gotta-spew-words-somewhere

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

This edit was so good like the vibess

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Sperō Universe: History

Masterlist | Bucky x Reader | Eventual Enemies to Lovers | No use of Y/N

Summary: how it started, how it ends, and how it starts again.

Please check Masterlist for more detailed description including all trigger warnings for the Sperō Universe.

Count: 3.1k

Warnings: abuse, violence, injury, weapons, trauma, mind control, swearing, all things HYDRA/Winter Soldier related.

A/N: hello!! This is the first fic of what will likely be many in the Sperō Universe. It will not be a beat-by-beat story, instead snapshots in time of these two. I would recommend reading this one first as it sets the premise. This will get dark in places, so please always read the warnings first.

Many Years Ago

It’s pitch black, but your steps don’t falter, don’t slow. You just keep marching, even step after even step, deeper and deeper until the concrete maze seems to swallow you whole.

And then you stop. And you wait. Your breathing even and your eyes straight ahead. No fidgeting, no shifting your weight. It’s as thought you’re not really there- a ghost in purgatory, awaiting divine instruction.

Turns out, divine instruction comes with the flickering of fluorescent lights and jack-booted footsteps.

“Sperō. You’re early.”

You hear, but you don’t respond. You aren’t asked to. Instead, you simply wait, as you know to, hands relaxed at your sides as though you don’t know how this ends. As though there’s nothing to fear.

Fear. You’re not sure you can remember it. You will, soon.

“Tssk. And you’ve gotten yourself damaged.” The voice is deeper, displeased.

A large, freshly purple welt across your cheekbone still throbs, and the thumbprints at your throat are stark in the light. Daring to mar your pretty face.

A far worse injury than your snapped ulnar and shredded tendons.

“Move.”

And so you do. The hand still working opens the lab door, steel grinding against concrete, and the noise sparks a litter of goosebumps down your spine.

You’ve heard that noise a hundred times. Nothing good ever follows. The newly revealed lab looks like every hell you’ve imagined— the chair, crude medical equipment, weapons of every kind— but it’s the demons inside that hold your attention. The slightest tremor takes hold of your left hand, and you swallow- the first sign of true life since you entered this dank hell.

The Handler is right, you are early. Soldat is still here.

The sort of rage you’re not programmed to feel sparks to life in your chest, blackening your ribs and fillings your lungs with curling smoke.

But, you do nothing. Just wait, as you know to do. Like you don’t know how this ends.

Piercing blue eyes are locked on your blank expression, and you can scent the absolute hatred. The barely controlled violence. The pure fucking loathing.

Your eyes tick to his— instinct leaking through, and only for a moment—- but your knee is kicked inward with enough force for the crack to echo.

The noise you make is more animal than human, but The Handler is smiling, and now you remember how this ends.

“The information better serve Soldat well,” she leans down to where you’ve sprawled, hand fisting at the roots of your hair and forcing you to meet her eyes— alive eyes, not like yours, not anymore— and the smile grows. “You know what will happen if it doesn’t.”

You do. And when they break you and fix you and freeze you, over and over and over again, you will know it is because of Soldat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6 Months Ago

The first breath is always the worst. You’re not sure how you know this— how you know anything, but this particular kind of pain is familiar, like the blurred edges of Deja Vu.

It still fucking sucks, though. Oxygen battles for space with razor sharp crystals of ice, shredding and tearing your at your lungs and throat. Blood starts to move, sluggish at first, coaxing every remaining shard through muscle and vein, scarring you in so many ways beyond physical.

The second breath will be better. Not much, but better. The comfort of knowing this settles into your bones— there’s one thing you know. Just one, but you cling to it like a lifeline, heart stuttering into frenzy as your eyes open, stubborn frost still clinging to your lashes.

Then that sense of knowing is ripped from under your feet like a threadbare carpet, fibres pinching at your soles.

This is wrong. You don’t know how, but it is.

The light doesn’t hurt like it should. It’s warm and it’s gentle— enough to see the world around you but not to blind, as though thought has been taken, like care exists here. The chill from your bones is being chased away by the air— hot, dry, but not uncomfortable, not punishing.

And there’s six women stood staring at you, peering through the open case door— five bald and adorned with armour and finery and colour like you’ve never seen before. Each holds a weapon— gold, it seems, sharp end pointed at you with almost supernatural stillness, steady in their hands.

That seems familiar, at least.

Sound comes to you last, the shrill ringing in your ears finally giving way to the gentle hum of technology, a distant song playing far far away, the steady inhales of the women in your view.

And then they talk, and you really panic, because you can’t understand them. It’s rolling off their tongues to the beat of an unknown drum, a language beyond your grasp, and that doesn’t fucking happen.

Another thing you know. Revealed to you by something you don’t. You fucking hate it.

Frozen muscles groan as you force them to life, shifting in your open glass cage, hands grasping at the rim with enough force to splinter. The red women fall into silence, moving as one to bring the tips of their spears closer—- you don’t need to understand the language to know the intent.

Don’t move.

Your breaths come in ragged pants, eyes feral and snapping between each new face, digging, digging, digging through your opaque memory for some sort of answer. Some recognition. Anything to explain the deep sense of wrong that’s settled in your chest.

Your search returns nothing. You resign yourself to this warm, bright fate. It can be nothing other than a trap.

Finally, you take notice of the other woman in the room, her presence holding gravitas unbefitting of her age. She wears brilliant white, eyes so alive it hurts to meet them with your own, their spark threatening to burn straight through you.

With a raised hand, she steps forward, the women in red parting around her like the sea against shore.

“Hi, I’m Shuri. We found you in an abandoned lab in Morocco. Do you know your name?”

You don’t, so you say nothing, pressing yourself firmly back into the case—- your ears are ringing again, and you’re certain it’s nothing to do with the cold this time.

“It’s okay. We know who you are, and I can help. I’m great at fixing broken things.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present Day

Bucky POV

When Bucky enters the warehouse, the last thing he expects is for it to look welcoming.

The large space feels whiter, lighter, and cleaner. Where heaps of broken tech and oil stained rags used to live, there is now order among the chaos. Neat piles, wiped down workbenches, open shutters, sparkling shelves. The tiles of the floor have been swept, and in the corner, three plastic chairs have appeared from god-knows where.

There’s pre-poured drinks, the heating is on, and Sam’s face is stretched into a practised smile—not quite natural, but still screams ‘hello, I’m here to help’ as it often does before his vet meetings.

He doesn’t fucking like it.

“What’s going on?” The suspicion in his tone is heavy enough for Sam to snort, gentle facade dropping in an instant.

“Christ, man. You look like I pulled a gun on you.” The tone is teasing, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that does nothing to soothe Bucky’s concern.

He grunts, “I’d prefer that. I’d know what you’re up to then.” Moving further into the space, he lets his eyes linger on Sam, perhaps a little more than necessary. The staring always gets to him. “What’s going on?”

“Stop lookin’ at me like you’re gonna punch me and I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t, but the silence drags on a beat too long, and Sam sighs, giving in. Like always.

“I’m trying to make it nice for the newbie. So if you could not act like a complete ass for ten minutes—“ he doesn’t get chance to finish the sentence.

“What do you mean—newbie? We’re not takin’ on strays.” The tone of his voice drops with his displeasure, eyes level on Sam who, of course, waves off his protest like a simple annoyance.

“The Wakandan’s found her and she seems to want to fight the good fight. She’s little fucked up though, apparently.” He motions to his head and then to Bucky, who can’t help the way his eyes narrow at the implication.

“The government saw what I did with your grumpy ass and decided tagging her to me was a good idea. Besides, we could use all the help we can get.” With a long, slow breath, Sam offers his friend a careful look. “HYDRA have raised their ugly head again. In a big way. And she has more up to date info than you.”

Bucky simply blinks, the furrow on his brow deepening. “She’s HYDRA?”

“Ex-HYDRA.”

“No one is ex-HYDRA.”

“You’re ex-HYDRA.”

“I’m a special case.”

“Not that special.” A new voice cuts through the air, slicing across his skin and sinking into his shoulders like a thousand needles. He knows that voice. That soft, melodic voice designed to entrance, entrap, slaughter.

A voice that is drowned by the roaring of blood in his ears, every nerve alight with long-forgotten purpose, skin prickling with rage. And when he sets his eyes on you, the whole world shatters at its edges, something deep and dark trying to claw its way free from his chest.

You’re dead. He knows this, he read the reports the first time he cracked into HYDRAs system—- yet there you stand, proud and steady and lethally beautiful as a sharpened blade. A perfect spy. HYDRA’s perfect spy, so good you clearly have the government—- and Sam—- fooled.

