#physically unresponsive

[made-my-peace-with-all-the-bad]

Someone walk with me here. Johnny, Dally, and Pony as the three main stress responses.

Dally as fight

Pony as flight

Johnny as freeze

[spotsupstuff]

Man Sparrows being a treasured component then dying must've been hard on the hivemind.

-pulls up full on bawling- yeah no shit sherlock, dear fuck.

[princewylder]

So tired of being tired lmao

[fang-feraligatr-blog]

So I got really bored and decided to play some games on my back log. This includes Child of Light.

And before I've even started the game, I'm told that my player character is dead.

I haven't even started playing yet....

and I'm losing.

Oh boy, here we go!

[errantce]

want to switch to directx 11 so bad but there's that thing in the notes about visual issues with mods & i believe gshade isn't supported?

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 21: Unresponsive

Warning for Overworking, exhaustion, illness, coughing, wheezing, pneumonia, physical abuse, child abuse, medication

[sangunary]

- Hush now Crybaby.

YANDERE BATFAMILY X NEGLECTED READER.

\\ Part 1 // \\ Part 2 // \\ Part 3 //.

You would stay by your rotting corpse, gently brushing your hair out of your face or just starting at it in general. Your corpse was becoming stiff and extremely cold, at times you tried to warm it by holding it.

A soft sigh left your mouth as you give up on trying to warmth the body display infront of you.

"How much longer do I have to wait...?"

You've been thinking alot, wondering why your body is still chained to Earth and you realised your physical body never got the rest it deserves.

The body laying on your coffin underground was a decoy made by your father, as twisted as it sound he only did it in hope of putting your soul back into the body.

Alfred and Bruce knew that, they knew that your current physical body was hidden inside the batcave. Alfred was hesitant at first but Bruce assure him that what he was doing might be morally wrong but it was the best option they have, if they want a new start.

Even after death nothing was better, your life only change slightly and it was for the worst. No one could see or interact with you, but you can uncover all the secrets which was alot more depressing than you expected.

You've found out how your mother died recently after a drug overdose... She was found stiff and unresponsive in her motel and a foam seeping out her mouth, surprisingly everything was clean, no missing things or any sing of struggle.

It was ruled as a sucide, the media claimed it as 'Woman killed herself after her daughter died of her neglection' it was Ironic... You couldn't help but stump your feet a little at that information, first your mother would never neglect you... and Second she was the best mother you could wish for.

You couldn't bear the silence inside the room so you decided to go outside to check on a particular individual.

Dick Grayson.

He was sitting infront of your grave cleaning it with his bare hand, replacing the previous flowers with Rose's. Since your relationship with him was on the edge when you died he doesn't even know your particular taste in flowers , as a result he would pick out new flowers everyday and replace them each day.

Your ghostly figure sit next to his watching him clean your grave once again, atleast he was being productive. Some especially Tim was coping in an unhealthy way.

Locked himself and barely ate anything, everything reminded him of you... His favourite coffee was now leaving an extremely bitter taste on his tongue, it was only because he realised how involved you were in his life and how without you his daily routine weren't the same.

Tim have also started to spiral into madness, doing research on you instead of his usual detective work. Who have hurt you and who have been nasty to you, he was willing to do anything but blame himself for your death or the family.

He's been looking back at every video footage of you and him and storing it into new files each file were specifically made for each video.

"Im sorry little wing... I couldn't find anything new today, so you'll have to take this for today"

Grayson gently murmured as he pluck out the old Lily's- old by one day - Wiping the vase carefully, holding as if it were the most fragile vase in the word.

"Life been abit hard... I know I shouldn't burden you with my problem especially when... You never had them. But, Kory and I took a break..."

His voice was more high-pitched than normal... Yet he continues to look after your grave, dealing it with great tenderness.

His mind flashing back to everything he had done wrong, prioritising joker over you... He remembered how he left you inside a burning building and instead saved the joker, as a result you got a nasty burn mark on your left hand.

Although he doesn't know who to blame you or the joker. Cause you're a hero, he thought you could save yourself... It doesn't matter that you were like what 7? Thought he did half heartily apologise after being lectured by Bruce.

"If you were back... Everything would be fine, im not blaming you of course... Just, I don't know anything good from bad especially after you left us"

"I do not know what possess you to be so reckless... I can't imagine what you must have felt but it's selfish"

"If you were here, Kory and I would take you before any of those... people could. It'll be just the three of us, I'll be the one you will depend on... You won't need to worry anymore, We'll never let you get hurt. Never again"

Dick continues to pour his heart out and slowly he began to smile, his mood began to shift from gloomy to thrilled, suggesting places and activities as if you were still alive.

If anybody was to come across this interaction it's either they'll lable him as mentally challenged or is high on sadness that they ended up talking to a grave.

You stood up getting ready to walk away, it's abit hard to pity them. They never acknowledged you when you were breathing and it's messed up that they only care after realising their mistakes.

"...Huh?"

A mysterious man was standing infront of you, you wouldn't be startled if he wasn't staring right into your eyes. A white lantern...?

You know him only because of the file you would read when you were bored out of your mind. Bruce must have called him, afterall he was a very new and surprising face to see in Gotham.

"...Nice to meet you?"

After your short introduction and your very long introduction on why he must not interfere at all, because as much as it suck being a ghost being alive with your current family would be hell.

Thought he does not seem to value your opinion at all, directly telling Bruce about your presence.

"You can speak... she can hear you"

Deadman informed Bruce.

"I apologise for my negligence and your mother unexpected death. She was a great woman just like you... I don't expect you to forgive so easily but, I want to see you smile again"

You didn't utter a word. You wanted to comfort him yet it was hard pitting the same man who avoid your presence when you were alive.

"Can't you bring her back...?"

"No, she's too far gone"

Your corpse look fine from outside but your inside were rotting and molding. Bruce tried his best yo preserve your body but what's gone is gone. All you want is for your body to rest.

"I refuse to believe. There must be a way for her to be back."

"I have no saying in logic. But there are artifact's that allows one to see ghost"

"I will do anything to see that smile again... I want to apologise to her face to face as well"

Your Father was one of the rare people in the family taking the responsibility in your death, this wasn't the first time he utter an apology. He would slept in your bed missing you, crying or talking in his sleep apologising it seem as the guilt never stopped chasing him.

Though he was the same man who left you unattended during gala surrounded by random man while you were a child. The same one who lecture your brother for leaving you in a fire only because he would have to explain why the burnt mark was there and not because it was wrong.

It was only natural for guilt to cling onto him the longest, he already lost Jason. But you were different, Jason died while having a somewhat happy memories. You died with nothing but bitterness and salty tears.

As much as you would love to fulfill your father's dream you couldn't help but be uncomfortable.

You've overhead Bruce and Jason conversation once and you regretted it. Jason being the most experienced in dying suggested the worst thing possible.

A new bedroom, made just for your liking.

A dingy room with chains to restrain you. All the window must have bars, even if you somehow managed to broke the iron chain you wouldn't be able to jump out and possibly risk breaking a bone.

"It's a necessity, I went mad when I came back, what gives you the idea that she won't be the same and in our case you'll be her first victim"

Jason harshly spit out. You couldn't help but disagree you wouldn't dare to hurt your family, even if they have hurt you in unexplainable ways. Your heart still ache for them in vain.

"Even if she dare to break out I have another method, far more wise and useful but I rather we use it as a last resort"

The last resort was, smashing your ankle. It was simple and Jason already have experience to make sure you won't be in more pain than necessary.

To put anything between your foot and for that object to be used as a support, tying the foot and arm's to restrain you. With a hammer all they have to do was to smash the bone into pieces, you wouldn't be able to walk at all but it was also necessary to treat the bone to avoid disability.

If the bone was to be left to heal by itself it would reconstruct themselves wrong leaving you to excruciating pain, not being able to depend on your foot and you might need to cut your foot off.

Another reason why you dread to be brought back, no amount of convincing or pleading would make them understand... They'll break you and rebuild you as if that was nothing.

They can't treat you like a daughter or a sister even tho they seem so willing... To you they only love you because of the guilt and not because they understand.

Damian was a reason itself, didn't even let a single tear drop during your funeral and the visit at the hospital. He did cry in secret which was pleasant to watch.

He's either beating people into pulp for the smallest crime or is actively trying to bring you back in another form. He have asked Raven to assist him but even the girl found it inhuman, suggesting for him to just mourn you and let your soul be in peace.

It was now noon the whole family jam inside the living room discussing.

"She can't be brought back? Jason died, the Lazarus pit can and must brought her back"

Damian argued, as much as he doesn't wanted to be emotional your absence was taking a toll on him.

You were the first to treat him like a human and he took that for granted. When he realised others weren't as understanding as you were he would get bothered... As much as he hate you that was just the crust of his heart, to him the core matter more... It was totally not an excuse for his horrible behaviour.

"You haven't tried that, father we must try before coming into conclusion!"

"I have tried Damian, nothing worked. Her body was rotting from the inside I was not aware"

Finally Barbara spoke up.

"You have tried? I have been visiting her grave everyday when did you di-"

"It was a decoy"

Jason decided to told the truth. The room felt into a long silence and suddenly shouting and names. They weren't happy that Bruce didn't tell them about the decoy, to them that was a breach of trust Bruce desperately tried to build after your death.

"Silence! There is another way we can see her, Deadman suggested using special artifact's that allows people to see ghost... We will us that as a temporary comfort and we'll find a way to bring her back... with us "

Everybody agreed, unknowns to them you were contemplating life whether you should leave your family and risk the chance of being brought back to life against your will or... Leave.

TAGS: @lovebug-apple, @leeiasure, @invinciblewaffles, @dangeroustravelermultiverse, @shycreatorreview, @bellethesleepypotato , @cluelessteam , @fortunatelydifferentqueen, @doggyteam2028 @icryat2

SPECIAL TAG: @megasweetbones.( TYSM for the great idea 🫶)

[gay-dorito-dust]

How these guys would react to having their face held…

Dick smiles out of habit and pushes his face even further into your hands, humming in content.

He loves it when you held him, however that may be, as it was the one thing he looked forward to the most when coming home.

He’s prone to frequent bouts of fatigue with patrols and the like, but it was moments like these where he could truly appreciate your touch and the healing properties they have on him.

‘I could spend forever here in your hands.’ He’d sigh as he allowed himself to relax within your touch.

‘Oh really? Is that so?’ You raised your brows, watching as the features within his face relaxed into a one that showed you just how exhausted Dick looked. You could see the toll his job his job took but you knew that Dick was too devoted, too attached to what he does to ever give it up, no matter how constantly drained and tired it made him.

You respect his decision to keep doing what he was doing but there came times where you’d just wish he would take a breather from it all, even if it was just for a second, you just wanted to take the weight off of Dick’s shoulders and put it aside for a moment while you work the tension out of his aching muscles.

‘Yeah.’ He responded, feeling himself sink further into sleep. Dick loved what he does but some times he resents it for leaving him with little to no time to spend with you, at least not without him falling asleep five minutes within the interaction. Time with you was sparse and all Dick wanted to do was spend as much of it as he could to make up for the fact that he was barely home at all during the day.

He knew that he prioritised being a hero over your relationship too often and he couldn’t help but feel a tremendous amount of guilt over it during your relationship. You didn’t deserve to wait up for him every night to make sure he was okay, not while developing heavy eye bags of your own and a lack of a sleeping schedule.

He just hopes that one day you too will realise that you better then what he’s giving you and put yourself first, but you were too selfless to ever do that and he could feel that through the way you trace his features with your fingers with featherlight caresses.

Jason stiffens beneath your touch and goes unresponsive for such a long time that you were worried that you had accidentally crossed a boundary.

So just as you were about to remove your hands from his face, Jason quickly reaches out to grasp your hands and pull them back to cupping his cheeks as he then proceeded to nuzzle his cheek against your palm.

‘Stay.’ He whispered. ‘Please.’

Your heart broke at his plea but obeyed as you began to stroke his cheeks with either of your thumbs, feeling him gradually relax under your touch until he was practically a puddle in your hands.

‘I’m sorry.’ He whimpered, burying his face into your hands so that you didn’t see his tear stricken red face. ‘I don’t deserve this. None of it.’ He adds, cursing himself for being so pathetic but your touch practically broke him in the best way.

In your hands Jason felt as though all his broken prices were being put back together again through love, warmth and patience and that was enough to make him breakdown into tears.

Physical affection is a foreign concern to this poor man, and in due to that Jason is naturally going to be skeptical and on edge the moment the pads of your fingertips explore his jawline, before slowly coming up to cup his cheeks. ‘I’m right here Jaybridie.’ You utter softly as you felt his grip on your wrists slack a little. ‘I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere because nowhere is more important than staying here with you. Just take your time.’ And stay with him you did.

Damian is another one who’s not use to soft touches and sweet affection.

So he’ll initially be on guard when he saw you coming his way with your hands outstretched to cup his cheeks, but will huff and reluctantly rest his face in your palms, he’s extremely stiff while doing so and looking away from you out of initial embarrassment.

‘Get on with it.’ He’d mutter, acting as though such acts or moments of tenderness and vulnerability were beneath him, when in actuality Damian loved the feeling of you hold his face as though it were porcelain. He loved the fact that despite knowing his upbringing you still treat him with a love, kindness and warmth that he has never been shown before.

To Damian it was clear that you didn’t care if he was the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul, grandson of Ra’s al Ghul. You only cared about him, Damian Wayne and he could feel that care through your touch as he vowed to cut through anything and everything that intended to harm you.

Your touch brings him a sense of calm, serenity and peace that brought him back from the brink a plethora of times, especially in moments when his arrogance and brashness would resurface. Damian was thankful for you being in his life, a true guiding light in his darkest moments, and he couldn’t think of any possible way to thank you for everything you’ve done for him but he’ll surly try.

Bruce feels the tension behind his eyes and in his jaw sooth themselves under your touch.

His eyes would slowly close as he brought his calloused hands up to gently stroke the inside of your wrists. Bruce needs no words to describe how he felt because he feels as though his expressions and the noises of content made it clear how much he appreciated you being here with him.

‘You look tired.’ You commented, tracing the weary lines on his hard face with your eyes as he observed your face and the way it showed most of your innermost emotions whether you were aware of this fact or not.

Bruce knew that you worry and that you worry a lot about him in particular when it came to whether he was sleeping enough, eating enough and keeping himself safe whilst fighting on the streets of Gotham. Bruce knew he was as stubborn as mule when it came to his life choices and that you were only just worried about him because you cared for him, but sometimes he wished you would redirect all this effort towards yourself because he oftentimes didn’t think he was worth of your worry, nor your care.

