him squeeze into his tiny seat across from you; had he opted for the smaller seat so you could have room? Surely the higher-ups could accommodate him. Like you’d spoken aloud, he apologized while hunting through his desk. 

“Emailed the admin about booking a conference room, but they’ve yet to get back to me. Hopefully,” he pulled out a bottom drawer, a small, satisfied sound slipping past his lips that made you sit straighter. “They’ll respond soon, and we can get somewhere more comfortable.” 

Comfortable. You’d repeated that word like a mantra in the mirror as you picked your outfit for the first day. Against your better judgment, you’d gone with sweats and a tee; unprofessional, you’d chastised, but wearing anything else felt promiscuous. Hyperaware of how tightly the jeans hugged your waist and ass—and oh, god, you avoided your skirts like your life depended on it—you’d landed on a perfectly comfortable pair of thick, cozy sweatpants. You tugged at a loose thread as your focus landed on his hands. 

Blue was the color he’d chosen for his pen. Not black, not red, but a cool, even blue. How sweet. You pulled at the thread harder. 

“Do you have topic ideas?” 

“Yes.” Dutifully, you slid a folder out of the backpack you’d obsessively cleaned the night prior. Smooth manila protected your typed list, ranging from strict academia to looser creative pursuits. You pushed the paper to him, heart pounding. 

He stared, his head cocked slightly. He looked to you, the paper, then slid it back. “Which are you passionate about?”

“I thought we’d look over them and decide together,”

He shook his head, lips pressed in a thin line. You felt what he wasn’t saying. “I won’t be the one writing it. It should be about what you want.”

Your professor held out his pen, and your fingers brushed as you took it. It was weighty in your hand, and you very well could’ve imagined it, but the cushion where his fingers had been held warmth. His big, long, warm hands… they were what you wanted. Manicured nails caught your attention, and you bit back an audible ‘of course’. His hygiene was impeccable. What else did you expect from a man like him? Was he manicured elsewhere? 

“Circle the topics you’re most interested in. If you still need my help,” yes, I do, “then we’ll talk.” 

You knew it would be bad after the break you had, but not this bad. You were achingly aware, in fact, following out of the corner of your eye while you pretended to deliberate topics, that he’d switched his usual sweater for a button-up. With the top two buttons undone. 

Focus. 

You snuck another look, and he caught your eye with a curious squint. 

FOCUS!

In truth, none of the topics genuinely interested you. Scouring his faculty page online, you’d gone down his research and found topics he was engaged with, and went from there. Sitting only a few inches from him now, your play felt embarrassingly obvious. It could’ve been minutes or could’ve been hours, but nothing was circled, or underlined, and the pressure in the room shifted. 

“I don’t like any of these,” you admitted, once again feeling like a child owning up to a Big Mistake. What would the slap on the wrist be? Sending you home early? Emphasizing that you really needed to take this class seriously, only making you feel worse? 

Instead, he bridged the space between you. The depth of his blue eyes this close had you genuinely worried you’d drown. “If you had to write the paper right now, and no one would read it, what would you write about?”

You hoped he couldn’t feel the heat emanating off your cheeks, and fought to keep your voice steady. “But you will read it.” 

“I’m here to support, not punish.” He lingered a moment, holding your gaze so firmly that a small gasp escaped when he sat back against his chair. “The process will be more enjoyable if it’s a subject you want to dig into, and your writing will be better for it.” 

It’d been hard enough getting grades back throughout undergrad knowing someone had read what you wrote, perceived you, judged you. It was an entirely new thing when the single most attractive, naturally charismatic man you’d ever seen was judging it in real time, intimately. If you didn’t know him, and had seen him on the opposite end of the same coffee shop, you would’ve hightailed it out of there, holding your breath—never would you have even thought it an option to approach him. 

Yet here you were, mandated to share a teensy room with the object of such desire. 

“This isn’t like last term. This course is about development and revision, pass no pass.”

“Alright.” It didn’t settle the rhapsody that threatened to overwhelm you, but nothing would in his presence. He appeared to attune to your continued hesitance at once. 

“What makes you afraid of me reading it?” 

That you’ll think less of me. “You’ll think it’s elementary.”

“Pick whichever topic without regard for how I might receive it.” He waved his hand over the carefully crafted options. “Or pick from the assembly of my research credits you collected there.” 

Crap. Of course he could tell. 

It took you the rest of the class, but you finally selected your paper topic. When you shared it, Professor Wayne’s eyes flashed, and after your internal recoil, you noticed him grin. “It’ll certainly make for an interesting essay.” 

You shifted in the chair, the space between you and the shared desk seeming too tight. “Bad or good?”

“Neutral.”

He’d been too thoughtful when he said it. Pause… ‘neutral’. “A professional way to say ‘bad’ without hurting my feelings?” An hour spent with him and your filter was slowly removing itself. A smidgen of bravery gathered within you, though you couldn’t imagine how with the adrenaline-spiked overwhelm at how fucking perfect he was.

“Seems to be your Achilles heel, Y/n.” He stood, somehow managing to pull on his coat in the meager space. His perfect hair fell perfectly around his ears, swishing slightly as the jacket’s collar grazed it. “A harsh inner critic will only get you so far.” 

“Mm.” Your throat went dry as he towered over you. It was as if he’d plucked last night’s fantasies from your bedroom. Now, just press his hands onto the desk… lean closer… tell me he wants to…

“I mean it.” 

You bit your lip, blinking at warp speed. “Yeah?” Too pitchy, shit.

He nodded, oh, even just a nod… and it was only the first day! “Almost dropped out of my doctoral program twice.” 

“No way.” 

He grabbed his mug, and your eyes trained on the movement. Does Professor Wayne know all I can think about is his hands on me? “Overthought my dissertation from the day of admission. Didn’t think I could measure up.” 

Him having anything outside of strict confidence was so shocking it pulled you out of your lust. “And?” 

“Now I get this spacious office all to myself.” 

Your cheeks hurt from the slope of your grin, digging into the apples of your cheeks. The man was endearing; certainly more than he’d been a term prior. Was it pitying? Did he see you as fragile? Because good god, you wanted him to break you.

“My point being: I had to write it despite my concerns. Follow where my mind went. Learn to trust it.” 

“How did you?” If you could mimic a single crumb of how he moved so effortlessly through the world—billionaire near-miss-A-list-celebrity notwithstanding—you’d take it. Managing a string of conversation that didn’t make your core tighten would be helpful, too. 

“Trusted my supervisors. That if I were truly out of line, someone would’ve told me.” He walked around the desk toward the door, but stopped between you and it. The noise got harder to ignore, but you managed. 

“Like you did last term.”

“A bit kinder than that, I’ll admit.” He gestured for you to lead the way out of his office, and you shakily got up from your chair to follow orders. You stalled in the slim, empty hallway, lit mostly by passing headlights through the window at its end. 

He clicked the lock and strode just ahead. “You have a strong voice. It’s a shame you’re not trusting it.” 

His smooth speech was beginning to genuinely unravel you. If he’d been speaking to you like this in his office, when you had to stare into his face instead of at his broad, flowing shoulders… 

“I just can’t believe you ever felt that way. You seem like you knew all this stuff from birth.” 

He tossed a look back at you, the whisper of a smirk wearing his mouth. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?”

Mmm…

Professor Wayne held the door open for you into the building’s main hallway, and you hugged the folder tight to your chest as you skirted past. “Come with an outline for next week’s session.”

“Will-do.” Your voice was too deep, thrown, almost ragged.

“Hopefully we’ll have a more accommodating room by then.” 

You did not have a bigger room for the rest of the term. 

“Wonderful.” 

He handed your essay back without comment, which was too confusing to internalize his praise. “No edits?”

“Stellar paper.” 

“Like, I’d get 100 if I turned it in for a grade?”

“I’d invite you to TA on the back of the rubric.”

“Shit.”

If you had to pinpoint the moment you and Professor Wayne’s communication had become less rigid, it might’ve been at the reveal of his dissertation insecurity. Or two weeks later when he made an offhand joke about being an orphan, and his cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink when it didn’t land. 

Either way, things had become easy. For the last day, you’d brought him a coffee. With sessions being in the evening, you usually showed up with water or the occasional herbal tea; however, as your roommate made customary for the end of a term, you were headed straight for the club after. A latte for you, black coffee for him. 

And a pastry, as a parting gift. 

“What now? Since I’m apparently perfect?” You tapped your fingers against your exposed thighs, the minidress you’d thrown on only covered from the waist-up by a baggy sweater. Things were pleasant between you two, sure, but that didn’t mean you didn’t ache watching his lips curve around the edge of his cup, or linger when he rolled the cuffs of his sleeve. 

He checked the clock, and you attuned to the movement of his waist when he shifted. You’d miss this. His tiny office that made you both sweat, his dry one-liners, the perfume of citrus and musk that followed you on your walks home. 

“Guess you get out half an hour early.” A bit curt of a nod, you noted, but it could’ve been in your head. 

What wasn’t in your head, however, was how he didn’t rise to follow you out the door. You withheld a pout as you tucked your folder into your bag and stood. It was your favorite time of the week getting guided down the hall with him. It felt delightfully possessive; he was your mentor, you were his student. 

“Not coming?” One hand on the doorknob, watching as he glanced halfway up at you, then quickly back to his desk. 

His voice went quieter. “Have finals to grade.”

“That’s why my paper has no errors?” You teased. “Antsy to finish?”

“Have a good night.”

No joking, no awkwardly-delivered story about some niche aspect of his personal life: nothing. 

With a level of awkwardness that hadn’t existed since the first meeting in ethics, you caught his hint for you to leave, and left. The hallway felt massive without him guiding you, the walls colder. What the fuck?

The walk home was quick, his TA comment stuck like glue. The first order of business when you slumped into bed involved pulling out your laptop to peruse the class listings. After such a lackluster goodbye, you figured you could make up for it through another term. A jarring crack in your chest festered when you considered the possibility of that being your last ever interaction.

Ethics 511: Ethics Matters, An Explanation of Moral Qualities (TA)

Time: Wednesdays 4-6:40pm

Faculty: Bruce Wayne

Seats: 0/1 [OPEN]

You slammed it shut and paced the room, drawing an invisible pros and cons list, a frustrating experience that ended with you flipping it back open, wildly moving your cursor to the REGISTER button, and clicking SUBMIT with your eyes closed. 

The computer made a bad sound. 

Registration Locked: Requires Instructor Approval.

“Hey, Professor Wayne.”

He glanced at the yellow office slip in your hand and sighed. “The assistant position is no longer open.”

“Oh!” Your spine tingled at his flat affect, disappointment disorienting you. With one term left, this had been your single opportunity to work with him again. “Damn. It wouldn’t let me sign up online.” Had it gotten sniped in the two days it took the office to get back to you with the override form? 

He didn’t look over, opting to concentrate on whatever lay within his notebook. Right off the bat, it was apparent you were a nuisance. Your stomach twisted into a knot. 

You parted your lips to speak, but nothing came of it. Fuck. Say anything. 

“Get a conference room yet for your new mentee—”

“Sorry to cut you short, but I have a deadline to meet.”

He didn’t sound sorry. He wouldn’t even look at you, and practically cut off the last syllable of your sentence. 

You swallowed back bile and a thousand other questions. It was a knife to the heart that you weren’t worth looking at for two fucking seconds now that he wasn’t obligated to teach you. At least you’d go out politely. Kindly. Maybe that could be enough. You faked a cheery grin. “Good luck!” 

“Have a good evening.”

Invisible bruises peppered your skin moving down the hallway from his classroom. Reduced to tears once again, like the past three months hadn’t even happened. Prideful, you leaned against the wall before the exit and searched the schedule to double-check.

Ethics. 511. Ethics Matters. An Explanation of Moral Qualities. (TA). Wednesdays. 4-6:40. Faculty: Bruce Wayne.

Seats: 0/1 [OPEN]

You stomped back to his classroom, pausing for a beat at the door to catch your breath and reign in tears. Clenched fists at your sides. Biting your cheek. It didn’t make sense. He always made sense.

Peeking through the window panel, Professor Wayne looked beaten; his posture hunched over the desk unlike he ever sat. He ran a stiff hand through his hair, and the huff of his exhale ruffled the papers below him. He adjusted uncomfortably.

He seemed… flustered. Strung-out. You pressed the pushbar.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He startled like a gun had been shot, but his recovery was smooth. You thought an additional button had been loosened on his shirt. “I’m immersed in my work.” 

“Did you just pass me and say all that because I cried at the midterm?”

His shoulders dropped in disillusionment, and you tensed. He squeezed the words past his teeth. “You did good work. Now let me get back to mine.”

Vulnerability spilled out of you, your voice cracking. “I just—”

“Y/n.” His voice was firm, an edge creeping in. 

“You acted like I would be the perfect candidate. Classes start next week.” 

“I no longer need an assistant.”

“I just checked, and it still says ‘open’ online.”

“I’ll get it changed.”

“This doesn’t seem—”

“Let it go.” He glared at you while he said it, as fiery and brutal as swallowing hot coal. 

“So it is something.” Whatever window he’d opened for you was bolted shut, and it felt like it snapped off a finger as he slammed it. He faced his desk, an absent stare at the empty monitor. His silence was the final brick, and you chewed on your cheek as hot, angry tears wet your lashes. He didn’t respect you enough to even tell you why. 

He repeated himself, weaker this time. “I no longer need an assistant.”

You stepped closer, and his shoulders drew inward. What the hell was his problem? 

“Hi,” another student maneuvered around you to set up at the desk in front of his. Precisely where you’d chosen the first day of ethics. You could’ve fallen to your knees as she took your seat. “I hope I’m not interrupting, I wanted to go over expectations for the mentorship next term when you’re available.”

“We were just finishing, Isabel.” 

So much for his deadline.

The ease of the last term sat differently in your chest. Had it been so relaxed because he hadn’t actually cared? You stopped yourself before scowling at the woman—it wasn’t her fault she was his next mentee, but god, jealousy nipped at the tips of your fingers as she rose from her seat and walked toward what used to be yours. His attention, his consideration, his time; his eyes, his scent, the way your name sounded in his mouth…

“Appreciate the transparency, Professor.” You spun on your heel and left without looking back. Fuck him.

taglist: @noisylime, @serynstorylover, @crayzmarvelfan800, @dreamer7black, @sad-ghouls, @smellingbats

[igotanidea]

Bumpy road: Jason Todd x reader

Aka: the one with the first fight.

***

They were warning her.

*They* as in pretty much everyone – family, friends, even strangers on the street.

They were warning her that every relationship hits a rough path sooner or later. That the honeymoon phase cannot last forever. That arguments, fights, misunderstandings and other rocks on the yellow road of Oz are about to happen.

Like she was a kid, not knowing that already.

Of course she was aware of all that! Hell – her parents had enough of a clash of characters and silent days to somehow immunize her against it.

She thought herself ready for the stormy days, making a bucket list of things she wouldn’t do with Jason.

Like *not going to bed angry* or *talking through things* or other silly and completely immature naïve things.

Well – having a plan and putting it into action turned out to be two completely different things.

***

The shy sun on the sky, gentle wind and little white fluffy clouds were nothing of a sign of an impending torment.

Y/N was walking back home from work, having taken a few hours for a personal leave with a set date of working it off. Though if it meant spending 10 hours in the office on Thursday to have some more time with Jay on Friday, so be it. 

Absolutely worth it.

Not even fighting the happy smile forming on her face, thinking about the little surprise she had planned for him, she rode along the streets humming the songs coming from the car radio.

Even their shabby apartment in the shitty district of Gotham seemed more vibrant for no reason.

“Jay? Jay, I’m home!” her bag landed on the rack, shoes on the shelf, coat in the wardrobe. “babe? You’re here? Oh – oh, Jay, what happened?”

Jason was sitting on the couch, staring blankly into the space, fidgeting with his phone, but not paying any attention to whatever might have flashed on the screen. Anyone else might have been fooled, after all Jason always seemed a little detached and immersed in his own thoughts, especially when he was alone. Y/N was not one of those people, seeing through him almost instantly.

“Hey?” The soft sound of bare feet on the floor approaching him from the side finally threw him off and back into reality. 

“Hey.” No smile, no sparkles in the eyes, no sign of acknowledgment. Only a slight flinch as if he was trying to pull back and away from her.

Y/N frowned.

“Jace-“

“I’m busy.” His gaze immediately fell back onto the screen, scrolling mindlessly, finding himself a substitute occupation.

“With what?”

“God, why are you being so nosy?” Jason rolled his eyes, not stopping whatever was so interesting.

“Nosy?”

“Yes, nosy. I’m browsing, ok? How do you think I get the fucking intel for patrolling?”

“Through a Facebook page?” she tried to crack the joke.

“Yeah. That too. Do you want to go through my texts now? Is this what this is about?”

“What? No, of course no. What’s with the hostility?”

“I’m not fucking hostile.”

“Right… Not at all.”

“I just need some freaking silence, is that too hard to understand?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” It was shockingly difficult to say those words, considering the fact she made quite different plans for the afternoon, but apparently the relationship also required compromising. Even if the meaning of the word was forgetting about oneself all together, all for the benefit of the other half of the duet.  “I’ll go get us some snacks, hm? And maybe I could help you with – “

“Whatever.”

Oh, okay. He wasn’t hostile, he was indifferent.

Or maybe just busy.

Right, right, of course, just busy, it was okay. First time for everything, even ignoring her.

She could understand it, obviously, being understanding and giving him necessary space like any considerate girlfriend would.

***

Shit broke free three days later.

Any target group asked would unanimously agree that Monday mornings were absolutely the worst, and external circumstances had nothing to do with it. The loads of easy work from Friday that could be left and handled on Monday suddenly became increasingly difficult and seemed to multiply.

99% of people liked that.

Y/N was no exception.

Good humor? Gone.

Optimistic attitude? Lost.

Exhaustion? Skyrocketing.

Sudden thirst for blood and unparalleled rage? Present.

Incoming storm in her relationship….?

Yeah… Inevitable.

***

It was like the entertainment replay.

Jason was sitting on the couch, staring blankly into space, fidgeting with his phone… yadda, yadda, yadda.

Only this time she had zero patience and zero strength to handle it, heading straight to the bathroom, wiping her makeup, cleaning her face.

Standing in front of the mirror, removing the mascara, the foundation, putting her hair in a messy bun, slowly transforming back into her domestic version.

Just. Wanting. Some. Rest.

Meeting with an angered, almost reproachful look on her boyfriend’s face.

Once again, trying to be sympathetic.

“Hi.”

Jason grunted.

“What’s going on?” she tried again.

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh for crying out loud!”

“Stop being a bitch.”

“a – a bitch? I’m sorry, what the-“

“Yes, bitch. You heard me right. You’ve barely been giving me attention lately!”

“Attention!? What the hell, Jason!? You’ve been AWOL!”

“I’ve been here all the time!”

“In body! But sure as hell not in mind! You spend eight hours in front of the phone and computer on Saturday!”

“Did you go through my PC?” he took a step back, fury in his eyes taking her by surprise.

“What? No! What is this about!?”

“Did you go through-“

“Jason!”

“Did you!?” he half-yelled and all her resolutions about being an understanding, caring partner, showing respect and love for the other one went through the window. 

“Are you accusing me of spying on you!?”

“Maybe I am! Answer the fucking question!”

“You’re paranoid!” she yelled. “Yes!” though it wasn’t true at all. “Yes, I did. Happy now!?” she hissed with a vindictive smirk, suddenly wanting to enrage him further for no reason in particular. Maybe for the sheer satisfaction of giving him the same shit he was giving her.

“Brat!”

“Asshole!”

“Idiot!”

“Jerk!”

“I hate you!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t; have gotten into a relationship with me in the first place!”

“You know what?” he hissed, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have because-“

“Because you’re an asshole-!”

“Because you’re completely immature!”

“Oh, I’m immature!” Y/N cried out, throwing her hands in the air “hypocrite! You’re always go about work and job  and crime rate and vigilantism and crime lords and-“

“You fucking knew it! You fucking knew who I was when we started – “

“You have changed!” her words came without any thinking and Jason felt like it was a slap. For a moment eerie silence, electrified with tension fell between them.

The only sounds being the heavy beating of their hearts, ragged breaths and unbearable weight of both spoken and unspoken words.

“Maybe I did.” He said coldly.

“Yeah, maybe you did. But maybe it’s my fault.”

“Maybe I fucked up your life.”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe you fucked up mine.”

“Right.”

The screaming match turned into an exchange of icy cold gazes and sharp as knives words.

First fight and they were already pulling out the arguments that their relationship might have been a mistake.

Y/N flinched internally realizing she was acting exactly like her parents after 15 years of marriage.

Though clearly the generational trauma poured on her, resulted in an accelerated speed and she was becoming a hag after 15 months.

Fucking great. If anyone was a hypocrite, she just scored a gold star in the category.

Not that she was going to admit it, since he started it.

Besides he was a man, and she was a woman so it was his responsibility to resolve –

God! She was having every little hated characteristic of her mother.

“Do we break up?” he asked and her eyes grew wider.

So easily?

Giving up without fighting or trying to fix things?

Seriously?!

Did he even love her at all or was it all just a game?

“Y/N?”

“What?”

“Do we break up?”

“You know what, let’s finish this. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“You didn’t answer the –“

“Just leave me alone!”

So much for *not going to bed angry*.

***

In the back of his head, Jason turned into a little kid.

It wasn’t like he enjoyed this stupid fight and the amount of harsh words and malignancy terrified him.

Truly.

Just like back in the days when he had to stand up for his mother when she was fighting with another pathetic counterfeit of a man.

It was hard to grow up without any male role model, but even if he didn’t know who he wanted to be as a partner, he had a clear idea of who he didn’t want to be.

He hated the concept, the sheer possibility of becoming suspicious, violent, aggressive in words, crude and rude. The exact image of what he had just displayed towards her.

The woman he loved.

The woman he wanted to be protective and  supportive of.

“Great fucking job, Jason.” He hissed to himself and even though his body was aching to rush to the bedroom, wrap arms around her and silently apologize with hugs and warmth stupid pride prevented him.

She started this after all.

And in the back of his mind he was a five year old, starving for affection and validation, feeling like there was no one who loved him.

Like maybe he was doomed and destined to be alone.

Thinking depressing thoughts to the sound of Y/N’s breaking heart behind the thin wall.  

[ticifics]

Distraction

Remus Lupin x reader

Summary: But most of all, you wanted him to know. You wanted to tell him how important he was, how he was more than just a friend to you, even if that meant risking everything. And yet, you couldn’t. Not when he seemed so calm, so oblivious to any feelings you might be silently holding.

Warnings: a little jealousy

The Hogwarts library seemed almost magical at that time of afternoon. Not that it wasn’t magical in itself, but it was in moments like these – when the silence seemed absolute, interrupted only by the rustling of pages and the soft scratch of quills on parchment – that you felt the space had a special charm. The imposing shelves, filled with old books, gave off a sense of vastness and tranquility that you had always adored. It was the perfect place to escape the bustle of the Common Room and lose yourself in your studies.

With your bag hanging from your shoulder, you looked around, trying to decide where to sit. Your gaze landed on a table in the center of the library, where a very familiar figure sat. Remus Lupin. Your heart gave a little jump, something so automatic that it didn’t surprise you anymore. It was always like this when he was near.

He was leaning over a large, worn book, his elbows resting on the table, hands gently holding his head as if the weight of the words required his full attention. His messy brown hair fell over his forehead, framing his face with soft yet marked features. The dim light from the windows made the golden hues in his hair shine, and you noticed how his brown eyes seemed almost honeyed as they slid over the pages. The thin scars crisscrossing his skin were almost invisible from a distance, but to you, who knew them well, they were impossible to ignore – and only made him even more... fascinating.