“You.”

He’s moving before his brain can catch up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reader POV

You’re reformed, sure. But over fifty years of training is hard to shake, and, well. You are a spy, and no self respecting spy would ever just walk into a room without doing a little recon first.

And fuck, are you glad you did. Because if you’d walked in and seen Soldat while exposed, you might’ve just died right there. Collapsed to the floor of fright like the pathetic little bird of your namesake.

But you don’t. You hide in the shadow of an opened shutter, watching and listening as Soldat speaks with who you assume to be Sam, bickering like an old married couple. Like he has a friend. Like people like you can even have friends.

Whether it’s shock, or jealousy, or even sadness that stutters in your chest, you’re not sure. One thing you are sure of, though, is the rage.

The Wakandan’s had told you, of course. How this specific type of mind control wasn’t new to them, how the ‘white wolf’ had gone through their treatment, found solace in the peace of their rolling hills and community. You knew he lived. You just didn’t expect him to be here.

To be chatting and joking and glaring. Eyes full of life, even if he still stares too much.

He’s done too much to deserve it. The blood on your palms is a stain, oily red clinging to every pore, every crease. It will never wash clean. And if you’re forever ruined— which you are—- then so is he.

Forever monsters, the both of you. No matter who your friends are or what side you’re on.

Does Sam know? What he is? What he’s done? He must do. There’s a reason you’ve been sent here. Sam must have a handle on it. Or, maybe, he just can’t see the monster in his home, blinded by his big blue eyes and steady voice. A trick, a false belief that no monster could exist wrapped in something so pretty.

You’d seen others fall for it. The rare times he’d been forced to take your approach—- get close, then let the beast take control. Doesn’t mean it’s not lurking beneath the surface of every breath.

Soldat proves you right the moment he moves, facade evaporating and the assassin slipping through, racing across the room and vaulting a table to get to you. To hurt you. You know his rage and his hate well, like an old friend. Like a lullaby.

You’re prepared when he closes the distance.

But so is he.

Your fist slams straight into vibranium, shaking your bones and stuttering your breath, but you’re moving, sweeping low and dodging his grab like you’ve done this before. Because you have, a hundred times in a hundred ways, a dance neither of you have dared forget.

A sharp blow to his ribs is countered with an elbow to your stomach, but you’re scrabbling for the blade you know lives at his thigh, and fingertips graze the cold metal hilt——

Soldat is yanked back, out of your range, with a rough grunt of a curse.

“I ask you not to be an ass for ten minutes and you fucking attack her on sight!” It’s Sam, clutching at the vibranium arm, chest heaving and his expression an almost comical mix of confusion and outrage. You’d laugh if your entire body wasn’t buzzing with the rush of adrenaline, the need to fight clawing at you from the inside.

“She’s a fucking Spy, she’s not some random defector!”

You’re frozen, watching Soldat and Captain America grapple for dominance— they both want to be heard, voices rising and echoing bouncing through the tiled space.

“She’s been deprogrammed!”

“That’s the fucking Sperō, you—“

“Not anymore she isn’t—-“

“You can’t expect me to believe that!”

“Buck, please—“ that seems to get his attention, Soldat pausing in his struggle to get free, get to you. “She’s fresh from Wakanda. She’s just like you.”

The room falls into deafening silence, no sound but the incessant pounding of your own heart in your ears.

You count seventeen heartbeats, and finally Soldat sighs, long and low. “You can’t guarantee that.”

“Do I need to remind you? You’re just as much monster as me, Soldat.” It holds as much venom as you can muster, but it’s still not enough. Still doesn’t capture the feeling of being so, so close to true freedom, just to end up back here. In a room with him.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“That’s what you are—-“

“Not anymore.”

“What about if I start longing for a rusty furn—“ your head hits the wall with enough force to render the world silent, just for a moment, just long enough for the roaring of your own heart to completely take back control, and you grin, letting the blood from your lips drip down onto the metal fingers at your throat. “See? Didn’t even need all ten.”

And you push all that rage into your boot, colliding with his stomach with enough force to send him flying into the table far behind.

A lull. Just for a moment. Just for enough time for the monster in the room to rise to his feet, blade drawn from the sheath at his thigh and flip through his fingers and—- ah, there he is.

You’re moving forward again, tiles flying under your feet and god your head hasn’t been this empty since—-

“ENOUGH,” and a star-spangled dickhead is suddenly between you, blocking Soldat from view and the heat in your blood cools just a little. Just enough.

You skid to a halt, each breath coming ragged through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know what’s fuckin’ wrong with you both but get it together. The last thing I need is you two tearing each-other— and my goddamn warehouse apart.”

A sharp glare in your direction (he has his back to Soldat, not you, you note) and Sam’s head turns over his shoulder. Even if his eyes never leave yours.

“Is this something the Wakandan’s missed?”

“No,” even the gravel of his voice makes you bristle. “It’s nothing programmed.”

You disagree. How could decades of torture, mental and physical, all centred around another’s actions not be a deliberate programming for hate? How could using you, each of you, as the judge jury and executioner of each others failures be anything less than true conditioning?

It wasn’t the chair, or the drugs. It’s something that’s settled in your bones in a way no Wakandan tech could ever hope to carve out.

Which makes it worse, so much worse. It makes it a choice, the last shadow of the hold they had over you- mind, body, and spirit.

With a harsh breath through your nose, eyes slipping shut, you roll your shoulders. Unclench your jaw. Let the recently revived logic part of your brain stumble back to the forefront, like a minutes-old foal on shaky legs.

“We have some history, that’s all.” God, the word feels quaint even as it passes your lips. History. As though any single word could ever sum it up. But you let it hang in the air, all the same, as you try and force your heartbeat back down to a rate that wouldn’t kill a normal human.

Sam, at least, seems placated, if a little suspicious. His hands drop from where they hang in the air, no longer frozen in a gesture of peace, and he finally breaks eye contact to offer the man behind him a glance. Whatever he sees there must convince him, as he steps to the side, and you’re immediately subjected to that oh-so familiar feeling.

He’s staring, again. But now, you can stare back.

His eyebrows raise, just slightly, as though surprised that you’ve dared. As though happy that you have.

“You both know you weren’t yourselves back then. Whatever happened, wasn’t you. Move past it, or— fuck, just act like you have. We have shit to do.”

And Sam isn’t wrong, but he’s not quite right either. Neither of you were in control, simply following orders barked in a language you never want to speak again, never questioning and never thinking. Drugs and electric and pain drowning out the soft hearted girl you’d been so very long ago.

The girl he had beaten out of you. The girl you had to smother in her sleep— fighting you off tooth and nail but that’s nothing against the serum burning through your veins— in order to cut whoever he had been out of him. A constant game of push and pull until you were both nothing but the smattering of broken parts left behind after a shipwreck.

Floating thoughtlessly, moving with the tide. No thought, no defiance, no hope.

But, you were you. And he was him. And to move past it means to forgive the Soldat. And to forgive the Soldat means to forgive yourself.

And that’s never fucking happening.

————————————

Taglist Baybee!

@chronicallybubbly | @bingbongsupremacy

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Sperō Universe: History

Masterlist | Bucky x F!Reader | Eventual Enemies to Lovers | No use of Y/N

Summary: how it started, how it ends, and how it starts again.

Please check Masterlist for more detailed description including all trigger warnings for the Sperō Universe.

Count: 3.1k

Warnings: abuse, violence, injury, weapons, trauma, mind control, swearing, all things HYDRA/Winter Soldier related.

A/N: hello!! This is the first fic of what will likely be many in the Sperō Universe. It will not be a beat-by-beat story, instead snapshots in time of these two. I would recommend reading this one first as it sets the premise. This will get dark in places, so please always read the warnings first.

Many Years Ago

It’s pitch black, but your steps don’t falter, don’t slow. You just keep marching, even step after even step, deeper and deeper until the concrete maze seems to swallow you whole.

And then you stop. And you wait. Your breathing even and your eyes straight ahead. No fidgeting, no shifting your weight. It’s as thought you’re not really there- a ghost in purgatory, awaiting divine instruction.

Turns out, divine instruction comes with the flickering of fluorescent lights and jack-booted footsteps.

“Sperō. You’re early.”

You hear, but you don’t respond. You aren’t asked to. Instead, you simply wait, as you know to, hands relaxed at your sides as though you don’t know how this ends. As though there’s nothing to fear.

Fear. You’re not sure you can remember it. You will, soon.

“Tssk. And you’ve gotten yourself damaged.” The voice is deeper, displeased.

A large, freshly purple welt across your cheekbone still throbs, and the thumbprints at your throat are stark in the light. Daring to mar your pretty face.