Bruce felt as though he should be the one taking care of you rather than you taking care of him. It’s not as though he hates it, it’s just you’ve shown him on countless occasions of your care towards him, and on even more occasions you have shown him of your unwavering dedication towards him. Bruce also feels like he should be the one paying you back for all the hard times where you stood by his side, watching him practically work himself to the bone and almost into a comatose if you didn’t step in and deal him away from the computers.

For you’ve proven time and time again that you weren’t so easily swayed into leaving, and that was made more true when he felt comfortable enough telling you that he was Batman and the dangers that would come with knowing such knowledge. You however only shrugged and told him that by his side, you were the safest you’ve ever been or will ever be.

‘More so than usual?’ He asked in a way that it might as well have came out as an indignant huff.

‘And by more so than usual you mean constantly, then yes, yes you are more tired than usual.’ You replied as you ran your thumbs under his eyes and across his eye bags as if to emphasise your point. Bruce only huffs as he watched you take in all of him with nothing but love and affection in your eyes and your touch.

John would most likely bite your hand out of an inherent need to be a teasing little shit.

Will boast about the fact that you just wanted to touch up his stubble. He wasn’t lying but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that and instead say; ‘in your dreams John.’

‘Oh I’m sure I am in yours.’ He reply with confidence as he winked, causing you to lightly pinch his cheek as punishment for his cockiness. ‘I hate you.’ You’d say as you push your fingertips through his stubbly beard, enjoying the way it deliciously tickles your skin, almost as though they were little prickly kisses.

‘No you don’t sweetheart, try as you might but you and me both know that for definite that you love me.’ John would state in a matter of fact tone. Once again you hated how right he was, but kept your lips sealed shut as not to give him any more ammunition to tease and contradict you at any given opportunity than you’ve already have.

The air between you is playful and light in comparison to how cynical, sharp witted and sarcastic he usually is on a daily basis. It was a welcomed change as you allowed the blonde to pretend to bite your hand, only allowing for his teeth to barely graze your skin before pulling away with a sly smirk as you scratch at his stubble.

[hoshifighting]

Hii so like could you either each member reaction or a drabble with woozi (whatever you're more comfortable writing) being sub and you riding them/him and making them cum over and over until they are milked up dry and cannot physically cum anymore

riding seventeen until they cant physically cum anymore (getting milked dry)

WARNINGS: smut, strong overstimulation, cock riding, sensitive content, may not be comfortable to some audiences, you're warned.

seungcheol: starts giggling. not in a “haha that tickles” way but in an “i am so fucked out of my mind i don’t even know what’s happening anymore” way. GETS IN DENIAL TOO!!. like, he’s still gripping your hips, trying to thrust up into you even though his dick is not responding. “no, i can—i can go again, baby, just—just gimme a sec—” except it’s been five minutes, and all he’s done is twitch pathetically underneath you. when you tell him he’s done, he gets all pouty, brows furrowed, whispering, “fuck… you really drained me dry?” like he just realized he isn’t the tank he thought he was.

jeonghan: not even moving anymore. fully limp, sprawled out, arms above his head, legs twitching, eyes hazy as he blinks at the ceiling. broken. defeated. ruined. you squeeze him and there’s nothing—just a weak, pitiful little tremor. “honey, i think you killed me,” he mutters, voice raspy as hell, before exhaling real deep, like he just finished a marathon. gives up completely, just lays there, blinking at you like you just rewired his entire system.

joshua: on the verge of tears. whimpering. shaking. clinging. you try to grind down on him again, but his hips jolt so hard, you swear he’s about to short-circuit. “baby—oh my god—i cant—icanticanticanticanicant” and it’s the most broken, high-pitched plea you’ve ever heard. his hands weakly push at your thighs, but they have no strength.

junhui: prob laughing in disbelief. giggling, eyes red and watery, his head lolled to the side, looking at you with this dazed-ass grin. “oh my god, i’m so done,” he breathes, chest heaving, abs clenching, still twitching with aftershocks. you grind down just a little, just to test, and his whole body spasms, a wrecked whimper escaping him before he laughs even harder, shaking his head like, “nah, babe, you actually ended me. oh? i cant feel my legs? ”

hoshi: BRO IS CLINGING FOR LIFE. good luck with the bruises, because he is full-on latching onto you, fingers digging into your skin, forehead pressed to your shoulder, legs raising in desperate spasms all the time, entire body trembling. “baby, baby, i—i can’t—oh my god—i swear~~~” his voice sooooo broken, and every time his dick twitches uselessly, he lets out the softest little sob, hiding his face in your neck like he’s so embarrassed that you just milked him out of existence.

wonwoo: completely unresponsive. eyes glazed over. mouth open. chest barely rising. looks like he just got hit by a bus. his arms are flopped uselessly at his sides, and when you move, his thighs twitch involuntarily. you squeeze around him and nothing happens—no pulse, no twitch, just nothing. “holy fuck,” he mutters like he just got his soul snatched straight out of his body.

woozi: shaking like a fucking leaf. wrists trembling, legs trembling, hands trembling, chin trembling, abs trembling, breath completely uneven, looking up at you like you just broke him beyond repair. “b-baby, i—i don’t have anything left—” and his voice cracks so hard, you actually feel a little bad. he tries to lift his hips, tries to respond to you, but his body refuses, and when you tell him it’s over, he just collapses back against the sheets. he's not a biiiig fan of aftercare, but that night, he will accept everything you can to repair his pieces together.

minghao: fully dissociating. bro is just staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, hands twitching, looking like he just had an out-of-body experience. you say his name and it takes him five full seconds to even register it. you squeeze around him, testing, and his head instantly tilts back, a wrecked groan falling from his lips, but there’s nothing left. “nah, that’s it, babe,” he breathes, completely spent, just laying there in absolute surrender.

mingyu: whimpering so much, you actually think he might start crying. clinging onto you, lips trembling, eyes wet, entire body twitching. “i—i can’t cum anymore—...?” and his voice breaks mid-sentence, you don't even know if its an affirmation or a quesiton bc he literally can’t. when you try to grind down one more time, his hips buck so hard, he yells, then collapses back, panting, eyes rolling back into his head.

seokmin: fully overstimulated beyond belief. whimpering, shaking, eyes glassy, hands weakly grabbing at your hips like he’s trying to slow you down but has no strength left. “b-baby, please—!!!” when you finally stop, he physically melts into the bed, body slack, chest heaving, just laying there shaking and completely ruined.

seungkwan: full-body twitching. thighs shaking, abs twitching, arms weakly draped over his face, hiding his wrecked expression. “fuck, baby, i’m—i’m done—” he gasps, his voice hoarse as hell, sounding like he just ran up a mountain. when you finally let him go, he just lets out the deepest, shakiest sigh, body going completely slack.

vernon: completely unresponsive part 2. bro is just laying there, eyes blank, mouth slightly open, looking like he just got his entire EXISTENCE reset. you say his name, and nothing. you touch his thigh, and nothing. when he finally blinks, he just tilts his head towards you, chest still rising and falling rapidly “you actually fucked me dry.”

chan: thought he could handle it but by the fourth orgasm, he was whimpering, “no more, no more—”, so now, he is completely silent. doesn’t even try to talk, just stares at you, mouth slightly open, eyes red form crying. he just lays there, staring at you like you just fried his last brain cell.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Anxious Attachment Style

Common Anxious Thoughts, Emotions, and Reactions

THOUGHTS

Mind reading: "That’s it, I know s/he’s leaving me."

All-or-nothing thinking: "I’ve ruined everything, there’s nothing I can do to mend the situation."

"I’ll never find anyone else."

"I knew this was too good to last."

"I have to talk to or see him/her right now."

"S/he can’t treat me this way! I’ll show him/her!"

"S/he is so amazing, why would s/he want to be with me anyway?"

"I knew something would go wrong; nothing ever works out right for me."

"S/he’d better come crawling back to beg my forgiveness, otherwise s/he can forget about me forever."

"Maybe if I look drop-dead gorgeous or act seductive, things will work out."

Remembering all the good things your partner ever did and said after calming down from a fight.

Recalling only the bad things your partner has ever done when you’re fighting.

EMOTIONS

Sad ⚜ Angry ⚜ Fearful ⚜ Resentful ⚜ Frustrated

Hopeless ⚜ Despairing ⚜ Jealous ⚜ Hostile ⚜ Vengeful

Guilty ⚜ Self-loathing ⚜ Restless ⚜ Uneasy ⚜ Humiliated

Hate-filled ⚜ Uncertain ⚜ Agitated ⚜ Rejected ⚜ Depressed

Unloved ⚜ Lonely ⚜ Misunderstood ⚜ Unappreciated

ACTIONS

Act out. ⚜ Attempt to reestablish contact at any cost.

Pick a fight. ⚜ Threaten to leave.

Wait for them to make the first reconciliation move.

Act hostile—roll eyes, look disdainful.

Try to make him/her feel jealous.

Act busy or unapproachable. ⚜ Act manipulatively.

Withdraw—stop talking to their partner or turn away from him/her physically.

Attachment classifications come from watching babies’ behavior.

Below is a short description of how anxious attachment style is defined in children. Some of their responses can also be detected in adults who share the same attachment style.

This baby becomes extremely distressed when mommy leaves the room.

When her mother returns, she reacts ambivalently—she is happy to see her but angry at the same time.

She takes longer to calm down, and even when she does, it is only temporary.

A few seconds later, she’ll angrily push mommy away, wriggle down, and burst into tears again.

Where Do Attachments Styles Come From?

Initially it was assumed that adult attachment styles were primarily a product of your upbringing.

Thus, it was hypothesized that your current attachment style is determined by the way in which you were cared for as a baby:

If your parents were sensitive, available, and responsive, you should have a secure attachment style; if they were inconsistently responsive, you should develop an anxious attachment style; and if they were distant, rigid, and unresponsive, you should develop an avoidant attachment style.

Today, however, we know that attachment styles in adulthood are influenced by a variety of factors, one of which is the way our parents cared for us, but other factors also come into play, including our genes and life experiences.

Source ⚜ More: On Attachment ⚜ Writing Notes & References Writing Resources PDFs ⚜ Avoidant ⚜ Secure ⚜ Disorganized

[mahalachives]

Part 4: The Thread That Would Not Break

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

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

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

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

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

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Darkness claimed you completely as the last strands of the mating bond began to snap.

The pain was exquisite—each golden thread breaking with the force of a lightning strike through your chest.

Your consciousness floated in the liminal space between worlds, untethered and drifting.

Then, distantly, you felt it—a tug toward your old life.

The steady beep of hospital monitors, the antiseptic smell, the scratchy sheets against your skin. Your real body, waiting for you to return.

The sensation grew stronger, pulling you away from Prythian, away from magic and immortality and heartbreak.

Home.

You were going home.

But as your soul began to slide away, another pull—stronger, more insistent—wrapped around you.

The mating bond, refusing to be severed completely. It burned through the darkness, a golden lifeline refusing to let you go.

In its place. Murky water, illuminated with an eerie blue-green glow.

The Azure Pool.

You were floating beneath the surface, your body limp and unresponsive, hair drifting around your face like flame underwater. The cold pressed in from all sides, a crushing weight that seemed to compress your very soul.

Then. Strong arms pulling you upward, breaking the surface.

The shock of air against your wet skin. Being dragged to shore, your waterlogged body laid out on soft grass. The sensation was so vivid you could feel individual blades of grass pressing against your back, the rough texture of wet leather against your skin, the cool autumn air raising goosebumps along your arms.

Your perspective shifted, and suddenly you could see yourself—pale, lips blue, utterly still—and above you, Azriel.

The shadowsinger knelt over your body, his face a mask of desperate concentration.

No words escaped him, but his shadows betrayed his anguish, writhing in frantic patterns around him like living embodiments of grief.

They formed jagged, panicked shapes, reaching into your mouth, your nose, as if trying to pull the water out by force. Water dripped from his hair, his wings, his leathers—he'd dived in after you without hesitation.

He tilted your head back, pinched your nose, and sealed his mouth over yours, breathing air into your unresponsive lungs. The contrast was shocking—his lips warm despite the cold water, firm and insistent against yours.

His eyes never closed, fixed on your face with fierce intensity that belied his usual emotional control. He pulled back, pressed hard against your chest in rhythmic compressions, then returned to breathe for you again.

The raw emotion on his face—normally so controlled, so emotionless—was staggering.

Gone was the cold, professional mask.

In its place was naked fear, desperate determination, and something else, something that made your non-existent heart twist painfully in your spectral chest.

Again he pressed his mouth to yours, breathing life into you.

Again the compressions, harder now, desperate.

His wings trembled with the effort, water still cascading from them in silver droplets that caught the strange light of the pool. His shadows were extensions of his fear, probing your airways, massaging your heart through your ribcage, working in tandem with his physical efforts to revive you.

And through it all, the mating bond—that golden thread you'd tried so hard to sever—pulsed weakly between your bodies.

With each compression, each breath, it glowed a little stronger, a beacon in the growing darkness. It was a living thing, fighting for its own survival as desperately as Azriel fought for yours.

You could feel it now—a tugging sensation deep in your soul, pulling you back toward your abandoned body.

Back toward him.

The connection was tangible, a golden lifeline stretching between the hospital and the Azure Pool, between your two separate existences.

Let go, a quiet voice whispered in your mind. Let go and return to your real life.

But the golden thread pulled harder, more insistently.

The pain in your chest intensified, no longer the dull ache of something severed but the sharp, immediate agony of something fighting to reconnect.

It was demanding a choice—stay or go, live or die, belong or remain forever adrift between worlds.

On the shore, Azriel paused his compressions, his face twisting with something beyond despair. His shoulders slumped, his hands falling away from your chest.

For the first time since you'd met him, his emotions were written plainly across his face—grief, denial, rage, and beneath it all, a terrible, aching loss that made your spectral heart break for him.

Come back, the bond seemed to whisper. Not his voice. Not yours. Something else entirely, ancient and powerful. Come back.

The hospital room flickered around you, growing fainter with each beat of your heart. The beeping of the monitors slowed, fading to distant echoes. Reality itself seemed to hang in the balance, waiting for your decision.

Stay or go, the voice whispered. Choose.

The golden thread pulsed once more, brighter than before, stretching between your chest and his. It was no longer just a connection—it was a choice, a path back to a life you'd abandoned, to a world where you might, against all odds, belong.