You were about to approach him and maybe ask what he was working on, but you stopped when you noticed he wasn’t alone. A Ravenclaw girl was sitting next to him. Tall, beautiful, with perfectly styled black hair and a warm smile, she seemed completely at ease. They were sharing the same book, their shoulders nearly touching as they examined the text. At one point, she said something that made him laugh – that low, soft laugh that always made your heart feel lighter and heavier at the same time.

You forced yourself to look away, feeling an odd warmth rise to your face. There was no reason to feel that way, you knew. Remus was your friend. A kind, funny friend, who always made you feel like the world was a safer place just because he was in it. And yet, that sight... bothered you. Much more than you wanted to admit.

With a sigh, you chose a table nearby, but far enough to not seem like you were spying. Opening your own books, you tried to focus on what you had planned to study – Herbology, your least favorite subject, but one that required attention. However, the words on the parchment seemed jumbled, as if your mind refused to absorb any information that wasn’t the sound of his laugh or the way he tilted his head when listening to what the girl was saying.

Unintentionally, you found yourself sneaking glances in their direction. It was impossible not to notice the way he moved – the restrained, smooth gestures, as if even the smallest movement was deliberate. The way he furrowed his brows when something in the text seemed intriguing, or how he would lightly bite the corner of his mouth when he laughed. Every detail seemed made to keep you mesmerized.

And the worst part was that you knew he had no idea of the effect he had on you. To him, you were just another friend. Maybe a confidante, someone he could share a book with or have an easy conversation in the Common Room. And that should be enough. But it wasn’t. Not when you knew, deep down, that you wanted more. That you wanted to be the one sitting next to him, not that Ravenclaw girl. You wanted to be the one who made him smile like that.

The thought was whispering, almost painful in its honesty. You wanted him to look at you the way he looked at that book – with attention, interest, and maybe even a hint of admiration. You wanted him to choose to sit next to you, not someone else. You wanted him to share that soft laugh with you, and only you.

But most of all, you wanted him to know. You wanted to tell him how important he was, how he was more than just a friend to you, even if that meant risking everything. And yet, you couldn’t. Not when he seemed so calm, so oblivious to any feelings you might be silently holding.

You snapped the book in front of you shut with a soft thud, frustrated with yourself. This was ridiculous. You shouldn’t be sitting here, wasting time with thoughts that only left you more confused and unsure. But still, you couldn’t help sneaking one more glance in his direction. Just one more. As if you could keep that image – the smile, the ease, the way he seemed so charming even when he wasn’t trying – and carry it with you, like a secret that was only yours.

That’s when he looked at you.

Your heart skipped a beat so violently that you almost dropped the inkpot. Remus lifted his gaze from the book, his soft brown eyes meeting yours. He smiled, that small, lopsided smile, which was more of a silent invitation than a pure gesture of joy. For a second, you thought he would turn his attention back to the girl beside him – but instead, he stood up.

You froze. He was coming towards you. Each step seemed louder than the whispers of the library, and you couldn’t do anything but pretend you were rearranging your things. Maybe, if you seemed busy enough, he wouldn’t notice the flush on your face or the hesitant clenching of your hands.

"Hi," he said when he stopped next to your table. His voice was low, soft, as if it were a secret just for the two of you. "Is it okay if I sit here? I promise I won’t disturb you."

You looked at him, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you were sure the blush had already spread across your face. "Sure. It's... it's fine." You gestured to the seat next to you, and he sat down with the ease of someone who had been doing this for years.

Now that he was closer, it was impossible not to notice how his brown hair was messily tousled in a way that seemed... deliberate. Like every strand was exactly where it needed to be to make him even more adorable. And his eyes—intense and warm, like amber on a sunny day—were fixed on you, as if he were waiting for something.

"Herbology?" He asked, pointing to the parchment in front of you.

"Yeah," you replied, trying to seem uninterested. But it was hard when he was right there, so close, with that half-smile that seemed to read all your thoughts. "I have an essay on poisonous plants to turn in next week."

He nodded, but didn't really seem interested in the subject. His eyes stayed on you, watching, assessing. After a moment of silence, he tilted his head slightly, a gesture so characteristic of him that you almost smiled. "Are you okay? Want help?"

"I... I'm fine," you said quickly, even though it was obvious you were far from fine. Your mind was still stuck on the image of him with the Ravenclaw girl, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out: "You seemed busy."

Remus blinked, surprised. "Busy?"

"With the Ravenclaw girl," you explained, trying to sound casual, but failing miserably. Your gaze was fixed on the table now, your hands restless on the parchment. "She seemed... nice."

"Oh," he said, and there was something in his tone you couldn't quite decipher. "She was asking for help with a Charms assignment. It's nothing too interesting."

You shook your head, trying to push away the knot of frustration forming in your chest.

"Is everything okay?" The question was casual, but the gentle tone almost unraveled you.

"Why wouldn't it be?" You answered too quickly, realizing your mistake as soon as the words came out. He raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced.

"You seem... distracted," he hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. "Or upset."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you tried to cover it, lowering your eyes to the parchment.

"It's nothing," you murmured, as your fingers played with the quill on the table.

He didn't respond immediately, but you felt the weight of his gaze. It was as if he was waiting for you to say more, and the tension in the silence was almost tangible. Finally, you forced yourself to look up.

"What is it?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

The corner of his mouth curled into a small smile, but his eyes remained serious.

"Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re looking at me like you want to bite me."

Your face heated up instantly, and you almost dropped the quill you were holding.

"I... I wasn't looking at you like that!" You protested, feeling your voice rise higher than you'd like.

He laughed—that low, contained laugh, but full of amusement.

"Really? Because it looked like it," He tilted his head to the side, as if genuinely curious.

You huffed, crossing your arms and looking away. "Maybe I was... distracted."

His smile faded slightly, replaced by something softer, more serious.

"By me?" He asked, quietly.

You hesitated, feeling your heart race again. He seemed so... genuine, as if he really wanted to know. But you couldn’t just tell the truth. You couldn’t admit that jealousy was eating you up inside, that the sound of that girl’s laughter still echoed in your mind, that all you wanted was for him to be laughing with you.

"Maybe," you finally responded, your voice barely a whisper.

A silence settled between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was as if something invisible was being shared there, something that didn’t need to be said, but that, somehow, you both understood. You risked looking at him again, and found a smile so sweet, so genuine, that it almost made your heart stop.

"I like this," he said softly, as if confessing a secret. "Knowing I can distract you."

Those words lingered in the air, so light and yet so full of meaning that you felt as if the whole world had stopped for a moment. He wasn’t looking at you now, focused on the book he had just opened, but the gentle curve of his smile was still there, visible enough to make your heart stumble again.

You didn’t know how to respond. What do you say when the person who occupies all your thoughts—your dreams, your daydreams, and even your frustrations—admits something like that, so casually and charmingly?

Trying to seem less affected than you actually were, you opened another book. But your fingers trembled slightly as you turned the pages, and the printed words seemed like meaningless smudges. It didn’t matter. Your mind was somewhere else, caught in the soft sound of his voice, the way he said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re very quiet." His voice cut through the silence again, low but with a hint of curiosity. You looked at him, realizing that he had already closed the book and was now truly watching you, his brown eyes catching every nuance of your expression.

"I just..." you began, but the sentence died before it could finish. How to explain? How to put into words the whirlwind he caused inside you without even trying?

He tilted his head slightly, his eyebrows furrowing in a nearly imperceptible expression of concern. "Are you okay?" he asked, genuinely interested, as if your answer was the most important thing in the world at that moment.

You looked away, trying to buy yourself some time. "Yeah, I’m fine. I just... got surprised."

"Surprised?" His tone was slightly curious, but there was something more there, something you couldn’t quite pinpoint.

"By what you said," you admitted, your voice a bit lower than you intended. Your fingers drummed against the side of the book, a futile attempt to mask the nervousness.

Remus smiled again, but this time there was something more shy in his expression. As if, for the first time, he was as vulnerable as you felt. "Shouldn’t I have said it?" he asked, his voice hesitant.

You quickly lifted your gaze, surprised by the question. "No!" The response came faster than you intended, but it was sincere. "I just... didn’t expect it."

He seemed to relax a little, though the shy smile was still there. "Good," he said, glancing briefly at his hands resting on the table. The scars marking his skin were visible, a silent reminder of everything he carried with him. But there was a tenderness in the way he looked at you again, as if, in that moment, he was trying to decipher something he wasn’t sure he should ask about.

"Do I distract you too?" The question slipped from his lips like a whisper, but it sounded like a storm in your ears.

You blinked, feeling your face heat up immediately. Everything inside you seemed to twist—nervousness, anticipation, something you still couldn’t fully name.

"Distraction might not be the right word," he replied, a small smile curling at his lips.

"Oh, no?" Your voice had a slightly worried tone now, no matter how much you tried to hide it.

He didn’t look away, seeming to search for the right words. "No. It’s more... complicated than that."

Remus didn’t say anything for a moment, but the way he looked at you made it seem like he was seeing far more than you were willing to admit. Finally, he tilted his head, a smile as soft as a spring breeze appearing at the corner of his lips. "Complicated can be good," he said, his voice low but full of something that made your throat tighten. "I mean... sometimes."

You didn’t know what to respond, and maybe you didn’t need to. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but full of something that felt tangible, as if you both knew that this—this conversation, these glances—was the beginning of something neither of you were ready to name yet.

And then, he did something so simple, yet it seemed to take the air out of your lungs: he extended his hand across the table and lightly touched the tips of your fingers, as if he wanted to make sure you were there, that it was real.

"Complicated," he repeated, the smile now bigger, more certain. "But good."

You couldn’t stop the smile that appeared on your face, nor the way your heart seemed to beat out of rhythm. Because, in that moment, even if nothing had been said explicitly, you knew he was talking about the two of you.

[helenazbmrskai]

🛸Alien Domination Masterlist (ot8) 

Welcome, all extraterrestrials and ordinary humans, to my Alien Domination SKZ masterlist, where you can choose from 8 stories, 8 planets and 8 boys to dominate all of you! (or you dominate them, guess it depends) 👽

INFO: The pendants you see in the main header are representations of the planets; they will be revealed one by one.

All fics will be around 4-5k each. If no date is mentioned, that means it's in progress.

Progress: 4/8

After I finish the first 4 stories, I will reveal the last 4 remaining. Until then bye bye

Bang Chan

Before travelling, read our announcements!

Welcome to Skrizo planet, the perfect holiday spot within a 100-year light radius. You can enjoy a 10% discount on your space lift if you choose to travel with our space line. Don’t forget your hats and gloves to protect yourself from the frisky nights and enjoy the warm sun in the evening. 🌘🌔🌕🌖🌒

The message was not sent.

!NOTICE! Due to extreme weather conditions, all traffic is halted. To get your refund, please check the information below…

Counting to ten

It counts down from ten. The most important ten seconds of your life. Never in a million years did you think that you would have to fight for your life when you should be relaxing. A vacation gone wrong, but thankfully, there's a handsome alien who is willing to save your life.

Hyunjin

Before travelling, read our announcements!

Attention to all military personnel, due to a malfunction of the engines, our crew will have to perform an emergency landing on Skollaris. Be aware of the enemy! Don't be fooled by the beautiful appearance of the inhabitants; they are extremely deadly opponents.

Don't forget to check your gear and brace yourself for the extreme heat.

Burning Mirage

Your first mission was a mess, and now you're even on probation. The last thing you needed was a sudden engine malfunction on your ship. You were never a fighter, your crew despise you, and you have to survive in this new environment, watching your every move, or you will be devoured by the beautiful creatures of the planet.

Han

Before travelling, read our announcements!

To all students, we are pleased to invite you to Planet Atlan. If you receive this message, that means we have accepted your application to our most prestigious school, the Underwater Dome.

Scroll below for house rules.

What we provide is a dorm to live in during the semester and the required books, which you purchased with the entrance fee. What you need to bring is your everyday necessities, but be aware of the rules, so check if the item you want to bring is on the list.

We can't wait to meet you, and we hope you find the knowledge that you seek here with us.

Breathe Underwater

You always liked studying, and when the advertisement to study on a foreign planet came across you, you didn't hesitate to apply. To your utter surprise, you even got in. You thought that was the hard part, but no, it was staying. With no one to talk to and your grades failing, you have to face the reality that if you don't perform by the end of the year, your scholarship will be terminated. This is when you meet him at the library, your deskmate who never speaks to anyone.

Seungmin

Before travelling, read our announcements!

Gossip booklet page torn off.

Planet Azkarida is a notorious shithole everyone in their right mind knows not to visit.

Not even a ray of sunshine graces them with its presence; it is eternal darkness there. If you're used to rules and order, then this place is not for you. There's not much known about the layout or how the citizens make a living, as no one came back to tell the tale, but rumours say that there's a ruler there.

If you somehow end up there, you'd better be prepared. It wouldn't be far-fetched to find the most wanted criminals there throughout the entire galaxy.

After all, it's the perfect place to hide if you're running from something.

Night to Night

There's not a single peaceful night for you, either you're tormented by your nightmares or interrupted by Seungmin, who makes sure you keep your side of the deal. Turning you to be his dog and be at his back and call. The air is thick whenever you make eye contact. How much longer can you keep dancing around each other? One of these nights, you might just break. It only requires a moment of weakness.

Jeongin

Before travelling, read our announcements!

Classified report.

Twenty missing cases over two years. Location: the old casino. Witnesses report that they heard laughter from inside and coin machines clinking as if the casino was still operating. Ghost hunters and teenagers were reported missing once they entered no one was found.

The police closed the case and classified it as a dead end.

Unsolved to this day.

Tricking the master of games

Demoted to being a pencil pusher, you believe that your career is ending before it can begin, when a silver lining appears as you file reports and come across an unsolved mystery. You just know this is your only chance. Uncovering the truth comes with a cost; between pity tricks and glamour, will you be able to distinguish what is real or fake? Or he will entirely take over you before you even realise.

Felix

Before travelling, read our announcements!

Invitation.

Read the letter with discretion.

We wish to invite you to our biggest auction yet. Our last bidding item will surely make you interested if you decide to participate. If you attend, please come with the invitation, wear formal attire and a mask to ensure your anonymity.

Hope to see you soon.

Caging you is freeing you

Summary is coming soon.

[thecharacterchronicler]

Snow Lands On Top (Pt. 2) || Coriolanus Snow X Reader || Smut

Outline: It’s the first round of the presidential elections and Coriolanus Snow’s results aren’t as good as he hoped. Fortunately, you’re there to give him an outlet for his frustration.

Word count: 3’081

Warnings: pregnancy (TTC), marriage of convenience, very explicit ROUGH smut.

Author’s note: I wrote this as a second part to There Will Come A Ruler, since a few people asked for it. I also wanted to thank you all for all the love I received since I started posting on this page a few days ago, it means the world to me! Still blows my mind that so many people bothered reading what I wrote! ♡

(( Part 1 - There Will Come A Ruler )) - (( Part 3 - Insatiable )) - (( Part 4 - The Bitter Taste Of My Fury )) - (( Part 5 - Craving ))

It only was your second time stepping inside the tall skyscraper that hosted your husband’s office - and headquarters. When the elevator doors opened in front of you, you instantly felt trapped, probably because the lobby was more crowded than what you expected. Even if something inside you was screaming for you to turn around and run the other way instead of losing yourself in this den of vipers, you had no choice but to do what duty required of you. You plastered a smile on your face, the one too bright and too joyful to let how miserable you really felt show, and entered the crowd, recognizing some familiar faces and greeting strangers pretending you also knew who they were. If they had been invited today to Coriolanus’s office, it meant they were important to him so you had to consider them as important to you as well.

“Hippity hoppity, there you are, little dove.” A voice sounded behind you. You heard it as clear as day despite the ambiant noise all around you, and a cold shiver ran down your spine. You turned to face who it belonged too, smiling even brighter to conceal the uneasiness you always felt around such an eccentric character.

“Volumnia Gaul, it’s good to see you again.”

“It’s been too long. But I suppose you’ve been quite busy trying to fulfill your duties.” She said, throwing a knowing glance down to your stomach.

“Of course, there’s never a dull moment since I became Coriolanus’ wife.” You smiled, in yet another attempt to conceal your lies. You had been miserable and bored during most of the year you’ve been married, and although you were good at acting by now, the way Dr Gaul stared at you made you feel like she was seeing right through you.

“You should bring her to the front, people need to see you together.” She said, looking up to someone behind you.

You felt him before seeing him, his hand finding the small of your back and his tall frame appearing next to you, your shoulder brushing against his side. You lifted your gaze up to look at your husband, but he didn’t look down at you, focusing his attention on his mentor instead, the only thing letting you know that he had noticed you was his hand pressed against your lower back.

“Of course.” He agreed, with a nod. Dr Gaul’s eyes landed on you once more, something unsettling in the way she suddenly stared at you.

“My offer to examine her still stands, if you want me to run a few tests on her and figure out why you haven’t conceived yet.”

Your blood went cold. Everybody knew how deranged Volumnia Gaul could sometimes be, she was as cruel as she was extravagant and it only seemed to get worse the older she got. She had left her place as the head gamemaker of the Hunger Games to Coriolanus and had retired from her scientific career, but she still ran bizarre experiments in her lab, for her own enjoyment… And you definitely didn’t want to be one of them.

“It won’t be necessary.” Your husband assured her, allowing you to breathe again with relief. “It’s not her fault but mine, I’ve been too busy with the games and my campaign to properly invest time into expanding our family.”

Dr Gaul was about to reply something but was cut off by the sound of the television increasing in the speakers. Coriolanus guided you in front of the large window in his office’s lobby, as everyone seemed to step out of your path.

He was smiling, handsome as ever in his dark red suit and you smiled too, pressing yourself closer to him when you noticed the cameras filming you from across the room. It must have been a perfect picture to showcase to the entire nation, a seemingly loving couple standing in front of the nicest view of the Capitol, surrounded by all their supporters as the reporters on TV were about to announce the winner of this round of the elections.

All eyes were on the television as the results appeared on the screen. You held your breath, waiting for Coriolanus’ percentage to go up but it only did a brief jump and then stopped, largely losing to his opponents. You turned to look at him, waiting for a reaction, and so did everyone else present in the room.

True to himself, he held his head high, standing even straighter as he remained stoic, not a single change of the expression on his face to betray his disappointment. But, even if you couldn’t say that you knew your husband that well, you still knew that he must have been crushed by such a bad result. He had worked so hard for this, put up such a show for the people and so did you, his defeat felt like your own.

It startled you when you felt his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your hip. He was tense, you could feel it , but he was still smiling at the crowd, gracious in defeat. He even spoke a few words, only disturbed for a brief second when he noticed the cameras packing up instead of transmitting his speech, the viewers probably more interested in hearing what the victors of this round had to say rather than listen to your husband.

Coriolanus kept his tight grip on you, as if holding you was the only thing that could keep him from snapping. Some of his supporters came to him to offer him some words of encouragement in replacement of congratulations and he handled each conversation with polite manners.

“At least if you don’t win, we get to keep you as head gamermaker.” One lady said, trying to highlight the good in the situation but Coriolanus only gave her a tight smile in return.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out but maybe it just shows you’re better at working on the Games, they’ve been delightful to watch ever since you took over.”

“At least if you don’t have to keep campaigning you can focus your efforts on the next Hunger Games and come up with a show even better than last year’s !”

The very reason of his bad ranking at the election kept being thrown to his face, people simply preferred him as a game maker, so that they could be sure to be entertained by Coriolanus’ genius ideas to make the show an annual event rather than see him becoming president and be bored in front of their television once a year. The other thing that didn’t work out for him, as you understood, was the fact that he didn’t seem as relatable to the people since he didn’t have a family to care for and protect while his opponent, Festus Creed, already had three kids with his wife Persephone. Maybe they loved each other…

Once people were done offering their sympathy, you felt Coriolanus’ warm hand leave you, your skin a bit sore from the intensity of his previous grip on you. He rushed through the crowd, even ignoring a man who tried to address him and went to his office, shutting the door behind him.

Nobody seemed to notice, nor care, that your husband had felt the need to isolate himself but you did for some reason. Maybe it was because you knew how hard it was to keep smiling and nodding at everyone when deep down you just wanted to scream and run away. In the crowd, you met Dr Gaul’s gaze who had also noticed, watching you with careful attention, as if she was waiting to judge the way you’d react.

So of course, you smiled. At her. At everyone.

You followed the same path as he did, stopping by the man who had attempted to speak to him so that he could speak to you instead and maybe ease off his vexation at being ignored by your husband. As hard as it may be to keep going once the facade of perfection crumpled, it was necessary - now even more than before - to make sure all his allies continued supporting him.

Once he seemed satisfied by the small talk you shared, you kept moving, trying to seem as relaxed and detached as you could, until you had the opportunity to slip inside the office, mostly unnoticed by the crowd still mingling in the lobby.

“Coriolanus, I…” You started but stopped yourself when you noticed all the files scattered on the ground. Your husband was leaning over his desk, his back turned to you and you could see him breathing deeply and rapidly, his shoulders moving up and down with tension.

Suddenly, he threw the remaining of what was on his desk down, with one long motion. More files flew up in the air before landing on the ground, a glass container of pens and pencils broke on the wooden floor and shattered to pieces, flying off in every direction like a tiny bomb explosion. His desk light also tumbled to the floor, making a noise you were sure others had heard too.

You had the instinct to take a step back, your hand finding the knob again in order to retreat far away from his wrath... But, when he buried his face in his hands, he suddenly felt a lot less threatening and a lot more vulnerable, making you decide to stay.

“You might have lost this time but maybe it’ll work out next time.” You told him, softly. You wanted to comfort him, as had everyone else already, but the way he dropped his hands and looked at you with a dark glare made you question your decision.

“Always so positive.”He stated, bitterly, as if he was disgusted by your hopefulness. It wasn’t often that you got to see him without a charming smile on his face and a confident posture, in fact, it was the very first time you had been able to read him so easily, his emotions on display exactly as he was feeling them.

“It’s just one set back, for now they think you are too young, too good at your job, but maybe you’ll be elected next time. Maybe it’ll be in ten years. Maybe in thirty. But you will be president.” He shook his head, a cynical smirk on his lips.

“What makes you so sure ?”

“… Because Snow lands on top.”

His eyes darkened and he launched himself at you, crossing the path between the two of you in rapid strides so that he could capture your lips in a ferocious kiss. It left you breathless for a moment, the way his mouth was covering yours with feverish kisses, his arms around your waist to pull your body against his.

It was your second real kiss. Only the second one since you considered that your marriage had been sealed not with a kiss but with a signature at the bottom of a contract.

You pressed your forehead to his, trying to create some distance between you so that you could catch your breath and attempt to have a coherent thought about what was happening but he didn’t let you, giving you one last consuming kiss before his fingers tangled with your ponytail and he pulled, hard enough to force you to your knees in front of him.

You kneeled, looking up with expectant eyes. It was his way of showing you what he needed. He wanted to be revered, to get rebels to bend the knee in front of him, to be worshiped and relived from the anger and frustration he always locked up inside himself, with no way of letting them out.

You reached for his pants, swiftly undoing them with your eyes never leaving his pale blue ones, staring at you with a silent wrath still setting his gaze ablaze. He tugged on your hair again, forcing your chin up so that he could touch your face with his other hand, forcing a thumb passed your lips. He attentively watched you as you opened up your mouth to take it in, gently sucking before releasing it with a soft bite.

You saw him smile at your compliance, even though it was ended by a bold gesture. You were the perfect mix of obedient and fiery to make him lose his mind, and you both knew it.

He reached down to the pants you had opened for him, pulling his already hard erection. You resisted the urge to look at it, remembering how big it had felt in your hand and inside you, worried that his size might change your mind about giving him what he wanted. Instead, you kept your eyes fixed to his as you opened your mouth wide, ready to welcoming him there.

His tip glided on your tongue, his length not even entirely filling your mouth when you felt it hit the back of your throat. He shuddered with pleasure, a soft curse leaving his lips, followed by the sound of your name.