A far worse injury than your snapped ulnar and shredded tendons.

“Move.”

And so you do. The hand still working opens the lab door, steel grinding against concrete, and the noise sparks a litter of goosebumps down your spine.

You’ve heard that noise a hundred times. Nothing good ever follows. The newly revealed lab looks like every hell you’ve imagined— the chair, crude medical equipment, weapons of every kind— but it’s the demons inside that hold your attention. The slightest tremor takes hold of your left hand, and you swallow- the first sign of true life since you entered this dank hell.

The Handler is right, you are early. Soldat is still here.

The sort of rage you’re not programmed to feel sparks to life in your chest, blackening your ribs and fillings your lungs with curling smoke.

But, you do nothing. Just wait, as you know to do. Like you don’t know how this ends.

Piercing blue eyes are locked on your blank expression, and you can scent the absolute hatred. The barely controlled violence. The pure fucking loathing.

Your eyes tick to his— instinct leaking through, and only for a moment—- but your knee is kicked inward with enough force for the crack to echo.

The noise you make is more animal than human, but The Handler is smiling, and now you remember how this ends.

“The information better serve Soldat well,” she leans down to where you’ve sprawled, hand fisting at the roots of your hair and forcing you to meet her eyes— alive eyes, not like yours, not anymore— and the smile grows. “You know what will happen if it doesn’t.”

You do. And when they break you and fix you and freeze you, over and over and over again, you will know it is because of Soldat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6 Months Ago

The first breath is always the worst. You’re not sure how you know this— how you know anything, but this particular kind of pain is familiar, like the blurred edges of Deja Vu.

It still fucking sucks, though. Oxygen battles for space with razor sharp crystals of ice, shredding and tearing your at your lungs and throat. Blood starts to move, sluggish at first, coaxing every remaining shard through muscle and vein, scarring you in so many ways beyond physical.

The second breath will be better. Not much, but better. The comfort of knowing this settles into your bones— there’s one thing you know. Just one, but you cling to it like a lifeline, heart stuttering into frenzy as your eyes open, stubborn frost still clinging to your lashes.

Then that sense of knowing is ripped from under your feet like a threadbare carpet, fibres pinching at your soles.

This is wrong. You don’t know how, but it is.

The light doesn’t hurt like it should. It’s warm and it’s gentle— enough to see the world around you but not to blind, as though thought has been taken, like care exists here. The chill from your bones is being chased away by the air— hot, dry, but not uncomfortable, not punishing.

And there’s six women stood staring at you, peering through the open case door— five bald and adorned with armour and finery and colour like you’ve never seen before. Each holds a weapon— gold, it seems, sharp end pointed at you with almost supernatural stillness, steady in their hands.

That seems familiar, at least.

Sound comes to you last, the shrill ringing in your ears finally giving way to the gentle hum of technology, a distant song playing far far away, the steady inhales of the women in your view.

And then they talk, and you really panic, because you can’t understand them. It’s rolling off their tongues to the beat of an unknown drum, a language beyond your grasp, and that doesn’t fucking happen.

Another thing you know. Revealed to you by something you don’t. You fucking hate it.

Frozen muscles groan as you force them to life, shifting in your open glass cage, hands grasping at the rim with enough force to splinter. The red women fall into silence, moving as one to bring the tips of their spears closer—- you don’t need to understand the language to know the intent.

Don’t move.

Your breaths come in ragged pants, eyes feral and snapping between each new face, digging, digging, digging through your opaque memory for some sort of answer. Some recognition. Anything to explain the deep sense of wrong that’s settled in your chest.

Your search returns nothing. You resign yourself to this warm, bright fate. It can be nothing other than a trap.

Finally, you take notice of the other woman in the room, her presence holding gravitas unbefitting of her age. She wears brilliant white, eyes so alive it hurts to meet them with your own, their spark threatening to burn straight through you.

With a raised hand, she steps forward, the women in red parting around her like the sea against shore.

“Hi, I’m Shuri. We found you in an abandoned lab in Morocco. Do you know your name?”

You don’t, so you say nothing, pressing yourself firmly back into the case—- your ears are ringing again, and you’re certain it’s nothing to do with the cold this time.

“It’s okay. We know who you are, and I can help. I’m great at fixing broken things.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present Day

Bucky POV

When Bucky enters the warehouse, the last thing he expects is for it to look welcoming.

The large space feels whiter, lighter, and cleaner. Where heaps of broken tech and oil stained rags used to live, there is now order among the chaos. Neat piles, wiped down workbenches, open shutters, sparkling shelves. The tiles of the floor have been swept, and in the corner, three plastic chairs have appeared from god-knows where.

There’s pre-poured drinks, the heating is on, and Sam’s face is stretched into a practised smile—not quite natural, but still screams ‘hello, I’m here to help’ as it often does before his vet meetings.

He doesn’t fucking like it.

“What’s going on?” The suspicion in his tone is heavy enough for Sam to snort, gentle facade dropping in an instant.

“Christ, man. You look like I pulled a gun on you.” The tone is teasing, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that does nothing to soothe Bucky’s concern.

He grunts, “I’d prefer that. I’d know what you’re up to then.” Moving further into the space, he lets his eyes linger on Sam, perhaps a little more than necessary. The staring always gets to him. “What’s going on?”

“Stop lookin’ at me like you’re gonna punch me and I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t, but the silence drags on a beat too long, and Sam sighs, giving in. Like always.

“I’m trying to make it nice for the newbie. So if you could not act like a complete ass for ten minutes—“ he doesn’t get chance to finish the sentence.

“What do you mean—newbie? We’re not takin’ on strays.” The tone of his voice drops with his displeasure, eyes level on Sam who, of course, waves off his protest like a simple annoyance.

“The Wakandan’s found her and she seems to want to fight the good fight. She’s little fucked up though, apparently.” He motions to his head and then to Bucky, who can’t help the way his eyes narrow at the implication.

“The government saw what I did with your grumpy ass and decided tagging her to me was a good idea. Besides, we could use all the help we can get.” With a long, slow breath, Sam offers his friend a careful look. “HYDRA have raised their ugly head again. In a big way. And she has more up to date info than you.”

Bucky simply blinks, the furrow on his brow deepening. “She’s HYDRA?”

“Ex-HYDRA.”

“No one is ex-HYDRA.”

“You’re ex-HYDRA.”

“I’m a special case.”

“Not that special.” A new voice cuts through the air, slicing across his skin and sinking into his shoulders like a thousand needles. He knows that voice. That soft, melodic voice designed to entrance, entrap, slaughter.

A voice that is drowned by the roaring of blood in his ears, every nerve alight with long-forgotten purpose, skin prickling with rage. And when he sets his eyes on you, the whole world shatters at its edges, something deep and dark trying to claw its way free from his chest.

You’re dead. He knows this, he read the reports the first time he cracked into HYDRAs system—- yet there you stand, proud and steady and lethally beautiful as a sharpened blade. A perfect spy. HYDRA’s perfect spy, so good you clearly have the government—- and Sam—- fooled.

“You.”

He’s moving before his brain can catch up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reader POV

You’re reformed, sure. But over fifty years of training is hard to shake, and, well. You are a spy, and no self respecting spy would ever just walk into a room without doing a little recon first.

And fuck, are you glad you did. Because if you’d walked in and seen Soldat while exposed, you might’ve just died right there. Collapsed to the floor of fright like the pathetic little bird of your namesake.

But you don’t. You hide in the shadow of an opened shutter, watching and listening as Soldat speaks with who you assume to be Sam, bickering like an old married couple. Like he has a friend. Like people like you can even have friends.

Whether it’s shock, or jealousy, or even sadness that stutters in your chest, you’re not sure. One thing you are sure of, though, is the rage.

The Wakandan’s had told you, of course. How this specific type of mind control wasn’t new to them, how the ‘white wolf’ had gone through their treatment, found solace in the peace of their rolling hills and community. You knew he lived. You just didn’t expect him to be here.

To be chatting and joking and glaring. Eyes full of life, even if he still stares too much.

He’s done too much to deserve it. The blood on your palms is a stain, oily red clinging to every pore, every crease. It will never wash clean. And if you’re forever ruined— which you are—- then so is he.

Forever monsters, the both of you. No matter who your friends are or what side you’re on.

Does Sam know? What he is? What he’s done? He must do. There’s a reason you’ve been sent here. Sam must have a handle on it. Or, maybe, he just can’t see the monster in his home, blinded by his big blue eyes and steady voice. A trick, a false belief that no monster could exist wrapped in something so pretty.

You’d seen others fall for it. The rare times he’d been forced to take your approach—- get close, then let the beast take control. Doesn’t mean it’s not lurking beneath the surface of every breath.