Choose.

Time seemed to stop as you considered. Your human life was safe, known, logical. Your family, your career, your future—all waiting for you back in that hospital bed.

But it felt distant now, insubstantial compared to the vivid reality of Azriel's grief, the cool press of grass against your back. The mating bond thrummed between you, more real than anything you'd ever experienced in your human life.

You reached for the thread—not to sever it this time, but to follow it home.

To him.

Pain exploded through your body, a burning rush that filled every nerve ending. It was as if every cell was simultaneously dying and being reborn, rearranged according to some new pattern that accommodated both worlds, both lives, both versions of yourself.

You gasped, choking, water flooding from your mouth as your lungs spasmed violently.

Your eyes flew open to find Azriel's face hovering above yours, his expression transforming from grief to shock to something else entirely.

Fury.

His hazel eyes, rimmed with red blazed with barely contained rage.

His jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscles working beneath his skin. His shadows whipped around him in violent patterns, no longer reaching for you but forming sharp, dangerous shapes that reflected the storm of emotions he refused to voice.

You coughed again, more water expelling from your lungs in a painful rush that burned your throat and chest.

You tried to speak, to explain, to apologize. "Az—"

He cut you off, not with words but with a look so fierce it stole what little breath you'd regained. The temperature around you dropped several degrees, as if his anger had physically chilled the air.

Without a sound, he gathered you into his arms and stood, wings unfurling to their full, impressive span.

You had just enough time to register that his entire body was trembling—with relief or rage, you couldn't tell—before he launched into the sky, carrying you away from the pool that had almost claimed your life. The wind whipped past your face, cold and bracing after the warmth of his arms.

The golden thread between you pulsed stronger now, solid and real—a connection you could no longer deny or escape. It hummed with a strange harmony, as if finally satisfied that its two halves were once again united.

The world fell away beneath you, trees and land shrinking rapidly as Azriel carried you higher and higher. The wind rushed past, stealing what little breath you'd regained. You instinctively curled closer to his chest, seeking warmth against the biting cold of high altitude.

He flew in silence, his arms like iron bands around your shivering form. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, a metronome counting the seconds of this unexpected reprieve. You didn't dare speak, afraid that any word might break whatever fragile thing had compelled him to save you.

As the miles fell away beneath his powerful wings, your thoughts swirled in confusion.

Why had he come for you? How had he known where to find you? And most importantly—why did he care whether you lived or died when he had made it so abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you?

The mating bond offered no answers, only a steady pulse of shared life between you.

When the Autumn Court came into view, its forests ablaze with eternal fall, Azriel began to descend. The castle rose from the horizon, amber windows glowing like cat's eyes in the fading light. Servants moved through the gardens, their copper-colored uniforms distinctive even from this height.

Azriel's descent was rapid but controlled, bringing you down with practiced precision at the edge of the formal gardens. The moment his feet touched earth, a cry went up from the nearest guards.

"The Lady has returned!" "Call the healers!" "An Illyrian warrior!"

Weapons were drawn, arrows nocked, and fire bloomed in Autumn Fae palms. The scent of aggression spiked in the air, sharp and metallic.

Azriel ignored them all, striding forward with you still cradled against his chest. His wings remained half-spread, a threatening display that made the guards hesitate despite their numbers. His shadows writhed around him, reaching like tentacles into the spaces between guards, testing for threats.

"Stand down," he commanded, his voice pitched low but carrying with undeniable authority. "Your Lady needs assistance."

Something in his tone—or perhaps the sight of you, pale and shivering in his arms—made the guards lower their weapons fractionally. They parted reluctantly, creating a path toward a stone platform in the center of the garden.

As Azriel carried you forward, servants began to appear—drawn by the commotion or perhaps alerted by the guards. Among them was Briar, her copper-brown hair escaping its pins as she ran toward you.

"My lady!" she cried, her face draining of color as she took in your soaked clothing and blue-tinged lips. "What happened? Are you—"

She froze as Azriel's shadows curled toward her, a silent warning. The shadowsinger laid you gently on the stone platform, his movements careful despite the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Blankets," he ordered, not looking away from you. "Dry clothes. Healer."

The servants scattered immediately, rushing to obey despite the unprecedented situation of taking orders from a Night Court warrior in the heart of Autumn territory. Only Briar remained, hovering anxiously at the edge of the platform.

"She needs a healer," she said, her voice trembling slightly but firm.

Azriel's only acknowledgment was a slight incline of his head, but it was enough. Briar turned and ran toward the castle, calling for healers as she went.

As the garden emptied of all but a few distant guards, Azriel finally straightened to his full height. His wings folded behind him with deliberate precision, each movement controlled and measured. His face remained expressionless as he stared down at you, water still dripping from his leathers onto the stone beside your head.

He turned to leave without a word, his back a rigid line of barely contained emotion.

"Wait," you croaked, the word painful in your raw throat.

He paused, his body tensing further, but didn't turn.

"Please," you whispered.

Slowly, agonizingly, he turned back to face you.

The sight of him stole what little breath you'd managed to recover. His face was a study in controlled fury—jaw clenched, eyes blazing with golden fire, shadows writhing around him in agitated patterns.

But beneath the anger, barely visible but unmistakable, was fear.

He had been afraid.

"What," he asked, each word precise and deadly calm, "were you doing in that lake?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

The mating bond flared between you, carrying emotions too complex to name. The truth lodged in your throat, but you swallowed it back. He wouldn't understand—or worse, he would think you mad. Either way, it would give him more reason to reject you.

Instead, tears welled in your eyes, spilling over to track down your already wet cheeks. The sight of them made Azriel's shadows still briefly before surging forward, as if they had a will of their own.

"Why do you care?" you asked, your voice cracking painfully. "You made it perfectly clear you want nothing to do with me."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

The temperature around you plummeted as his shadows expanded, filling the space with their cold presence.

"Is that what this was?" he demanded, taking a step closer to the platform. "Some kind of desperate bid for attention?"

The accusation in his voice ignited something in your chest—a spark of anger that quickly blazed into fury. Despite the pain, you pushed yourself up to sitting, glaring at him through tear-filled eyes.

"You think I tried to kill myself because of you?" Your voice rose, cracking on the last word. "Your arrogance truly knows no bounds, shadowsinger."

The pink bunnies appeared without warning, materializing from thin air around your clenched fists. They were different this time—not the playful creatures from before, but twisted, angry things with flames for eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. They hopped agitatedly around you, leaving scorch marks on the stone.

Azriel's eyes widened fractionally, his shadows pulling back as if surprised by this display of power.

"Then explain," he pressed, his voice dangerously soft. "Why would the Lady of the Autumn Court be drowning herself in a magical lake?"

"I don't answer to you," you hissed, the words tearing from your throat. One of the flame bunnies leapt toward him, dissipating against the wall of shadows he instinctively raised. "I don't answer to anyone in this godforsaken place!"

More bunnies materialized, bouncing frantically around you as your control slipped. Small fires bloomed where they landed, smoking holes in the immaculate garden.

"Everyone hates me for things I never did!" you continued, your voice breaking. "For actions I never took! For a person I've never been!"

Azriel went completely still, even his shadows freezing in place. "What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't understand," you rasped, tears flowing freely now. "No one does."

One of the flame bunnies hopped onto your lap, nuzzling against your stomach. Despite everything, the sight was so absurd that a hiccuping sob-laugh escaped you.

"Why should you care if I died?" you whispered, stroking the fiery creature with trembling fingers. "It would solve your problem, wouldn't it? No more unwanted mate. No more reminder of... whatever it is about me that you hate so much."

The quiet that followed was absolute.

Even the flame bunnies stilled, sensing the gravity of the moment. Azriel remained motionless, his face unreadable, his shadows pulled tight around him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "You truly believe that's what I want?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you asked bitterly. "You've made your disgust perfectly clear."

Something shifted in his expression then—not softening, exactly, but changing. His shadows stirred restlessly, reaching toward you before he pulled them back.

"You crossed territories, winnowed to an Illyrian war camp, and confronted a warrior centuries older than you... to say goodbye before trying to drown yourself." His voice was flat, but his eyes burned with unreadable emotion.

"The bond wouldn't let me go without saying goodbye," you whispered. "It hurt too much."

Azriel took a single step closer, his movements predatory and precise.

"And did it occur to you," he asked, his voice deceptively soft, "that there might be a reason for that?"

Before you could answer, servants reappeared with blankets and a steaming mug.

They hesitated at the sight of your flaming bunnies, but Briar pushed forward bravely, draping a thick blanket around your shoulders and pressing the mug into your hands.

"Drink, my lady," she urged, casting nervous glances at Azriel. "The healers are coming."

You sipped obediently, the hot tea burning your raw throat but spreading welcome warmth through your chest. The flame bunnies began to fade, one by one, as your emotions stabilized.

Azriel watched this all in silence, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

His shadows, however, stretched toward you again, as if testing the truth of your words through touch.

When the healers arrived, bustling with efficiency and concern, Azriel stepped back. His wings shifted behind him, preparing for flight.

"This isn't finished," he said quietly, his words meant for you alone. "We will speak again."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. But it was something—a promise, however reluctant, that this wasn't the end.

The mating bond hummed between you, no longer fighting but settling, a golden thread connecting two souls across an impossible divide.

As Azriel launched himself skyward, his powerful wings carrying him swiftly away, you felt something unfamiliar bloom in your chest.

Hope.

Small, fragile, but undeniably there—like the first green shoot after a forest fire.

Whatever came next, you were still here. Still alive. Still bound to this world, this court, this shadowsinger who had pulled you from the depths despite everything.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Sunlight filtered through amber-stained glass, painting warm patterns across your bed as you stared at the ceiling of your chamber.

The healers had done their work efficiently—lungs cleared, temperature restored, physical damage repaired. But they couldn't heal the confusion swirling in your mind like the shadows that had enveloped you at the lake.

You'd failed. Again.

The mating bond had tethered you to this world with unrelenting tenacity, refusing to let you escape back to your real life.

And Azriel—cold, furious Azriel—had physically dragged you from the waters that might have been your passage home.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," you muttered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. "I should never have gone to say goodbye."

Your flame magic responded to your agitation, small pink rabbits materializing on your bedspread. One hopped onto your chest, its fiery weight oddly comforting as it nuzzled against your collarbone.

"Next time," you told the rabbit seriously, "I'll avoid magical lakes. Maybe a cliff? Or poison—something fast-acting that can't be treated." You frowned, considering your options. "Perhaps if I got far enough away from Prythian entirely... somewhere across the sea where no one could find me in time."

The rabbit tilted its flaming head, ears twitching as if confused by your morbid planning session.

"Don't look at me like that," you scolded. "You're literally made of fire. You have no survival instinct whatsoever."

The rabbit responded by multiplying, and suddenly six small flame bunnies were bouncing on your bed, leaving charred paw prints on the silk sheets.

"Great," you sighed. "More evidence of my deteriorating mental state."

You brushed halfheartedly at a smoking spot on your pillowcase.

The rumors had already spread throughout the castle—the Lady of Autumn, found half-drowned by a Night Court shadowsinger. The whispers followed you even here, in your private chambers.

"She tried to kill herself because of the mating bond rejection... the shame was too much... she's even more unstable than before..."

If only they knew the truth—that you weren't trying to die, just trying to get home.

That this body, this court, this entire world wasn't yours to begin with.

A knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

Briar entered without waiting for a response, her face pinched with worry. She took one look at the flame rabbits desecrating your bedding and her eyes widened.

"My lady, perhaps it would be best to... disperse your little friends before your audience?"

"Audience?" you repeated, sitting up so quickly that two rabbits tumbled off the bed with indignant squeaks. "What audience?"

Briar's hands twisted nervously in her apron. "Lord Beron has commanded your presence immediately. In the Great Hall."

Your stomach dropped faster than a flame bunny falling off a bed. "Lord Beron? My... father? He's back from the Dawn Court already?"

"The High Lord returned the moment he heard about the... incident." Briar's voice dropped to a whisper. "Lord Eris is with him. And your brothers."

"All of them?" you asked, your voice climbing an octave higher. "How many brothers do I have again?"

Briar gave you a strange look. "Five, my lady. Though... Lord Lucien is at the Spring Court."

"Right. Of course. Five brothers. Totally knew that." You ran a hand through your hair, trying to calm your racing heart. "And they're all... angry?"

"I wouldn't presume to know the High Lord's emotions," Briar replied diplomatically, though her expression said otherwise.

You groaned, flopping back onto your pillows. "He's furious, isn't he?"

"The word 'incandescent' was used by one of the guards," Briar admitted. "Along with 'apocalyptic' and 'preparing the torture chambers.'"

"Torture chambers?!" you squeaked.

"That may have been an exaggeration," Briar conceded, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "But Lord Beron is... displeased. The involvement of the Night Court in Autumn Court matters has always been a sensitive issue."

"It wasn't Azriel's fault," you protested automatically. "He was just... being a decent person."

Even as you said it, you wondered why the shadowsinger had saved you. After his cold dismissal, his formal rejection of the bond—why had he followed you? How had he known where you'd gone?

"My lady," Briar interrupted your racing thoughts, "Lord Beron is waiting. It would be... unwise to delay."

"Right." You took a deep breath, banishing the flame rabbits with a flick of your wrist. Most of them disappeared in puffs of smoke. One particularly stubborn bunny remained, glaring at you reproachfully from the foot of your bed.

"Oh, for—fine, you can stay," you told it, "But no setting anything important on fire."

The bunny made a smug little hop.

Briar watched this exchange with a mixture of concern and bemusement. "Perhaps it would be best if your... friend... remained here?"

"Probably," you agreed, scooping up the creature and depositing it on your pillow. "Be good," you instructed. "No arson."

The bunny yawned, tiny flames flickering between its teeth.

With a deep, steadying breath, you followed Briar from your chambers toward what would surely be the most awkward family meeting in the history of dysfunctional immortal families.

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court was aptly named—a vast, imposing space with vaulted ceilings that seemed to capture sunlight and transmute it into liquid gold.

Fall leaves perpetually drifted from the ceiling, disappearing before they reached the ground. The effect was both beautiful and disorienting—an eternal autumn suspended in time.

At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of polished wood, sat Lord Beron on his throne of living flame. The fire never seemed to burn him, though it cast his already severe features into harsh relief, highlighting the cold cruelty in his eyes.

Beside him stood Eris, immaculate as always, his auburn hair gleaming like burnished copper in the firelight. His expression was carefully neutral, though you caught a flicker of... something... in his eyes as you approached.