You felt a jolt of electricity in your body, a strange pride warming you up at the thought of pleasing him. You ran your tongue over his tip, tasting the saltiness that was already dripping from him in anticipation of his release. He cursed again and his hand moved to the back of your head, holding you firmly in place as he began thrusting back and forth.

You tried to relax your jaw and breathe through your nose as his hard length slid on your tongue, but when his movements increased in speed and in strength, you felt him reaching deeper down your throat and you couldn’t help but gag, tears welling in your eyes in consequence. But, even though he was still very carefully looking at you, watching the way he was fucking your mouth without mercy, he didn’t stop or slow down, only attempting to have an even firmer grip on you.

Another curse word fell from his lips, betraying how close he was to finding relief but, instead of shooting his load on your tongue as you were expecting him to, he rapidly pulled himself out of your mouth, heavily panting in front of you.

You used this opportunity to catch your own breath and wipe the mascara stains under your eyes, feeling the soreness of your lips caused by the unforgiving friction he had created.

“Get up.” He demanded, which made you realize he had let go of your hair. You obeyed without hesitation, even taking a step closer to be in his reach again. He immediately took advantage of the proximity, roughly pulling your dress up above your hips and bringing his hand to your center, pulling your panties aside so that he could run a finger across your soaked folds. A satisfied grin appeared on his face, as he removed his hand and brought his finger to his lips, tasting you with a hungry gaze.

You felt your whole body buzzing with excitement, your eyes following the path of his tongue as he licked his lips, seemingly enjoying what he had just tasted. You were so ready for him, you would have begged if he asked you but he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t ask for anything, he just took whatever he wanted, the way he wanted… And at this very moment, you couldn’t have been more okay with it.

His hands came to your bare hips and flipped you over so that your back was turned to him. Then, he pushed on your lower back, silently instructing you to bend over for him, which you did.

“Hold on tight.” He advised, his voice low with lust. You looked for something to do so but only found a tall bookshelf in front of you. You still gripped the sides of it, knowing it wouldn’t help you that much but you could already feel him pulling your panties to the side again.

Without a warning, he shoved himself inside you and you welcomed him, your wetness allowing him to slide all the way in with his first thrust. You bite your lip to avoid letting out a moan, very aware of the noise and chatter still coming from right behind his office door.

He completely pulled out before slamming inside you again, burying himself as deep as he could and you loudly gasped. He adjusted your position with a hand on each of your hips, gripping you so hard it was almost painful but you understood why once he repeated his action, thrusting so hard you would have lost your balance if he wasn’t helping stabilize you.

“Come on, let me hear the lovely sounds you can make.” He requested, mercilessly repeating the same movement.

“I can’t… They’ll all hear us…” You panted, a strangled moan catching in your throat when he hit deep, exactly where you needed him to.

“Good, I want them to know I’m fucking my wife.” He breathed, clearly enjoying himself too. “Show them you are mine.”

You felt dizzy at his words. Or maybe it was from the intense pleasure building up at your core. A few more of his rough thrusts and you came undone, loudly expressing your bliss as he released himself deep inside you. You both stayed connected for a moment to catch your breath until he pulled out, adjusting your panties and pulling your dress back down before taking care of putting his spent erection away.

You turned around to face him, meeting his gaze and noticing how his eyes had softened, like they had been drained of all the emotions he kept hidden behind them at all times, a clean slate to endure the rest of the evening.

To your surprise, he leaned over to kiss you. Not with hunger this time but with a tenderness you didn’t expect, like he was grateful you had been there for him.

“Was I too rough with you ?” He asked you, in a whisper, almost as if he was ashamed to say it out loud.

“Yes.” You nodded, appreciating the concern that immediately appeared on his face but you reassured him with a smile. “And I absolutely loved it.”

He smiled back, looking at you like he was seeing you in a new light. You weren’t strangers anymore and, for the first time, you were both starting to think that your marriage wasn’t such a fatality after all.

♡ - (( Tip Jar )) - ♡

Previously in this series:

Next in this series:

[saltnsugarbear]

there's no one else around (you're touching yourself) (18+)

summary: By pure accident, you stumble across the home page of your manager's brother's cam site. But neither of them have to know, right?

title from: "Wet Dream" by Wet Leg

word count: 2.1k

content warnings: MDNI!!! male masturbation mention, what is technically sex work, camshow/cam work, afab reader genitalia, vaginal/clitoral masturbation, rabbit vibrator you're my best friend, pillow humping ummm, don't think there's anything else

side note: HI BEAR WITH ME I FEEL LIKE THIS IS SHORT BUT TRUST WE WILL GET BETTER WITH TIME

You should not be here. By here, you mean Lip's cam site.

You stumbled upon it completely on accident. It had been a long week, and you needed to blow off some steam, and your friend had suggested looking into cam sites for something more interpersonal than just porn. So it was safe to say you were surprised when, in the top twenty for the local area, Lip Gallagher was streaming.

You only know it's Lip from the triangle tattoo on his chest that you have not stopped thinking about since you saw it.

You should not be here. You should not be entertaining the idea of watching your coworker, your manager's brother. Your mouse is hovering over the video, the stream playing in the small display on the sites front page. But Fiona doesn't have to know, right?

That's what you keep repeating to yourself as you go through the process of making an account (of course Lip would set his page to accounts only, why wouldn't he, it's the best way to insure money is made.)

That doesn't stop you from feeling slightly embarrassed by it. Fiona doesn't need to know, Lip doesn't need to know, nobody needs to know.

You make your user something meaningless, something he wouldn't be able to tie back to you. Once you get the minimum access... It's enough to make you blush, mouth going dry as you take everything in.

In most of the thumbnails, you can only see Lip's chest. In a few of them... Well, in a few of them, you can see more than just his chest. So much more.

There's a few items on his site that require a subscription fee and... Well, you're not ready to commit to that just yet. The streams will do, for now.

You're quick to roll out of bed and grab your headphones from your shelf, wasting no time connecting them to your laptop and putting them on. Once you're sure they're connected, you quickly click on the stream, not leaving any room for hesitation as the video loads.

It is. A lot.

The stream only takes a few seconds to load up before it's playing on your screen. You move by muscle memory, putting the video in theatre mode.

You haven't even looked at the live chat as it blows by, little pings and animations dancing on the screen. You're not taking in any of it.

All you can see is Lip. All you can focus on. The only coherent thought in your mind is him.

"Fuckin' hell-" Lip grunts in your headphones. Your eyes are wide as you take in everything you can. You can't even be bothered to get yourself off, you feel like you'll miss something if you tear your attention away from the screen.

You've chosen an interesting stream to start with.

Lip's body is framed perfectly. It's different from the other thumbnails, more of him being shown. His arm is extended, bracing himself on what you can only assume is the wall beside his setup. His chair is positioned sideways, a pillow folded in half and positioned snuggly in the angle of the chair. The leg closest to the camera is extended, giving him a firm footing as his other rests on the seat of the chair.

If you hadn't already taken your jeans off, you'd be fighting with yourself to get them off as quickly as possible.

You're glad that past you had the forethought to place your vibrator beside you, and all you needed to do now was take off your own underwear. Lip's home page was enough pre-game that you don't have to play with yourself too much to slip in the silicone toy.

You have to hit a few buttons before you land on the setting you want. Timing the grinding of your hips with Lip's movements and the rhythmic vibrations of the rabbit is tricky, but you manage to match the pace as best as you can.

Lip repeats this pattern of thrusting into the pillow, punctuating each one with a firm grind against it and then stilling before starting up again. The motions are enough to drive you mad, letting yourself shut your eyes and pretend the toy inside of you is actually Lip as he groans in your ear about how tight you are.

He encourages you and the audience to edge yourselves for as long as you can. To keep yourself dangling on that edge of release until he tells you to let go.

He gives you the clear right before he lets himself come. He doesn't have to tell you twice as you grind against the rabbit buzzing against your clit. The feeling is damn near overwhelming as you gasp softly, listening to the way Lip grunts out praise and curses.

You slam your laptop shut before you can watch him end the stream. Your chest rises and falls heavily, staring up at your ceiling as your brain registers what you just did.

Fuck.

The pit in your stomach when you see Lip walk in makes you feel sick. You knew he was working today. You're not sure why it jars you so much, but the overwhelming anxiety that seeing him gives you... It's enough to make you regret seeing his cam page.

He spends enough time talking with Sierra on her way back to the bar counter that you can cash out your register. Despite your rush to go, you get everything settled nicely in the pouch you need to take back to Fiona.

When you look up, your stomach drops when you meet Lip's gaze. You're quick to turn around and flee the front counter before he can leave Sierra's side.

"Fi am I good to go?" You walk into her cramped office like a whirlwind. You're already untying your small apron from around your waist and folding it in your hands.

"Yeah. Everything okay?" Fiona looks at you, brown eyes wide and searching your own. You nod quickly, tucking your apron in your waistband and placing your till money on her desk.

"Peachy," you tell her, placing your hand on her shoulder and giving a quick kiss to the top of her head. "I'll see you tomorrow, Fi."

Fiona gives your hand a quick size before you're slipping out of the office, stopping at the locker that stores your and Sierra's belongings. You're quick to swing the door open and grabbing your bag from the top shelf. The way you jam your apron into your bag is a little more aggressive than you usually handle things but you are determined to leave before you can run into Lip. Once you close your bag and slip it over your shoulder, slamming the locker door shut after you and turning quickly on your heel.

You're a bit too in your own head, not paying any attention as you head out of the small employee area, not bothering to check if someone else is coming back there.

That is your mistake, colliding hard with someone else. You're hands act on their own, grabbing at the shirt of the person you ran into to keep yourself balanced.

"Whoa-" Goddamnit.

You shut your eyes and momentary curse whatever cosmic being has it out for you today. Once you know you're steady you quickly let go of his shirt, bringing your hands close to your chest and step back a little.

It would be your luck that on your way out the door you would run into Lip Gallagher. The very person you're trying to avoid facing.

"You okay?" Lip's voice is caring as he speaks softly.

"Fine," you say, looking for a way to slip past him. He takes up most of the walkway, and there's that sour taste in your mouth. Your brain is sending mixed messages, guilt, and disgust at yourself, but your cheeks feel flush with Lip so close to you. Maybe it's his own body heat...

"Y'sure?" Lip asks you gently. "Y'look all..."

The gesture Lip makes is confusing, simply just motioning at your whole body, and it makes you want to disappear into the shitty paint job on the wall.

"Great. Just need to get home, so uh.." You gesture behind him, hoping he'll get the idea so you can brush past him.

"Oh shit. Sorry. I'll see ya tomorrow then?" Like he's sad he missed you on the shift. The sentiment makes your stomach flip, and you have to fight it down as he slips by you, his chest brushing your shoulder so you have to turn if you want to keep looking at him.

"Uh, yeah.. Pulling a double, so I'll be here all day." You're not at all keen on the idea, but one of the girls had practically begged on her knees for you to cover her shift.

Lip huffs and shakes his head with a disbelieving grin. "I'll see ya then.."

He does that nervous habit he has, scratching gently at his nose with his thumb as you give you a small wave as you leave. The interaction is only... Slightly bizarre, if you put it mildly.

Fiona slips out of her office, leaning against the doorframe as Lip walks over to the lockers.

"They seem... Off, to you?" Fiona asks Lip as he grabs his rubber apron. He spares Fiona a glance before he brings the apron over his head.

"Off?" Lip asks.

"I don't know... Like skittish? Flighty?" Fiona tries to explain the feeling that's nagging at her brain. You left in such a rush and left her no room for explanation when you brushed her off.

"A little," Lip shrugs. "Just seems like they wanted t'get out of here before gettin' dragged into more work."

Fiona hums softly, crossing her arms over her chest. Lip nods before shutting the locker softly before leaving the backroom, leaving Fiona to mull over your interaction.

The rest of your week follows the same cycle.

Going to Lip's site, getting off while he streams himself getting off, and then trying not to face him the next day.

The only one who really seems to notice your quick get aways everytime Lip clocks in is Fiona. The not knowing makes her fidgety and agitated, becoming noticeably short with people until eventually she snaps.

"Did you do something to piss them off?" Fiona grills Lip as they watch you bid Sierra goodbye before slipping out the door to the restaurant.

The look he gives his sister is offended. Offended that she would suggest he had done something wrong when he barely had the chance to talk to you this last week. It did strike him as peculiar that you managed to slip away whenever he clocked in or found a way to switch shifts so you two no longer worked similar shifts anymore.

"Why do you assume I did something wrong?" He asks. Despite his defensive position, he wracked his brain for any possible interaction that could have caused your change in behavior.

"Because they only ever leave like a bat out of hell when you come in!" Fiona exclaims.

"Well, maybe you should ask 'em, since I didn't do anything wrong." Lip says, glancing around the restaurant as he stacks dishes in his bin.

"Oh, don't give me that!" Fiona turns to him, lightly smacking his arm with the till pouch in her hands.

"What?" Lip jerks his arm away from her, as if it actually hurt. He's just merely offended by the action.

"I have asked 'em! They just say their fine and leave as quick as they can!" She sets the pouch on the counter beside the register and rests her chin on her hands.

"Maybe you did something." Lip shrugs, mouth quirking up to squish his cheek up so his eye squints slightly. Fiona turns to glare at him, but he's not looking at her. Busy doing his job.

"What would I have done that would piss them off?" Lip comes up to settle beside her, setting his bin down as if he really needs to give it some thought.

"Well, let's see-" Fiona cuts him off with a hard smack to the chest.

"Let's see nothing, asshole.." Fiona mutters, leaning against the counter as she stands up straight and watches the people walking by.

"It's gotta be somethin'." Lip shakes his head slightly, picking his bin back up.

"I'm gonna figure it out." Fiona promises her brother.

"Yeah, you do that. I'll uh, I'll be in the back doin' dishes while you try figurin' it out." Lip claps Fiona on the shoulder, gives her a quick squeeze, and heads for back of house.

Fiona huffs at him before glancing back at the sidewalk. She's going to figure it out, whether it's a big secret or not.

Fiona will find out.

[the---hermit]

11|04|2025

Honestly it doesn't feel like I have been on a break for almost two weeks. I don't feel rested at all. Sleep fails to come at night, and when it does it's agitated and restless. I feel like Monday's therapy session will be an intense one. I have been trying to fill my days with relaxing activities like gardening, reading and finally continuing working on adding stuff in my commonplace book. My focus hasn't been the best so these activities have rarely been linear, I might start reading, then lose focus for ten minutes and then start reading again, which of course makes it sometimes more tiring than relaxing. Overall I have to admit this isn't my best mental health period. I have been doing my best to be kind to myself, trying to accept that some times are more challenging than others, and I'll get out of here one way or another.

Some recent joys in no particular order (because I refuse to give all my attention to the horrors™):

Got new plants for my herb garden since last year I had to get rid of a few that were destroyed by the behated slugs

Music, my number one companion through bad mental health periods since forever, I will never be grateful enough to the beloved tunes that make my days better

Got a very thoughtful and beautiful card from @ben-learns-smth and I might have gotten a bit emotional about it but they were good emotions bc I have great friends <3

Books and the joys of escapism. I have indeed been struggling with focus but it's still worth it when I can make my brain shut up and travel to lands far far away

Spent a whole morning with my brother, we were running work errands, but we had some great silly times together and it was very good

No emails at all! Which is great because the last thing I need right now is something important requiring my attention so it does count as a joy that professors are ignoring me lmao

Had a lovely meal with my mom for lunch in a restaurant, the food was amazing and despite the fact that usually my anxiety fucks up my ability to eat outside of my home I enjoyed every single bite with no problem at all

📖: Emily Wilde's Compendium Of Lost Tales by Heather Fawcett (80 pages in and ngl I am not getting into it as much as the previous two books. Maybe this one just had a slow start. I am also not super focused rn as I said so I might be part of the problem)

[cellophaine]

Chapter II: Dégagé

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: One morsel of angst.

Word Count: 3.1k

Author's Note: Forgive my clumsy attempt at writing a job interview. I haven't been to one in two years. Also, you totally saw this coming. Right?

GIF Source

You unbutton the coat, letting the air inside melt away the layer of chill that clings to your clothes. The building looks decently maintained, but you can spot the paint peelings on the wall, revealing another layer of colour underneath. The stairs creak when you take them, announcing your arrival. You’re not ready yet. The following steps are more carefully placed.

Standing in front of the office door with the practice’s name on the glass pane, you feel inapposite. You’re playing dressed up in a place clearly reserved for working professionals. It's an unfamiliar setting with a different uniform. Skin-tight leotard for a simple white blouse, knitted shrug for a sweater vest, dance tights for trousers, and low-heel pumps for pointe shoes. The trade-off is expected, yet you still don't feel right. Years given to a ballet company had really spoiled you.

But you hate standing anyone up more than anything, so you knock on the door. The conversation inside halts, followed by the scraping sound of a chair, then hastened footsteps. A man opens the door, his expression is one of curiosity.

“Hi. Are you …?”

When you offer your name, a look of relief and recognition passes on his face. He checks his watch.

“Ah, yes. You’re a little early.”

“Is that okay? I thought being a little early is probably best.”

“Yes, of course. It’s good. It’s fantastic, actually. Two people canceled on us last minutes.”

He steps aside, holding the door for you.

“Come on in.”

You enter, and the door clicks shut behind you. The big window on the other side of the room lets the natural light in, exposing the overfilled cabinets along either side of the wall, casing a simple desk and a chair in between. There's hardly any free surface that isn't occupied by stacks of manila folders or paperwork resting on top. The man quickly redirects your attention.

“We’re going to be in here.”

You follow him and find a woman already standing to greet you. Her face brightens, and the body language that accompanies exudes friendliness. You feel the knot in your stomach slowly unwinding itself as she offers her hand to you with a smile.

“Hi. Welcome! I’m Karen Page. We spoke before, on the phone.”

“Nice to finally meet you.”

The man extends a hand for you to shake.

“I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Franklin Nelson, but everyone calls me Foggy.”

You reciprocate the gesture as he continues.

“We didn’t talk on the phone, but I thought your cover letter was great.”

“Thank you. I was worried about my application because it’s been a while since I last worked a job like this.”

You regret mentioning the fact the moment you stop talking. But Foggy seems pleased.

“Honesty. I can appreciate that.”

You give the two of them an overt observation.

“So that explains the Nelson and Page on the sign. Where's the Murdock?”

Karen offers an explanation.

“He’s running late. But we can get started without him.”

You drape your coat over the back of the chair before taking your seat. Just like before a performance, you steel yourself and feel the nervousness slowly seep out of your bloodstream on a soft exhale.

/

The initial awkwardness quickly dissipates after the first couple of questions. You understand the role they offer and the skills they require, and you go into detail about your relevant experience in administration. When you first came to the city, being in corps de ballet barely afforded comfort or the expensive rent in a shoebox apartment with Jo. You took on odd jobs and eventually landed a library assistant position at the New York Society Library. You loved the job, and you learned a lot from it. Karen and Foggy seem pleased as you recall what you did for the library for years before committing to Lady Liberty full-time as a soloist.

Foggy makes a note on the notepad before addressing you.

“As you already know, this job is similar to your previous job. You'd be the first point of contact for clients, and also provide us with internal support. But there are also things that we will need to teach you.”

You nodded.

“I understand. I was required to learn many things on the fly at the library, so I could support other departments or guests coming in. My old manager said I was a quick study.”

Foggy's eyes widen at the mention.

"Ms. Hogarth? She had nothing but nice things to say about you on the phone."

You smile and nod. Ms. Hogarth was very sorry to see you leave, and you still keep in touch from time to time via emails and the occasional visits. She'd seen some of your performances over the years.

Karen levels you with a careful look.

“I understand that you were with Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre for a long time until about a year ago. Why did you want to switch to a job like this?”

You've expected this question. You know it's inevitable. You have drafted several responses to explain the reasoning, yet are impersonal enough not to reveal anything damning that you don't want strangers to know.

“I took a break from dancing because of an injury. After the recovery, I just wanted a change since I'd danced for most of my life. I want to be in an environment where the demand for my physicality is not extreme like in ballet, as you may know.”

They nod thoughtfully and exchange a look. It goes on for a long moment before you tentatively interrupt.

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course. Do you mind if we talk in the other room for a minute?”

Foggy asks.

“Oh. Not at all.”

“We’ll be right back.”

Both of them leave the room and close the door. You're unsure what to think of that, so you sweep your eyes over the room. Brightened with natural light just like the room over, but tidier. You take a closer look at the Braille display set up in the empty seat that would be presumably taken by the Murdock of the firm. You recognize the device because there were several models of the same and different at the library. You had to learn how to troubleshoot most of them for the blind guests that came in.

The door creaks open, and the pair come back with conspicuous smiles on their faces. They take their seats again, and Foggy wastes no time.

“We would like to offer you the job, if you’re interested.”

You can't come up with a response right then. Relief washes over you, and joy draws a bashful grin on your lips. A part of you is still skeptical.

“Are you sure?”

“I know that it’s quite a big surprise. And a huge commitment. You don't have to say yes right now. We will send you the offer letter today, you can read it, and if you're okay with everything, sign it and send it back to us and we'll send you the contract to make it official.”

“Wow, I … Thank you."

A thought comes into your mind.

"What about your other associate? Do you need to wait for him to decide?”

Karen assures you.

“He’s not here, so we’re calling in an executive order. Besides, you're our favourite candidate.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, offering your hand to shake theirs.

“Thank you so much for the offer.”

“Like Foggy said, no pressure. If you do decide to work for us, and if you have any concerns or disagreements about anything in the contract, just email us, and we can discuss.”

“Arguing with lawyers about a contract they draw up? I might as well quit while I'm ahead."

Foggy laughs wholeheartedly even though you don't think the joke was that funny, and clasps your hand tightly in his.

“You’ll fit it just fine here.”

/

It was only half an hour after you left the interview when the offer letter was sent to your inbox. You’re sitting by the fire escape, allowing the heat from the radiator to warm your feet as you read the file. Working overtime is expected and paid accordingly, with an hourly rate of $19, and a basic health care plan. You sign and send the document once you finish, and Karen emails you the contract in a cheery tone welcoming you to the team. All is done within the span of an afternoon. You have a few days between now and the start date, so you spend them rumbling through your closet to find office-appropriate clothes and reading the contract and practice’s policy. And inevitably, your mind drifts to the stranger from the bar at irregular intervals.

The way his hair felt through your fingers. The solid muscles under your palm. The way his weight pressed into your body. The vulnerable display of the need for you in his handsome features. The way his unseeing eyes seemed to darken when you pulled away. The shape of his lips on yours. The way he kissed you so deeply, so exhaustively exquisite that you could feel yourself unravelling to the bones. He did that to you without taking your clothes off, without putting his skilled lips on your bare skin. He was gentle, understanding, and attuned to how you were feeling, which makes you appreciate him even more the more you think about him.

He would stay firmly in the past, in a way that you think is symbolic. You spilled your heart out to a man you didn't know as if you were ridding yourself of the burden of the past so that you could step into the future. That future is so close you can taste it, a promise of something better. It's fitting. The secrets you haven't told anyone close to you, floating away and tethering to a stranger, and like you, they disappeared the next morning.

/

You arrive early for your first day. Foggy said the key to the office would be made and given to you today. So you wait in the hallway until Karen arrives. She lets you in and walks you through the basic setup. You finish signing in on the computer when Foggy comes in.

“Here’s your key, like promised.”

He places it in your hand.

“Did Karen show you the basics?”

“Yes, she did.”

"Most of it."

Karen adds.

“Any question so far?”

You give Foggy a reassuring smile.

“Not yet. But I will definitely need help figuring out all of this."

You gesture to the stacks of paper that have seemed to grow bigger since you were here last.