Soldat proves you right the moment he moves, facade evaporating and the assassin slipping through, racing across the room and vaulting a table to get to you. To hurt you. You know his rage and his hate well, like an old friend. Like a lullaby.

You’re prepared when he closes the distance.

But so is he.

Your fist slams straight into vibranium, shaking your bones and stuttering your breath, but you’re moving, sweeping low and dodging his grab like you’ve done this before. Because you have, a hundred times in a hundred ways, a dance neither of you have dared forget.

A sharp blow to his ribs is countered with an elbow to your stomach, but you’re scrabbling for the blade you know lives at his thigh, and fingertips graze the cold metal hilt——

Soldat is yanked back, out of your range, with a rough grunt of a curse.

“I ask you not to be an ass for ten minutes and you fucking attack her on sight!” It’s Sam, clutching at the vibranium arm, chest heaving and his expression an almost comical mix of confusion and outrage. You’d laugh if your entire body wasn’t buzzing with the rush of adrenaline, the need to fight clawing at you from the inside.

“She’s a fucking Spy, she’s not some random defector!”

You’re frozen, watching Soldat and Captain America grapple for dominance— they both want to be heard, voices rising and echoing bouncing through the tiled space.

“She’s been deprogrammed!”

“That’s the fucking Sperō, you—“

“Not anymore she isn’t—-“

“You can’t expect me to believe that!”

“Buck, please—“ that seems to get his attention, Soldat pausing in his struggle to get free, get to you. “She’s fresh from Wakanda. She’s just like you.”

The room falls into deafening silence, no sound but the incessant pounding of your own heart in your ears.

You count seventeen heartbeats, and finally Soldat sighs, long and low. “You can’t guarantee that.”

“Do I need to remind you? You’re just as much monster as me, Soldat.” It holds as much venom as you can muster, but it’s still not enough. Still doesn’t capture the feeling of being so, so close to true freedom, just to end up back here. In a room with him.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“That’s what you are—-“

“Not anymore.”

“What about if I start longing for a rusty furn—“ your head hits the wall with enough force to render the world silent, just for a moment, just long enough for the roaring of your own heart to completely take back control, and you grin, letting the blood from your lips drip down onto the metal fingers at your throat. “See? Didn’t even need all ten.”

And you push all that rage into your boot, colliding with his stomach with enough force to send him flying into the table far behind.

A lull. Just for a moment. Just for enough time for the monster in the room to rise to his feet, blade drawn from the sheath at his thigh and flip through his fingers and—- ah, there he is.

You’re moving forward again, tiles flying under your feet and god your head hasn’t been this empty since—-

“ENOUGH,” and a star-spangled dickhead is suddenly between you, blocking Soldat from view and the heat in your blood cools just a little. Just enough.

You skid to a halt, each breath coming ragged through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know what’s fuckin’ wrong with you both but get it together. The last thing I need is you two tearing each-other— and my goddamn warehouse apart.”

A sharp glare in your direction (he has his back to Soldat, not you, you note) and Sam’s head turns over his shoulder. Even if his eyes never leave yours.

“Is this something the Wakandan’s missed?”

“No,” even the gravel of his voice makes you bristle. “It’s nothing programmed.”

You disagree. How could decades of torture, mental and physical, all centred around another’s actions not be a deliberate programming for hate? How could using you, each of you, as the judge jury and executioner of each others failures be anything less than true conditioning?

It wasn’t the chair, or the drugs. It’s something that’s settled in your bones in a way no Wakandan tech could ever hope to carve out.

Which makes it worse, so much worse. It makes it a choice, the last shadow of the hold they had over you- mind, body, and spirit.

With a harsh breath through your nose, eyes slipping shut, you roll your shoulders. Unclench your jaw. Let the recently revived logic part of your brain stumble back to the forefront, like a minutes-old foal on shaky legs.

“We have some history, that’s all.” God, the word feels quaint even as it passes your lips. History. As though any single word could ever sum it up. But you let it hang in the air, all the same, as you try and force your heartbeat back down to a rate that wouldn’t kill a normal human.

Sam, at least, seems placated, if a little suspicious. His hands drop from where they hang in the air, no longer frozen in a gesture of peace, and he finally breaks eye contact to offer the man behind him a glance. Whatever he sees there must convince him, as he steps to the side, and you’re immediately subjected to that oh-so familiar feeling.

He’s staring, again. But now, you can stare back.

His eyebrows raise, just slightly, as though surprised that you’ve dared. As though happy that you have.

“You both know you weren’t yourselves back then. Whatever happened, wasn’t you. Move past it, or— fuck, just act like you have. We have shit to do.”

And Sam isn’t wrong, but he’s not quite right either. Neither of you were in control, simply following orders barked in a language you never want to speak again, never questioning and never thinking. Drugs and electric and pain drowning out the soft hearted girl you’d been so very long ago.

The girl he had beaten out of you. The girl you had to smother in her sleep— fighting you off tooth and nail but that’s nothing against the serum burning through your veins— in order to cut whoever he had been out of him. A constant game of push and pull until you were both nothing but the smattering of broken parts left behind after a shipwreck.

Floating thoughtlessly, moving with the tide. No thought, no defiance, no hope.

But, you were you. And he was him. And to move past it means to forgive the Soldat. And to forgive the Soldat means to forgive yourself.

And that’s never fucking happening.

————————————

Taglist Baybee!

@chronicallybubbly | @bingbongsupremacy

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Sperō Universe Masterlist

Summary: HYDRA had 2 toys, and loved nothing more than to play war. When you and Bucky meet again on the other side, can you overcome your shared past, or will someone’s throat end up on the floor?

Enemies to lovers. No use of Y/N. Bucky x F!Reader

Warnings: Mentions and descriptions (not too graphic but definitely unpleasant) of sexual abuse/non-con, PTSD, nightmares, alcohol, explicit abuse situations, torture, smut, kidnapping, violence and injury, weapons, mind control, sex as a weapon, swearing, you get the gist, this is gonna generally get dark in places.

You are responsible for what you read, please tread with caution.

A/N: hello! I came up with a fairly intricate series of interconnecting moments in time between reader and Bucky, but couldn’t form it into a full beat-by-beat story, so have decided to do it as interconnected one-shots. I would recommend starting with History, as it explains the reader’s background. I guess it’s OC adjacent due to the amount of background but fuck it, here we are. Hope you enjoy!

• History

• Get Up (READ TRIGGER WARNINGS)

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 6 (Part 2)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Angry. Sexy. Sad. In that order.

TW’s: Not smut but definitely 18+, dirty talking, angst/self hatred, alcohol and drunkenness

A/N: sorry for the delay!!! Life has been weird and very busy of late. Hopefully will be back to my usual schedule v v soon!

——————

Reader POV

“Are you here just to piss me off?”

The incredulous laugh you throw his way cuts through the night, your finger already pointing accusatorially at his face.

“You’re the fucking Spymaster! How was I supposed to know you were here?”

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a fucking word, but he does step closer, crowding your toward the wall with a predatory grace which sets your heart thumping in a not entirely unpleasant way. It’s enough that you don’t quite pay attention to the slip of cobble stones beneath your heels, and suddenly your jerked to the left as swift hands steady you.

Pink stains your cheeks as Azriel hastily lets you go, expression hardening.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m at a fucking bar.”

“I’m taking you home.”

“Oh fuck off, I was having fun before you dragged me out here.” This gets a reaction— a scoff and raised eyebrow as his expression grows almost dangerous.

“Were you enjoying getting pawed at by that boy from the Day Court? I can smell his arousal all over you. Couldn’t smell any of yours though until we came out here.”

You’re going to fucking stab him. The heat in your cheeks is burning hot now, plain to see and so embarrassing that you almost decide to just say fuck it and run off into the night.

But, the mixture of heels and alcohol urge you to stay. To go on the offensive. Or at least, try to.

“We have sex once and suddenly you’re entitled—-“

“Five times,”

“Excuse me?”

“We had sex five times before you kicked me out to open the shop.” He’s somehow closer, the air between you growing thicker and frenzied, a heady mix of anger and arousal.

“That’s besides the point—“

“Is it?” Another step closer and you step back out of instinct, the cold kiss of brick pressing to your shoulder blades. His eyes still hold that feral edge, molten hazel as he looks down at you, your head resting back against the wall and you're just fucking captivated by him. His stature. The way his wings are spread wide and proud. The scent of his skin and his soap and his own arousal.

Scarred palms raise to rest either side of your head, caging you in, smothering you with his presence.

"Yeah," it comes out pathetically breathy, and with him this close, it’s growing harder to remember your point.