Three other males flanked the throne—your "brothers," apparently. They shared Eris's coloring to varying degrees, though none possessed his lethal grace or cunning intelligence. Their expressions ranged from bored disinterest to poorly concealed amusement at your predicament.

You approached the dais on legs that felt increasingly unstable. The walk seemed interminable, each step echoing ominously against the marble floor.

The court had gathered to witness your humiliation—dozens of Autumn Fae lining the walls, their whispers a susurration like wind through dry leaves.

"So," Lord Beron said when you finally reached the foot of the dais. His voice was deceptively soft, but fire flickered at his fingertips—a warning of the rage barely contained beneath his calm facade. "My only daughter seeks to drown herself rather than bear the shame of rejection from a Night Court bastard."

Your cheeks burned. "It wasn't like that," you began, then stopped. How could you possibly explain the truth?

"Then enlighten us," Beron continued, leaning forward slightly, his throne's flames rising in response to his agitation. "What exactly 'was it like'?"

Words failed you.

Every explanation sounded like madness, even in your own head. I'm actually a human nursing student possessing your daughter's body and I was trying to drown myself to get back to my world hardly seemed like something that would improve this situation.

"The bond," you said finally, the partial truth easier than outright lies. "It... hurt. I wasn't thinking clearly."

One of your brothers—the one with the cruelest smirk—laughed softly. "Poor sister, so devastated by that shadow-loving mongrel's rejection that she tried to end herself. How pathetically romantic."

You bristled, pink sparks dancing at your fingertips. "You don't understand what it feels like."

"Neither do you," Eris cut in smoothly, drawing all eyes to him. "The bond formed mere days ago. The pain of rejection, while significant, would hardly drive someone with your particular... temperament... to suicide."

You tensed at the calculated precision of his words. Eris was too observant, too clever by far. He knew something wasn't right.

"Unless," he continued, his amber eyes never leaving yours, "there are other factors at play?"

A tense silence fell over the hall.

"What factors could possibly drive a High Fae of the Autumn Court to such desperation?" Beron asked, his gaze burning into you. "What weakness have you discovered in yourself, daughter, that would bring such shame upon our house?"

You straightened your spine, meeting his gaze despite the fear that threatened to choke you.

"No weakness, Father. Only clarity." The words came unbidden, but as you spoke them, you realized their truth. "I've lived... differently... these past days. Seen things from a new perspective. The person I was before—"

"Is the person you are," Beron interrupted coldly. "Whatever temporary madness has overtaken you, I suggest you master it quickly."

"And if I can't?" you challenged, surprising yourself with your boldness.

Beron's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps the Autumn Court requires a different Lady."

The threat hung in the air, clear and deadly. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the precarious nature of your position. If Beron discovered the truth—that his daughter's body now housed a foreign soul—what would he do?

"The mating bond complicates matters," Eris observed, his voice neutral. "Death would not resolve the issue. It would only create a diplomatic incident with the Night Court."

"The Night Court," Beron spat, flames briefly engulfing his throne. "That shadowsinger dared to enter our territory without permission. To touch what belongs to the Autumn Court."

"He saved my life," you pointed out, then immediately regretted it as Beron's gaze sharpened on you.

"A life you were attempting to end," he countered. "Perhaps you should thank me instead for not letting him keep what he retrieved."

Your brothers snickered, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves.

"What I don't understand," said the youngest-looking brother, his tone falsely casual, "is why the shadowsinger bothered at all. If he rejected the bond, why save her?"

It was a good question—one that had plagued you since you'd awakened in your chambers.

Hope fluttered traitorously in your chest before you ruthlessly squashed it. No, Azriel had made his feelings perfectly clear. Whatever had driven him to save you, it wasn't acceptance of the bond.

"Regardless," Beron said dismissively, "the matter is settled. You will remain in the castle under guard until I determine you are no longer a danger to yourself or the reputation of this court. You will not attempt to contact the Night Court or its representatives. You will not leave your chambers without an escort. And you will cease this... undignified emotional display immediately."

As if in direct defiance of his orders, a small pink flame bunny chose that exact moment to materialize on your shoulder. It squeaked indignantly at Beron, tiny fiery ears laid flat against its head.

A collective gasp swept through the hall.

One of your brothers cursed. Eris looked briefly skyward, as if praying for patience. And Beron... Beron's expression was one of such appalled disbelief that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing hysterically.

"What," Beron said with deadly precision, "is that?"

"A rabbit," you replied, your voice impressively steady. "Made of fire. Pink fire, specifically."

"I can see that," Beron hissed. "Why is it on your shoulder?"

You considered several responses, discarding each as too flippant or too honest. Finally, you settled on, "It seems to like me?"

"Destroy that... abomination... immediately," Beron commanded, fire flaring at his fingertips.

The bunny, apparently sensing the threat, multiplied. Suddenly, three pink flame rabbits sat on your shoulders and head, all glaring defiantly at the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort came from the direction of Eris, though his face remained carefully blank when you glanced his way.

"I don't think they like being called abominations," you observed mildly, as one of the bunnies started grooming its flaming ears with particular vigor, as if preparing for battle.

"Enough!" Beron roared, rising from his throne in a surge of power that sent flames dancing across the dais. "You will remember your place, daughter, or I will remind you of it in ways you will not enjoy."

The bunnies, displaying more wisdom than their creator, promptly disappeared in puffs of smoke.

All except one—the original, stubborn bunny—which darted into your hair to hide.

"Yes, Father," you said, lowering your eyes in a show of submission that you didn't feel. "I understand."

"I doubt that," Beron replied coldly. "But you will. Guards, escort my daughter to her chambers. She is not to leave without my express permission."

As the guards stepped forward to flank you, you risked one last glance at Eris.

What you did know was that you were now a prisoner in this court, in this body, in this life. The mating bond had anchored you to this world against your will, and now Beron had ensured you couldn't try again to escape it.

As you were escorted from the hall, the tiny flame bunny peeked out from your hair, its warm weight a strange comfort against your scalp.

"Well," you whispered to it as the doors closed behind you, "that could have gone worse."

The bunny sneezed, sending a small shower of sparks cascading over your shoulders.

"Okay, fine," you amended. "It was a complete disaster. But look on the bright side—at least we're not dead."

The bunny gave you a look that suggested it remained unconvinced of the advantages of your continued existence in this world.

"Yeah," you sighed as the guards marched you toward your gilded prison. "I'm not so sure either.”

Three days passed in luxurious imprisonment.

Your chambers, while beautiful, had become a gilded cage—every exit guarded, every window watched. The servants who brought your meals were different each time, preventing you from forming alliances.

Even Briar had been reassigned, replaced by an older female with iron-gray hair and a perpetual frown who refused to engage in conversation.

Your only companion was the stubborn pink flame bunny, who had taken up permanent residence on your pillow.

You'd named him Ember, for lack of a better option, and found yourself talking to him with increasing frequency as isolation wore on your nerves.

"What do you think, Ember?" you asked, pacing the length of your chamber for the hundredth time that morning. "Is drowning still the best option, or should I consider something more creative? Self-immolation would be ironic, given the whole fire magic thing."

Ember squeaked disapprovingly, his tiny flame ears flattening against his head.

"Fine, no self-immolation," you conceded. "Though it might give Beron a heart attack, which would be a bonus."

A knock at your door interrupted your morbid planning session.

You expected the sour-faced servant with your midday meal, but instead found Eris leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Plotting patricide, sister? How delightfully traditional of you."

"Eris," you greeted cautiously. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. And here I thought we were developing such a lovely sibling rapport."

Ember, sensing a potential threat, hopped onto your shoulder and puffed himself up to approximately twice his tiny size, looking like an angry cotton ball made of fire.

"Is that..." Eris squinted at the flame bunny. "Is that thing wearing a little crown?"

You glanced at Ember, who indeed had fashioned himself a miniature crown of pink flames. "He's going through a monarchy phase. I think he's planning a coup."

"Against whom, exactly?"

"Me, presumably. Though Beron should watch his back. Ember has ambitions."

Eris blinked, then let out a startled laugh. "You know, if you'd shown this sense of humor centuries ago, family dinners would have been considerably more entertaining."

"I'll be sure to bring my comedy routine to the next one," you said dryly. "Assuming I'm ever allowed out of this room again."

Eris sauntered into your chamber, inspecting your living conditions with casual interest. "That depends entirely on Father's mood, which has been spectacularly foul lately. The Night Court isn't helping matters."

Your heart skipped. "The Night Court?"

"Mmm," Eris confirmed, picking up a delicate figurine from your dresser and examining it with excessive attention. "They've been rather... insistent... about certain matters."

"What matters?" you asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperately interested.

Eris replaced the figurine, turning to face you with a gleam in his amber eyes. "You, primarily. Or more specifically, access to you."

The mating bond thrummed beneath your breastbone, responding to even this oblique reference to Azriel. "What do you mean, access?"

"The shadowsinger has been particularly vocal," Eris said, watching your reaction closely. "Demanding an audience, threatening various creative consequences should his request be denied. He's quite inventive with his threats, I must say. Something about anatomically improbable locations for certain body parts."

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. "And what did Beron say to these... requests?"

"He suggested the shadowsinger perform several physically impossible acts involving his own wings before bursting into literal flames." Eris grinned. "The diplomatic correspondence has been most entertaining. I've been keeping copies for posterity."

"You're enjoying this," you accused.

"Immensely," he admitted without a hint of shame. "It's been centuries since anyone challenged Father so directly. I find it refreshing."

"So he denied the request?"

"With such colorful language that three scribes resigned on the spot." Eris stretched languidly, completely at ease. "The poor messengers had to be escorted from the premises under guard to prevent spontaneous combustion."

Your shoulders slumped slightly. "So that's it? Request denied, end of story?"

"Did you expect something else?" Eris raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps a daring rescue? The shadowsinger swooping in through your window to carry you away in his strong, scarred arms?"

"Of course not," you huffed, though the image sent an unwelcome thrill through you. "I just thought..."

"That I might help?" Eris finished, his expression shifting to something more calculating. "Arrange some clandestine meeting? Risk Father's wrath for the sake of your star-crossed romance?"

"No," you lied.

"Good," Eris said cheerfully. "Because I wouldn't. He may be a tyrant, but he's a predictable one. The shadowsinger, with his shadows and secrets, is an unknown variable I'm not inclined to trust."

Ember chose that moment to hop onto Eris's shoulder and sneeze, sending a shower of tiny pink sparks cascading over his immaculate jacket.

"By the Cauldron!" Eris yelped, brushing frantically at the sparks. "Call off your flaming vermin!"

Ember looked utterly pleased with himself as he returned to your shoulder, making a sound suspiciously like a snicker.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "He does that when he senses dishonesty."

"Dishonesty?" Eris scoffed, still checking his jacket for scorch marks. "I'm being perfectly transparent for once in my immortal life."

"So you're not here to gloat? To let me know precisely what I'm missing because I'm trapped in this room while Azriel attempts to communicate with me?"

"Well, I wouldn't say gloat," Eris demurred. "Perhaps 'revel in your misfortune' would be more accurate."

"Get out," you said without heat.

"Gladly," he replied, backing toward the door. "Your pet is a menace."

Ember puffed up his flaming chest with pride.

You stared at the door for a long moment, disappointment settling heavily in your chest.

You'd harbored a secret hope that Eris might help, might see some advantage in facilitating a meeting between you and Azriel.

But it seemed even he had his limits when it came to defying Beron.

Ember nuzzled against your cheek, offering wordless comfort. You scratched him gently behind one flaming ear, grateful for his presence despite his occasional pyromania.

"It's fine," you told him, though your voice lacked conviction. "It's not like I expected anything else."

But you had.

Despite everything—the rejection, the coldness, the fury—some part of you had hoped. Had believed that Azriel might try to reach you, might want to explain, might offer... something.

Understanding, perhaps. Or at the very least, closure.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the autumn forests that stretched beyond the castle walls. The trees were impossibly vibrant, their leaves never falling despite the perpetual autumn. You pressed your palm against the glass, feeling the cool barrier between you and freedom.

The mating bond had been restless these past days, tugging and pulsing in your chest as if trying to communicate.

You'd tried to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there, but in quiet moments like this, its presence was undeniable.

As night fell, casting long shadows across your chambers, the pain began again. It always hurt more at night, as if darkness somehow strengthened the bond's pull. A deep, hollow ache that radiated from your chest outward, like a phantom limb crying out for reconnection.

You curled on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself as if you could physically hold the pain at bay.

This wasn't the sharp, immediate agony of rejection—that had faded after the first day. This was something more insidious, a persistent reminder of what was missing, what had been denied.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you stared into the darkness. You weren't even sure who or what you were crying for—yourself, trapped in a body and a world not your own? The bond, straining across distance and denial? Azriel, who had saved your life only to disappear?

"I want to go home," you whispered into the darkness, the words catching on a sob. "I just want to go home."

But even as you said it, you weren't entirely sure where "home" was anymore. The hospital room with its beeping monitors and antiseptic smell felt increasingly distant, like a half-remembered dream.

This body, this world, this life—as strange and unwelcome as they had been—were becoming familiar in ways that terrified you.

And then there was the bond.

The golden thread that connected you to Azriel, that had pulled you back from death, that ached now with a pain both foreign and intimate. It was part of you now, whether you wanted it or not.

Ember curled against your neck, his warmth a small comfort against the tears that continued to fall. You stroked his tiny form absently, finding solace in the simple connection.

"What am I going to do, Ember?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "I can't stay here, like this, forever. But I can't seem to leave either."

The flame bunny had no answers, only wordless comfort as the night deepened around you and the mating bond continued its relentless pull toward someone who had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

Exhausted by grief and pain, you eventually drifted into uneasy sleep, tears still damp on your cheeks and the golden thread of the bond still pulsing, reaching, connecting you to a shadowsinger who remained as distant and unreachable as the stars themselves.

In your dreams, shadows danced at the edges of your vision, reaching for you with tentative, tender touches before retreating into darkness. And beneath it all, a voice—deep and resonant—whispered words you couldn't quite catch, couldn't quite understand.

Family dinner in the Autumn Court was a lavish, tense affair.

Servants moved silently around the massive mahogany table, placing dishes of succulent game and autumn vegetables before the royal family. The air smelled of cinnamon and smoke, undercut with the acrid scent of tension.