The door opens again, and your heart leaps at the sight. The hair, the glasses, the cane. And the face you can never forget. You can see the furrow of his brows behind the slouched glasses, painting confusion alongside his slightly parted lips. Foggy tsks, thumbing at the man who's still technically a stranger to you in most senses of the word.

“Always late to the party, this one. I’d like to introduce you to the Murdock of the firm, Matthew Michael Murdock."

It takes Matt all but a brief second to respond while you're still processing the reality of your situation.

"Easy on the introduction there, Foggy."

Foggy repeats your name, and for a moment you're worried that Matt would recognize you. You smile anyway and say.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Murdock.”

“Likewise. I've heard so many great things about you.”

He makes a few steps forward with his hand extended, and you get up off of the chair to meet him in the middle. The shake is clumsy upon the initial contact, but the nerves you felt that night come rushing back regardless. His hand lingers longer than a formal handshake.

"There's no need for formality. Call me Matt."

You realize then that Matt doesn't recognize you. Lying to a blind man makes you feel uneasy, but it’s hardly deception if the other party can’t perceive you in a way a person with functioning sight can. There's still the matter of your voice, but you quickly dismiss the notion. It's hardly distinctive amongst the city of millions.

“Alright. By the way, if you need any help with the Braille display, I can help.”

His head slightly tilts to one side in question while Karen and Foggy look at you for an explanation.

“The library had those machines, and every so often they went haywire. I learned how to fix them.”

“Thank you.”

Matt inclines his head. Foggy pats him on the back.

“See? I told you she’s great.”

Your cheeks grow warm. Matt doesn’t show any sign that he recognizes you, which is a good thing. But it also puts you in an impasse, considering everything that happened that night. You’re not sure how to approach the subject now that he's your boss.

For now, you quickly excuse yourself to get back to work, trying hard to tame the pounding in your chest.

/

The day is slow, which you're grateful for as it took you a while to figure out the general system Nelson, Murdock and Page keeps, but still busy enough to keep your mind off of the man who's sitting a few feet away from you, separated by a thin wall. In between the few phone calls and setting up appointments and meetings, you get to work sorting the files one cabinet at a time. You straighten them out in their folders and put them back in their according chronicle. When you alert them of a client's visit, Matt says thank you with a deep, gravelly voice, and you reciprocate formally. After lunch, Karen and Foggy go down to the police station to talk to a potential client, leaving you and Matt at the office.

You're drinking out of a paper cup, thinking about ways you could make the filing system more efficient when Matt joins you in the kitchen. You stiffen and clear your throat.

“Would you like me to get you something, Mr. Murdock?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. The small kitchen only has so much space, and Matt's stature alone has taken up half of the doorway. Your heart rate spikes slightly at his appraisal silence.

“It’s you. From that night.”

It can only mean one thing. Your hands turn cold and clammy. Your mind fast forwards to the made-up scenario in which you lie to him, only to arrive at the same conclusion you did that night. Even though you're a good liar to those close to you, that doesn't seem to matter to Matt. He knows how you feel. And more importantly, he knows who you are.

A deep sigh escapes your lips.

“Yes, I am. How did you recognize me?”

“Your voice.”

He doesn't hesitate, which confuses you.

“It’s … hardly distinctive.”

“It is, to me. And I recognize the perfume you use.”

He makes a gesture in the air, which you guess is for the aroma of the perfume.

“Oh. Right."

You didn't know your perfume was that strong to begin with, and it sparks a new concern.

"Is it too strong? I can stop wearing it.”

“No, don’t. I lik– … It's not strong. It also doesn't bother me.”

You make a mental note of that.

“I didn’t know you were the Murdock of the firm.”

“I didn’t know you were the great candidate Foggy was talking so much about.”

You chuckle. Tension seems to wane through the lightened mood and your relaxed body language.

“Our pay is not very competitive.”

“I know. They told me as much during the interview, but I don't mind. I've had worse."

You let out a self-deprecating laugh to mask your nervousness.

"I just– I want to get away and work a normal job for a while.”

Matt nods. He exudes neither judgement nor pity, just like that night at the bar, but you can see the gears in his head turn through his knitted brows. You add nervously.

“Are you going to tell them? That we … almost hooked up?”

Your heart pounds harder. Please, not when you finally have this job. Matt seems to sense your uneasiness and shakes his head.

“No, of course not. It stays between us.”

“Thank you.”

An innate thought compels you to continue.

“We can just forget about that night. Technically, we didn’t cross any boundaries. It was just a kiss. It doesn’t have to be anything more. It’s not like we actually hooked up. We didn’t know each other then. We just kissed. Casually. And it doesn't mean anything.”

You internally curse yourself at Matt's lack of an immediate and obvious response. He takes longer than you expected to answer.

“No, of course not.”

A sliver of disappointment touches his tone, but his features stay professional. In the moment, you're unsure how to make sense of that.

“I know I’m asking a lot, but, can you keep what I told you a secret?”

When Matt was only a stranger to you, everything you told him was inconsequential. Impermanence, like your short-lived career. No matter who he was, you'd still leave the side of his bed just like how you'd vanish from his life. You never planned to stay the night. The small circle of people you're close with aren't privy to the most dirty details. Yet, he knows many intimate details about you in more ways than one. Maybe you told him about your situation because you finally wanted someone else other than you to know and maybe understand how hard it was to fall out of love with what you’d trained to do your whole life, yet simultaneously still seeking out its approval and acceptance. Jo doesn't understand. She said you could find another company, another theatre to dance for. But you're afraid that no matter where you go, your shadows will follow. You will always be that one forgettable soloist who couldn't secure a promotion because you weren't good enough.

You regret it – telling him everything. Matt must think differently of you now. You're not the self-assured stranger who approached him at the bar, bought him a drink and asked to go home with him. You're the flawed, unwanted person, who couldn’t bring herself to have a one-night stand. A hot flash curls under your skin at the thought. It feels a lot like shame.

Matt's voice sounds so far away, but the weight of its sincerity manages to pull you away from your own thoughts.

“What happened that night will stay between us for as long as you wish.”

His promise soothes your frazzled nerves.

“Are we … okay, then?”

He nods.

“We’re okay.”

“Thank you.”

The phone on the reception desk rings blessedly, and you excuse yourself to answer it. Matt steps aside for you to go through, and when you near him, the materials of your clothes brush against each other. The scent of cedarwood and leather grasps at you as you walk past him, smouldering and lurking in the back of your mind.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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[nikethestatue]

A Match Baked In Heaven

Hello readers!

This is my contribution to Elriel Month. The epilogue (that no one asked for) for A Match Baked In Heaven.

It's quite long (like 50 pages, no kidding), and I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for reading. This has been a journey for me. While waiting for an Elriel book, I ended up writing a whole book myself. I hope that you've enjoyed the story of Azriel, Elain and Piglet the pug.

You can always read on AO3, if you prefer.

TW: Explicit and some language

Epilogue One

These Days

And together they built a life they both loved

One day, 7 weeks later

Piglet the pug was in time out. He was downstairs, cordoned off in the corner. He didn’t have his baby Puglet with him, but at least he had Ducky and Froggy, his two other favourite toys. He rammed the enclosure angrily a few times, howled, attempted to cry, but he knew it was no use, so he stopped pretty soon after he started. No one was listening to him anyway. There were no snacks. Not even water! As far as he was concerned, this was cruel and unusual punishment. Maybe he was going to be taken to the pound after all.

And for what?!

So he fell into a pond! So what? 

And he didn’t even fall, technically. 

He dove into the pond.

Basically, what had happened was very simple. Earlier today, he went to the park with his Elain and dad. Not their usual park in Russell Square, but St. James’s Park–they even took the Tube to get there. Piglet liked going on the Tube, even though he was required to sit in a bag, which was beneath him, but he managed it, because the park promised something really fun and exciting. 

It was a gorgeous morning, sunny and warm, and once they were in the park, dad bought them treats, and Piglet received half a croissant, which he ate immediately, and then wanted to eat the rest of it. Elain put it in a paper bag, promising the other half later. Piglet wasn’t sure why it needed to be later when it could be now? He was ready to eat. Any time, really. Truthfully, eating was his favourite thing in the world. 

While he contemplated this needless wait to eat the last of the croissant, he saw a huge flock of various birds, and that tore his attention away from the pastry. The flock was enormous. Huge. Geese and ducks and pelicans and so many more birds that he didn’t know the names of! So he gave chase. The birds scattered away from him, but he pressed onwards and rushed them, until they dropped into the pond to escape him. Ha! But escape him they couldn’t, because he ran after them and then promptly dove into the pond himself. Which, on reflection, was probably not the best idea. He heard his Elain scream out loud, and others also shouted and gasped, while dad definitely cursed, and there was a lot of commotion on the lawn. Problem was that Piglet couldn’t see well, with all the water splashing around him and the birds descending all around him, clucking and squawking and snapping. Some of the bigger birds surrounded him, and Piglet became a little worried and disoriented. Especially when some of them attempted to peck at him. He tried to swim away from them, but instead of aiming for land, he somehow ended up in the middle of the pond, his paws working frantically to keep him afloat. His mechanical leg became very uncomfortable and pressed down on him, pulling him beneath the water. He struggled, trying to work all his four legs and turn towards the grassy banks, but he wasn’t successful. The water was heavy and cold, and the birds swarmed around, slapping him with their wings, so much so that Piglet couldn’t see where Elain and dad were. Frantically, he splashed and barked, until, to his immense relief, he finally spotted dad, who had jumped into the pond and swam to him. Piglet stayed afloat, pedalling as hard as he could and gulping on air, while trying to dodge the birds. At last, dad’s strong arm wrapped around him and mercifully, he was pulled out of the water and away from the birds.

“Get a pug, they said,” dad muttered angrily under his breath, “it will be fun, they said.”

They swam together, Piglet in the circle of dad’s arm, feeling scared and guilty, but also relieved. 

“Piglet, what did you do?!” Elain cried out, her voice very terse and reprimanding, once dad walked out of the pond, both he and Piglet soaked through. Dad dumped Piglet unceremoniously on the grass and Piglet assumed that at the very least Elain would be happy to see him. But no. Instead, she rushed to dad, who tore his t-shirt off, and began wringing it out, while others applauded and cheered. 

“He is for sale,” dad announced, while he poured water out of his shoes and took his wet socks off. “A quid?! Anyone?!”

Piglet didn’t think that this was funny.

“60 pence?” Dad offered. “20? Any takers?”

There was laughter and Piglet growled unhappily.

This was very rude and he wasn’t for sale!

“Likes meatloaf and dips in the pond,” dad advertised loudly. 

While dad tried to pawn him off, Elain came over and sternly said, “that was stupid and irresponsible, Piglet. You know better. You are going on time out when we get home. And no treats. No cheese. No toys.”

-

…Piglet supposed that the good news was that no one bought him and that he came home at the end. They didn’t go on the Tube, but hailed a taxi and dad needed to sit on a plastic bag and shirtless for the duration of the ride. The driver was amused once they explained the situation to him and laughed. Elain seemed very interested in dad’s naked torso, her hand wrapped around his arm and the other stroking his bare stomach. And when she got like that, Piglet already knew what would follow. Wrestling.

Oh god. The wrestling. 

After that day when he bit and scratched dad, when dad came back for Elain and Piglet then had to go and live with grandpa, there was a lot of wrestling. He was rarely invited of course. Sometimes he saw–wasn’t sure what was going on exactly–but they were naked and tussling about. Sure, Piglet wrestled with dad all the time, and he loved it. He also liked it when big man Cassian did it with him and Dev too. But they weren’t naked!

-

Three weeks before that

Overall, things have been a bit strange since that day–the day when there was a big party and dancing and good food. Piglet couldn’t complain, really, he spent quite a long time at grandpa’s afterwards and it was incredible, as always. Grandpa also had a new lady friend, and she was very nice as well. But when dad came to pick Piglet up and they came home, Piglet noticed that Fey and Elain weren’t talking, and Elain was angry with Fey, which was very surprising, because they never fought. Fey wasn’t allowed to visit and Piglet wasn’t permitted to give her hugs or play with her. 

One day though, when dad was out playing with his ball–Piglet loved running in the park with dad and playing along with him, but he couldn’t go with him every time–Feyre came over and she and Elain were shouting at each other, when they woke Piglet up from his nap. No one ever shouted around Piglet, so he woke and became immediately confused about what was happening. 

“You had no right!” Elain was telling Feyre, when Piglet quietly came downstairs and looked between the two of them, keeping an eye on Feyre. Aunt or no, Piglet was always there for his Elain–to care for her and to protect her. Even if she needed protection from Feyre.

Feyre sat at the kitchen counter, her expression sad and pensive, as she whirled a tea cup aimlessly with her finger. 

“I think you are overreacting,” she argued.

Elain, her hands on her hips, glowered at her and sneered, “I am sorry? Pardon? I am overreacting?”

“You are! Nothing’s happened,” Feyre defended stubbornly. “I knew that he was not going out with Gwyn! He told me his plan and I agreed to help him, and,”

Elain buried her face in her hands and moaned, “Do you understand what it did to me? Do you?”

“What?!” Feyre was angry, her face blotchy with red spots of annoyance and embarrassment. “You are acting like it was the end of the world,”

Piglet jumped when Elain’s enraged voice startled him, as she screamed, 

“It destroyed me, Feyre!!! Destroyed me,” Elain wrung her fingers, tears brimming in her eyes. “It killed me. When I thought that he had left me, that he wouldn’t be in my life, that I wouldn’t be with him and wouldn’t be able to love him, that I didn't have a future with him. Do you understand? Do you understand what those two months were like for me?”

“Why are you blaming me? And not him?!” Feyre cried out defensively. “It was his idea and I only helped,”

Interrupting her Elain yelled, “At least I know that his misguided attempt to trick me was done with a purpose,”

“And I helped with a purpose!!” Feyre shouted at her, her face red.

Piglet growled at her in warning.

She ignored him, not cooing or petting him, like she always did. 

“I did it,” she panted, “because I love you, Elain,”

“That’s love?” Elain’s voice was cold and condescending. “You must be crazier than he is–and he is quite mad–if you think that this is love.”

“It is!” Feyre insisted, “because we did it for you. When he came to me and asked for help, I didn’t hesitate. I knew that you were too cowardly to make that step,”

“Shut up!” Elain screamed at her. “Shut up! I don't want to hear this!”

“You never do. You want to pretend that everything is fine and splendid and that worldview somehow absolves you of making difficult decisions,” Feyre spewed angrily. “Instead of taking charge, you just avoid responsibilities and,”

“I need you to leave my house, right now,” Elain ordered, her hands on her hips, her face contorted in rage. 

“I will do no such thing!” Feyre yelled. “You can’t throw me out!”

“Yes, I can. It’s my house and I don’t want you here! You betrayed me, Feyre,”

“You are being ridiculous,” Feyre threw her hands up, exasperated. “I simply helped my future brother-in-law get his girl. Small price for me to pay for what he did for me,”

Wiping angry tears, Elain snapped, “And what is it that he did for you that was so special?”

The question seemed to have sobered Feyre up a bit and she hung her head, before whispering, “he introduced me to Peer…And…Because of Azriel, I have a life I never even dreamed of, Elain. I love him for it. And yes, I would do it again,” she declared firmly. 

Elain was just shaking her head, angry and confused.

Feyre ran her fingers through her hair and added,

“And I think that I did a good job planning the wedding!”

And that was the wrong thing to say, because the reminder set Elain off again.

“And how dare you?!” Elain snarled. “It was my wedding. Mine! And it has been my dream to plan my own wedding since I was a little girl. And you took that away from me, Feyre. I should’ve planned my own wedding the way I wanted it!”

Sharply, Feyre told her, “stop freaking out over some wedding. You are being ridiculous. It’s one day,”

“The one day I wanted to make my own!” Elain yelled.

“Well, too late now,” Feyre shrugged. “Scream all you want, but I did a bang up job organising everything–for you–the flowers, the food, the invitations. You know how difficult it was to do on such short notice?! I had less than six weeks to get all of it done, with minimal help.”

“Oh, oh,” Elain huffed hysterically, “pardon me, am I supposed to be feeling sorry for you now? Am I supposed to just forgive you and move on?”

“I don't need you to forgive me because I’ve done nothing wrong!” Feyre declared. “Besides, you actually married the man who orchestrated all of this and put you through hell. So don’t give me this BS!”

“It’s none of your business,” Elain hissed back. 

“Then neither is me helping him!” She then turned towards Piglet and demanded, “Piglet, come here and let me cuddle you!”

Piglet got up, but he looked at Elain, seeking permission, unsure of what to do. 

“Piglet, sit!” Elain hissed at him.

He sat down obediently. Waiting.

“No, come here,” Feyre told him. She turned to Elain, sniping, “Azriel promised me unlimited hugs from Piggy. I am here to collect,”

“Too bad Piglet is mine!” Elain growled at her. “And I decide how he is treated. You aren’t touching him.”

Piglet didn’t move. The thing was that he wasn’t thrilled to be involved in this tug of war between the two sisters, and he didn’t like human drama. But he had to listen to his Elain. Firstly, she was the one who kept him alive, and also, she was his treats dealer, so as much as he enjoyed cuddles, he did not want to upset the delicate balance of his pampered life.

“Piglet, come here,” Feyre insisted, snapping her fingers. 

“You need to leave,” Elain ordered, showing Feyre to the door. “And you,” she pointed at Piglet, “sit there.”

He sighed and sat.

“Guess that’s the thanks I get for getting you together with your husband and planning your stupid wedding,” Feyre muttered bitterly under her breath, before suddenly jumping off the stool and pouncing on the pug. 

He yelled loudly from being startled and took off across the sitting room, running around and diving under the furniture, while she chased him aggressively. Elain cursed loudly and ran behind her sister, trying to grab her by the shirt and pull her back.

…Azriel Night opened the door to the house, only to be greeted with wild commotion and screaming. Just as soon as he stepped over the threshold, his pug leapt wildly towards him and Azriel scrambled to catch him mid-flight. Piglet’s eyes were wild, he was panting and wheezing, his body was shaking and once he was in the circle of Azriel’s arms, he began to bark and cry out loudly, almost choking because he was so upset.

“Okay, okay,” Azriel was muttering, stroking him and rocking him against his chest, “it’s alright, my sweet boy. Daddy's home. It’s okay. Calm down. Calm down,” he kissed Piglet’s head, while Piglet complained hysterically, barking and screeching.

“What the hell did you two do to him?!” Azriel demanded of the two sisters, who were standing in the hallway, facing each other like two enraged bulls. If they began stomping with one leg, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Both were crying. Not sadly, but angrily. Elain’s fists were balled. Feyre was wiping her face so hard, she was leaving red streaks on her cheeks.

Unexpectedly, Feyre turned to him and burst into tears. Genuinely sorrowful tears. 

Azriel was taken aback, not knowing what to do exactly with all these emotions and not knowing what had caused them. Feyre wasn’t known for weepiness–she was usually fairly calm, funny, fun, a bohemian darling with money and influence, who was going to become a society lady once she settled into her marriage to Peregrine. But crying? Feyre didn’t cry. Especially not like this.

He set two paper bags on the floor and muttered ‘I got Chinese for dinner’, whilst not knowing what else to say. And not understanding as to what was happening between the sisters. Oh, and the dog.

“She hated the wedding!!!” Feyre sobbed, startling both Piglet, who hiccupped and snorted into Azriel’s shoulder while watching Feyre warily. “She hated it,” Feyre wailed further, “I worked so hard on it, and she didn’t like it,”

“I didn’t say that!” Elain cried out defensively. “I just said that I wanted to plan my own wedding,”

“You hated it!” Feyre snarled in a rage. Then she abruptly turned to Azriel again and jabbed her finger in his direction, “it’s all your fault! Yours! You made me do this for you and now…” she sucked in her breath, “now I am in a fight with my sister. Because of your stupid games!”

He sighed and then opened his other arm, and at once, Elain trotted over to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. Just the way she always did when he came home. This was a pattern that she’d established almost right away after their wedding–if he was coming home after her, she waited for him no matter what. And then, once he stepped inside the house, she rushed to him and kissed him. Every time. Without fail.

Azriel squeezed her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raised her face so he could look at her. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he whispered softly. “Are you being a troublemaker?”

Before she could respond, he dipped his head and kissed her. Her soft, plump lips tasted of vanilla. She succumbed to the kiss instantly–the way she always did and her lips opened up to him eagerly. God, he’d never tire of kissing her, would never stop savouring every delicious morsel of her, would never cease touching her gorgeous body.

Feyre grimaced, muttering, “just stop it, you two!”

Azriel pulled back a bit and kissed Elain’s cartoonish, round eyes, stroking her face with his knuckles.

“Tell Fey that you liked the wedding,” he urged her, kissing her again.

She pursed her lips stubbornly and glared at him. Meanwhile, Feyre also glared at him. 

“I told you she didn’t like it!” Feyre exclaimed desperately.

At last, Elain grumbled, “it was fine”.

“Baby,” Azriel wrapped his arm around her waist, while releasing Piglet and setting him down on the floor, “be nice. I worked on our wedding too, you know. I’d like to think that you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

“Don’t make her say it!” Feyre hissed with annoyance, “because I know that it’s not true!”

“What I think is that tempers are still running pretty high,” Azriel reasoned, stroking Elain’s hip gently, while Feyre scowled at them, commenting, “it’s impossible to be around you two. You two make me sick!”

Azriel chuckled and kissed Elain’s temple. 

“We are newlyweds,” he reminded her.

Feyre made a choking sound somewhere deep in her chest and went to grab her bag,

“Between you two constantly pawing at each other, and dad dating your mom!!!!” she almost screeched in horror, “and then Nesta and Cassian supposedly going out, though they wouldn’t say anything to anyone,”

At that, Azriel smiled, because it was true and his brother remained very tight-lipped when it came to his new romance with Nesta. 

“I can’t deal!!!” she angrily dragged her bag behind her. “I can’t!” she exhaled loudly. “And I know she isn’t grateful to me for the wedding and ordering the types of flowers that she wanted, and I…I,” she sniffed, “I worked on the menu with the chefs because I knew that you’d want a traditional wedding lunch with classic dishes!”

Elain opened her mouth to say something, but Feyre was on a roll, and she continued, counting off on her fingers, “Did you get the Scottish salmon and the Welsh crab? Like you always wanted?! You did. Did we source the best lamb for you? We did. The peas and the asparagus from Rosehall? You got that as well. The honeycomb cakes that you showed me years ago? The mini-trifles decorated with roses,”

“Fine!” Elain cried, exasperated. “I appreciate it. I appreciate you paying attention and then including it all in my wedding,”

“Sweetness, I ordered a gorgeous cake,” Azriel decided to pipe in at the most inopportune moment. That had Feyre’s eyes blazing and she turned to him and snarled, 

“It’s your fault. You said that you will make it right! I don't see that happening–we barely even talk and we never fought before,”

“Sorry Feyre,” Azriel interrupted her, his tone calm, but his voice cold, every word measured, “but this is where you got it wrong,”

“Got what wrong?”

“You thought that I was the nice bloke in this story. You thought that I would play fair. But I am not nice. I’ve never been nice or good. I am the one who gets what he wants.”

She glared at him, while Elain’s mouth popped open, and she looked up at him.

He continued, “what I wanted, from the very beginning, was Elain. My Elain. I wanted to make her mine and I needed to marry her. And that’s what I did. And I would’ve used any means possible to achieve that.”

He shrugged.

“And that meant using everything and everyone at my disposal.”

Feyre glared at him with disgust.

“And you used me?” she snarled.

He nodded calmly, and said, “sorry, Fey. But I did.”

“Both of you are awful. Simply awful,” Feyre announced despondently. Then, she looked at her sister and pointed her finger at her, “in case you didn’t already realise this, but he is a psycho!”

“He isn’t a psycho!” Elain argued defensively. “He is just…motivated.”