“‘Cus I think I’m entitled to want to help you after five times of feeling you writhe on my cock.” His voice drops an octave, and suddenly you can’t breathe. “Five times of hearing you plead my name like a fucking prayer over and over as you cum on my fingers and tongue, as you take me like you were fucking made for me.”

Mother, this male will be the end of you.

Azriel’s lips are so close to yours that you can feel every gentle exhale, can hear every subtle movement as he crowds you—- not touching, not yet, but the searing heat in your chest and your core rages like it hasn’t noticed.

So, so slowly, your hand raises, pressing to his chest— feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the soft fabric and muscle. He jolts just slightly, but his burning gaze never leaves your own, molten and wild and dangerous.

“Azr—“

The long-forgotten door slams open, and suddenly you’re bundled and shoved behind the male, blocked from view and surrounded by strong wings as though Azriel thinks the Bogge itself has decided to exit Rita’s.

The swiftness of the movement, coupled with several wines and the sudden change of atmosphere sends you into a bit of a tailspin, wobbling uncertainly in your heels as you struggle to find your footing.

Unthinkingly, your palm shoots out to brush against the leathery membrane of those giant fucking wings, and although Azriel’s attention seems entirely focused on whatever poor soul just stumbled in on your moment, he lets a quiet growl so deep escape that you freeze.

Idiot.

You don’t touch Illyrian wings without permission. You know this.

With a hissed apology and deep pink cheeks, you wrench your hand back, instead focusing on whatever is going on beyond the living wall of a male decidedly blocking your view.

“And where is she?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Is that— is that Caed? It’s sounds like Caed.

“I just want to make sure she’s alright.” Definitely Caed. Scared and unsure, but resolute— coming to check on you even if that means being faced with one of the Night Courts scariest males. Just for a short, sweet moment, your chest warms in gratitude for him.

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Azriel’s tone is edged with a specific sort of hardness that quickly snaps you into action, circumventing the black wall of his wings (with a quick curse as they move most unhelpfully) to peak out into the glow of red light escaping the tavern.

“I’m fine, Caed.” And his face does relax as he sees you, even if his posture remains stiff and unsure. “Azriel may be an ass,” you look to him briefly, but his eyes remain locked on Caed with a hardened stare that you’re very grateful to have never been on the receiving end of, “but he’s not that kind of ass. I’m all good— go back to Rebekah and Saoirse.”

The tip of a wing stretches just slightly, once again blocking you from view— and with a swift internal fuck it, your fingertips lightly grasp the edge, nudging it down and away.

Azriel’s head snaps to you with an alarming sharpness, and your eyebrows raise in challenge. “Stop being a pain and I’ll stop needing to touch them.”

“That’s not the incentive you think it is.”

You're about to snap back something undoubtably feminine and eloquent, but a loud and pointed throat clearing drags your attention back to the golden haired male who has just gone up in your estimations.

“If you're sure, I’ll go. We’ll be just inside if you need us.” And with a nod in your direction, he’s gone, and it’s once again just you and the shadow singer in the dark and narrow alley.

His eyes are still glued on you, and you realise with a sharp inhale that your fingers are still gripping the tip of his wing— a wing that seems to be trying to suppress a shudder.

You let go as though burned, and Azriel simply watches you with one eyebrow raised, stretching his newly-freed wing before pulling it in to rest.

The air is awkward. Where do you go now? After what he just said? After what you said those weeks ago?

You laugh once into the quiet-dark, and he continues to watch in silence.

“You can walk me home. You’re not coming in, though.” A gentle, if somewhat caveated, olive branch to settle the tension.

“Thank you.” It’s said on a sigh, and you resist the urge to pester on what the big deal is.

The walk along cobblestone streets is quiet, save for the odd slip of your heel fuelled by alcohol and lack of practise, but Azriel doesn’t comment, doesn’t laugh. His brooding quiet acts as a blanket while you pass each empty store or dark-windowed home, and not a word is spoken between you until you reach your own.

In time, you stop, mirrored reflections of yourselves staring back at you in the dark glass. He looks so tall, so large and imposing, dark wings stretching high above and past you, silhouetting your image.

Without turning to look at him, eyes still glued to the sight of his body alongside yours, you sigh.

“I’d had a nightmare just before busted into my shop with a hole in your wing. That’s what you could smell.” The words are light and quiet as the breeze itself, but you know he catches each clear as day. “I didn’t— and still don’t want to talk about it, but I was wrong to get so angry and defensive.”

You can see the vulnerability in your expression, slightly distorted by the reflection but obvious nonetheless. You hate it, but you hate what you are— what you can be even more, so you swallow down the urge to hide. The urge to run.

“I apologise for what I said. And then for swearing at you earlier— although I blame the wine for some of that— I just—.”

You rip your eyes away from your own sad smile, only to find Azriel’s steady gaze already on you, watching and listening with quiet intensity.

“I’m a little fucked up. And there’s stuff about me you won’t like. Sex and tea is great but when you start—-“ your voice cracks, just a touch. His fingers flex at his sides. “When you start trying to protect me and look after me and care for me— it gets messy and complicated and it’s not something I can do.”

“So if you want to come in and have tea, or see if we can add another five to the count, then sure. But when you scent a nightmare or finally figure out what question you want to ask about my dagger or my family, just keep it to yourself. Okay?”

The stillness of the air around you seems almost mocking, stretching the silence so thin that you fear when it snaps.

“Okay.” And his expression is unreadable to the point it pains you, and you’re not sure why but your heartburn is back, and suddenly that still-quiet night is freezing cold.

And then, in a strange flash of night and shadow, he’s gone.

———————

A/N: Taglist, baybee!

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 6 (Part 2)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Angry. Sexy. Sad. In that order.

TW’s: Not smut but definitely 18+, dirty talking, angst/self hatred, alcohol and drunkenness

A/N: sorry for the delay!!! Life has been weird and very busy of late. Hopefully will be back to my usual schedule v v soon!

——————

Reader POV

“Are you here just to piss me off?”

The incredulous laugh you throw his way cuts through the night, your finger already pointing accusatorially at his face.

“You’re the fucking Spymaster! How was I supposed to know you were here?”

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a fucking word, but he does step closer, crowding your toward the wall with a predatory grace which sets your heart thumping in a not entirely unpleasant way. It’s enough that you don’t quite pay attention to the slip of cobble stones beneath your heels, and suddenly your jerked to the left as swift hands steady you.

Pink stains your cheeks as Azriel hastily lets you go, expression hardening.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m at a fucking bar.”

“I’m taking you home.”

“Oh fuck off, I was having fun before you dragged me out here.” This gets a reaction— a scoff and raised eyebrow as his expression grows almost dangerous.

“Were you enjoying getting pawed at by that boy from the Day Court? I can smell his arousal all over you. Couldn’t smell any of yours though until we came out here.”

You’re going to fucking stab him. The heat in your cheeks is burning hot now, plain to see and so embarrassing that you almost decide to just say fuck it and run off into the night.

But, the mixture of heels and alcohol urge you to stay. To go on the offensive. Or at least, try to.

“So what? We have sex once and suddenly you think you’re entitled—-“

“Five times,”

“Excuse me?”

“We had sex five times before you kicked me out to open the shop.” He’s somehow closer, the air between you growing thicker and frenzied, a heady mix of anger and arousal.

“That’s besides the point—“

“Is it?” Another step closer and you step back out of instinct, the cold kiss of brick pressing to your shoulder blades. His eyes still hold that feral edge, molten hazel as he looks down at you, your head resting back against the wall and you're just fucking captivated by him. His stature. The way his wings are spread wide and proud. The scent of his skin and his soap and his own arousal.

Scarred palms raise to rest either side of your head, caging you in, smothering you with his presence.

"Yeah," it comes out pathetically breathy, and with him this close, it’s growing harder to remember your point.

“‘Cus I think I’m entitled to want to help you after five times of feeling you writhe on my cock.” His voice drops an octave, and suddenly you can’t breathe. “Five times of hearing you plead my name like a fucking prayer over and over as you cum on my fingers and tongue, as you take me like you were fucking made for me.”

Mother, this male will be the end of you.

Azriel’s lips are so close to yours that you can feel every gentle exhale, can hear every subtle movement as he crowds you—- not touching, not yet, but the searing heat in your chest and your core rages like it hasn’t noticed.

So, so slowly, your hand raises, pressing to his chest— feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the soft fabric and muscle. He jolts just slightly, but his burning gaze never leaves your own, molten and wild and dangerous.

“Azr—“

The long-forgotten door slams open, and suddenly you’re bundled and shoved behind the male, blocked from view and surrounded by strong wings as though Azriel thinks the Bogge itself has decided to exit Rita’s.