Beron sat at the head of the table, his flame crown burning higher than usual. Eris occupied his right hand, while your three other brothers filled the remaining seats. You sat at the far end, as distant from Beron as the table allowed—a deliberate placement that emphasized your current standing.

Ember had been firmly instructed to remain in your chambers, though you could feel his indignant warmth through your mental connection. He was definitely sulking about missing the meal.

"The Dawn Court negotiations progress favorably," Eris was saying, his voice precisely modulated to hide any actual opinion on the matter. "Lady Nuan has agreed to consider our proposal regarding the eastern trade routes."

Beron merely grunted, tearing into a pheasant with more force than necessary. His mood, never pleasant, had deteriorated further since your "incident" at the lake.

"Perhaps our sister could assist with negotiations," your youngest brother suggested, malice gleaming in his eyes. "I hear drowning makes one uniquely qualified for diplomatic matters."

Eris shot him a warning glance, but the damage was done.

"Indeed," Beron said coldly. "Perhaps my daughter would care to explain how her recent behavior has affected our standing with other courts? The Night Court, in particular, seems unusually interested in our affairs of late."

The mating bond flared at the mention of the Night Court, sending warmth through your chest despite your anxiety.

"I hardly think my personal matters are relevant to court politics," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Beron's flames intensified. "Everything about you is relevant to court politics. You are the Lady of Autumn. Your... indiscretions... reflect on us all."

"Indiscretions?" You couldn't help the indignation that crept into your voice. "Is that what we're calling near-death experiences now?"

"Watch your tone," Beron warned, fire dancing between his fingers.

You should have heeded the warning. Should have lowered your eyes and apologized.

But the days of imprisonment, the pain of the bond, the constant dismissal of your feelings—all of it bubbled up inside you like magma seeking release.

"My tone is the least of your concerns," you said, setting down your fork with deliberate precision. "Perhaps you should worry more about why your daughter tried to drown herself rather than how it looks politically."

The table went silent. Even the servants froze, horror evident in their carefully averted gazes.

"What did you say to me?" Beron's voice was deadly quiet.

"You heard me." The words tumbled out, unstoppable now. "You don't care that I was drowning. You only care how it reflects on you—that a Night Court warrior had to save me because my own family couldn't be bothered to notice I was missing."

Pink flames flickered at your fingertips, responding to your emotions. One of your brothers edged his chair away from the table.

Beron rose slowly, his power filling the room like a physical pressure. The candles flared, casting grotesque shadows across his face.

"You forget yourself, daughter," he said, flames now engulfing his hand as he stepped around the table toward you. "Perhaps you need a reminder of who and what you are."

You should have been afraid.

The rational part of your brain screamed danger. But something else—something stubborn and defiant—refused to cower.

"I know exactly what I am," you replied, rising to meet him. "And it isn't this."

Beron's hand raised, flames licking higher, ready to strike—

The dining hall doors exploded inward with enough force to rattle the silverware.

Cold night air rushed in, extinguishing candles and dimming the fire in the hearths. Shadows poured across the threshold, swift and purposeful.

And then they were there—Rhysand, High Lord of Night, flanked by his general and his shadowsinger. Power rolled before them like a midnight tide, dark and ancient and unstoppable.

"Apologies for the dramatic entrance," Rhysand said smoothly, though his violet eyes were hard as gems. "Your guards seemed reluctant to announce us."

But your attention wasn't on Rhysand. It was fixed entirely on Azriel.

The shadowsinger stood slightly to Rhysand's left, his wings tucked neatly against his back, his face an expressionless mask. But his shadows—his shadows told a different story. They writhed and reached, coiling toward Beron's still-raised hand with unmistakable threat.

"Lower your hand, Lord Beron," Azriel said, his voice quiet but carrying easily through the silent hall. The temperature plummeted with each word. "Now."

The command was delivered with such deadly calm that even Beron hesitated. Fire still danced around his fingers, but his arm lowered slightly.

"How dare you enter my court unannounced," Beron hissed, his rage momentarily redirected. "This intrusion—"

"Is nothing compared to what would happen if you touched her," Azriel interrupted, his shadows stretching across the floor between you and Beron.

They formed a barrier—insubstantial yet somehow more solid than stone.

The mating bond sang between you, responding to his defense with a rush of warmth that left you momentarily breathless.

Azriel's gaze finally shifted to you, his eyes assessing, cataloging—checking for injury, you realized with a start.

And for now, that was enough.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for diving into this emotional rollercoaster with me! This chapter nearly broke me-Azriel’s rage, our girl’s grief, and the chaos of flaming bunnies… I hope it left your heart aching (in the best way). As always, thank you for reading. 💛 More drama, healing, and accidental arson to come.

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie

[gghostwriter]

Pressure Points

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: After a traumatic event, Spencer coaxes you back to the land of the living, right by his side. Trope: Comfort w.c: 1.6k a/n: TRIGGER WARNING FOR TALKS OF MASS CASUALITY DESCRIPTIONS. Not proofread. No use of Y/N, instead Spencer calls reader as ‘angel’. Recently been watching ‘The Pitt’ so you can definitely see where this was inspired from. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Spencer knew right away that something was terribly wrong.

Keys rattling as they settle on the hook by the apartment entrance, the only sound that greeted him was running water from the ajar bathroom door. Its’ fluorescent light streamed across the living room, leaving a streak of path for him to follow.

“Angel, I’m home,” he called out worriedly, aligning his outside shoes by your scuffed and bloodied sneakers. 

Silence.

Garcia was the first to share the devastating news as the team was backing up to go back home from a case well done. Truthfully, he was done with his and was busy theorizing the launch of his film canister all the while Morgan was busy teasing Emily with the sleazy police officer from the most recent case that tried to flirt with her.

“Someone opened fired at the Fairfax Music Festival,” Garcia informed to the few agents available on the floor.

Spencer felt his breath lodge in his throat, he knew geography like the back of his hand. The park where the festival had been situated was included in the zone of your chosen hospital residency. 

Hands blindly reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone to send a message before quickly shutting it close. No, you’d be busy by then, he rationalized. You’d be safe as its protocol that the local police and SWAT establish safety and protection to hospitals receiving casualties.

As the hours ticked by on the clock, the more Spencer could feel his worry and unease rising. The lack of updates regarding the situation, specifically yours, heightened his consciousness to all the possibilities of the shooter heading your way. Einstein’s theory of relativity had made him acutely aware of how right the physicist was in his belief that times moves relative to its’ observer. An object moving fast experiences time slower than the rest and that was exactly what he felt as his foot tapped from agitation, waiting for the train ride back home.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, spotting your sneakers propped haphazardly on the shoe cabinet. You were home, physically safe yes, but mentally was another delicate subject.

The faint metallic scent of coppery blood wafted through as he pushed the bathroom door open and there you were, standing under the scalding shower head still in your intimates, staring at the green tiled walls as if they weren’t completely there at all. 

Dissociation.

Shock.

“Angel,” he softly muttered, not wanting to scare you back to reality.

There was no flash of recognition in your eyes.

Spencer reached across to shut off the pulsing water, your skin already turning pink from the temperature. Quickly chucking off his satchel and clothing, leaving him in a set of checkered boxers, he maneuvered your unresponsive body to sit up on the bench, against the wall in the shower, set the water temperature into a warm and aimed the nozzle over your titled head, making sure the rivulets don’t run on your blank face.

“It’s alright, Angel. I’ve got you,” he repeated over and over again. Grabbing hold of your wash cloth and body wash, he cleansed away the dried splatters of blood your scrubs didn’t catch and massaged the scalps of your hair, hoping to revive you back to reality.

“Spencer?” You hoarsely muttered in confusion, vacant eyes meeting his.

“I’m here,” he replied. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You slowly nodded, eyes closing. The film clouding your brain dissipated further as his gentle presence warmed the cold remnants of death you’ve seen in the emergency room. 

The never ending gurneys being wield in, the multitude of wrist bands all meaning injured—some knocking on death’s door while a few were already in death’s presence. Red blood splattered on the white tiled floor and hospital workers sprinting from one patient to the next. 

You shuddered, it was a view you wouldn’t wish for anyone to see.

Thinking your reaction was from the shower, Spencer shut off the water and guided you to your feet. He made sure you were stable before wrapping you in a clean fluffy towel and drying you off.

Gingerly, he assisted you to sit on the foot of the bed, uncaring of the droplets of water along the wooden floor, all he cared about was making you feel better.

Spencer padded back to your side, a cup of warm tea and a bar of chocolate on hand. 

“Drink it slowly, angel,” he coaxed you, nodding his head in approval as you silently followed his instructions.

You assessed your boyfriend as he enclosed your other hand in his and started massaging.

“Did you know that there’s 8 pressure points on our hands?” He asked. “Although acupressure lacks the backing of scientific studies, people still rely on these due to limited side effects and ability to promote relaxation. Perhaps it’s actually a psychological aspect—they believing it would work and in return, it does. A placebo but I believe it still has its uses—” his thumb and pointed finger pressing in the valley point between yours. “—like grounding you to the present.” 

The corners of your lips quirked into a small smile. “Is that what you’re doing with me?”

“Is it working?”

“Yeah. A little bit, Spence,” you breathed out, feeling completely grateful for the kind of man Spencer Reid had become. Perhaps you should send Diana a bouquet of flowers and a rare book as a thank you for her son or perhaps to the rest of his team that guided him, and is still guiding him, to the right path? 

A different kind of pressure halted your train of thought.

“Oh,” you groaned out, eyes opening to the sight of Spencer pressing kisses to your palm and then to each of your knuckles.

“I love you, Angel.”

You hummed in reply. “Thank you for helping me tonight.”

“I’ll always be here to catch you when you falter, I promise.” 

Placing the empty cup back on the tray beside the slowly melting chocolate, you cupped is his cheeks into your warm hands, the subtle nudges from his nose melting you into a puddle of vulnerability and intimacy.

“There was so much blood, Spence. So many patients who could have made it should they have come in any other day. We even had to ration our supply of blood and I—I joined medicine to save as many lives as I could and there is a lot of that in day to day, but I can’t help but wish these casualty days come few and far between, better yet if none at all. I want to work in the ER, I really do, but sometimes I end up thinking if I’m not cut out for it, if I’m better off somewhere else.”

His thumb drawing abstract patterns on your smooth cheek, Spencer understood where you were coming from. During the beginning of his journey as an FBI agent, he was plagued with those thoughts of never feeling like he belonged, like he was a puzzle piece from a different set trying to fit in. Always trying, always an outsider, he once believed. 

“Angel, it’s alright to have those thoughts. We’re only human, after all. If I could give you the same advice as many of my mentors have said to young me, I’d tell you that those voices in your head, questioning your worth and direction just mean you’re in the right path. No correct way comes easy, just know I’d be behind you every step of the way—run back to me for strength if you have to, it doesn’t make you weak. In truth, it makes you smart and strong in my eyes.” 

You nodded, his words easing this pressure from today’s events inside of you. It was as if the knots in yourself, the disappointment and regret of not having saved one more patient started to fade away.

“Now, I know I can’t always be here during your bad days at work but if I am, just let me know. Text me or call me and I’ll try my very best to come running.”

“But Spence, your job is as demanding as mine is—”

He shushed you gently.

“I know that but you come first in my list, okay?”

You sat there dumbfounded with his offering running again and again in your mind. It was something no one had given to you before. Being born as the eldest, you had to be the pillar—the strong one your siblings and sometimes even your parents could lean on. Never had another being offered their back to shelter you from the bouts of weakness and yet, here was one in Spencer Reid. There was no need to always be tough, he was telling you that. 

“Okay,” you whispered. “I understand.”

He pressed kisses to your forehead and cheeks. “Good, that’s good. I love you, there’s no need to be embarrassed about needing me by your side. I’m your partner, through thick and thin, okay?”

You nodded, the lump on your throat lodging itself further in. You briefly wondered why this perfect specimen of a man had decided to fall in love with you, how had no one come before you to see all the good he had to offer. 

“Do you need to cry, Angel?”

Your tears had started to escape, creating a clear path down your pink stained cheeks.

“Then go ahead and cry. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

And you wept. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[hardlyinteresting]

Stop in the middle

Jake Seresin x reader

Two sides of the same coin; they were joined at the hip; partners in every way but the romantic. The words “I love you,” had passed between them many times, but neither of them had been brave enough to say, “I’m in love with you”.

So much wine by Phoebe Bridgers  Somewhere else by Indians Abbey by  Mitski

Warnings: The reader is referred to as she/her, (call sign Angel), with no physical description, crash landing, wilderness survival, major injuries (non-graphic description), discussions of death, happy ending though (I promise!), hurt/comfort, idiots in love, possible Navy inaccuracies, (please let me know if you'd like me to add anything else)

Word Count: 4.7K Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

This is as good a place to die as any, she thinks.

 Laying in the snow she watches the sun rise inch by inch over the tree line. The sky bathed in a soft orange glow that warms her skin for what she can only assume will be the last time. He’ll hate her for leaving him without saying goodbye, but her voice has already left her and her arms are too weak to shake him from his slumber. 

In the distance the cotton fluff clouds rest on the peaks of the mountains; tremendous contrast so perfectly balanced. She feels each of Hangman's breaths expanding the firm plane of his chest as her breathing grows slower. Two days ago she never would have imagined dying in the arms of Lt. Jake “Hangman” Seresin. 

---

They had taken off at the barest crack of dawn breaking. 0600 hours. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission. Take off from the carrier. Fly over. Survey the valley below—report anomalies. Continue the flight path, and land at a nearby ally airbase. Refuel. Return to the carrier. They'd been tasked with flying similar paths for the last two weeks as part of a larger peacekeeping and security effort. As far as deployments go, they were lucky to have been selected to be the joint task force; and more fortunate to not be engaged in active combat. 

Though Hangman would loathe to admit it with his two confirmed air combat kills, she knows herself that no pilot wants to be under enemy fire or in a position to take a life; it's an unfortunate consequence and frequent reality of the job. 

In the time they’ve known each other, she’s heard Jake speak frequently about his mother and her homemade pie waiting for him in Texas. He tells stories about the boys he used to play football with in high school, and family reunions with little nieces and nephews running about barefoot. She’s heard him making plans to buy a home and settle down. He dreams of a future. Anyone paying attention knows that beneath the outwardly cocky exterior, and adrenaline rushes, he's afraid of dying. 

It wasn't enemy fire that took them down two days ago, but rather sudden major malfunctions that left them without any navigation system, defective coms, and an aircraft almost completely unresponsive to pilot commands. Their saving grace had been Hangman's quick thinking to point them towards a clearing in the tree line, and her decision to dump their fuel as they descended rapidly toward the ground. Flying too low to eject safely they braced themselves for impact, an apology for something he could not have stopped on Jake's lips. 