Azriel chuckled softly to himself at that. He liked it. Motivated.

“No, he is an obsessed psycho,” Feyre insisted, “and you are too dick-blinded by him to see it.”

“Can you blame her?” Azriel asked cockily.

“This is what I am talking about.” Feyre huffed and added, “I will be expecting apologies from both of you promptly.”

Azriel shrugged, “I am not apologising for getting my wife.”

“You two deserve each other,” Feyre hissed through her teeth. 

It was Piglet who interrupted another tirade that was brewing. The takeaway bag was knocked on its side because the pug was rummaging inside of it aggressively. 

“Piglet,” Elain began, but he pulled his head out of the bag, holding an eggroll in his teeth.

Azriel gasped, muttering ‘I swear…don’t you dare!’

Piglet looked him dead in the eyes and clamped his teeth over the eggroll, swallowing half in one bite. 

The humans watched him in shock, while he chewed quickly, giving them a challenging look and daring them to stop him.

“I am not taking him to the vet!!” Azriel bellowed. “I don’t care!”

“Piglet!!” Elain cried, lurching towards him, but he grabbed the other eggroll from the bag, clutched it in his teeth and took off down the hall, looking over his shoulder to see if she was chasing him.

“What if,” she turned to Azriel, eyes dramatic and scared.

“He is fine,” he cut off. “He eats all kinds of crap all the time and he is fine. I don't think that the eggroll is filled with grapes or raisins or garlic, so–he will survive.”

They didn’t even notice that Feyre snuck out of the house, shaking her head. 

They didn’t care. They had each other. They had that pug of theirs. She was superfluous. She just needed to decide if she was going to forgive Azriel, and hope that Elain forgave her. 

-

Back to Today (Seven Weeks Later)

Azriel Night loved being married. 

And that took him by surprise.

For a period of time, he was so consumed by obtaining what he wanted more than anything in his life–namely Elain Archeron–that he barely gave any thought to what his life would look like once he made her his.

Truth be told, he wasn’t a very imaginative man. He was goal oriented. He wasn’t prone to daydreaming, and was usually perfectly pragmatic. While this served him well on the pitch, and in life, and during training, it was not as useful when it came to having dreams about his future with his new wife. Therefore, once he wed her and fucked her most thoroughly, he was at a bit of a loss as to what the rest of his life would look like. Because prior to their wedding, they didn’t go through any of the ‘normal’ steps of a relationship. They hardly even dated. Did they date? Azriel wasn’t sure. All he knew was that they had gone on a couple of date-like outings. Did they live together? No. Did they manage a household together? No. They haven’t even had sex prior to the wedding. Only Feyre and Rhys’s relationship was stranger than theirs. Somehow, and Azriel had no idea how that happened, it was Cassian and Nesta who were the well-adjusted ones, and who made rational decisions, following the customary steps of a relationship.

So Azriel didn’t know how to be married. But it didn’t matter, because he absolutely loved it.

He loved waking up next to a soft pile of beautiful flesh nestled next to him–he loved the scent of her, her quiet sleeping and how she didn’t snore or make any noise, and he loved his nose being buried in her hair. She was warm and soft and exactly what Azriel always craved in his life. She was safety and love and home. He loved gently pinching her nipple while she was still asleep, the intimate gesture serving as a reminder that Elain was his and that he was allowed to do this now.

He liked sneaking glances at his new, simple wedding band and how it glinted in the sunlight. He never took it off. He especially liked looking at his scarred, dark hand, as it wrapped around the smooth softness of Elain’s pale breast.

Despite everything–her titles and her surname–on official invitations, she was called Mrs. Azriel Night and he grinned like an idiot to himself upon seeing it. And what surprised him was just how many invitations arrived at their house. He didn’t expect to be wearing his morning suits, his formal suits and even his tuxedos quite so frequently, but apparently, being married to a Marchioness from an illustrious family, obligated her to attend numerous events. The days consisted of them receiving hand-delivered boxes with newly minted hats for Elain–at least that’s how it felt to him. Wide-brimmed hats, fascinators, cute pillow box hats, twisty hats with all kinds of ornamentation on them, big hats, small hats. Every outing required a different type of hat, as he quickly found out. So. Many. Hats. In the past seven weeks, Azriel had already attended Commonwealth Day, a few fancy horse races, including Cheltenham, and the Royal Windsor Horse Show, with the Chelsea Flower Show coming up soon, which was apparently a huge deal. He knew that he needed to psych himself up for this flower extravaganza, but he was willing to do that for Elain, knowing how much she loved flowers and how much she was looking forward to the show. Next week, they were going to attend the annual Royal Garden party, which was held at Buckingham Palace. Azriel had met both the King, and the Prince of Wales a few times before, mostly through charity initiatives that his team was involved in. This was going to be different–he was going to be a guest. He’ll be eating canapes and drinking Pimms Summer Cups he assumed. Yeah, that was strange. But he was looking forward to it nonetheless. 

The Derby Festival was going to take place after the flower show, and then throughout the summer there was going to be Chestertons Polo in the Park, followed by Cartier Queen’s Cup.

The two biggest events were in June–Trooping the Colour (the King’s Birthday), and soon after, the Royal Ascot. The sisters were expected to attend, and Azriel was actually looking forward to both events.

For Azriel, all of these aristocratic festivities had to be balanced with the upcoming European Champions League tournament. Arsenal were also on track to win the European Championship title, and he was pretty chaffed about that. That would make for a nice feather in his cap for the year. 

Yeah, married life was busy and exciting. However, nothing compared to the quiet evenings that he and Elain spent together. Sometimes they cooked dinner together, played music in the background, danced, kissed, then ate, and hardly ever made it upstairs before tearing at each other’s clothes and fucking in one of the reception rooms. Pink usually gave them a look that said ‘not in front of my salad!’ and rushed upstairs to escape the debauchery. He was a fancy and spoiled prude. 

When the weather was nice, they strolled all the way to Marylebone or to Fitzrovia, taking Piglet with them on a lengthy walk, though Azriel knew that he’d have to carry the pug all the way back after dinner, since Piglet gave up relatively easily. The one requirement that Azriel had was that he had to hold Elain’s hand the entire time they were outside. She never refused and the moment he wiggled his fingers, she laced hers with his. For Azriel, the simple gesture that Elain offered him so eagerly and freely meant more than he could ever express. 

Every day, he loved learning something new about his wife. She could eat sushi every day, probably for every meal. It was mesmerising just how much of it she could consume, but he watched her polish sushi like it was going out of business. She had a pretty little birthmark on her hip, which he loved kissing. Her unique ability to understand him and acknowledge the tidings of his moods was something that he still struggled to even comprehend, let alone appreciate fully. It’s when his head was loud that Elain could sit near him in silence and simply…be. It’s when she caressed his hand, gently tracing the patterns of his scars with her fingers that he shuddered from the realization that all of this–his whole life, his marriage, his Elain–might not have happened at all. If it weren’t for Cassian and his ridiculous plan to engage the services of a matchmaker, Azriel wouldn’t have met Elain. He wouldn’t be loved in the way that she loved him. He wouldn’t know joy. He wouldn’t have known peace and wouldn’t have been understood the way only she managed to. It terrified him sometimes, especially at night, when she was sleeping so peacefully next to him, that they might have passed each other like two ships in the night. All of this could’ve gone poof. 

Azriel wasn’t a religious man, but he liked discovering patterns and he enjoyed figuring the ins and outs of fate. And Elain–she was fate. She was meant for him. Of that, he was absolutely certain. Whatever it was–G-d, the Universe, some Higher Power, the Matrix–it delivered Elain to him via a convoluted path full of strange and twisting threads. If he wasn’t abused and neglected as a child, and if his beautiful mother didn’t have an even more beautiful sister who married a Lord, then Lord Darling wouldn’t have adopted him. If he wasn’t adopted, then he wouldn’t have become a footballer, and certainly wouldn’t be in line for part of the inheritance, which meant that Cassian wouldn’t have needed to research exclusive matchmaking services, and he wouldn’t have come upon Elain Archeron, who came highly recommended. And if Cassian didn’t push and prod and press, and if Rhys didn’t get involved, pushing, prodding and pressing Azriel into agreeing to this matchmaking madness, then none of them would’ve met their wives and girlfriends. It was like the three sisters were made specifically for the three of them. Azriel wasn’t an angel by any stretch of the imagination and somewhere, deep inside, he felt a glimmer of remorse for how he handled pursuing Elain, and then putting her through virtual hell, and for the game that he played with her, and for how he almost broke her heart, but he also knew that he was worthy of her. Despite everything that he’d pulled, right or wrong, he was worthy of her. If he had Elain and his brother, his cousin and Pinky, then he was worthy of loving, and of saving. 

One undeniable truth about Elain that Azriel had learned–and wasn’t exactly surprised by–was that she was a ‘good girl’. Lady Elain was for the sheets, not for the streets, as his young teammates would say. Unless it was one of her posh functions, Elain pretty much spent most of her time with her pug, her sisters, and a few close friends, and only went to cafes, galleries and restaurants. There were parties that she was invited to, events, openings, and charity galas, but she was selective about her attendance. Because the Archeron family was so wealthy and prominent, they were patrons of many charities and initiatives, and Elain often went as the family representative. Azriel enjoyed those evenings, because it meant ‘dress up day’, where Elain looked like a fairy princess in her bespoke gowns, family jewels and even tiaras sometimes. He didn’t mind playing the supporting role, basically being nothing more than a tuxedo-clad elbow for her to hold on to, but it also made some kind of beastly, primitive pride rise up deep within his chest. Mine. ‘Mine’ it roared. She was his. He was the one who got to take her home at night, he was the one whose name she carried on paper, and whose seed she carried inside of her. It was absurd, and Azriel was well-aware of it, but he couldn’t help himself. She was his wife, a very hard-won wife, the love of his wretched life, the one who accepted him for what he was and loved him back, and he prided himself on his new status every day. He was a husband, and it meant something to him.

Azriel was in his favourite place. The whole incident with Pinky falling into the pond and almost getting pecked to death by angry ducks was mostly amusing. Azriel didn’t have the heart to be angry with the pug, even if Piglet was now in jail, downstairs. For a few minutes Pink pretended to be a wolf, and howled in indignation, but then he quieted down, and Azriel figured that he’d fallen asleep. 

Meanwhile, Azriel and Elain made it upstairs to their bedroom, which was now painted a light sage green instead of the maroon colour, and Azriel loved it. Yes, he, a wealthy, strong, powerful male moved into this woman’s house. Oh, the horror. His younger teammates dropped hints on how it was demasculinizing and how a man should never move into the woman’s house. He was now the head of the household and he needed to establish his dominance. It made him smile and he retorted by telling them that he wasn’t in prison where he needed to establish his dominance. He understood where they came from, however, he also knew that there was no way in hell, under any circumstances, Elain was going to move out of her enormous historical townhouse that’s been in her family for 5 generations. And he didn’t want to either. He didn’t need to displace her from her neighbourhood, from all the familiar conveniences, all the historical charm, all the shops and shopkeepers who still maintained their presence amidst the bustle of London and who knew Elain by name. It was becoming more and more rare in the city, this long and dedicated chain of occupancy, and he certainly wasn’t going to find it in Canary Wharf. He kept his penthouse, because why not? But he was very happy to live here, in leafy Bloomsbury, in his Georgian house, overlooking a square and a park, with the Lamb being his local pub, a proper, no sports screenings pub, where Charles Dickens supposedly frequented. There were good restaurants around them, cafes, bars, and he felt right at home soon after he moved in. The move took about an hour–Azriel quickly realised that he had few precious possessions that he valued and despite his wealth, what mattered to him were a few trinkets from his childhood, some of his football trophies and his clothes. 

Now, Azriel was in his favourite place.

The windows in their bedroom were open, letting in early summer breeze, the thin curtains fluttering in the wind, while the background noise of the city provided a steady, familiar soundtrack. 

Elain was sprawled in front of him, propped on her elbows, her full, soft breasts swaying in her hands with every push of his cock inside of her. He held her legs under her knees, spreading her wide for his enjoyment. He was moving with deliberate slowness, digging his shaft deep inside of her, stretching and expanding. She always needed a good, slow, deep stretch, because only then could her tight pussy take him in fully. She was still wrinkling her little nose, biting her lower lip, as he prodded her back and forth, pushing his cockhead deeper and deeper. 

“Goddamn,” he whooshed a breath, “you are tight. This beautiful pussy is scorching hot…”

“You are so big,” she whined, wiggling her hips so she could take him better. 

“You like how big I am,” he chuckled, and reached down to pinch her swollen, red nipple, making her gasp with pleasure and pain when he twisted it in his fingers. He tugged on it then, jiggling her whole pale tit until she moaned loudly. “That’s my good girl,” he approved, pounding a little harder into her now, opening her up fully. “You love this big dick in your tiny pussy. Feels good?” 

She blushed prettily and nodded, because he knew that despite his size, she loved getting fucked.

This was probably the biggest surprise of his married life so far. Elain Archeron Night adored sex. Azriel always had a high sex drive and could go multiple times a day, his revival period almost nonexistent. But that didn’t mean that women liked the same thing. But his Elain, his perfect willing Elain, was his match in every way. He never doubted her in anything, and she proved him correct this time around as well. She took his dick however he wanted her to, whenever he required it. She was perfectly, deliciously submissive and pleasing him came naturally to her. She loved it. She liked doting on him in general–cooking for him, caring for him, feeding him, buying him nice things. But it was her body that she offered to him without hesitation or with excited eagerness. 

Every morning, without exception, started off with her slithering down his body and taking his member in her mouth. He set the expectation from day one–’first thing I want to feel every morning are your lips around my cock’ he told her and after she timidly confirmed ‘every?’ he only nodded and said ‘every’. And his sweet girl obeyed without an argument. God, he loved her. 

After their wedding day, for a week, he forbade her from dressing at all. She was naked all the time, and the only thing he allowed her to wear was his clothes–usually a shirt–and only when she got cold. That whole first week, he just fucked her pussy. Constantly. She was swollen and dripping his cum beautifully, filled to the brim at all times. He was merciless with her, wringing endless orgasms from her spent, aching body. When she was in pain, he licked her sweet slit, fingering her ruthlessly, waiting until she would start begging for his cock again. Pain or not, she let him use her divine hole as much as he wanted. Her hole was indeed magical and breeding her became an obsession with him. Filling her over and over with cum, knowing that she was carrying him inside of her at all times was an instinctual pleasure the likes of which he couldn’t even imagine before. His woman, fucked and filled, fucked and filled. Nothing compared to the elation that he felt watching his cock disappear inside of her body, and her just taking it and taking it. 

“Azzzz,” she moaned loudly, throwing her head back, but Azriel tsked at her and commanded, “keep fingering your titties, beautiful. And watch us. Watch how I ride you.”

Her breasts bouncing within her palms, she finally managed to look up, while rubbing her nipples between her fingers. Azriel smiled and nodded with approval. Her gaze dipped down her stomach and he cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers in her thick hair, making her watch. 

He pushed on her knees, spreading her legs wider and said, “keep like this. I am going to pull your pussy apart, alright?”

She nodded, not caring that her knees were almost by her ears and that she was stretched in front of him obscenely. This is what Azriel liked and she lovingly offered it to him. He’d confessed to her a couple of times that sometimes he struggled with himself, with his clinical need for her, his desire to possess her completely. On some level, she understood, and she knew that it settled him when she submitted to him and to his cravings for her.

When he was inside of her, he liked to pull the folds of her pussy apart, so that her whole slit was completely exposed. She watched him do that right now–his fingers clasping and pulling her open like a book, where he was the only one who knew how to read the language of her pleasure. He was thrusting hard and deep now, filling her completely, his balls slapping over her ass, their mutual laboured breathing the loudest sound in the bedroom. Cold air washed over her wet, spliced slit and she loved the sensation. It was debauched and graphic, and she was happy that with him, she could be completely free. 

He pumped smoothly and steadily in her, complimenting her once in a while, murmuring ‘taking it so well, sweetness’ and ‘look how deep I can fuck you’. 

“Az, can I taste it?” she requested shyly and he grinned at her. 

“You want to taste it, naughty girl?”

“Mmm,” she nodded, dragging the tip of her tongue over her teeth. “Please…” she begged.

“You haven't come yet,” he reminded her, but she shook her head stubbornly, “but I want you to come. Please. In my mouth. I need to taste you,” she pleaded again and gently caressed his hands that were still on her pussy. 

“Well, beautiful, if you are asking so nicely,” he chuckled, but began pumping her hard, making her bounce on the mattress. Her full breasts, squeezed between her upper arms, swayed heavily, and he watched the sensual movements of her flesh, before dipping his head and sucking her nipple in his mouth. “I want to destroy your pussy today,” he growled into her breast, watching her as he bit her nipple until she cried out. “Ahhhh,” she screamed, as he pounded deep into her tight, slick passage, his cock greedy and insatiable.

He straightened out and grabbed her under the knees, his thrusts hard and firm, inescapable in their ferocity. “You can take it,” he told her assuredly, even when she winced and clutched at the bedcovers, squeezing them hard. But she only nodded, and he smiled. 

“Why?” he prompted.

“Because I love you,” she breathed heavily, eyes full of adoration and need. “And I am yours.”

“Damn right you are!”

“All your holes are mine,” he grunted savagedly.

She nodded again. 

“Mine to take, mine to use, mine to ride, mine to fill,” he chanted under his breath, his brow knitted from exertion.

“Yes, my love,” she acquiesced, “it’s all yours. I still want to taste you,” she reminded him sweetly. “I want to lick myself off your gorgeous cock,”

“You love sucking me off, don’t you, sweetness?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I do,” she agreed breathlessly. “I dream about your beautiful cock all the time. The way it fills me…it shouldn’t be legal,”

At that, Azriel laughed and slowly withdrew from her with a pop. Her opening pulsated and squeezed and he pushed three fingers inside, rubbing her in order to soothe the sensation of loss. His dick was huge and wet, ready to burst. 

“Hands and knees, now,” he growled hoarsely, and she scrambled to scoot on the bed, and got on all fours, opening up her mouth impatiently. He stepped forward and muttered, “lick. Taste us,” and she began to lick his heavy, dark shaft up and down, watching his reaction.

“That’s my good girl,” he stroked her head. “How does it taste? Do you taste good all over my dick?”

She was panting, only managing to utter, “so good,” as she licked frantically. 

“You are being so good to me today,” he stroked her cheeks with the backs of his hand and she murmured, as she kissed the length of his member, “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Ellie. Now fill your mouth with my balls, sweetheart, and start sucking,” he gathered his sack in his hand and then pushed it into her mouth. She choked a bit once she wrapped her lips around it, but adjusted quickly and settled beneath his cock, sucking his balls with scrupulous attention. 

Without interrupting her, Azriel reached for his nightstand and pulled the drawer open. 

“You are doing very well. Keep sucking,” he ordered, rubbing his cock in his hand, while he rummaged inside the nightstand. After he got what he wanted, he muttered under his breath,” I think this one,” and Elain already knew what he was looking for. She just didn’t know which one  he’d choose. 

Smoothly, he pulled his balls out of her mouth and easily thrust his cockhead inside. It was wet and leaking precum, and she licked the little slit, before he pushed his hips forward and filled her mouth more. 

“Okay, this one or this one?” he thrust in her mouth steadily, fucking it with firm, precise thrusts, sliding the head of his dick down her throat with every push. 

He showed her the two butt plugs–one medium and one larger. She blinked at him, her eyes tearing up from how hard he was thrusting in her mouth, and looked at the larger one. He laughed. “Good choice, beautiful. But no lube, okay?” he stroked her head again, petting her and softening her up, making her compliant. She pouted, but then inevitably nodded. 

“Now you can suck, sweetheart,” he directed, “while I put this inside.”

Azriel was rough as a lover and therefore, he didn’t hesitate to inflict a decent amount of pain on her. While she enjoyed it, being naturally submissive, he also took it as his absolute responsibility to inflict said pain smartly, and then tend to it as well. 

He loved putting the plugs into her while he was in her mouth. He was so tall, that it wasn’t uncomfortable for him to reach over her body, while her head bobbed by his navel as she began sucking his cock in earnest. His large, warm hands pulled her cheeks apart and he admired the tiny pink hole, which twitched in anticipation. He spit on it, his saliva dripping down slowly over her crack before picking up the larger plug and rubbing the tip over her puckering hole. 

“Don’t tense up,” he urged her. “Just keep sucking like you love to. It’s all for you, my love. I’ll let you swallow once the whole thing is inside, okay?”

She nodded somewhere near his stomach and he began pushing the plug into her asshole. 

She moaned softly over his shaft, and he teased her with a fake sympathetic voice. “Does it hurt a little bit?” 

It did hurt. This was a heavier, wider plug. Smooth and cool, it stretched her anus steadily, propelled by the strength of Azriel’s hand, but the initial penetration was uncomfortable. 

“The prettiest hole, opening up so nicely for me,” he gave her ass cheek a sharp slap and she yelped. She wiggled her hips, because he was pushing hard and firmly, until she felt her hole give in and swallow the plug entirely. It rested comfortably in her rectum, and she exhaled with relief. 

“Plugged!” he announced happily and then slapped her ass again. 

Allowing her no more than a moment to adjust, he pulled the plug out roughly from her ass and she gasped, but he held her head, so he could fuck her mouth uninterrupted. “I love my beautiful girl,” he murmured tenderly, his tone and gentle words in stark contrast with his skull fucking her aggressively that very second. “Shhh, shhh,” he soothed her, “I am going to put it back.” She stood on her hands and knees compliantly, wincing when he pushed the plug back inside, while having her mouth fucked harshly. She couldn’t breathe properly, her throat stuffed with the thick cockehad, her mouth stretched to the limit over the thick girth of his dick, while he drove in and out of her, keeping her head immobile in his grip. Meanwhile, he thrust and then ripped the butt plug in and out of her anus in the same rhythm as his cock in her mouth, and all she could do was pant and slurp loudly, accepting his impassioned assault on her body. 

“Do you love how your husband uses you?” he asked, watching her intently, once he shoved the plug all the way up her ass, leaving it in here, and cupped her head between his huge palms. Lightheaded and feeling almost sleepy from the lack of oxygen in her brain, because his dick was basically suffocating her, she was docile and submissive–just like he liked it. Her asshole hurt from the harsh back and forth of the plug, but she enjoyed the sting of pain, feeling how her rectum relaxed and widened, preparing to take his massive cock inside at some point today. 

He held her head so she could watch him, her eyes wide and blinking, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, lips red and swollen. 

“Do you like it?” he insisted, lightly brushing the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

She nodded, and while her legs barely supported her, she cupped his ballsack in one hand, and caressed it lovingly while he pushed in her mouth, choking her. He smiled at her, his expression full of adoration and appreciation. This was Azriel in his most stripped down–rough, brutal and untamed, but also kind and awed by her love for him. Like he still couldn’t believe that she was his and that he got to do all these things to her. 

Cupping her chin in his hand for support, he whispered, “pull your cheek apart, beautiful. I want to see that stuffed little hole.”

She obeyed, reaching back and spreading her asscheeks for him, so he could see the flat handle of the plug atop her tiny hole. 