The swiftness of the movement, coupled with several wines and the sudden change of atmosphere sends you into a bit of a tailspin, wobbling uncertainly in your heels as you struggle to find your footing.

Unthinkingly, your palm shoots out to brush against the leathery membrane of those giant fucking wings, and although Azriel’s attention seems entirely focused on whatever poor soul just stumbled in on your moment, he lets a quiet growl so deep escape that you freeze.

Idiot.

You don’t touch Illyrian wings without permission. You know this.

With a hissed apology and deep pink cheeks, you wrench your hand back, instead focusing on whatever is going on beyond the living wall of a male decidedly blocking your view.

“And where is she?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Is that— is that Caed? It’s sounds like Caed.

“I just want to make sure she’s alright.” Definitely Caed. Scared and unsure, but resolute— coming to check on you even if that means being faced with one of the Night Courts scariest males. Just for a short, sweet moment, your chest warms in gratitude for him.

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Azriel’s tone is edged with a specific sort of hardness that quickly snaps you into action, circumventing the black wall of his wings (with a quick curse as they move most unhelpfully) to peak out into the glow of red light escaping the tavern.

“I’m fine, Caed.” And his face does relax as he sees you, even if his posture remains stiff and unsure. “Azriel may be an ass,” you look to him briefly, but his eyes remain locked on Caed with a hardened stare that you’re very grateful to have never been on the receiving end of, “but he’s not that kind of ass. I’m all good— go back to Rebekah and Saoirse.”

The tip of a wing stretches just slightly, once again blocking you from view— and with a swift internal fuck it, your fingertips lightly grasp the edge, nudging it down and away.

Azriel’s head snaps to you with an alarming sharpness, and your eyebrows raise in challenge. “Stop being a pain and I’ll stop needing to touch them.”

“That’s not the incentive you think it is.”

You're about to snap back something undoubtably feminine and eloquent, but a loud and pointed throat clearing drags your attention back to the golden haired male who has just gone up in your estimations.

“If you're sure, I’ll go. We’ll be just inside if you need us.” And with a nod in your direction, he’s gone, and it’s once again just you and the shadow singer in the dark and narrow alley.

His eyes are still glued on you, and you realise with a sharp inhale that your fingers are still gripping the tip of his wing— a wing that seems to be trying to suppress a shudder.

You let go as though burned, and Azriel simply watches you with one eyebrow raised, stretching his newly-freed wing before pulling it in to rest.

The air is awkward. Where do you go now? After what he just said? After what you said those weeks ago?

You laugh once into the quiet-dark, and he continues to watch in silence.

“You can walk me home. You’re not coming in, though.” A gentle, if somewhat caveated, olive branch to settle the tension.

“Thank you.” It’s said on a sigh, and you resist the urge to pester on what the big deal is.

The walk along cobblestone streets is quiet, save for the odd slip of your heel fuelled by alcohol and lack of practise, but Azriel doesn’t comment, doesn’t laugh. His brooding quiet acts as a blanket while you pass each empty store or dark-windowed home, and not a word is spoken between you until you reach your own.

In time, you stop, mirrored reflections of yourselves staring back at you in the dark glass. He looks so tall, so large and imposing, dark wings stretching high above and past you, silhouetting your image.

Without turning to look at him, eyes still glued to the sight of his body alongside yours, you sigh.

“I’d had a nightmare just before busted into my shop with a hole in your wing. That’s what you could smell.” The words are light and quiet as the breeze itself, but you know he catches each clear as day. “I didn’t— and still don’t want to talk about it, but I was wrong to get so angry and defensive.”

You can see the vulnerability in your expression, slightly distorted by the reflection but obvious nonetheless. You hate it, but you hate what you are— what you can be even more, so you swallow down the urge to hide. The urge to run.

“I apologise for what I said. And then for swearing at you earlier— although I blame the wine for some of that— I just—.”

You rip your eyes away from your own sad smile, only to find Azriel’s steady gaze already on you, watching and listening with quiet intensity.

“I’m a little fucked up. And there’s stuff about me you won’t like. Sex and tea is great but when you start—-“ your voice cracks, just a touch. His fingers flex at his sides. “When you start trying to protect me and look after me and care for me— it gets messy and complicated and it’s not something I can do.”

“So if you want to come in and have tea, or see if we can add another five to the count, then sure. But when you scent a nightmare or finally figure out what question you want to ask about my dagger or my family, just keep it to yourself. Okay?”

The stillness of the air around you seems almost mocking, stretching the silence so thin that you fear when it snaps.

“Okay.” And his expression is unreadable to the point it pains you, and you’re not sure why but your heartburn is back, and suddenly that still-quiet night is freezing cold.

And then, in a strange flash of night and shadow, he’s gone.

———————

A/N: Taglist, baybee!

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 6 (Part 1)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: obligatory Rita’s chapter

TW’s: alcohol and drinking, creeper behaviour, mischief, Cassian Cameo

A/N: there’s a lot of POV swapping in this one (including someone who isn’t the main two). It’s also split into two parts as I’m trying to keep each chapter not super long! Enjoy x

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Azriel POV

He’s 3 drinks in and feeling a little fuzzy-warm around the edges before Cassian’s elbow makes itself known against his ribs.

“Will you reign it in? You’re scaring the ‘sexy-table’.”

Hazel eyes flick to Mor— who clearly coined that term, and he raises an eyebrow. But she’s not looking at Azriel, brow furrowed and gaze settled on something over his shoulder.

“Not all of the sexy-table——who’s the one with her back to us, in green?”

He groans before he even looks, overlapping whispers of ‘pretty’ forcing his hand and making him acknowledge what he’s been pretending not to since you walked in.

But there you are. Radiant and clad in another dress that he’s sure will star in his subconscious next time he rests— deep green and shimmering under the lights and attention of whoever-the-fuck the golden haired male next to you is.

And his brother is right. Shadows circle the legs of the table and its patrons, the golden male and the two pretty females opposite you all wide-eyed and nervous by the intrusion. But, of course, not you— you’re simply sipping on your wine and letting the darkness twine between your fingers, laughing and instructing the others to ‘calm down. They’re friendly’.

They’re not. But you’ll never see that side of them.

He rips his eyes away before you turn and catch him staring, just incase his face shows more than he’d like.

“Cass, grab me another drink.”

“That bad, eh?”

He doesn’t answer, but the hard look he sends Cassian’s way makes his brother laugh, clasping his shoulder before standing from their table.

“I’ll make it a double, then.”

——————

Reader POV

If you weren’t a bottle deep by the time you entered Rita’s, you would’ve turned around and ran the moment you saw him.

Actually, no, you never would’ve agreed to come here in the first place—- let alone sit within throwing distance of the male who caused your ‘bitchy demeanour’ for the last week. Especially not in the company of Caed and the most trouble-stirring couple you’ve ever had the honour of knowing.

But when Saoirse and Rebekah had rushed into your shop moments after closing theirs, bottles in hand and mischief in their eyes, you knew you were screwed before they even mentioned what a ‘grumpy bitch’ you’d been the last week.

At first they thought it had been the blind date with Caed— courtesy of their scheming, but no. Rebekah had cottoned on quickly, her ever-sharp mind coming to new conclusions of a different male, and you’d downed your bottle to busy your mouth from spilling the regret that still sits heavy on your chest.

And somehow they’ve convinced Caed to meet you here— a pretty distraction, they’d said. No better way to get over someone than to get under someone else.

Yet each brush of his fingers over the flesh of your thigh does nothing but add to the sour feeling in your gut. The panic in his eyes when his feet are lost to darkness almost makes you smile, and you reassure them all they mean no harm, wondering if Azriel knows his shadows have snuck away to greet you.

You get your answer when they’re ripped away, clearly called back with all the gentleness of tearing away a bandage, and you down your drink to try and smother the way your heart sinks.

“Thank the mother for that,” Caed laughs, hand now fully resting on your bare thigh. “I don’t understand how you’re so calm, those things are fucking creepy.”

Saoirse gives you a knowing look over the top of her glass, and suddenly you’re standing.

“Anyone need a refill?” They’re barely given time to shake their heads before you’re moving, weaving between dancing bodies and apologising needlessly as they step on your toes.

You’re far, far too sober for this, and you squeeze into the only gap at the bar—- likely there as some folk are too scared of Illyrian wings. But you’re not, not anymore.

“Three shots of whatever’s strongest, and a glass of wine, please.” The barkeep takes your order and spins away, and you try so very hard to ignore the eyes on the side of your face.