The sounds of alarms and rapid beeping tones woke them. The smell of burning jet fuel startled them into action again. Jake's head stayed lulled forward his eyes slipping shut again before his limbs burst into action with a level of urgency that forced her to react with equal fervour. She watched wide-eyed as Hangman pushed open the canopy pulling himself up and out of his seat, rolling sideways out the opening. Only in watching his exit did she notice the awkward angle the jet had landed at. The nose crumpled by the force of the impact, their wings clipped and lost somewhere in the trees or across the clearing; the body had slid half on its side, a couple hundred feet through revealing mud beneath and leaving a wake of burning grass melting through the powder white snow. A sharp pain threatened to make her lose her breakfast as she clambered from her seat and the tangle of buckles and straps that had saved her life. She tumbled with purpose but little grace out into the frozen valley. 

“Alright?” Hangman asked standing with his back straight as she doubled over trying hard to catch her breath. She nodded but he didn't make any effort to speak or move giving her a moment to collect herself. 

Sucking in the ice-cold air she ignored the searing pain tearing through her rib cage. Her attention drifted from herself back to Jake who swayed on his feet, the soft crunch of snow sounding beneath his feet as he tried to find a place to stand steady. Watching him pale she only grew more convinced Jake was concussed. 

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“Dizzy for sure”. 

“Well, we'll thank our lucky stars we crashed in allied territory. Once we find shelter, I'll run a concussion protocol for you.” 

Their non-functioning radios had left them no way to communicate their mayday calls. They had tried in vain to transmit their approximate coordinates as their headsets filled with static. Their navigation system ran haywire, the coordinates too impossible to be accurate in any case. 

His brows furrowed as he turned to survey their crash sight. His usually bright smile had been pulled into a firm line that confirmed to her they'd be stranded for a while. 

A gust of wind reminded them of how exposed they were in the clearing. While enemy scouts wouldn't be an issue, the potential for hypothermia would be. 

“Map. Compass. Let's grab the chutes from the seats as well,” she suggested. Hangman was uncharacteristically quiet in his agreement, giving her a nod of affirmation as they collected what they could from the jet. 

The sun was still high in the sky above them providing decent light though filtered through bare branches and evergreen limbs. Somewhat guarded from the biting wind they allowed themselves to settle for a moment hoping to find their bearings and build a solid plan for their survival. 

Before they began to plummet they had been about a quarter of an hour's flight from the air base on the other side of the valley. Plotting their estimated crash site on the paper map they found themselves nearly 250 miles away from their destination, walking sun up to sun down would still mean a 2-and-a-half day walk. 

“Look alive sunshine,” she teased as Jake's eyes began to droop. He'd let out a laugh his smile surprisingly bright as he tilted his head back to look at her. “You're so bossy,” he complained. 

“I'm about to get bossier, I've got to make sure you don't have a concussion”. 

“Yes ma’am,” he saluted. 

“Don't sass me Seresin,” she warned, though she tried to keep the tone playful. 

For years they'd played this game; pushing each other's buttons skirting around the edges of flirtation and toeing the line of verbal bullying. Ribbing him was how she had learned to be affectionate towards him. Giving him a hard time made him flustered, or it made him laugh, and either reaction was a well-welcomed sight that had left a fluttering in her chest. The lighthearted back and forth they'd learned to communicate through made it easier to ignore the sidelong glances, and yearning that had begun to take shape beneath the surface. 

“Alright,” she sighed, pulling the tiny flashlight out of her belt, “eyes on me”.

“They usually are,” he smirked. 

With the light, she checked his eyes and got promising results: no abnormal dilation. Both pupils were even and responsive to light. “Today's date?” She asked him. 

“February twelfth”.

“Your date of birth?” 

“October twenty-first. Nineteen ninety”.

“Any headache, nausea, persistent dizziness?” 

He responded no to all the symptoms and she allowed some relief to fill her knowing the initial symptoms had dissipated and not worsened. Finally, she held one finger up waiting for his eyes to focus. “Follow me,” she said her hand moving to the left, his eyes followed. 

“I'll follow you anywhere,” he said as her hand moved to the right. 

“Don't flirt with me, Hangman”. 

“Wouldn't it be stranger if I didn't? I’m just proving I’m not concussed”. His point was somewhat valid but she didn't let him know she thought so, continuing her evaluation in silence.

He's like this with everyone. She'd been telling herself the same thing for years. You're not special. He'll flirt with anyone. A painful truth that's helped her ignore his beautiful green eyes and warm countenance. 

---

Laying on her back in the snow drawing her last breaths now she wishes she could see those eyes one more time as her vision begins to blur. The blue sky swirls into the emerald pines, the colours lightened by the soft sunlight. The colours like sea glass make her think of him and tears begin to gather behind her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she wants to say but only a pathetic whimper leaves her. She wonders if she would have been kinder to him if she had known she was going to die. Would she have been more honest with her feelings? Or pushed them down deeper in some foolish attempt to protect him? The sun continues to rise and she knows he will wake soon. Selfishly, she hopes she’s drifted off before then, unwilling to see him hurting on her behalf. 

---

“Not concussed, but still a pain in my ass,” she had teased him, pushing his hair off his forehead, double-checking for any wounds. He took her words as permission to keep moving. Each of them threw a parachute pack over their shoulders and continued their walk northeast through the woods. 

By 1900 hours the sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon, and the sky above turned a deep blue dotted by tiny spangling stars. Breathtaking and brilliant it had been easy to forget, just for a moment, where they were. She slung the chute of her shoulders towards the ground hissing at the movement. She hadn't had the time to check herself over. Best case her ribs were bruised, at worst she'd find out they were broken, and there would be nothing to help her until they had access to a medical bay anyway. 

“Are you sure you're okay, Angel?” Hangman asked, using her call sign letting her know he meant business. He was not asking as a friend, he was asking as her teammate. 

“Yes,” she lied. The pain was tolerable, only worsening with sharp or sudden movement. Nothing she couldn't handle, and nothing she would force Jake to worry about. 

“Are you sure? I wouldn't be opposed to stripping you down to check for injuries,” his flirtations softened the conversation in an attempt to get her to tell him the truth. 

“In your dreams,” she responded instead, moving along the base of a nearby tree in hopes of gathering some firewood and kindling.

“Quite frequently, actually,” the wink he shot her way repeats in her head even now piercing through the fourth wall of the masquerade they had built, an honest and boyish confirmation that their feelings for each other were something beyond friendship. 

The plethora of fresh fallen snow meant finding water wasn't an issue of concern. Finding food would be more difficult and that first night under the stars they sat watching the flickering flames of the fire they had built, their empty stomachs rumbling with nothing to fill them. 

Stretched between two trees, one of the parachutes they liberated from their wreck was used as a windscreen, protecting them from the cold. The second one lay draped around their shoulders as an extra layer. 

Proximity wasn't an issue for them. They had spent enough time in cramped cockpits together to be familiar with the sounds of each other breathing. They had sat shoulder to shoulder in briefings enough time that she had memorized the smell of his cologne. And yet, when he put his arm around her to pull her closer in their makeshift cocoon her heart stuttered. How could his hands be so strong when her own wouldn't stop shaking? How could a simple touch warm her from the inside out? His fingers brushed along her side with no real pressure, but still prompted a gasp to escape her. Tears left glass trails on her cheeks in the firelight. 

She tried to turn away from him, to feign sleep but he wouldn't have it. “Hey,” Jake caught her attention, waiting for her to look at him before he continued, “We're going to be okay”. 

She believed him. 

---

Everything about their uniforms has been painstakingly designed to keep them safe. 100% cotton undershirts and pants because the material won't melt to their skin in the event of a cockpit fire. But the surprisingly soft base layers have never stopped the blaze burning inside her. From the moment she laid eyes on Jake Seresin she knew he'd be the beginning and the end of everything. He pushed people away with his cocky attitude, somehow convinced that his refusal to be vulnerable would keep him safe from forming meaningful bonds; that he might get further ahead if he had fewer people to let down. But, he'd let her in. He'd let her break down his walls and climb over the fences he'd tried to put up. She'd held him when he got the news his father had died. On a ship thousands of miles from his home he'd told her about his brother dying when he was a child, and growing up in his shadow. He told her how badly he wanted to make his parents proud and how lonely he had made himself in the process. He'd kissed her forehead as they parted that night, and her world changed forever. 

What had been an embarrassing schoolgirl crush she couldn’t shake had become a push-and-pull relationship neither of them could do without. She knew how to put him in his place when he took a joke too far. He knew how to goad her into showing everyone what she was capable of, refusing to let her slip into the background when he knew she deserved more. 

Two sides of the same coin, they were joined a the hip; partners in every way but the romantic. The words “I love you,” had passed between them many times, but neither of them had been brave enough to say, “I’m in love with you”. She wishes she would have said it. Lying at death’s door she remembers being told that you often regret the things you haven’t done more than you regret the things you did. “I’m in love with you, Jake Seresin,” she whispers to the wind. 

---

Their second day of walking was far more painful than the first. Jake had startled himself awake, his eyes wild as he fought to remember where it was they had ended up. The acceptance of their reality hadn't seemed to comfort him and he grew uncharacteristically quiet as they packed up their makeshift camp. The pine trees towering above them had been kind enough to shed some of their cones while they had lay sleeping in shifts. Though they hadn't offered many, they were able to harvest a handful of pine nuts between the two of them for breakfast. It was nowhere near a meal, but the snack had managed to quiet their angry stomachs for a few minutes.

The ache in her side had grown to become a constant agony. What had started as a negligible strain was now a torment that threatened to collapse her with each footfall. Despite the subzero temperatures, a sweat had broken out across her brow, and the heat spreading up the back of her neck left her wanting to strip off her cold weather jacket and flight suit. 

“Have you ever had rabbit?” Jake asked around noon. His footsteps had slowed enough for her to catch up with him. His voice had startled her after all the silence. 

“I can't say that I have,” she answered. A gunshot pulled her from her thoughts and she realized she hadn't ever answered out loud. Jake stood a few feet ahead of her, his service pistol in his hand. The world around her was spinning. The trees blurring together as a sudden wave of nausea filled her. She could hear her name being called; muffled and distorted. Jake. His face soon filled her line of vision. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he told her, but her mind still struggled to put the pieces together. For a moment it felt like she was underwater, all her breath gone from her lungs and all she could feel was the scalding pain burning from the inside out. Momentarily she entertained the idea that it was her who had been shot until she spotted the rabbit lying lifeless in the snow. 

“We need to eat,” Jake spoke again, “you're going quiet on me and I don't like that-- we’ll get some energy in you again before we keep moving”.

The very idea of eating anything threatened to leave her dry-heaving, but she took advantage of the moment to rest. He didn't mention her lack of assistance building a fire or preparing the rabbit, but she watched with incredible focus his hands moving with precision and surprising gentleness for the task at hand. 

She can recall him telling her stories about his childhood, standing on step stools to reach the countertop in his mother's kitchen rolling out pie crusts and later on slicing apples. He once told her that it was his mother who had taught him patience and gratitude while they baked together; two traits he had neglected to exhibit far too often in his adult life. 

She listened to him thank the rabbit for its life as he cut away pieces to feed to her. There was an unmistakable love in the way he moved, his eyes cast over his shoulder to check on her. Slowly, she realized that she was not doing a good job hiding her suffering. In a fleeting thought, she imagined Jake having to carry her lifeless body for the rest of their journey. In their line of work, it had never been considered morbid to have funeral plans from a young age. Flying with him for years she had learned to trust him implicitly, despite the call sign he'd earned and worked tirelessly to recover from she knew early on that he'd do right by her. Challenging authority, but always following the rules; complete and unwavering dedication to whatever task he had at hand; precision and perfection in the execution of his duties be it laundry or taking down a fighter jet midair. As her energy continued to leave her she took comfort in knowing her life would be in Hangman's hands. 

“I'm not hungry,” she said to him. 

“You need to eat,” he insisted again but didn't push any farther. With a longanimity he forgot he possessed, and a magnanimity he couldn't credit himself for carrying he cared for her; making the executive decision to make camp early as her seemingly catatonic state worsened. She managed to chew and swallow bites of the gamey meat, her body grateful for the nutrition.  

Night fell too soon after and the sound of the wind in the trees and the rustle of creatures that may have been lurking left both of them far more on edge than they had been the night before. 

“Scoot closer,” she whispered to him, and he complied without complaint. Neither of them was warm, but their proximity to the fire helped them imagine they could be. His shoulder bumped hers and she leaned her head against him. “Put your arm around me?” She asked. He complied again this time with more hesitation. 

“You know if you wanted to snuggle with me you could've just said so,” he teased though she could tell his heart wasn't in it. 

“I'm scared,” she confessed, a half-truth. She was terrified, feeling her heart rate starting to slow by the minute, her vision slipping in and out of focus. 

“We're going to make it home,” he whispered, both arms wrapped around her now, his lips pressed to her hairline. Tears blurred in her eyes and she gave up fighting back a sob, body shaking and heartbreaking. “I won't let anything happen to you,” he said so sincerely. She cried harder knowing she had already broken that promise for him. 

She had realized she'd lost feeling in her fingers and toes when he'd begun to trace shapes on her back. Her digits buzzed with needles and pins and her limbs had began to feel heavy. Bile rose in her throat choking her as she scrambled to get her distance before dinner made a reappearance. Jake didn't make a fuss, or make his worry known, but she could tell that her perturbation had begun to seep beneath his calm, cool, mien. His hand shook as he rubbed her back hoping her coughing fit might free her off the anxiety and discomfort that had overtaken her. 

She can remember almost every time Jake Seresin has touched her. The memories float suspended in golden warmth, kept safe from the things theyve done, and the things they’ve seen. She holds those moments of fleeting, passing goodness, near to her heart. The smallest reminders that Hangman has a heart; and it’s full of love to give, and on some occasions, she has allowed herself to believe she could be worthy of that love. 

He used to sit beside her in the mess hall no matter how many seats were available; his broad shoulders bumping her own, his elbow knocking at her ribs, their hands brushing as he slid his mashed potatoes onto her plate and she slid her green beans onto his. Silent and symbiotic in their bond, determined to look out for one another. 