Azriel had trained her to learn to get used, and then enjoy anal quickly in their marriage. After the first week, he finally offered some relief to her used, swollen pussy, only to start on anal. Elain was of course an anal virgin, and he gleefully ravaged her ass the first time, relishing in the fact that this specific virginity was all his. It was the only one that mattered to him–he wanted to be the first one to breach and ride her untouched asshole. How he rode her that first time–she’d never forget it. It was pain and intense pressure, it was watching the smooth, pink head of his cock pushing through the tight rim of her anus, it was tears that he kissed away, and her loud cries. It was him making her watch the first penetration, so she could witness her own deflowering. She was awed and horrified at the progress of his heavy, hot cock as it pushed and disappeared inside her ass. It seemed impossible. How could her tiny hole open up to take the enormous pole of his dick? But she took it, like she took everything. And then the first ride–greedy and ravenous on his part, pushing and pushing and pushing his delicious, thick dick in her ass, with all-consuming gluttony born of his desire to possess her. Yes, she cried, and perhaps begged, though she wasn’t sure if it was for him to continue, or to stop the torment, but god, it felt too good and strangely instinctual to simply surrender to him and take in all his fervent energy. That first time, he used her asshole for a full 13 minutes–nonstop. ‘Ruthless' didn't even describe him, in the way he moulded her over his cock and made her his. He was both savage and loving, but also, ruthless…yes. Merciless. He ripped her open, until she gaped obscenely from the drilling that she received. He took photos too–his cock fully lodged in her asshole, her pussy splayed open, his fingers spreading her, every inch of his cock as he thrust inside captured and then when he began pounding her rectum, he filmed the whole thing. The first time Elain took his cock in her ass was forever immortalised on his phone. (Later, they’d watch it together, frame by frame, on the big screen. She was embarrassed at first, watching herself in hardcore porn, pussy and ass exposed as wide gaping holes, then her mouth full of cock, tits fucked, cum smeared all over her face…But it became one of her favourite things to watch now. Now he filmed them often. Any time they tried anything new, he filmed it, but also when he went especially hard on her, he usually reached for his phone, so he could capture every moment of her surrender.) 

That first time, she passed out at some point from the overwhelming sensations, the deep ache, and then the brutal orgasm that he somehow wrenched out of her broken ass. He slapped her gently to revive her, and when she opened her eyes, she still had his dick in her ass, buried inside of her up to the balls. That was the only pause that she received, before he started pumping again, his fingers in her mouth, making her suck, so she couldn’t disassociate again. She sucked, and he pounded in her, and she gaped for him, and she orgasmed violently on his dick, and he came, only to make her orgasm again just from the sensation of his cum filling her ass to the brim, and without softening, he started the whole thing over again. 

Ever since then, anal became a normal part of their sex life and they had it daily, and when she got her period the first time after they were married, she dramatically declared that they couldn’t have sex. To that, Azriel, visibly confused, said, “well, you have three holes. So…” And that was that. Usually, he chose the holes which he would fill, but Elain also had little tells of where she wanted to be taken, and he knew how to read them well. 

“Ready to swallow, my beautiful girl? You are choking so perfectly on this dick,” he shook his cock in her mouth, demonstrating how she was gagged by it. 

Her face was wet with tears and saliva, but she knew that he loved the look of utter destruction on her face. Holding her chin and the top of her head, he drove harder in her mouth, his cock swelling impossibly thicker and twitching on her tongue, before she felt warm, salty jets of his semen pour down her throat. Swallowing it greedily, she licked his shaft, before he spilled the rest on her chin and her neck. 

“Fuuckk baby,” he moaned loudly, head thrown back. “My damn perfect cocksucker,”

She laughed at his crude words, wiping the cum delicately with her fingers and sucking it off. 

“Is it a compliment?” she inquired, collapsing back on the bed. Her muscles were stiff, her hips ached, her back was sore. Her legs fell wide apart and she stretched, arching her back, while he climbed on the bed and then bent at the waist and kissed her clit. 

“It’s always a compliment,” he assured her. 

She then reached between her legs and adjusted the plug in her ass, pushing it deeper and then grinding her hips on the bed. Wincing, she rotated it slowly inside her hole, while Azriel watched hungrily, licking his lips. “It’s so tight,” she complained, cautiously pumping herself a few times with the plug, until she finally pressed it as far as it would go and lowered her hips on it. He smiled, watching her, and kissed her soft, smooth thigh, laying his head on top of it. 

He turned on his side and looked up at her, lazily mashing her bare tits in his fist. 

“Fucked you good, sweetness?” 

She sighed contentedly and stroked the top of his head, looking at him dotingly. He found the plug between her thighs and lazily pushed it back and forth in her ass, without withdrawing it fully, but mostly just massaging her rectum.

“Az, you fuck me like a man possessed,” she laughed softly, “but I can’t get enough.”

“I love how swollen your pussy is,” he mused, looking at her red, puffy slit. “So I was thinking…”

His sentence was interrupted by the doorbell downstairs. 

Azriel frowned and glanced at Elain, who also looked confused. They weren’t expecting anyone. Sunday was tomorrow, Azriel wasn’t playing, and therefore they were going for Sunday lunch at Rhys and Feyre’s. The whole family was going to be there, but regardless of that, their family typically didn’t just drop by unannounced. 

“Maybe it’s a parcel delivery,” Elain proposed, sitting up in bed no longer as relaxed as she was just a minute ago. Azriel scooted over, gathered her breasts in his palms and sucked her nipples one after another, murmuring, “they’ll go away.”

She almost managed to relax back into the pillows and he continued sucking on the round, tight tips of her breasts, when the bell rang again.

“Goddammit,” he hissed and managed to tear himself away from her at last. Downstairs, Piglet began to bark with annoyance, probably having been woken up from his nap. Elain watched Azriel hop on one leg, as he hurried to pull on a pair of gray sweatpants and kept missing one leg. She laughed softly at his attempts, and then told him, “you should be fined for wearing those! It’s cruel and unusual punishment!”

He grinned.

“For who?”

“For me!!” she squealed. “Look at you! I want to pull them down and latch onto your cock like a sucker fish.”

“Jeez, baby,” he drawled, “you and your abnormal sex drive!” He pulled on a t-shirt and begged with fake outrage, “I am not a piece of meat to be ridden!”

“Yeah you are,” she huffed and he exploded with laughter at her nonchalant tone.

“Also, sucker fish, beautiful?” shaking his head, he left the bedroom barefoot and still laughing.

-

…The moment Piglet spotted Azriel, his little rough barks escalated, going from annoyed to enraged.

“All right, all right, I will take you out of your jail,” Azriel waved at the angry pug, “just give me a sec,” and went to open the front door.

In front of him stood a tall, fit, handsome man with a pale aristocratic face, slicked back reddish-brown hair, dressed in a three-piece expensive navy suit to boot. He was holding an equally expensive umbrella, and a folded newspaper under his arm. The man assessed Azriel with an ill-disguised sneer on his lips and then announced, “I am here to see Elain Archeron”.

Azriel hummed to himself, also assessing the man in front of him just as unfavourably, while trying to figure out how he knew him. Because he did. Somehow, he knew him.

“And who are you?” he finally queried and folded his arms on his chest, his bulging muscles, tattoos and scars on full display.

The man wasn’t fazed though. 

“Who I am is irrelevant. You may step aside,” he suggested imperiously and Azriel’s normally placid expression changed to a surprised one. The man had balls. Credit was given where credit was due. 

“Well,” Azriel sighed and calmly explained, “I would love to step aside, but seeing as this is my house, I am reluctant to do that for a stranger.”

“Your house?” the man cocked his groomed brow at Azriel.

After a pause, Azriel said slowly,

“My house. My wife. My dog. My space. What do you want?”

The man paused under the heavy glare of Azriel’s stormy eyes.

After a long pause, Azriel pressed, “You were saying?”

“Elain lives here?” the man confirmed, his voice less confident now. He actually briefly glanced at the house number, making sure he was in the right place. 

“She does,” Azriel nodded. “Elain Archeron Night. My wife.”

“Your wife,” 

“Fuck. You are Eris!” Azriel exclaimed, interrupting. “I knew I recognised you!”

He stopped short of calling Eris ‘horse face’, though granted, close up, the man was actually quite handsome, with a regal, relaxed bearing. 

“I am afraid that I don’t recognise you,” Eris scoffed haughtily.

Azriel smirked knowing that that was a lie. Eris knew him and who he was to Elain–their little phone exchange from all those months ago was proof.

“So, what do you want then?” Azriel didn’t move from his spot in the doorway.

“As I already explained it, I need to speak with Elain,” Eris all but growled, clearly unused to being denied.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Azriel played stupid and asked, “why?”

“Seeing as that I am her boyfriend, I think it’s a private matter,” Eris was beginning to get agitated, forced to stand there, like a delivery driver. “To be discussed with her and her only.”

Azriel clocked the man’s discomfort, but made no move to invite him in. Eris was the reason that Elain had been saying ‘no’ to Azriel for months. He wasn’t just going to let it go. 

“Well, seeing as I am her husband, I think I have a say in who I allow into my house,” Azriel stated blandly. 

Eris scoffed and muttered ‘husband’.

Azriel didn’t react, then sized the man up obnoxiously, knowingly making Eris tense and on edge. 

“I am waiting,” Eris finally ground out, tapping his foot impatiently. “I do have other engagements.”

Azriel shrugged and reminded Eris, “you came here. I didn’t invite you.”

“You are quite rude aren’t you,”

Chuckling, Azriel said, “you have no idea.” He said at last, “Come in then. Just know that if she doesn’t wish to speak with you, I won’t make her and you’ll need to leave.”

Eris ignored him and shouldered his way inside the house. He obviously has been here before, because he dropped his umbrella into a stand and then made his way to the back of the house, bypassing the reception rooms and walking purposefully to the parlour and the kitchen. Azriel trailed him unhurriedly, murmuring ‘make yourself at home why don’t you’. 

Upon seeing Eris, Piglet bared his teeth and growled, which was hilarious from a pug and not at all threatening, but Piglet was a biter when he wanted to be and he could inflict damage if he so wished. Eris, meanwhile, rolled his eyes at the snapping pug and went to sit down in a leather armchair, which Azriel never used, since it faced away from both the kitchen and the TV. If Elain was cooking, he certainly would’ve wanted to be facing her and not have her stare at the back of his head. Apparently, Eris didn’t have such qualms. Instead, he crossed his legs and unfurled the newspaper that he was carrying. 

“I see your attitude hasn’t changed,” he noted dryly, without looking at Piglet. 

Azriel lifted the pug out of the enclosure and set him on the floor. Piglet immediately ran to Eris and gave him a full staredown, panting angrily.

Eris glanced at him over the edge of his newspaper and said lazily,

“Mother of god, what is she feeding you? You’ve gotten even fatter than before!”

Piglet cocked his head and stared Eris down, before turning around and running away with demonstrative disinterest. He rushed to the kitchen and to his bowl. Upon seeing that it was empty, he turned around and gave an enraged growl, glaring at Azriel.

“What do you want?” Azriel asked, smirking, because he knew that he was inviting a huge fit from the pug.

Piglet tapped his paw on the bowl, explaining to the dumb human what he desired. He was starving. Famished. Faint with hunger.

Azriel went to the butler’s pantry and returned with two dry pebbles of food, which he dropped into the bowl. At that, Piglet glared at him hatefully and then he grabbed the bowl in his teeth and tossed it on the floor. It bounced noisily and Piglet stomped his feet impatiently, running to the bowl and then banging it around on the floor.

“Oh, so this is the attitude you will be giving me today?” Azriel barely suppressed his laugh, as he crossed his arms, watching the rampaging pug.

At that, Piglet tossed the bowl again and it clattered loudly, which, in turn, solicited a moan from Eris, who snapped, “will you stop that?”

“Give him food so he’d stop throwing tantrums!” He commanded Azriel.

Before Azriel could even respond, Piglet stood in the middle of the kitchen, threw his head back and howled with indignation, before taking off down the hallway and up the stairs, barking all the way, his tone cantankerous and complaining. 

“Well, now you did it,” Eris scoffed, still reading his paper. Azriel ignored him, and quickly began preparing a very attractive platter of food for Piglet, which consisted of cucumbers, apple slices, hard boiled eggs, tuna and a dollop of peanut butter. It was a feast fit for a king. 

Eris turned his head, watching Azriel fuss over the plate, and then demanded,

“My god, when is she coming down? Can’t you summon her?” he glanced at his watch and added, “if she isn’t here in five minutes, I am going upstairs to fetch her.”

Azriel froze and then slowly tossed away the egg shells.

“My wife is not a dog to be fetched,” he said slowly, annunciating every word. His dark tone made Eris take note. Azriel continued, “I will allow this in regards to Piglet, because he is an affable, if temperamental pug. However, my wife is off fucking limits. Do you understand? You will respect her in her own home. You will respect her outside of it as well. If I ever hear of you talking shit about her, to anyone, ever, and playing the jilted boyfriend, I’ll call up my lads and they’ll pay you a visit that you will not enjoy. 

“As I said before, if she wishes to speak to you, she will come downstairs when she is ready. And,” his voice dropped almost to a whisper, “if you even think of attempting to get my wife, out of my bedroom, in my house, I will break both of your legs right here, right now. Got it?”

Eris swallowed, but said nothing.

“I repeat,” Azriel pushed, “do you understand?”

Through gritted teeth, Eris hissed, ‘yes. I understand’.

“Excellent!” Azriel declared jovially. He continued to chop food for Pinky’s lunch, and then said, “see, Eris,” he paused, “or is it Lord Eris?”

“Eris is fine,”

“Brilliant. See, the thing is that you and Elain wouldn’t have worked out anyway. You don’t have polarity,”

“Oh, is this your professional opinion?” Eris scoffed. “And what is this polarity?”

“Simple. Elain and I are opposites in many ways–she is a lovely soft thing with curls and smiles and choco eyes, who likes pastries, detests working out, and is happy with her pug and a walk in the park. I am very much the opposite in every way. However, what she lacks, I give her, and vice versa. I lack many things, and she manages to fit all the corners and edges with her softness and kindness. It feels good. To know that I have her in my corner. Because I genuinely need her. Without her, I am just me. But with her, I am a complete man. A man I actually like.

“You didn’t appreciate her when you had her. And maybe, she didn’t fulfil you in the same way she does me, but it’s your damn loss. Because she is the best person. My favourite person. I’d choose her and to be with her over anything and anyone. 

“Not gonna lie–I did some crazy things to get her, because believe it or not, but she was still hung up on…you? So I had to push her a little. Did some things that I am not entirely proud of, though I’d do them all again in a heartbeat,”

“What did you do?” Eris queried.

Azriel shrugged,

“Many things. Lied. Yeah, mostly lied. Gaslit her. Tricked her. But I was going to have her, because she was worth fighting for. Nothing was going to stop me, because once she filled all those jagged parts of me, I liked how it felt. I wasn’t going to let that feeling go, no matter what. That’s what polarity is. She takes what she needs from me, and I give it, willingly. Same with me. And you weren’t interested in that arrangement,”

“What do you know?” Eris taunted, though Azriel knew that he was scratching some painful wounds and that Eris didn’t like it very much. Azriel didn’t care. 

“I know that she is now my wife. And not yours.”

“Is this so-called ‘marriage’ even legal?” Eris pondered.

Before Azriel could answer, they heard Elain’s steps and Piglet’s snorts, angry barks, growls and howls. He was still complaining loudly about everything that transpired.

“It’s okay,” they heard Elain’s comforting cooing, “it’s okay. Don’t be angry, daddy was just playing with you," Piglet barked indignantly, but Elain continued, “I am sure he has lunch prepared for you. He just plays a little rough with you. But you love him.”

She appeared in the wide hallway at last, carrying Piglet in her arms. 

While Azriel would’ve preferred that she’d come downstairs wearing only his shirt or his hoodie, looking freshly fucked, he was also pleased that she did not. That was for him. He had no intention of sharing that with Eris, or anyone else. 

“My love, who were you talking to?” she asked, while setting Piglet down.

The pug rushed to Azriel, smelling all the food that was awaiting him.

“Mates?” Azriel squatted and extended his palms out. Piglet gave him a doubtful and assessing look, but after a moment, got up on his hind leg and offered Azriel a full body high five with both paws. “Oh yeah,” Azriel grinned. “That feels good!”

“Oh my god!!” he heard Elain’s cry. “Eris! You are here. In your chair!”

In his chair? Azriel didn’t react, but only set Piglet’s plate in front of him, thinking that the only chairs that they had were theirs. Eris certainly didn’t have anything of ‘his’ in their house. Also, it somehow didn’t surprise Azriel that Eris would choose the most awkwardly positioned chair to be his favourite. Why did that make sense?

“What are you doing here?” Elain asked sheepishly, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Eris did not rise to greet her, and remained seated, which made Azriel’s hackles rise. Whatever disagreements Eris was having with Elain, and Azriel imagined that there were many, still didn’t preclude him from being polite and getting to his feet when a woman entered his vicinity.

“Well,” Eris reached into his suit jacket pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “I am here, because a few months ago, I came upon this interesting document,” he handed it to her, but Azriel beat Elain to it, and sidled in front of her, taking the paper from Eris. No way was he going to allow Elain to go to Eris like some obedient dog. Stepping back, Azriel unfolded the paper and immediately recognised the screaming headline from the Daily Mail:

OFF THE MARKET!

By Lily Suriel

Published March 8, at 12:43 pm

Inside Azriel Night’s and Lady Elain Archeron’s private wedding reception. 

It can now be revealed that the captain of Arsenal, Azriel Night has married his girlfriend, Lady Elain Archeron. On March 7th, Azriel and Lady Elain surprised a small group of attendees by tying the knot in a traditional civil ceremony at the Old Chelsea Town Hall. 

The details of the secret reception have remained largely undisclosed, but the couple celebrated with their closest family and friends, among them Sir Charles Archeron, the bride’s father, and her sisters, Lady Nesta and Lady Feyre. Lady Feyre’s husband, Lord Rhysand Darling, and Cassian Night, the groom’s brother, served as best men. 

The bride wore a stunning form-fitting ivory satin gown, decorated with flowers and antique lace panels, while the groom opted for a formal navy suit, eschewing the traditional morning suit.

The wedding luncheon was served for 40 guests, with the reception room decorated with white and cream roses, and white and purple hydrangeas. Each table was elegantly set with 19th century English porcelain plates and cutlery dating back to the reign of King George III, courtesy of the Archeron estate. 

The British-themed menu was prepared by the couple’s favourite chef, and featured Welsh crab and langoustines, smoked Scottish salmon, English peas, roast lamb, all accompanied by copious amounts of champagne. The guests then heard hilarious speeches by Cassian Night, some of Mr. Night’s teammates, the bride’s father, and Lord Darling. The luncheon concluded with honeycomb cakes, mini English trifles, fresh strawberries and cream. 

Emotions ran high when Mr. Night, in his own speech, spoke movingly about his love for Lady Elain, and thanked her for choosing him as her husband. He called her ‘his dream’ and his ‘ultimate desire’ and explained how marrying her was the culmination of his life’s greatest passion. One especially poignant moment came when Mr. Night told the story of how, still early in their relationship, Lady Elain had guessed his favourite flower. She has always been a voracious gardener, and flowers held a special place in her heart. She told him that his favourite flower was the humble tulip. She called it straight, dependable, without frills or embellishments. Mr. Night then admitted that until she told him that, he didn’t have a favourite flower. It wasn’t something that had crossed his mind. However, hearing her words made him realise that through her eyes, he was able to see the beauty of the world. And at that point, his life exploded with tulips, because Lady Elain brought colour and joy into his life. 

When he finished his story, there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd.

His impassioned speech concluded with laughter, when he asked Lady Elain’s beloved pug Piglet to accept him into the family and trust him with Lady Elain’s safety and well-being. Piglet barked in agreement.

The day concluded with dancing and cocktails. The newlyweds’ first dance was to the song ‘Home’ by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. It was an unusual choice, followed by a vast collection of songs with the same theme–home. 

Dancing continued through the late afternoon, and culminated in a couples’ dance to Rihanna’s provocative ballad ‘Love on the Brain’. After that, the guests saw the newlyweds out to the awaiting Rolls Royce, showering them with flower petals.The party resumed at the mansion of Sir Charles Archeron in Mayfair.

No photography was allowed inside the venue and no wedding photographs have been released by the couple. 

The marriage has been confirmed by Mr. Night’s agent, as well as the Archeron estate. 

The article included a few photos of the venue, and a blurry photograph of the two of them exiting the doors, half-obscured by flower petals and guests.

This was Elain’s decision–she did not want any wedding photos floating out there, for the public to see. She grew to be very protective of her wedding, and as time went on, Azriel felt extreme pride over how he managed to arrange everything and organise a day that ended up fulfilling all of Elain’s wishes. She even forgave Feyre (sort of) for her involvement, because Feyre did such a good job with the food and the flowers. Elain was still unhappy about the deception, but Azriel and Feyre managed to mollify her in the past seven weeks. 

“Imagine my surprise,” Eris said dryly, “when I suddenly learned, from the Daily Mail, no less, that my girlfriend married another man. Who, from my understanding, was her client?” he stared at the two of them with a hateful little smirk.

Elain squirmed, tugging on the hem of her dress, her cheeks flushed. 

Azriel wasn’t flustered in the least. Instead, he admired Elain’s sweet beauty, and the pretty summer dress that she was wearing. It was covered in tiny sunflowers, with capped sleeves and a full skirt, which accentuated her slim waist. It struck him, at the oddest times, like right now, that somehow, he was married to this girl. She was his wife. This beautiful, elegant, ethereal creature was his and he was punching so high above his weight, it was off the charts. 

“All of this,” Eris continued, making a wide gesture with his hand, “following months of me trying to get in touch with you and you not responding.”

“You weren’t!” Elain even stomped her foot with indignation. “Don’t lie!”

“I am not!” Eris snapped. “How dare you?”

“Hey!” Azriel stopped him. “Calm the fuck down,”

“My girlfriend married another man–I think that I am entitled to lose my temper!” Eris seethed back at Azriel.

“First of all, she is not your girlfriend,” Azriel reminded him bluntly. “She is another man’s wife. Second of all, I am kind of curious about something,”

“And what might that be?” 

“It might be that the article is from the beginning of March. We are now seven weeks down the road and here you are…you didn’t think to come and confront your girlfriend earlier?” Azriel placed his hand on the back of Elain’s neck, beneath her messy braid. He squeezed her heated flesh gently, centering her, calming her, and supporting her. He wasn’t dumb and realised very well that this wasn’t a conversation that she wanted to have. The man used to be something to her, but he was also an arse, and Azriel didn’t mind exposing him as such, particularly because he could sense that Elain was feeling guilty.

She then glanced at him, his words penetrating her brain and her face scrunched into a grimace.

“Yeah, actually?” she questioned, turning to face Eris.

He seemed to be taken aback, but recovered quickly and said,

“Well, it doesn't seem like you were waiting for me or my approval, were you? Besides, as I said before, you ignored me and did not respond to any of my calls or messages. I took the hint, Elain,” he concluded bitterly.

“I did not ignore you!” she protested. “You never rang me. Never messaged.”

“Yes, I did!”

“No you did not! I can show you my phone,” she offered heatedly. 

“Do that,” Eris insisted.

As they argued, Azriel ran his hand down her back, soothing her, until his fingers skimmed over the skirt of her dress. And then he paused. Because he felt it. The end of the butt plug. His beautiful, naughty girl–she left it inside. He worked really hard on maintaining the mask of indifference on his face, but all he wanted to do was grin stupidly. Instead, he palmed her fine ass and squeezed lightly. Elain stiffened, but short of swatting his hand away, she couldn’t do anything, because Eris would’ve noticed it. Azriel smirked and watched Elain rush to grab her phone as evidence. She marched back, arm extended and handed the phone to Eris. 

“See, there is nothing from you!”

“You could’ve deleted it,” Eris argued, as he looked at the screen.

“I did not!”

He thumbed the phone and then stopped abruptly and shoved the phone back at her,

“I am blocked!” he hollered, “look! The number is blocked,”

She looked genuinely confused and exclaimed, “I didn’t block you!”

“Then who did?” he demanded.

“I don’t know!” she cried out earnestly.

Azriel stood still, arms crossed on his chest, watching the two of them whilst they turned their heads towards them in unison. It was actually comical.

“Did you,” Elain breathed, wide-eyed, staring at him.