“That bad, eh?” Fuck. You force yourself to meet his gaze, polite smile painted across your features, until you realise exactly who you were planning to tell to mind their own business.

“Ah, you’re—-“ for fuck sake. This is exactly why you avoid Rita’s like the plague, opting instead for some of the grottier bars when you just can’t shake the urge to indulge.

The fucking General of the entire fucking Army is staring at you like he’s trying not to laugh.

If you spot the High Lord, you’re making a break for it. Especially after waking him up in the early hours so recently.

“I’m Cassian.” He doesn’t bother hiding the amusement in his tone.

Your three shots are planted in front of you with a flourish, and you smile at the bartender before sinking them one by one. Normally, you can push any fluster down deep, face impassive and eyes steady— but tonight it’s harder. Because of the wine, because of the company.

The General is still staring, eyebrows high and a curl of mischief at his lips, and you shake away the burn of alcohol hitting your throat.

“Nice to meet you Cassian, I’m having a rough night.” Swiping your freshly poured wine, you raise it with a wink, before making a point of sauntering back to your table like that 10 second conversation didn’t shake you to your fucking core.

He’s definitely sat with Azriel. And he definitely knows something. The interest in his eyes had gone beyond that of a stranger, and now the oh-so-thin pretence that you’re not stuck in a stuffy room with each other is a distant memory, you’re sure of it.

You don’t spare Caed and the arm he’s slung over the back of your booth a glance as you slump heavily into your seat.

———————

Mor POV

“Green-girl is trouble.” Cassian announces the second he’s back, a large glass of something clear plonked unceremoniously in front of the Shadowsinger, who doesn’t waste a moment taking a long drink from it.

“You spoke to her?” Mor leans forward, delicate forearms resting on the table as her eyes flicker between the two Illyrians, Azriel’s face an impassive mask. He’s four drinks in now—- usually a little less stiff, a little more free with his half smiles and quiet laughter. But not tonight.

Eyes catching with Cassian’s, she forms a plan which she just knows he’ll keep step with, watching as his own eyebrow raises in challenge.

“Yeah, she said she’s having a rough night.” That gets a reaction, albeit small. Azriel blinks, eyes sliding to his brother for only a moment, but it’s all they need.

“She’s very pretty, maybe you could cheer her up a bit?”

“Yeah why should Rhys get to have all the fun. I might go ask her to dance—-“

“Well, that’s not gonna improve anyone’s mood,”

“Hey, I’m an excellent dancer.” And with a wink so exaggerated that Mor almost snorts, the male turns to face his brother. “You alright, Az?”

Az is clearly not alright. He’s statue-still, not unusual— but the rapid twitch of the muscle in his jaw is, shadows curling at his shoulders in a way they know means nothing good.

“I’m fine.” He’s a fucking liar, and Mor rolls her eyes before lightly prodding once again.

“Have you told your shadows that?”

Cassian cuts in before whatever colourful answer could escape Az’s mouth, his tone suddenly devoid of its normal playful lilt.

“Actually, I better go over.”

All eyes snap to your table, Rebekah and her partner now some ways away and dancing seductively enough that on a usual night without the boys, Mor would go join them. But you’re still seated, the golden-haired male’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, whispering something so close to your ear that she can see the pointed tips turn red.

Not her problem, or Cassian’s, or Azriel’s. Except your spine is straight and stiff, head angled away and shoulders tense like you’re just waiting for his touch to end.

Azriels seat is empty before she can even catch his eye.

———————

Reader POV

“Have I told you how sexy that dress is?” His warm breath tickles at your ear and neck in a way that’s making your skin crawl, nose wrinkling as you take another swig of wine.

“Yes. Like, three times now.” Why have your two so-called friends abandoned you with this? He’s not a bad guy, you’ve decided—- just a few too many ales and a hapless misunderstanding of the situation.

Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.

“I bet you look even sexier out of it.” Ugh. The man has little appreciation for the art of seduction, apparently, and you don’t try and hide your eye-roll.

“Caed, listen—-“

“Am I interrupting something?”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Azriel’s voice is deep and as sharp as a knifes edge, cutting through whatever drunken haze has clouded Caed’s judgement with astonishing speed. He straightens, although his arm still rests around your shoulders, and blinks up at the intimidating form at your table.

The wine in your blood forces a deeply uncomfortable giggle past your lips.

“No, Sir. Just chatting with my girl, here.”

‘My girl’? Absolutely fucking not. Your nose wrinkles involuntarily, each thought plain on your face even as you try your absolute best to avoid the Shadowsinger’s gaze.

“Huh. Are you ‘his girl’?” And damn if the low gravel of his voice doesn’t hit you straight in your core.

“Oh, get fucked, Azriel.” How fucking dare he? Sure—- you’d been rude and shitty and—and—-

You’re not his. You never were. Hell, at this point, you’re not even friends anymore. You can do whatever you like with whoever you like. Even if Caed isn’t quite who you’d pick.

And next to you, he's busy looking terrified and distancing himself from the person who dare swear at the Spymaster of the Night Court. Not that you’re paying attention.

Azriels eyes are fucking molten, dancing between yours and your lips, wings splayed wide and twitching as shadows curl up your legs almost intimately.

He looks like a dark angel, like this, and you find yourself unable to fight the siren-call of his presence, leaning toward him oh-so-slightly.

“We need to talk.” And then he’s dragging you away from both the booth and the boy in it by your wrist, feet unsteady in heels as you struggle to keep up.

Saoirse catches your eye across the dance floor and offers a wink instead of salvation, and you curse her out internally as you’re pulled out the back exit and into the quiet street.

With the click of the door, the music quiets, plunging you both into near total darkness.

“Are you here just to piss me off?”

——————————

Taglist Baybee:

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 6 (Part 1)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: obligatory Rita’s chapter

TW’s: alcohol and drinking, creeper behaviour, mischief, Cassian Cameo

A/N: there’s a lot of POV swapping in this one (including someone who isn’t the main two). It’s also split into two parts as I’m trying to keep each chapter not super long! Enjoy x

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Azriel POV

He’s 3 drinks in and feeling a little fuzzy-warm around the edges before Cassian’s elbow makes itself known against his ribs.

“Will you reign it in? You’re scaring the ‘sexy-table’.”

Hazel eyes flick to Mor— who clearly coined that term, and he raises an eyebrow. But she’s not looking at Azriel, brow furrowed and gaze settled on something over his shoulder.

“Not all of the sexy-table——who’s the one with her back to us, in green?”

He groans before he even looks, overlapping whispers of ‘pretty’ forcing his hand and making him acknowledge what he’s been pretending not to since you walked in.

But there you are. Radiant and clad in another dress that he’s sure will star in his subconscious next time he rests— deep green and shimmering under the lights and attention of whoever-the-fuck the golden haired male next to you is.

And his brother is right. Shadows circle the legs of the table and its patrons, the golden male and the two pretty females opposite you all wide-eyed and nervous by the intrusion. But, of course, not you— you’re simply sipping on your wine and letting the darkness twine between your fingers, laughing and instructing the others to ‘calm down. They’re friendly’.

They’re not. But you’ll never see that side of them.

He rips his eyes away before you turn and catch him staring, just incase his face shows more than he’d like.

“Cass, grab me another drink.”

“That bad, eh?”

He doesn’t answer, but the hard look he sends Cassian’s way makes his brother laugh, clasping his shoulder before standing from their table.

“I’ll make it a double, then.”

——————

Reader POV

If you weren’t a bottle deep by the time you entered Rita’s, you would’ve turned around and ran the moment you saw him.

Actually, no, you never would’ve agreed to come here in the first place—- let alone sit within throwing distance of the male who caused your ‘bitchy demeanour’ for the last week. Especially not in the company of Caed and the most trouble-stirring couple you’ve ever had the honour of knowing.

But when Saoirse and Rebekah had rushed into your shop moments after closing theirs, bottles in hand and mischief in their eyes, you knew you were screwed before they even mentioned what a ‘grumpy bitch’ you’d been the last week.

At first they thought it had been the blind date with Caed— courtesy of their scheming, but no. Rebekah had cottoned on quickly, her ever-sharp mind coming to new conclusions of a different male, and you’d downed your bottle to busy your mouth from spilling the regret that still sits heavy on your chest.

And somehow they’ve convinced Caed to meet you here— a pretty distraction, they’d said. No better way to get over someone than to get under someone else.

Yet each brush of his fingers over the flesh of your thigh does nothing but add to the sour feeling in your gut. The panic in his eyes when his feet are lost to darkness almost makes you smile, and you reassure them all they mean no harm, wondering if Azriel knows his shadows have snuck away to greet you.