The first New Year's Eve they were able to spend together off base was spent with as many friends as possible and too much liquor to handle. Neither of them got a midnight kiss because she was spilling her guts in the alleyway behind the bar, Jake by her side saying “I told you not to do shots after drinking a glass of wine”.  But his satisfied smirk was overshadowed by the genuine concern in his eyes and the steady warm hand he'd placed on her back. “There you go, you'll feel better once you get it all out”. He was drunk himself, his words half slurred but no less encouraging. She had thought then that he was seeing her at her worst. She knows now that she was wrong. 

By some miracle they had been deployed together more often than not. At first it was pure coincidence, but over time it became clear that together they were a dynamic duo with a combined force and efficiency they're commanding officers could not deny, and were often interested in capitalizing on. They had become two halves of a whole, a packaged pair anyone would be disinclined to separate. Still, they had not been permitted to bunk together, and neither of them had ever been interested in breaking the rules of the institution so they never pushed it. But on nights when the creaks and groans of the 900,000 pound ship kept her awake, and the rocking of the waves around them was too much to ignore she knew she'd be able to find him lurking around the corridors as well.

 “I couldn't sleep,” she'd say. “Me neither,” he'd respond. Sometimes, when the world felt too heavy on his shoulders and they'd been away from home for too long they'd find their way to the floor together, his back pressed to hers, their arms circling their knees, and he'd sync his breathing to hers convincing himself that so long as she was their he had some piece of his real life with him. A part of Jake Seresin that wasn't just a pawn in battles bigger than him, he was a man with thoughts and feelings, and dreams outside of his role worth achieving. 

---

This is as good a place to die as any, she thinks.

The parachute that isn't being used to block the wind is still draped over the two of them and she hopes it keeps Jake warm until he wakes. His walk to the base will take him longer now dragging her weight behind him, he'll need his sleep. 

She lets the sound of the wind lull her and she finds that she's not afraid anymore. Just sad; angry even; but not afraid. Her pain is excruciating, and she’s honestly welcoming the relief of a permanent slumber. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. The wind gusts come steadily, growing louder and ever closer. 

Jake stirs beneath her, sitting up her head falling to his lap. “Well would you look at that! No more walking for us,” he grins. Her eyes have shut but she can hear it in his voice, the boy like wonder bursting  the surface. “Angel, wake up,” he shakes her shoulder. The joy that had filled him moments ago has been replaced with a more serious tone, “they sent a chopper for us, honey,” he says, shaking her again, “you've gotta get up,” he pleads with her, but she cannot answer him. His hand is surprisingly warm on the side of her face, and the world goes dark and silent. 

Death is softer than she expected. It's dark still, but her head is resting on something plush, and there's a feel of woven fabric at her fingertips, it reminds her of the blanket Jake's mom had sent to her last Christmas. Her back and her legs feel stiff and she makes no attempt to move them uninterested in exploring this darken world she's found herself in. Her ribs ache but far less than they did back in the snow, the pinch she feels with each breath is like an echoed sound, a pallid reminder of her last moments. 

There's a humming; a mellifluous tune. It drifts in and out, bookended by murmuring she cannot decipher. Come back to me. The words become clear. Angel. Guilt fills her, petulant and helpless as emotion overwhelms her. She wants to move towards the voice, to apologize for leaving but she's not sure she can. I need you honey. 

Jake. Oh, it's so clear now. Jake. 

“Hey, hey, you're okay,” Jake's hands brace her shoulder, and just above her knee willing her to stop flailing her panicked limbs. Her eyes shoot open to meet his; golden green and brimming with tears she wishes she had the strength to stop. The insistent beeping that had filled the room quiets as she relaxes back into the pillows. 

The Navy infirmary isn't anything fancy, but it's far more comfortable than the nights she spent with her back up against the bark of a tree. She has so many questions but they fade out of her mind as quickly as they spark in. Blips of clarity overriden by the need to speak to Jake who is looking at her with more wonder than she's even seen. The man has seen the world from 40,000 feet but he's looking at her like she hung his stars in the sky. 

“Jake,” she manages. 

“Yeah, Angel”. 

Her throat feels like sandpaper, her voice scratchy and raw with disuse, but she fights through it, 

“I'm in love with you,” she says, sucking in a breath that makes her cough. Her lungs feel like they're on fire and she works desperately to inhale and exhale as the ache in her side is reawaken. 

Jake offers her water that manages to swallow down, and when she takes a few shaky breaths without wincing, he sets the paper cup aside. 

She gives him a gentle nod, refusing to meet his gaze. He doesn't let it slide, his forefinger tilting her chin up so she can't hide from him. She envies his confidence, his ability to simplify a scenario. 

“I'm in love with you,” he tells her too. 

[uhhhj13iguess]

kiss it better

stiles x reader

wc: ~1k

like the stydia kiss in season three when stiles is having a panic attack, except you're the one panicking and he kisses you!

obviously details a panic attack so trigger warning for that

masterlist and taglist!

"(y/n)?"

stiles knocked softly on your door, frowning at the lack of response. he called your name a few more times to no avail, slowly opening the bedroom door with a deep breath. he called out your name again, sounding his presence before even looking in the room. was he concerned you were unresponsive because you were dead? yes. but he was still a man of respect.

his heart grew heavy in his chest as his eyes fell on your frame. you sat on your window sill, legs curled to your chest and a heavy blanket wrapped around your figure as you balanced on the ledge of the open window. not in a concerning way, stiles decided. you didn't appear ready to jump, but rather more... pensive. he couldn't see much of your face, as you overlooked the activity on the street below, but he could hear you crying. the entire scene was gut-wrenching to him.

you, on the other hand, considered it pathetic.

you didn't hear stiles entering your room, lost in your own world as tears stained your cheeks. your once racing thoughts had been numbed by feelings of dissociation, no longer having the energy to even ruminate anymore. you pulled your weighted blanket tighter around your body, hoping at this point it would just crush you and swallow you whole. you nearly fell out the window at the sound of stiles calling out your name.

"... (y/n)?

you turned to face him, and you swore he almost looked as sad as you did.

he stepped hesitantly into the room. "i'm sorry, i, we just, we haven't h-heard from you all day. are you... are you okay?"

the fatal question.

as soon as the words came out of his mouth, you choked out a sob. the emotions you had detached yourself from came flooding back into your system, and you lost control.

you couldn't breathe. you couldn't think, yet that was somehow all you were able to do — no words would come out no matter how hard you tried. stiles ran to your side immediately, pulling you from the window and onto the ground.

"shit, hey hey, okay hey, stay with me (y/n)," he tugged you against his chest, holding you as tight as he possibly could as if he was afraid you'd run. as if you had that kind of control over your body in this moment.

you felt yourself beginning to hyperventilate, no longer feeling like you could get any oxygen into your lungs. it made you panic more, and while you knew stiles was talking to you, begging for your attention, you just couldn't seem to pull out of it.

"hey, everything's okay. j-just, uh just try to slow down your breathing, come on,"

everything was overwhelming again. you felt like you were in a trance — and it was absolute hell. you needed to snap out of it. you screamed in your head, begging, pleading with your brain to think rationally.

it's no use, you thought. i'm fucking stuck like this forever.

stiles didn't know what to do. he'd dealt with his own panic attacks before, but seeing you in one short-circuited his brain. he was panicking himself, the thought of you hurting this badly physically bringing him pain. he pulled you off his chest, trying to get you to look in his eyes. trying to pull you out of it.

"(y/n), please, i need you to listen to me,"

"please, just please look at me,"

"i need you to breathe, please, i need you to listen to me. you're right here with me, you're safe. whatever this is, i, i-it's okay, i promise, just, please,"

there was nothing you wanted more than to cooperate, but you weren't in control anymore. you sobbed harder, feeling defeated.

stiles' breathing was getting quicker too, feeling helpless. he just needed you to hear him, to come back to the present. he needed you to breathe, he really needed you to breathe, he just —

his lips hit yours with a force, silencing your mind in an instant. your eyes widened as you felt him against you, his hands pressing on either side of your face, holding you close to him. you saw his eyes squeezed shut tightly. you felt his choppy exhale against your face. you could smell his cologne. you could hear your stereo playing softly in the background. suddenly, you were here again �� present.

your eyes fluttered closed and stiles let out a sigh into your mouth as he finally felt you relax against him. he held there for a moment, his soft lips on your chapped and swollen ones, lightly running his fingers through your hair as he felt your body begin to calm down. you let out a shaky exhale through your nose as you laid a hand against his chest, and he knew you had come back down to earth.

he pulled back slowly, his eyes opening to lock with yours. your lips remained slightly parted, shaky breaths coming out at a much slower pace than just moments before. you both just sat there, inches from one another, and your eyebrows furrowed as you took in what just happened. his eyes flickered down to your lips, causing him to lick his own subconsciously.

stiles spoke first. "i, um,"

"i read somewhere once, that, holding your breath can help stop a panic attack,"

he paused for a moment to clear his throat. "so, when I kissed you, you, uh, you held your breath."

"oh,"

"yeah,"

"i did?"

he nodded slowly with pursed lips, shaky breath escaping his mouth. "yeah,"

you nodded slowly, feeling your heart rate return to normal for what felt like the first time in days. you leaned back slightly, taking in his whole frame. you took a deep breath, butterflies beginning to replace the sickly feeling in your stomach. "thank you,"

"no problem,"

[guppybibi]

just a proper written fic for the one i posted abt earlier! not a part 2, which i will be writing soon :3

tag: @msilwrites <3

It’s been a month since Johnny had gotten shot in the head, and as his spouse you were the first one to receive the news of his accident. When you arrived at the hospital, to see Johnny still there and alive, well barely, it felt like your heart sunk to the deepest pit in your stomach.

Recovery wasn't quick, that's for sure. As of now, Johnny is still going through physical therapy, medication, all of that. His speech was apparently affected by the injury as well, so…him not talking as much wasn't that strange, right?

Whatever it takes for him to recover, I guess. You remained positive, hoping that Johnny will make a full recovery soon. After all, you researched that younger people like Johnny have a better chance of recovery.

~~~~~~

Dinner hasn't been this quiet in like what…3 years?

Johnny’s has been staring at his plate full of food for the past 10 minutes now, you're not exactly sure if calling his attention is the right thing to do. He was unresponsive, despite you trying to initiate a conversation.

With a sigh, you continue eating anyway. The food was getting cold. ‘Johnny will get better soon. This is fine, you can wait. You will wait.’ You think, the words flooding your mind.

~~~~~

Shit. Johnny was gone, where the hell could he possibly be? He never wanders off, even before he got shot! You've been scrambling around the house for a good half an hour now, practically turning it upside down. It was no use, maybe you could find him outside..

Hurriedly, you put on your coat and scurry away into the city in hopes to find Johnny mindlessly going around.

The park, not there. The restaurant you two always used to go to, not there either. Where can he be? You’ve basically toured the whole place! There were swirls of worry forming in your heart, making it beat faster.

You weren't looking at where you were going from how much you were panicking, shock when you collided with what felt like a wall basically. You look up, realizing that it was Simon you bumped into.

This was good! Maybe he saw Johnny, maybe he was with him even! Hope fills inside you, spreading throughout your body.

“Simon! Oh, it's so good to see you–have you seen Johnny? I’ve been looking everywhere for him!” You ask, clearly exhausted judging by the beads of sweat running down your forehead and the way you panted.

But you don't miss the way Simon’s eyebrow raises, eyes peering at you. “What do you mean, love? It's Johnny’s death anniversary today.” He replies, seeing your gaze move from his eyes to the bouquet of flowers in his hands.

You blinked multiple times, waiting for Simon to hopefully say it was a joke. You even make the effort to check your phone that it wasn't April Fools. Trying to speak was impossible as you felt your words get stuck in your throat, it wasn't difficult for Simon to notice.

“Take a deep breath, alright? Take your time.” Simon attempts to soothe, placing a hand on your back and patting it rhythmically.

Once you got a hold of yourself, your voice still shakes as you respond. “Johnny is…what? Are you kidding me right now, Simon? T-this really isn't funny..”

Denial. Simon isn't surprised, he's seen go down before. It's better to approach the situation gently, to not startle you as much.

“I'm not lying, Y/N. I’d never lie about something so sensitive like this, I am telling the truth.” He tells, his voice firm yet reliable. He was going to be your rock, it's the mission Johnny had left for him to do.

“Johnny is gone…” You mumble under your breath, repeating the words as if you were in some sort of twisted trance. But some kind of realization dawns on you, you look up at Simon with eyes widened in horror.

“Who the fuck was I living with this past year?”

And even Simon couldn't answer that.

[saoney]

Ocean's Fire

𖠋 Incubus! Rafayel ♡ Fem! Reader 𖠋

After two weeks apart, you return home to find your boyfriend missing and unresponsive. When you track him down, you discover he's been transformed by an experimental aphrodisiac—complete with horns, glowing red eyes, and an insatiable supernatural hunger that only you can satisfy.

⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of dubious consent and penetrative sex, m → f that may be triggering for some readers.

🐚 Author’s Note: My smut debut!!! I’m so happy that I finally get to experience writing a proper smut with my beloved Sea God 🥹🎉 props to all of the smut writers because I almost went bald writing this fic (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ

🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹

The past two weeks had been torture disguised as duty.

Your field training assignment had you stationed in the wilderness, grinding through Wanderer combat simulations from dawn to dusk. Every muscle ached, every nerve was frayed, but the moment you collapsed into your cot each night, there was Rafayel—bathed in the warm glow from the studio lights, violet eyes heavy with longing as he asked about your day in that honeyed voice that made your chest tight with missing him.

"Did my sweet darling miss me today?" he'd purr into the camera, artistic fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Tell me what you're wearing. Better yet, show me."

Those late-night video calls were your lifeline. Even with his own hectic schedule—flying across the country with Thomas for his upcoming exhibition, managing interviews and gallery visits—Rafayel always made time for you. He'd prop his phone against his easel during breaks, painting with one hand while the other traced suggestive patterns in the air, describing in exquisite detail what he planned to do to you when you returned.

"I've been sketching you from memory," he'd whisper during one particularly heated call, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made your thighs clench. "Want to see how I imagine you spread out on my silk sheets? How I remember the way you arch when I—"

"Rafayel," you'd breathe, already reaching for yourself.

"That's my good girl. Let me watch you come undone for me."

But on day ten, the calls stopped.

Your phone sat silent. Messages went unread. The absence of his teasing voice, his ridiculous pet names, his constant digital affection—it carved a hollow ache in your chest that grew deeper with each passing hour.

By day twelve, worry had transformed into hurt. By day fourteen, hurt had crystallized into anger.