“Did he block it…” Eris’s lip curled in distaste. “Oh, I imagine that he did. Serves you right too,”

“Excuse me?” Elain swiftly turned back to face Eris.

“What did you expect?” he shrugged. “You chose him. A footballer!” Eris’s expression was that of utter disdain. “From…I do wonder where he is from. Actually, no, I don’t care. Something like Lewisham or Barking I imagine,”

Azriel wrinkled his nose and bubbled his lips, “Ouch. Fancy you being rude to me in my own home?!”

Eris was an anomaly, actually.

Azriel knew a rather large number of posh people. Once he was adopted by Lord Darling, he was thrust into a brand new world, and it consisted mostly of very posh people, posh and wealthy people, or simply wealthy people. In Britain, one could be poor, but upper class, and wealthy, but lower class. Lord Darling’s acquaintances were all upper class. And yet, Azriel always found the most titled individuals to be easy-going, humble and self-depreciating for the most part. He was never made to feel unwelcome or as someone ‘less’. Their reputation might not have been great, but in reality, they were helpful, generous and friendly people. Even when he met Elain and her sisters, despite all of their titles and wealth, Elain’s ‘otherness’ primarily revolved around her love for pearls and pugs, and not her attitude. These people all loved their dogs to an unhealthy degree, their old 200-room country piles, hunting, tennis, polo and rowing, and calling their parents ‘mummy and daddy’ even when they were adults. 

In any event, Eris was the condescending, sneer-y type, which surprised Azriel. It just wasn’t how these people behaved, and Azriel knew that Eris held his unfavourable views outside of the fact that Azriel stole Eris’s girl. 

“Did you block my number on her phone?” Eris snarled.

“Of course I did,” Azriel looked at him like he was stupid. “I wasn’t going to let my woman talk to some dipshit who left her.”

“Dipshit?” Eris spat venomously.

“Sure are,” Azriel stepped closer to Elain, took her by the hand and pulled her to him. “Because if my girlfriend wasn’t responding to my texts and calls, I’d be alarmed. The least I would do is I’d start ringing her sisters, her father, stalking her socials, trying to find out what’s going on with her. You didn’t do any of this. So you can thank me. I did you a favour, you know. Now you are off the hook for being a shit boyfriend and an even worse human,”

“You are a bit of a cunt, aren’t you?” Eris got up from the chair at last.

“Oh yeah,” Azriel nodded eagerly. “I absolutely am. But I still wouldn’t leave my girlfriend for a year, and I would raise an alarm if she wasn’t responding to me. But also, I’d be man enough to break up with her decently if I was no longer interested in her. I wouldn’t string her along, making promises that I didn’t intend on keeping. But then that’s just me,” he shrugged, holding Elain to him. Her hand was trembling in his. He rubbed his thumb over her fingers and then smiled at her.

Eris stared at Elain then and said, “I don’t have a dispute with him. He just took what was freely available and who can blame him? My question is–when did you start fucking him? Spreading your legs for a footballer…”

One moment, Azriel was standing in the middle of the room.

The next moment, he was on top of Eris, and Eris was on the floor, gasping and thrashing. Azriel's massive hand was collared around the other man’s throat, squeezing, his knee pushed into Eris’s gut. Eris wasn’t a small or weak man–he was over 6 feet tall, fit, muscular, but nowhere near as physical as Azriel. But nevertheless, he bucked and attempted to throw Azriel off–but, with his oxygen cut off, he couldn’t help but flail, instead of fighting. 

“Az!” Elain hollered, her hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide with shock.

Both men were nearly silent, only shoving and pushing at each other, each one trying to overpower the other, with Azriel having the upper hand. But two huge men grappling on the floor was not without chaos and destruction. Eris’s leg shot out from under him, knocking at the coffee table, toppling it on the floor, along with whatever was on top of it. 

The commotion even brought Piglet into the room and away from his lunch. He rushed to see what the heck was happening, a piece of apple still stuck in his mouth. Watching two men on the floor, wrestling, made him rush to join the fray, because he thought that they were playing. And he loved wrestling with dad! But Elain stopped him with her foot, ordering ‘no!’

Piglet stopped abruptly and looked at Elain in confusion. 

“You are going to get hurt,” she warned him and he immediately swallowed the rest of his apple, and rushed to stand in front of her, protecting her.

“Az, that’s enough!” she cried out, too scared to approach them in fear of getting hit in the commotion.

He only shook his head slowly, gritting out through his teeth,

“I warned him to keep your name out of his goddamn mouth! He didn’t. These are the consequences. You don’t walk into my house and insult my wife.”

“You are going to kill him!” Elain pleaded.

“Maybe.”

Eris’s limbs grew heavier and his movements slower, but also jerkier.

“Az!” she begged again.

“Don’t ‘Az’ me, baby,” Azriel shook his head, but also released the grip on Eris’s throat just a bit.

“But I don’t want to have conjugals in prison with you!” she complained, pouting, but secretly pleased by how he was handling the situation.

“Beautiful, first of all, the idea of a conjugal is kind of turning me on. But also, no court will convict me. This is justifiable homicide!”

At last, he released Eris and sat back on his hunches.

Eris was gasping and hacking, his face bright red, his eyes wild, his hair messy. He was clutching at his throat, gulping in air, a look of disbelief and fury contorting his face.

“You fucking maniac,” he managed to rasp at last. “I am filing charges for assault!”

Azriel shrugged indifferently,

“Be my guest.”

Eris glared at Elain and roared, “You are my witness! You saw what he did!”

She shook her head and said, “I didn’t see anything!”

“You did, you little b..,”

Azriel snarled again and asked, “want more? Because I will beat your arse,”

Eris staggered onto his feet, swaying in place, while Piglet watched him like a hawk, growling softly.

“I am going to go out on a limb here,” Azriel stated calmly, “and say that perhaps it’s safe to say that Eris and Elain are not endgame material. I am guessing that this will be the end of your association. It’s better for us all.”

“You’ll hear from me!” Eris warned, his face still flushed and sweaty, while he attempted to smooth his hair down. 

“I really hope that we won’t,” Azriel argued placidly.

Piglet ran down the hallway first, showing Eris out, whilst Azriel wrapped his arm around Elain’s waist and walked slowly behind the stomping Eris.

“Oh, and I think that Morrigan is still available. Maybe you two can rekindle your romance. That night when you were texting me–well, Ellie, technically, but I intercepted the messages–you were awfully concerned about Mor. Poor Mor being paired with…what did you call me?” he clicked his fingers, pretending to recall. “Oh, yeah, a mongrel.”

At that, Elain stiffened and looked between the two men, her expression furious.

“You called Az a ‘mongrel’?” she barked. 

Eris shrugged, adjusting his tie. 

“Serves both of you right. See you around, Elain. Can’t say that this was a pleasure.”

With that, he shoved the door open and just about tumbled down the steps.

“Likewise!” she shouted angrily behind him.

Piglet offered a parting bark and then rushed back towards the kitchen, eager to finish his lunch. 

Azriel followed him, smirking. All things considered, the confrontation went well and he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be hearing from Eris any time soon. 

-

He headed to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water, before almost dropping it on the floor, because he was faced with his wife, she stood with her arms crossed, a furious look on her pretty face.

“What?!” Azriel exclaimed. “What did I do? He deserved it, by the way!”

“Oh, he deserved it alright,” she agreed, “but I am not talking about him. I am talking about you!”

“What about me?”

“Is there something you didn’t lie about?” she confronted him. 

“What did I lie about?”

“What didn’t you lie about?!”

He uncapped the bottle and then told her, “Omitting certain truths isn’t exactly lying.”

“That’s precisely what it is!” she argued, throwing her hands up.

Azriel took a sip of water, and went to open the patio door to the garden. It was a perfect day and their cherry tree and their magnolia were in full bloom, not to mention all of Elain’s flower beds. 

“Hey big lad, you want to go sunbathe?” Azriel offered and Piglet rushed to the door, especially when Azriel tossed a ball out on the grass. 

Once outside, Piglet immediately found the sunniest spot and perched himself in the grass on his stomach.

Azriel meanwhile plopped into ‘Eris’s chair’ and looked up at his glaring wife, who was stomping about the room, her face pinched.

“So,” he invited, “let’s hear it. What’s gotten you all irate? Is this our first fight, by the way? Our marriage fight?”

“Yes, it's our marriage fight!!” she shouted, “because all you do is lie to me!”

He tsked, shaking his head slowly.

“I don’t lie to you. At times, I omit information.”

“It’s the same thing!” she exclaimed.

“No,” he argued. “Just because I am not running to tell you about something I did, doesn’t mean I am lying to you,”

“Gaslighting then!”

He sighed and said, “I’ll only admit to that in relation to Gwyn. Everything else is just…unimportant…”

“You blocked my boyfriend’s phone number in my phone!”

Azriel frowned at her words and then straightened out in the chair, leaning forward and draping his tattooed arms over his knees.

“Beautiful,” he warned softly.

“Fine, ex-boyfriend!” she corrected herself quickly.

“I think exactly for this reason,” he scoffed. “If you are still thinking of that wanker as your boyfriend.”

“I am not!”

Azriel ignored her and added, “and by the way, tell me, if you were so worried about him, why didn’t you reach out? Asking you the same question that I asked him–if you were invested in that relationship, I’d think you would be worried if you haven’t heard from your boyfriend,” he sneered at the last word, “for months.”

She bit her lip, glaring at him, but not having a good enough answer.

“Ahh,” he bubbled his lips. “Perhaps you didn’t care enough? Because you could’ve checked your phone at any point. You could’ve discovered that the number was blocked. You could’ve rang his office. You could’ve emailed him, for goodness sake! But you didn’t do any of that.”

“That’s not how it is…” her voice trailed.

“No? You sure? Because maybe, deep down, you didn’t want to hear from him. Maybe, you were quite happy with how things were progressing. With me.”

Elain blushed, but mumbled, “it doesn’t make it right…”

Azriel shrugged.

“I simply sped up the inevitable.”

Then he smiled and opened his arms to her,

“Why don’t you come here, beautiful. I think that you’ve been a bad girl,”

“Me? How was I a bad girl?!” she argued incredulously. 

“Calling that douche your ‘boyfriend’ is bad girl behaviour,” he chuckled. “Come here, and I’ll give you a kiss,” he proposed innocently.

“Ha! A kiss?! Whenever did you just want a kiss?!”

Azriel laughed at her indignation.

“Come closer and you’ll find out…”

“I am not coming over!” she threw petulantly.

Azriel chuckled. 

“Stalemate then?”

“No. You have to promise that you aren't going to be lying to me or…”

“Not lying,” he interrupted. “Omitting.”

“And by the way,” she glowered at him, though she took a step closer towards where he was sitting, “I am aware of another thing that you…omitted.”

“Oh?” He raised his brow at her and then, with one swift move of his long body, he grabbed her around the waist and dragged her on top of him.

“No!” she fought feebly, not putting any real spark into her objections. “Leave me alone and apologise!”

“Absolutely not,” he shook his head firmly, while kissing her throat softly. “What am I apologising for? Blocking that wanker’s number? I think not.”

His lips pressed to the faint, but still-visible purple mark near her collarbone. The collar of her dress mostly covered it, but he’d noticed it when she was standing next to him. He wondered if Eris noticed it too? He hoped that Eris did. Azriel had sucked that thing into her flesh earlier today.

Before she could argue further, his big hand slipped under the skirt of her dress and squeezed her thigh with intention.

“We just did it!” she whined, though her complaining packed no punch.

Azriel chuckled,

“What did we just do? As I recall, we were interrupted.”

Without warning, he gripped the flat end of the plug that rested inside of her and twirled it inside her anus.

“Oh god!” she squeaked, eyes wide and her beautiful lips popping in a surprised O.

He held her gaze and smiled widely, while rotating the plug slowly inside her ass.

She squirmed in his lap, her thighs falling apart around his own, while her breaths came in quick and heavy. He started pushing the plug deeper into her, before almost pulling out, but never leaving the rim of her tight asshole. 

“My good girl,” he murmured warmly against the swell of her breast, kissing the delicate skin of her chest. “Kept the plug inside,”

She blushed softly, biting her lower lip and grunting quietly, while her fingers squeezed his neck. She thumbed the warm pulsating jugular, drawing her finger up and down the vein. 

“You know what it did to me?” he continued, biting the top of her breast through the opening of her dress, “knowing that you were standing here, talking to your ex, with a plug in your arse that I had put in there?”

“Azzz,” she moaned, throwing her head back until her long braid tickled his hand. 

“Hurts?” he asked savagely, watching her reactions to his pushing the plug deeper inside. 

She nodded weakly, glossy-eyed and pink all over.

“I know what you like, pretty girl,” he breathed into her ear, flicking the earlobe with the tip of his tongue. “You love getting your holes stretched while you are submitting to me, my sweet compliant girl,”

“Only to you,” she confessed, her tone timid and eager. She leaned to kiss his neck with an open kiss. “Because I am yours,”

“You are mine,” he grunted. “Mine to stretch. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed. All mine.”

She nodded, looking at him with unabashed adoration. 

Suddenly, he rose to his feet, holding her to him around the waist. 

“On the chair, on your knees,” he ordered roughly and pushed her down, while she scrambled onto her knees, with her back to his front, and looked at him over her shoulder, blinking expectantly.

He lifted her skirt up and placed it over her waist, baring her thighs and her behind. 

“Ass up,” he instructed impatiently. “Higher…Pull your cheeks apart for me.”

The tip of her tongue poked out of her swollen lips, while she hurried to do as he commanded, pressing her chest into the back of the leather armchair, and arching her spine for him. 

“Are you going to fuck me in the ass?” she asked shyly, as she cupped her ass cheeks and stretched them around the plug.

“Until you are sore and gaping and dripping with my cum out of your asshole,” he promised cruelly, as he palmed his solid dick and pulled it out of his sweats. 

He wasn’t gentle when he pulled the plug out of her in one swift, brutal motion and tossed it aside. She cried out, but he only spit inside her stretched hole and cupped her breast in his palm, squeezing hard, while he aimed the bulbous head of his cock at her tight opening.

Elain trusted him sexually. She trusted him with everything, but she trusted him sexually. And he never betrayed her trust. Ever. Therefore, while his words were rough, his actions never carried any unwanted toughness. He knew how to push her just enough, to the brink of pleasure and pain, just like she loved it, and then keep her there. But he never crossed any lines, and frankly, didn’t feel the need to do that. He was immeasurably pleased with what he could take from her and what she offered. Azriel was also highly physical and had excellent coordination and control of his body. On the pitch, he had to dribble, pass, strike and keep an eye on his whole team, the opposing team, and the referees. His training gave him an advantage in the bedroom like nothing else could. Not only was he highly experienced, but he was highly sexual as well, able to touch and stimulate every nerve ending on a woman’s body. 

He pulled the cups of her bra down and widened the opening of her dress, and then tugged on her nipples until each globe popped out of the dress.

“Azzz,” she whined, her fingers pressing tightly into her cheeks, the tiny hole twitching with anticipation, “put it in meeee…”

He chuckled at her impatience, rubbing his shaft slowly in his hand, while he pulled and twisted her nipples.

“Where do you want it, baby?”

“Anywhere,” she begged. “Put it anywhere you want. My ass. Pussy. Mouth.”

He dropped to his knees behind her and pulled her pussy apart, before sliding his tongue all the way from her clit up to her asshole. 

“Oh god,” she cried pitifully, “please…”

He only wrapped his lips around her puckered hole and sucked on it voraciously, his tongue working all around the rim, licking and sucking, his face buried between her cheeks. He played with her nipples while he sucked, enjoying her desperate wiggling and her soft cries. While he was a tits man, his girl’s arse was a work of art and he could never get enough. To this day, he never forgot seeing it for the first time, at her birthday, when he fingered her half to death and Pink ate her bouquet. The way she strutted almost naked around his flat, the sweet ass bouncing in his face, the pale globes looking absolutely delectable–he became a man obsessed.

The memory jolted him to his feet and he stretched to his full height, before spitting into her hole again, watching the streak of saliva slither inside of her and feeling some kind of strange, primal satisfaction when he aimed the head of his cock at the hole and began to push inside. She tensed beneath him, her toes curling, her fingers clawing at her pale cheeks, a soft scream leaving her lips.

“Eyes on me,” he growled, lowering her head onto the seat, so she scooted and her hips shot up in the air. Her big brown eyes were soft and wet, looking up at him over her shoulder, her lips parted, her moans growing louder.

“It’s too much,” she whimpered, biting her lip, grimacing as he pressed forth.

“It’s just enough and you will take all of it,” he said calmly. She complained every time he took her anally, so this was nothing new. He always needed to be controlling and unshakable when he drove his shaft deeper into her ass, but also vocal in his praise. 

“Look at my pretty, pretty hole,” he murmured, gently rubbing his thumb around her stretched rim, “taking my big cock so beautifully. My gorgeous girl. Tell your husband how much you are enjoying him in your pretty, tight bum.”

He finally bottomed out and stilled inside of her, while she panted and cried, shaking beneath him. 

“It feels…” she panted, trying to find words, but failing. She tucked her fist by her face, eyes closed, breaths heavy, her nipples thick and hard. 

“Come on,” he prompted, his hands stroking her back, her ass cheeks, before squeezing her waist, ‘tell me.”

He held his cock inside of her, without moving, feeling the fluttering of her walls around his shaft, squeezing him, tightening all around him. It felt incredible.

“I need you,” she squealed at last, “please…”

She asked him so nicely, so he had to oblige. He finally moved his thick cock in her passage, pushing it even deeper, before pulling almost all the way out, and then easing back inside. He wasn’t in a hurry. Yeah, he could ram her ass until she cried and begged, and destroy her tiny hole until she couldn’t take it anymore. 

However, Azriel was feeling petty. 

Because…Eris’s chair? The hell!

He thrust harder, his long fingers leaving imprints on her hips, as he held her steady. He shoved deeply between her cheeks, making her wince, her tits jiggling in the opening of her dress with every plunge of his shaft. He wanted her to feel all of it–every stretch and ache and penetration in her core, so there would be no doubt in her mind who she belonged to. He was going to fuck any memory of Eris out of her. Right now. Her ass was going to be punished, as he forced her to take his merciless drilling, but he didn’t particularly care. He was ramming her little asshole, while she was twisted uncomfortably on top of Eris’s chair, moaning and praising him. Which is what he wanted. 

He reached between her thighs and slapped her pussy hard, making her scream. 

“Az!”

“Shh, baby. All you need to do right now is take my dick. You are doing a good job.”

He paused his thrusting and ordered, “fuck yourself on my cock. Come on.”

She licked her lips and rose up on her knees, leaning over the back of the leather chair, her back arching so that her round ass perked up and then she looked at him over her shoulder. 

He squeezed the back of her neck and smiled at her, whispering, “come on, beautiful. Work that pretty bum for me.”

He kissed her lips slowly, while she eased her rectum up and down his shaft, her round hips rotating sensually. His massive palm migrated to her front and he squeezed her throat, forcing her head back, kissing her lips with devouring hunger. 

“Harder, baby,” he whispered against her tongue and she pumped her ass onto his dick with hard, deep plops, taking him so fully, her cheeks slapped against his pelvis. His pistoning was smooth and quick, her hole loose and stretched now, and she took him with ease.

He came first, spilling deep inside her asshole, but he kept fucking her, pushing his cum out of her hole, until she shuttered against him, moaning loudly. He slapped her pussy sharply again and again, while she orgasmed all over his wet dick, her rectum squeezing and milking him with wild spasms. 

…Elain skipped to the loo to clean up. Azriel offered, but she waved him off, kissed him and left him basking in the pleasant afterglow. When he got up at last, he looked at the newly-violated armchair and muttered, ‘Eris’s chair my arse!’ before shuffling to the kitchen. On the way there, he picked up a bottle of tequila from the bar cart, and decided that the day called for margaritas. He dumped a heap of ice into the blender, sliced and juiced some limes, poured a generous helping of tequila and a splash of orange liquor and went on to blitz it all together.

Elain had taught Azriel how to be a proper gentleman, so he set a tray with glasses, poured the margarita into a pitcher, grabbed napkins, extra lime wedges, and emptied a packet of crisps into a bowl. This is what Elain would’ve expected, even if it was a total overkill in his opinion, but he wanted to please her. He carried the tray outside, where Piglet was sprawled on his belly in the grass. The pug gave him a lazy glance, and then returned to his sunbathing, unbothered. 

Azriel set the tray on the patio table, as he snorted incredulously at the pug. Ahhh to be an adored pug in a wealthy family that’s obsessed with you.

Elain stepped outside and squealed with delight seeing the frosty pitcher of margarita waiting for her.

“Oh my god, this is perfect!” she exclaimed and dove onto the lounger next to Azriel. He smiled and kissed her lips, before pouring her a glass.

“Your lordship,” he called out to Piglet. “May I bring you anything? Ice water? Chicken nuggets? A nice cheese and fruit platter?”

Piglet raised his head, hearing his favourite words in the world–cheese and chicken–but seeing that there was neither, he gave Azriel an accusatory glance and turned away.

“Are you crazy?” Elain hissed, elbowing her husband in the ribs, “he’ll be expecting nuggets and cheese every time he is outside. Do not!”

Azriel was laughing soundlessly, as he sipped his drink, and threw his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. 

It was warm outside, the magnolia trees smelled delightful, and they watched how Piglet ambled to the kiddie pool that they set up especially for him, took a dip to cool off and then proceeded to return to his spot. 

“So, I have a proposal for you,” Azriel said after a long pause, where both of them were enjoying the quiet and the sunshine.

“Oh god, no,” she moaned. “Not one of your so-called ‘proposals’!”

“And why not?”

“Because all your proposals sound about the same. Hey, Elain. So we are going to do this. No, there is no debate. And I will fuck all your holes. Yes, you have to say ‘yes’. There is no choice.’

Azriel pretended to be outraged, as he stared at her dismayed.

“That is not how I propose things!”

“That is exactly how you propose things,” she said flatly. “This has been every proposal that I’ve received from you.”

“Fine,” he pouted. “I won’t tell you then.”

“No, you should tell me. And then tell me that I have no choice but to accept it.”

“No,” he crossed his arms. “I am not going to tell you.”

“Fine, suit yourself.”

After a pause he exclaimed,

“I can’t believe that you don’t want to know!”

“I told you to tell me.”

“Do you even love me?”

“I love you. Just not your proposals.”

“Whatever. I want to buy a country house,” he blurted out.

She glanced at him in surprise. This was the first time he’d mentioned this.

“I’ve always wanted one,” he continued, not waiting for her response. “Always. But then I was single, and what am I going to do alone in a country home? Now, I am married and I have a pug, who pretends like he is outdoorsy and that he likes to run. He doesn’t. And then I hope that we’ll have children and we can have a place where we can spend summers and take a break from the city. And before you tell me that we have access to Rosehall, I know and I love that place. However, I am looking to build something of our own. A country family house that we could pass down the generations.”

He looked at her with a hopeful expression, waiting for her answer.

“And where do you want this house to be located?” she asked at last.

“The Cotswolds. Only there.” His tone was decisive.

She nodded and said, “Okay. Let’s buy it.”

“Wait. That’s it? I don’t need to persuade you?”

“No. If that’s your lifelong dream I certainly won’t be standing in your way. My only request is that we find a village which is off the beaten path and isn’t overwhelmed with tourists. I mean,” she laughed, “if you want to keep persuading me, I am open. Oral, gifts, jewellery…”

Azriel almost choked on his drink.

“Oral?”

“Also, children?” she ignored his question and went straight to hers. “And how many are we talking?”

“I don’t know…many,” he rubbed the back of his head. “Four? Five? Seven?”

“Seven???!” she yelled.

“Well, maybe not seven,” he conceded with a dramatic sigh.

She sipped her drink and then popped a crisp in her mouth. 

“Oh and by the way,” she waved the crisp in front of his face. “Don’t think I don’t know. Or that I forgot,”

“Know what, exactly?” he groaned. 

“About what you’ve done.”

“I already confessed to everything!” he reminded her.

“Not everything.”

“Now what?”

“Did you think that I didn’t notice my birth control pills just…disappearing? Randomly?” she bubbled her lips, looking at him from above the rim of her glass. “You think I didn’t know that you just stole them? Hid them? Whatever it is that you typically do,”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he attempted to stop her, “why all the blaming? Maybe Pink stole them?”

“Right, sure. Blame Pink,” she snorted. 

He tried to weasel out of the conversation, and started with the pitcher, asking in a honeyed tone, “want me to top you off?”

“No, I am perfectly fine with what I have right now. But I am waiting for an explanation.”

“Yeah, so I think that Pink climbed onto the sink, opened the drawer and stole the pills. And then he hid them. Because he knew that you’d want to have my baby. Sharpish.”

“Oh, wow,” she nodded seriously, looking nonplussed. “So he did all that with three legs,”

“I know! Pretty impressive, if I may say so myself.”

“Very. But not only that, he also knew that I’d have to have your baby. Sharpish, as you put it.”

“Yeah. A man’s best friend, what can I say? He is very intuitive.”

“Aha.”

She set her glass aside and then crossed her arms, staring at him.

“Pink, come,” Azriel beckoned. 

“Don’t try to hide behind him,” she warned, while Piglet got up and rushed to them.

Azriel grabbed him and buried his face in the soft neck rolls, playfully biting him, while Piglet growled and wiggled in Azriel’s arms. “Want a crisp?” Azriel whispered into the floppy ear. 

He grabbed a couple of crisps and fed them to the pug.

“Even after death,” he suddenly said, “you know it will be the three of us. Forever. Azriel, Elain and Piglet. We are forever together.”

Elain swallowed hard, and looked at him. His expression was tender, but serious. He reached for her face and stroked her cheekbone with his thumb.

“I needed a way to keep you,” he confessed at last. “So I took the pills. Because I wasn’t going to let you go. And if I needed to impregnate you to keep you, so be it.”

He sighed and then slowly drew his knuckles over her hair.

“Everything I did, good or bad, was to keep you. Everything I did was for you. It was never malicious. I loved you from the moment you asked me to help you with the pumpkins. But in reality, I think that I loved you from the moment I saw you.”

Azriel looked at Piglet in his lap, who was munching on crisps, smacking and crunching with enjoyment, and at his wife, beautiful, in love and wholly his. He looked at their garden, the green lawn and the peonies and tulips that Elain had planted, blooming with kaleidoscopic colours, and at the brilliant blue skies and the shining sun. And with almost painful clarity, he realised that it was all worth it. Because this was the whole point. 

-

Two Weeks Later

Arsenal did not win the Premier League Title. They came in second. Normally, Azriel would’ve been broken up about it, but not this year. Elain was in the stands, cheering him on. Piglet was waiting for him at home. 

Life was alright.

-

A Few Weeks After That

Azriel Night followed, what he assumed, was a butler. Whilst he’s been here before, Azriel still wasn’t entirely well-versed in who was who in private gentlemen’s clubs. The last time he visited this one–White’s, probably the most prestigious and expensive of all (no women allowed) clubs in London–was for Rhysand’s stag party. Granted, it took place after he already married Feyre, but it didn’t stop them from partying here until the wee hours of the morning. 

“Lord Darling, your guest has arrived,” the butler stated, and Alastair, Lord Darling, lowered his newspaper.

“Ahhh, Azriel!” the older man greeted his nephew warmly. For whatever reason, Lord Darling had a soft spot for Azriel, more so than for Cassian, for example, and the two men were on good terms. “Good afternoon. Sit, please.”

Azriel took a seat across the table and ordered a drink. 

It was summer and games were over, so he allowed himself a little indulgence. He still went for a run with Pink every morning, but beyond that, he was relaxing.

“How are you?” Lord Darling asked, his strangely coloured, purplish eyes very much like Rhysand’s. “You look well. Marriage agrees with you.”

Azriel smiled and nodded, “Indeed.”

“You are happy then?” it was more of a statement, than a question. “Elain is a lovely girl.”

“She is everything I’ve ever wanted,” Azriel admitted suddenly, his voice quiet. He looked at his drink and added, “it was a stroke of luck…us meeting like that.”

Lord Darling chuckled good-naturedly,

“I suppose I was a bit of a culprit to your meeting.”

“You were,” Azriel agreed. “Perhaps if it weren’t for you and Cassian’s nagging, we wouldn't be here. Although,” he paused and thought for a while. The other man didn’t interrupt him. “I think,” Azriel said at last, “it was meant to  be. She and I. I am not sure it could’ve gone any other way.”

Lord Darling smiled, his handsome face creasing with an amused, and knowing look.

“What?” Azriel asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Lord Darling sipped his tea, “to be young and in love! All young men think that ‘it was meant to be’ when they are in love,”

“Well, in my case, in our case, it happens to be true,” Azriel insisted calmly.

“Well, then I will not argue with you. We’ve come full circle, it would seem.”

“How so?”

“Didn’t you wonder about the inheritance?”

“Oh, if I am being honest–no. I forgot.”

Azriel grimaced with embarrassment and Lord Darling laughed openly, and clapped Azriel on the shoulder, 

“Well, well, then you certainly are in love. No man forgets about a quarter billion unless there is a woman involved. And I reckon she hasn’t asked about it either?”

“Elain? No, she hasn’t. Elain is wealthy, she doesn’t think about money much,”

“Oh, my boy, everyone thinks about money. But I suppose she is in love too if she hasn’t asked. 

“However, I haven’t forgotten. The funds have been transferred into your trust fund.”

“Alastair, I don’t know if I,” Azriel began saying, but Lord Darling interrupted him. 

“We had an agreement. You find a woman to marry and you receive your inheritance. You found your woman, and you married her. I am just doing my part.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. And like you said–I already have everything I want.”

…When Azriel left White’s an hour later, he checked his phone and saw three missed calls from Elain. There were messages too. 

At the vet

Come when you get the chance

Still here

Muttering to himself, Azriel hailed a taxi and jumped in before it even fully stopped. Jesus Christ. Jesus. Christ. What did that dog do again? What did he eat again? Where did he fall? From where did he fall? Piglet was a menace to himself and to others. Yet still, Azriel’s heart was beating like a drum in his chest. His palms were clammy. And for once, he felt true, real fear, thinking about Piglet and of something happening to him. Azriel immediately forgot all about his inheritance and his new trust fund and everything else. He just wanted to get to the clinic as soon as possible. Thankfully, it wasn’t a very long ride and he just about ran into the posh animal clinic in Marylebone where they usually took Piglet for his various (self-inflicted) ailments. He spotted Elain in the plushly decorated waiting room immediately.

“What happened to him? What did he do?” Azriel blurted out, rushing to her.

She sighed and hugged him tightly. Azriel felt like he was about to faint and the fear, the sudden realization that he might have lost Piglet, that his little best mate might be gone, almost brought him to his knees. 

“He is okay,” Elain whispered. 

“He is?” Azriel released a shuddering breath.

“He is. He is at home.”

He pulled away and looked at her in bewilderment.

“So…why are we here?”

She bit her lower lip, looking guilty.

“What did you do?” he asked immediately.

“Well, it’s nothing really,” she began saying vaguely.

“Right. You are at a vet’s, and the one dog that we have is at home…So it’s ‘nothing’?”

“Okay.” she exhaled. “You can’t be mad at me,”

“Oh, just what everyone wants to hear!” Azriel chuckled. “What is it? Another messed up dog?”

“Listen,” she whisper-yelled at him, “she was attacked by other dogs at the shelter. She lost an ear and they bit her and she has wounds all over. The shelter was going to have to put her down, but,”

“But someone called you up and here we are, paying thousands of points to fix up some earless dog?” he concluded, sighing. 

“Yes!” she hissed defensively.

“You can’t save every dog.”

“But I can save this one.”

And that is how they came home with Gemma.

Gemma was a year old pug, now missing half an ear, and riddled with bites and scratches all over her body.

Piglet didn’t know what to make of her first, especially when she was placed in one of his beds. He sniffed her and circled her. He demanded answers from Elain, and then from Azriel. They explained her appearance the best that they could.

The next morning, when Azriel woke up and went to check on Gemma, he found Piglet curled by her side protectively. At some point, Piglet had brought her his Ducky, and she was sleeping with it. And it was then that Azriel figured that perhaps, things would work out in the end.

-

Eight Weeks Later

The leaves were beginning to turn and the smell of autumn was in the air.

London was beautiful this time of year, bedecked in wild colours. 

Azriel was walking with his two pugs–one with a prosthetic leg and the other one with half an ear–both wearing their bows and being photographed by passersby. 

Once they got home, Azriel removed their leads and hollered, “Baby, we are home!”

Piglet and Gemma went to doggie day care twice a week. In the beginning it was a bit of an ordeal, especially on behalf of Piglet who rebelled, refused to go, barked, threw fits, and a couple of times actually ran into various rooms and slammed the door behind him. Of course being a pug, he didn’t think that after his hissy fits he’d need someone to open the door for him and let him out. Details weren’t his strongest suit. So the door slamming stopped relatively quickly. 

Now, Piglet and Gemma were more amiable to attending, though Piglet was still kind of a bully and Azriel was going to find out just how much, because he received their ‘report cards’.

The house smelled good–a chicken was roasting in the oven–and there was a pan of brownies cooling on the counter.

Azriel sat down on the sofa and the pugs jumped up and snuggled next to him.

“Well, well, let’s see what the report cards say about you two,” he decided, and took the folded papers out of his pocket. “Let’s start with Gemma’s, shall we?”

Gemma smiled and pawed at him excitedly.

He read ‘Gemma is friendly and gets along with other dogs…She follows commands well and listens when she is told to eat, or go outside…That’s good, sweetheart,” he stroked her gently and she cocked her head, wanting more praise. “You are an amazing girl!”

Piglet growled at that, budding into Azriel’s forearm, wanting some pets too.

“Oh, we’ll get to you,” Azriel promised. “Don't worry. Somehow, I think that the report might not be as glowing.”

The bottom line was that Gemma was angelic–she was sweet, kind and obedient. She made friends with everyone and was liked by her minders and by the other dogs.

For that, Azriel gave her a treat.

Then he reached for Piglet’s report. And as soon as he did, Piglet preemptively placed his paw on the sheet of paper, indicating that perhaps, this was unnecessary. 

“Oh, no, I would love to read this,” Azriel insisted, removing the paw from the paper. Piglet growled at him again, but then nuzzled into Azriel’s neck, licking at him affectionately, in a futile attempt to butter him up.

“Trying every tactic, are we?” Azriel chuckled, and read.

“Piglet could be challenging”

“That’s a great start, I see,” he laughed. 

“Piglet refuses to drink tap water, and only drinks certain types of bottled water”

“Piglet consistently picks fights with a rottweiler called Thunder”

“Real smart move there, fighting with a rottweiler,” Azriel commented. Piglet sighed with shame.

“Piglet likes to dominate on the playground”

“Fuck yeah! High five!” he extended his palm and Piglet perked up, slapping his paw against it. Gemma also wanted a high five, which she offered twice.

“The playground domination–that I respect,” Azriel added. 

“Piglet does not eat dry food and prefers homemade stews, which are not always available. He also likes steak.”

“Who the fuck doesn’t like steak?”

“Piglet is very protective of Gemma and does not allow any other dog to approach her in an aggressive manner.”

“Gem is your girl. That’s how I raised you,” Azriel stroked Piglet’s back. “We always take care of our girlies. I am proud of you, mate.”

“We’ve received complaints from the owners of a poodle named Simba who is deathly afraid of Piglet.”

Simba wasn’t just a poodle. He was a huge king poodle and he weighed something like 30 kilos. He was a wimp and Azriel was familiar with him. No wonder Piglet made him his little bitch. 

When Azriel raised his eyes from the paper, he smiled.

“Hey, beautiful. I didn’t hear you come in,” he greeted Elain, who was watching the three of them. “We were just discussing some of Piglet’s questionable behaviour at the daycare.”

She stepped forward and then suddenly, burst into tears.

Azriel was up in second, rushing to her, but he was beaten by the pugs.

“Baby, baby, what’s wrong? What happened?” he cupped her face in his hands, and looked at her with concern.

Her hands wrapped around his wrists and she pressed her lips to the inside of his palm.

“You are such a great dad to them,” she whispered at last.

“Who? The puggies?”

“Yes. Them. And them,” and she handed him a white stick.

His brow furrowed and he took the stick, twisting it in his fingers.

It dawned on him. It dawned on him immediately.

He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. 

“We’ve made a family,” he whispered.

-

A Few Weeks Later

Azriel was doing pushups in the middle of the room. There were two pugs on his back, breathing noisily and earnestly into his ears. They added additional weight to his pushup routine, while they thought that this was a game.

“Show off!” he heard Elain’s voice behind him.

Laughing, he turned his head, and then did a few one-arm pumps, soliciting an eye roll from her.

“Sure, go ahead, show how amazing you are,” she taunted him, “while I cannot button my trousers!”

Indeed, she was attempting to button up her trousers, but the top two buttons were nowhere near the loops. Her belly was growing rapidly and only last week, she and Feyre went to purchase maternity clothes, because nothing was fitting her anymore.

The pugs jumped down on the floor and Azriel rose to his feet. He then unbuttoned two top buttons of his jeans and announced, “look, mine don’t fit either!”

“Ugh, be quiet,” she groaned, but he saw that she was laughing. 

“Come on, pretty girl,” he took her hand. “Let’s go to the Tea Room, where we can fatten me up with some scones and cream tea.”

“Yeah, let’s do that! Only you’ll probably lose weight and I will look like I am 12 months pregnant by the time we leave!” she argued bitterly.

Fifteen minutes later, they stepped outside of their recently-purchased country home. It was a spacious, picturesque cottage, which Elain became obsessed with the moment she saw it. Azriel bought it for her without telling her. He grossly overpaid for it, but he didn’t care. The village that they chose was ideal–quaint, not so tiny that it would be boring, but small enough not to be popular with tourists. There was an 11th century church, a few pubs, a general store, a butcher’s, and a bakery, and four Tea Rooms. On the weekends, there was a market as well. And all around them: beautiful rolling hills, walking paths and a lake within walking distance from their home.

He, with his tattoos and his football playing ways, didn’t exactly fit the mould of the village population, however, as expected, Elain won everybody over. She was genteel, perfect, pregnant and titled. She was everything that these people loved. So he was accepted by default, which was fine with him.

The pugs trotted in front of them, while Elain threaded her arm through his own and put her head on his shoulder.

“Do you want to do it?” she asked.

“I want to do it. I can’t wait!” he said impatiently.

He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. 

The High Street was decorated with pumpkins and lanterns, and Halloween arrangements in each store window, and Azriel thought of how just a year ago, he was dragged into helping Elain decorate for Halloween as well. What a year it’s been.

“Open it,” she asked impatiently when they stopped.

They knew that they were having twins. What they didn’t know and wanted to find out here, were the babies’ genders. The doctor gave them the info in a sealed envelope. Elain was superstitious and she insisted on finding out in a new place, in the new house. New beginnings and all.

Her hands were shaking, when she grabbed the envelope from his hands and tore into it.

“Looks like I have a son and a daughter,” Azriel announced, watching Elain’s happiness, as her eyes filled with tears and her hand cupped her belly. 

“Darius,” she whispered.

He nodded.

“And…Marigold.”

“Darius and Marigold,” she repeated, kissing him.

He kissed her back.

“By the way,” she reminded him, “you never told me what your perfect day was.”

Azriel smiled at her and answered,

“Today. Today seems like a perfect day to me.”

[daycourtofficial]

vanilla americano 😈

Okay I went a bit different with this one I thought it’d be a perspective we haven’t seen before!!!

Order a drink for Gingerfucker Week here

Vanilla americano - a bat boy + angst

Azriel had spent the past three weeks thinking of nothing but the comforts he had become accustomed to in the last century. His large, much too comfortable bed that allowed him to sleep more than he used to (but not by much). The mattress seemed to pull his large body into it, forming in shape around him for maximum comfort. He had asked Rhysand once what it was made of. He still couldn’t decide if his answer of “peregrine feathers” was a joke or not.

His other comfort had come in the form of hot, relaxing teas Nesta had stocked the House of Wind with, a supply of jasmine honey that seemed endless.

He made it to the second floor landing, about to turn further up the steps, waiting for the house to make him a warm bath and a hot cup of tea when a flood of moonlight caught his eye. It streaked across the floor, the open door to a room he spent many nights complaining about Rhysand in.

“This room’s perfect for secrets.”

Your words echoed through his head as he moved down the hall, hoping to confirm to someone in his family he was alive and unhappy about it. The shadowsinger knew once he saw you he’d no doubt grumble about the past few weeks, some sympathetic barb from you enough to make him feel like he was home again.

He hated being away from his family for so long, but growing tensions throughout Illyria required more presence from the Inner Circle to ensure things were running smoothly.

The house was eerily quiet as he crept down the hall, hoping that Nesta and Cassian had tired themselves out for the night. His shadows slithered around him, coiled as if ready to strike. They gave away nothing, merely whispering look, look, look.

He pushed the door open, finding the room in complete disarray. It sent him into high alert. In a flash he unsheathed Truth Teller, sending his shadows throughout the house to find out where you were and if anything else was out of sorts.

His eyes scanned the room - hundreds of hand-written letters covered the floor, their pages folded and refolded from use. The furniture had been flipped every which way - the bed turned over, revealing several boxes that had all been haphazardly siphoned through.

His steps were silent as he moved further into the room, stepping over the creaky floorboard. What had happened in his absence? Where was the rest of his family?

He wandered downstairs after finding no answers in your room, his grip on his knife unrelenting as he took the steps with ease. His shadows told him only one room was occupied - what used to be Rhysand’s study.

“We are declaring war on Autumn.” His High Lord’s words were spat out as Azriel quietly moved into the room, taking the space next to Cassian. “Eris has played us for the fool the last time and it has to end.”

Azriel looked between Rhys, Cassian, and Feyre, noting the absence of Mor and Amren. Everyone was in nightclothes - he was technically the most formally dressed, a sight he would normally find amusing.

“What is going on?” Azriel’s words were met by a shocked look on Cassian’s face, a subtle head shake asking him not to ask.

“This is a wartime council. It is my decision. We will raze all of Autumn for their crimes.”

“Our decision.” Rhys shot a look toward his mate, her own eyes heating in defiance. “That redheaded fool has done something to convince my sister they are mated. I do not have to convince anyone else that that is an action worthy of war.”

The words clanged through the room and Azriel could not keep the shock from showing on his face.

Mates?

He kept quiet, waiting for more information. An impatient shadow whirled around Rhysand, pulling his attention to the confused shadowsinger. He pinched the bridge of his nose, anger and frustration written in the planes of his face.

“I found letters upon letters from him declaring his love in her room, all dating back over a century. It’s preposterous. I have no idea how long he has been working on this.”

“Rhys, what if this is real?”

“You think my sister could deceive me over this?” The accusation made the room cold.

“What if they really are mates?” Rhys only scoffed in reply, throwing his hands up at the notion. He knew the moment he and Feyre were alone it would be a bloodbath.

“Where is she now?” Azriel felt a cold determination to see her. If he could talk to her, surely this was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps she was seeing someone who used a pen name? Rhysand likely blew everything out of proportion. There was no way she could have been-

“Not here.”

Azriel’s mind was hyper focused, running through every scenario possible. He blinked, taken aback by his brother’s words.

“He took her?” Azriel couldn’t help the defensive stance he took, ready to winnow away into Autumn. Rhys’s silence dragged on far too long, but Azriel remained stoic.

“No.” Everyone continued watching Rhys, waiting for his next words.

“Is she somewhere in Velaris hiding?” Rhys ignored Feyre’s question, waving his hand dismissively.

“For all I know she’s in Autumn.”

Shouts erupted from the room, everyone upset with Rhysand for the constant shift in his mood. Azriel crept out of the room, not even closing the door behind him as he moved toward his room. His chest felt heavy, full of regrets for letting this happen. How had he not known? How had he not stopped this?

His family was arguing, trying to create a plan of action, but Azriel was certain this was no deception from the heir to the Autumn throne. They had all been played a fool by her.

He couldn’t stop the utter devastation at that realization.

Azriel felt his jaw tighten, certain no one had ever gone to such lengths to hide the truth from him. He ignored the tiny part of his brain that kept yelling to him, reminding him how far he would go to protect a mate of his own.

His chest felt empty by the time he made it to his room, his mind and body so tired he felt on the brink of falling over. The spymaster opened his door, a small envelope sitting on his bed with his name in familiar handwriting, the sight of it like a burst of energy.

[thesophistiicate]

How do you practice manifesting?

i strongly take into account my human design chart, so i use it more to inform how i manifest. for me it’s ingrained into my lifestyle. what i do currently:

mood boarding and visual inspiration. in human design my strongest sense is “outer vision” which makes visuals THE most important way for me to manifest. i am constantly collecting pictures on tumblr, pinterest, and instagram so i’m doing this all the time.

using the correct manifesting type. i’m a non-specific manifester so i focus on the vibes and feelings i want. i don’t place limits and i remain very open to possibilities. i usually do this when i am writing my morning pages and also sometimes at night before i go to bed so i fall asleep on those feelings.

morning pages. i write morning pages every day which helps clear out all the junk on my mind. the solution to any problem i have usually just occurs to me while i write and it comes on the paper. i always know what i should do which makes it easier to get what i want (less doubt or confusion). it did take a long time for me to trust myself though.

trusting my gut. i’m a generator in human design so i listen to my instinctual yes/no reaction. i don’t need to go out chasing and initiating. the options are always presented to me and IF I’M PAYING ATTENTION and TAKE THE OPPORTUNITY and DON’T OVERTHINK IT WITH LOGIC i can tell what is a yes or no pretty much straight away. feeling frustrated is a sign i’m on the wrong path so i also take that feeling really seriously. again, took me a long time to get here but now it is easy for most things. the more i get on a path where there’s a lot of yes’s means i’m successfully manifesting and going in the right direction.

putting the rest under the cut bc it’s getting long lol.

growth mindset. if an opportunity falls through i trust that it was supposed to happen that way. something better is meant for me. i take what i learned from the experience and trust i was meant to go through it to be better prepared for achieving my goals. i’m so much more calm this way which also allows me to see opportunities better, bc I’m not reacting to everything from a place of fear, stress, and scarcity.

understand manifesting = opportunities to act upon. i think people forget this. it doesn’t land in your lap, manifesting just brings options to me. i still have to take some level of action which is the hard part!! if you don’t have self worth or self trust you won’t be able to do this well or consistently. you have to actively say yes and do whatever action it requires to follow through. it can be tiny, like sending a message or buying something. but correct manifesting (as a generator) will bring options to me. it’s up to me if i accept or not.

orient my life around my profile and gifts. i’m a 2/4 profile and my gift is gift 3 (highly related to storytelling and living by example). the more i lean into what these mean (connection to community, deep connections, pursuit of knowledge, nurturing others through my writing and storytelling etc) the more smoothly my life seems to go.

i’m chill about it. bc my type is non-specific it’s crucial to be chill. no timelines. no desperation or anxiousness. no trying to decide how it should look or unfold, that’s not my place. the universe has it under control and i don’t need to waste my energy on this. when i forget and try to control too much is when life goes to shit. a hard lesson to learn when we are told to plan every detail and obsess and that being stressed means you’re working hard as a good thing… basically had to unlearn that whole mindset and start over.

sorry it’s a long answer but overall rather than manifesting being some separate activity or just one thing i do, i slowly shifted my entire lifestyle so that it’s a natural part of how i live on a daily basis 🤍