Your transport touched down in Linkon City under gray skies, and finally—finally—your phone buzzed.

[Rafayel 📱: Welcome home, cutie.]

[Rafayel 📱: Still away for work. Don't wait up.]

The message was ice-cold. Clinical. Nothing like the man who usually greeted your returns with paragraphs of purple prose about how the city had been colorless without you.

Your fingers moved to Find My before you could stop them.

His location pulsed steadily: Mo Art Studio.

Home.

The betrayal hit like a physical blow. He was lying to you. After two weeks of radio silence, he was lying to your face.

Twenty minutes later, you stood before his door, keycard trembling in your grip. The evening air should have been cool, but heat seemed to radiate from behind the entrance like a furnace.

You knocked. Waited. Knocked harder.

Nothing.

Your keycard beeped softly as the lock disengaged.

The moment you stepped inside, the heat hit you like a wall. Suffocating, humid, wrong. Rafayel's home was always perfectly climate-controlled—he claimed his Lemurian blood made him sensitive to temperature fluctuations, though you suspected he just liked giving you excuses to warm him up.

"Rafayel!" Your voice echoed in the dim space. Curtains drawn, lights off, the air thick enough to taste. "I know you're here!"

Silence.

You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, following the oppressive heat to its source. His bedroom door stood ajar, and through the gap, you could see a figure curled on the bed.

The room was an oven. Dark as a cave. And there he was—shirtless, trembling, breath coming in sharp gasps like he was drowning on dry land.

"Rafayel." All your anger dissolved into concern. "Why haven't you answered me? Why did you lie about being away?"

He didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge your presence.

You reached for his shoulder, and the moment your fingers made contact, you jerked back with a gasp. His skin was burning—not fever-hot, but scalding, like touching a heated stone.

"Jesus, you're sick—we need to get you to a hospital—"

"Don't." His voice was barely a rasp. "Please, cutie. Don't touch me. You need to leave."

He tried to roll away from you, but the movement was weak, uncoordinated. When he finally turned to face you, your heart stopped.

His eyes—those beautiful amethyst eyes that sparkled with mischief and adoration—were nearly crimson. Glowing like embers in the darkness.

"What happened to you?" You knelt beside the bed, hands hovering over him, afraid to cause more pain. "Rafayel, talk to me. Please."

He squeezed his eyes shut, whole body shuddering. "Thomas's colleague. New bar opening in the arts district. They served us some experimental cocktail—said it was a prototype aphrodisiac for Valentine's Day. I thought it was just marketing nonsense."

Understanding crashed over you like cold water. "How long?"

"Three days." His laugh was bitter, broken. "Three days of hell. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about anything but you. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and the only thing that helps is—" He cut himself off with a groan.

You reached for his hand instinctively, and his fingers latched onto yours with desperate strength.

The contact seemed to send electricity through him. His breathing hitched, back arching off the bed.

"You have to go," he gasped, but his grip on your hand tightened. "I'm barely holding on. If you stay, I don't know if I can control myself. I don't want to hurt you, don't want to scare you—"

His words dissolved into a tortured moan, his whole body convulsing as if he were fighting a war within himself—and losing. "No, no, no," he gasped, clawing at his own chest as the transformation began to consume him. Dark markings erupted across his skin like living shadows, spreading from his heart outward in intricate, pulsing patterns that seemed to writhe and breathe with malevolent life. The black ink-like designs carved themselves deeper into his flesh, glowing faintly with each ragged breath he took.

His canines stretched into razor-sharp fangs with an audible crack, and you watched in horrified fascination as two elegant horns tore through the skin of his temples, curving back through his disheveled hair like a dark crown. Blood trickled down his face from where they emerged.

Then he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that was nothing like his usual warm chuckle. It was predatory, unhinged, utterly inhuman. When his eyes snapped open, they blazed with primal hunger, all traces of your gentle artist boyfriend buried beneath the creature that now possessed him.

His grip on your hand, which had been weak and trembling moments before, suddenly tightened like a vice, fingers digging into your skin with supernatural strength.

"Too late to run now, cutie," he whispered, voice layered with dark promise.

Then he yanked you down onto the bed with him, his strength making it effortless as he dragged you against his burning body. His lips crashed against yours with desperate hunger, hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you like a man drowning. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, scalding even through your clothes, his body trembling with barely restrained need. Despite the transformation, his touch was still reverent, still unmistakably him beneath the hunger that consumed him.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping, vision blurred, completely at his mercy on the rumpled sheets beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he purred against your lips, voice dripping with dark amusement. "I'm not gonna stop until this fire burns itself out, and you're gonna take everything I give you right, cutie? Don't worry—I'll be gentle… mostly. Now why don't you be a good little hunter for me, yeah?"

His mouth found your throat, pressing hot kisses to your pulse point while his hands worked at your clothes with precision. Each piece of fabric that fell away earned you praise whispered against your skin.

"Perfect," he murmured, mouth trailing down to worship your exposed chest. "I've been dreaming of this. Sketching these curves from memory until my fingers cramped."

He took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him—lavishing attention on every inch of skin, building you up with touches and kisses until you were arching beneath him, completely pliant.

His hands smoothly unclasped your bra, fingers reverent as they traced your curves. Without wasting a moment, his mouth was on your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipples before he sucked them into his mouth, drawing desperate whimpers from your lips.

"Rafayel," you gasped, back arching as he lavished attention on your chest. "Please—"

"Shh, cutie," he murmured against your skin, mouth trailing hot kisses down your belly. "Let me worship you properly."

His hands urgently undid your pants, sliding them down your legs with agonizing slowness. When he finally settled between your thighs, he inhaled deeply, eyes rolling back in bliss.

"I can smell your arousal," he growled, voice rough with need. "So sweet, so perfect. I've been through hell trying to control myself. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many sketches I've ruined thinking about eating you?"

"Rafayel, please," you whimpered, hips bucking toward his face. "I need—"

"I know exactly what you need," he whispered, voice dropping to a dangerous octave as those burning red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His expression was beautifully terrifying—tender love warring with predatory hunger. "Now I'm going to worship this beautiful cunt until you forget everything but my name."

He dove in with feral hunger, tongue dragging broad, possessive strokes up your slit before attacking your clit with relentless precision. His mouth devoured you—lapping, sucking, biting gently at your most sensitive flesh with desperate, animalistic need. Every sound he made was pure worship, muffled moans of satisfaction vibrating against you.

"Oh god, oh god," you cried, hands fisting in his hair as he pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with wet, sinful strokes. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

He moaned against your core like a starving man at a feast, the vibrations resonating through your bones and setting every nerve ending ablaze. Each desperate movement of his tongue was calculated to feed the supernatural hunger clawing at his insides while simultaneously destroying every defense you had left.

"Christ, you taste like heaven," he groaned between ravenous licks, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort with pleasure. "You're so addicting. I could spend eternity right here, drinking every drop you give me."

Your first orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spine bowing impossibly as you screamed his name with raw, broken desperation. But he was merciless—couldn't be anything else—his mouth never leaving you as he lapped up every tremor, every aftershock, prolonging your climax until you were sobbing from the intensity.

"Too much," you gasped, trying to push his head away, but he caught your wrists.

"No such thing," he purred, and dove back in, making you cum again on his tongue until you were sobbing with oversensitivity.

When he finally pulled away, face glistening with your arousal, he cupped your tear-stained cheeks lovingly. "Look at you, already crying for me. We're far from finished, Y/N."

Rafayel rose to his knees, hands moving to unzip his pants with desperate urgency. When he finally freed his cock, it was flushed and angry, precum beading at the tip from hours of torment and anticipation. His burning red eyes locked onto you—taking in the sight of you panting and sprawled beneath him, eyes half-lidded and completely wrecked from his mouth. The vision alone made his cock twitch violently, demanding immediate relief.

"So beautiful," he breathed, voice thick with reverence and lust. "So ready for me."

He wrapped his hand around his lenght, stroking slowly edging himself while his gaze devoured every inch of your trembling form. The sight of you, so perfectly wrecked and waiting, had him practically salivating with anticipation.

With deliberate, torturous slowness, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up to your clit, collecting your arousal along the way. The teasing made you mewl desperately beneath him, hips bucking for more contact.

"Please," you whimpered, but he just smirked, slapping his cock against your sensitive cunt with wet, obscene sounds.

The heat radiating from your core, the slick wetness coating him, the way you clenched around nothing—it all made him hiss in pure pleasure.

"So wet for me," he groaned, continuing his torturous teasing.

"Think you can take me, cutie?" His voice was low and teasing as you felt him playing at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. The stretch was burning and delicious—until he pulled out completely, leaving you feeling empty and desperate.

"I don't think so," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

You almost felt like crying from his relentless teasing. Without a second thought, you abandoned all pride and begged for his mercy. "Please, Rafayel... I want it. I want you so badly."

"Yeah?" He was still teasing, pressing soft kisses to your tear-dampened eyes with surprising tenderness.

"Yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

For a moment he held your gaze, studying your face as you gave him the most pleading look you could muster, hoping your puppy eyes would finally make him cave. Something shifted in his expression—desire winning over his need to torment you.

Finally, he positioned himself at your entrance again, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. Both of you moaned in unison as he began to slide into you slowly, savoring every inch as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming after your orgasms, making you whimper and claw at his shoulders.

"That's it, take all of me," he breathed, bottoming out with a groan. "You're gripping me so tight. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."

"I don't," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Never want you to leave me again."

He began to move, thrusts deep and reverent, hands mapping every curve of your body like he was committing you to memory for his next masterpiece. His own moans and whimpers filled the air, the desperate sounds making you even wetter.

"You're taking me so perfectly," he praised, voice breaking with emotion. "Like you were made for this cock. Gods, I missed how warm you are inside, how you flutter around me when you're close."

"Rafayel," you moaned, already feeling another orgasm building. "You feel so good, so deep—"

"That's my girl," he groaned, angling his hips to hit that spot that made you see stars. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You were cock-drunk fast, lost in the rhythm of his hips and the filthy praise spilling from his lips. When you came again, clenching around him, he nearly lost control.

"More," you gasped against his lips. "Need more of you."

Something primal flashed in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your hands and knees, the sudden change making you cry out.

"You want more?" he growled, hands gripping your hips as he drove into you from behind. "I-ah-can't refuse you."

This angle was devastating—each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you while his hands roamed your body possessively. You could feel yourself getting wetter soaking the bed sheet underneath you, the obscene sounds of your coupling filling the room.

"Listen to how wet you are," he panted, one hand sliding up to cup your breast. "So fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock so well. You're mine, aren't you? Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed, face pressed into the pillows. "Always yours, Raf— Rafayel!"

"That's right," he groaned, thrusts becoming more demanding. "My petite artiste, so messy and desperate for me."

But he needed more. Needed to see you fall apart in every way possible.

"On your back," he commanded, and when you complied on shaking legs, he pulled your legs up into a mating press, folding you nearly in half. The new angle made you scream, overwhelmed by how deep he could go.

"Look at me," he demanded, his glowing eyes boring into yours. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you cum for me again. Want to watch you fall apart."

The intensity was too much—the way he watched every expression cross your face, the desperate love and lust warring in his gaze. Your eyes rolled back as he hit that perfect spot over and over, tears streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure.

"There you are," he whispered, voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Look at you, so beautiful when you're completely gone for me."

When your orgasm crashed over you, it was earth-shattering. You came with a broken scream, body convulsing around him as he moaned your name like a prayer. The intensity of watching you fall apart, of feeling you clench around him so perfectly, made blood drip from his nose onto your chest, the incubus potion overwhelming even his supernatural constitution.

"I can't cum anymore," you sobbed, thighs shaking from overstimulation, mascara running down your cheeks. "Please, Rafayel, I can't—"

But your pleas only seemed to spur him on. The sadistic part of the incubus potion loved seeing you so wrecked, so desperate, so perfectly ruined.

"Of course you can, cutie," he purred, pulling out only to maneuver you into his lap. "Look at this tear-stained face—so pitiful, so drunk on my cock. Makes me wanna fuck you even more."

"Please," you whimpered, but whether you were begging him to stop or continue, neither of you knew.

"One more," he coaxed, guiding you down onto his cock. "You have no idea what you do to me"

Face to face now, you could see every expression cross his beautiful, dangerous features. His hands roamed your body possessively while you rocked against him, completely lost in sensation.

"That's my good girl," he whispered against your ear, then bit down gently on your earlobe. "Taking everything I give you, even when you're crying from how good it feels. You're so perfect, so intoxicating when you're falling apart for me."

"Rafayel," you gasped, eyes rolling back again as he hit that spot that made you see white. "I'm going to—"

"I know, baby. Let go for me one last time."

Your final orgasm was devastating, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You came with a silent scream, completely overwhelmed by sensation, and watching you reach that peak of pleasure pushed him over the edge.

He came with a broken moan, holding you tight against him as he spilled inside you, nose bleeding more heavily now from the sheer intensity of the moment.

The last thing you remembered was his face above you, handsome and ethereal with his horns and glowing eyes, completely drunk on pleasure as he buried himself deep inside you, whispering your name like a benediction and the satisfaction of finally being able to touch you after days of torment. Your own face was a mess of tears and smeared makeup, eyes glassy and unfocused from being thoroughly claimed by your temporarily-incubus lover.

When consciousness returned, golden morning light was streaming through the curtains, and the softest lips were pressing tender kisses along your cheek like butterfly touches.

"Morning, my sweet darling," Rafayel murmured, his voice back to its familiar warm velvet. The horns had vanished, his eyes returned to that beloved amethyst shade, though delicate traces of the dark markings still lingered like watercolor stains across his skin. "Sleep well?"

You groaned softly, every muscle in your body singing a chorus of pleasant aches as you tried to stretch. "You're absolutely impossible."

He grinned with zero remorse, looking devastatingly handsome in the morning light. "And you love me anyway. Want to take a warm bath? I'll wash your hair and tell you about all the masterpieces I'm going to paint inspired by last night."

Despite your mock indignation, you couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "You're buying me breakfast first. The fancy kind. And coffee—really good coffee."

"Anything for you," he agreed easily, then leaned down to nuzzle into the curve of your neck, his voice dropping to that achingly familiar teasing whisper. "But first... want to hear about this incredible dream I had about you in my bathtub?"

You were glad Rafayel was back to normal, but if you were being honest with yourself, Incubus Rafayel was kind of hot… You wondered if he'd be willing to be one for Halloween this year.