You get your answer when they’re ripped away, clearly called back with all the gentleness of tearing away a bandage, and you down your drink to try and smother the way your heart sinks.

“Thank the mother for that,” Caed laughs, hand now fully resting on your bare thigh. “I don’t understand how you’re so calm, those things are fucking creepy.”

Saoirse gives you a knowing look over the top of her glass, and suddenly you’re standing.

“Anyone need a refill?” They’re barely given time to shake their heads before you’re moving, weaving between dancing bodies and apologising needlessly as they step on your toes.

You’re far, far too sober for this, and you squeeze into the only gap at the bar—- likely there as some folk are too scared of Illyrian wings. But you’re not, not anymore.

“Three shots of whatever’s strongest, and a glass of wine, please.” The barkeep takes your order and spins away, and you try so very hard to ignore the eyes on the side of your face.

“That bad, eh?” Fuck. You force yourself to meet his gaze, polite smile painted across your features, until you realise exactly who you were planning to tell to mind their own business.

“Ah, you’re—-“ for fuck sake. This is exactly why you avoid Rita’s like the plague, opting instead for some of the grottier bars when you just can’t shake the urge to indulge.

The fucking General of the entire fucking Army is staring at you like he’s trying not to laugh.

If you spot the High Lord, you’re making a break for it. Especially after waking him up in the early hours so recently.

“I’m Cassian.” He doesn’t bother hiding the amusement in his tone.

Your three shots are planted in front of you with a flourish, and you smile at the bartender before sinking them one by one. Normally, you can push any fluster down deep, face impassive and eyes steady— but tonight it’s harder. Because of the wine, because of the company.

The General is still staring, eyebrows high and a curl of mischief at his lips, and you shake away the burn of alcohol hitting your throat.

“Nice to meet you Cassian, I’m having a rough night.” Swiping your freshly poured wine, you raise it with a wink, before making a point of sauntering back to your table like that 10 second conversation didn’t shake you to your fucking core.

He’s definitely sat with Azriel. And he definitely knows something. The interest in his eyes had gone beyond that of a stranger, and now the oh-so-thin pretence that you’re not stuck in a stuffy room with each other is a distant memory, you’re sure of it.

You don’t spare Caed and the arm he’s slung over the back of your booth a glance as you slump heavily into your seat.

———————

Mor POV

“Green-girl is trouble.” Cassian announces the second he’s back, a large glass of something clear plonked unceremoniously in front of the Shadowsinger, who doesn’t waste a moment taking a long drink from it.

“You spoke to her?” Mor leans forward, delicate forearms resting on the table as her eyes flicker between the two Illyrians, Azriel’s face an impassive mask. He’s four drinks in now—- usually a little less stiff, a little more free with his half smiles and quiet laughter. But not tonight.

Eyes catching with Cassian’s, she forms a plan which she just knows he’ll keep step with, watching as his own eyebrow raises in challenge.

“Yeah, she said she’s having a rough night.” That gets a reaction, albeit small. Azriel blinks, eyes sliding to his brother for only a moment, but it’s all they need.

“She’s very pretty, maybe you could cheer her up a bit?”

“Yeah why should Rhys get to have all the fun. I might go ask her to dance—-“

“Well, that’s not gonna improve anyone’s mood,”

“Hey, I’m an excellent dancer.” And with a wink so exaggerated that Mor almost snorts, the male turns to face his brother. “You alright, Az?”

Az is clearly not alright. He’s statue-still, not unusual— but the rapid twitch of the muscle in his jaw is, shadows curling at his shoulders in a way they know means nothing good.

“I’m fine.” He’s a fucking liar, and Mor rolls her eyes before lightly prodding once again.

“Have you told your shadows that?”

Cassian cuts in before whatever colourful answer could escape Az’s mouth, his tone suddenly devoid of its normal playful lilt.

“Actually, I better go over.”

All eyes snap to your table, Rebekah and her partner now some ways away and dancing seductively enough that on a usual night without the boys, Mor would go join them. But you’re still seated, the golden-haired male’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, whispering something so close to your ear that she can see the pointed tips turn red.

Not her problem, or Cassian’s, or Azriel’s. Except your spine is straight and stiff, head angled away and shoulders tense like you’re just waiting for his touch to end.

Azriels seat is empty before she can even catch his eye.

———————

Reader POV

“Have I told you how sexy that dress is?” His warm breath tickles at your ear and neck in a way that’s making your skin crawl, nose wrinkling as you take another swig of wine.

“Yes. Like, three times now.” Why have your two so-called friends abandoned you with this? He’s not a bad guy, you’ve decided—- just a few too many ales and a hapless misunderstanding of the situation.

Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.

“I bet you look even sexier out of it.” Ugh. The man has little appreciation for the art of seduction, apparently, and you don’t try and hide your eye-roll.

“Caed, listen—-“

“Am I interrupting something?”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Azriel’s voice is deep and as sharp as a knifes edge, cutting through whatever drunken haze has clouded Caed’s judgement with astonishing speed. He straightens, although his arm still rests around your shoulders, and blinks up at the intimidating form at your table.

The wine in your blood forces a deeply uncomfortable giggle past your lips.

“No, Sir. Just chatting with my girl, here.”

‘My girl’? Absolutely fucking not. Your nose wrinkles involuntarily, each thought plain on your face even as you try your absolute best to avoid the Shadowsinger’s gaze.

“Huh. Are you ‘his girl’?” And damn if the low gravel of his voice doesn’t hit you straight in your core.

“Oh, get fucked, Azriel.” How fucking dare he? Sure—- you’d been rude and shitty and—and—-

You’re not his. You never were. Hell, at this point, you’re not even friends anymore. You can do whatever you like with whoever you like. Even if Caed isn’t quite who you’d pick.

And next to you, he's busy looking terrified and distancing himself from the person who dare swear at the Spymaster of the Night Court. Not that you’re paying attention.

Azriels eyes are fucking molten, dancing between yours and your lips, wings splayed wide and twitching as shadows curl up your legs almost intimately.

He looks like a dark angel, like this, and you find yourself unable to fight the siren-call of his presence, leaning toward him oh-so-slightly.

“We need to talk.” And then he’s dragging you away from both the booth and the boy in it by your wrist, feet unsteady in heels as you struggle to keep up.

Saoirse catches your eye across the dance floor and offers a wink instead of salvation, and you curse her out internally as you’re pulled out the back exit and into the quiet street.

With the click of the door, the music quiets, plunging you both into near total darkness.

“Are you here just to piss me off?”

——————————

Taglist Baybee:

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 6 (Part 1)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: obligatory Rita’s chapter

TW’s: alcohol and drinking, creeper behaviour, mischief, Cassian Cameo

A/N: there’s a lot of POV swapping in this one (including someone who isn’t the main two). It’s also split into two parts as I’m trying to keep each chapter not super long! Enjoy x

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Azriel POV

He’s 3 drinks in and feeling a little fuzzy-warm around the edges before Cassian’s elbow makes itself known against his ribs.

“Will you reign it in? You’re scaring the ‘sexy-table’.”

Hazel eyes flick to Mor— who clearly coined that term, and he raises an eyebrow. But she’s not looking at Azriel, brow furrowed and gaze settled on something over his shoulder.

“Not all of the sexy-table——who’s the one with her back to us, in green?”

He groans before he even looks, overlapping whispers of ‘pretty’ forcing his hand and making him acknowledge what he’s been pretending not to since you walked in.

But there you are. Radiant and clad in another dress that he’s sure will star in his subconscious next time he rests— deep green and shimmering under the lights and attention of whoever-the-fuck the golden haired male next to you is.

And his brother is right. Shadows circle the legs of the table and its patrons, the golden male and the two pretty females opposite you all wide-eyed and nervous by the intrusion. But, of course, not you— you’re simply sipping on your wine and letting the darkness twine between your fingers, laughing and instructing the others to ‘calm down. They’re friendly’.

They’re not. But you’ll never see that side of them.

He rips his eyes away before you turn and catch him staring, just incase his face shows more than he’d like.

“Cass, grab me another drink.”

“That bad, eh?”

He doesn’t answer, but the hard look he sends Cassian’s way makes his brother laugh, clasping his shoulder before standing from their table.

“I’ll make it a double, then.”

——————

Reader POV

If you weren’t a bottle deep by the time you entered Rita’s, you would’ve turned around and ran the moment you saw him.

Actually, no, you never would’ve agreed to come here in the first place—- let alone sit within throwing distance of the male who caused your ‘bitchy demeanour’ for the last week. Especially not in the company of Caed and the most trouble-stirring couple you’ve ever had the honour of knowing.

But when Saoirse and Rebekah had rushed into your shop moments after closing theirs, bottles in hand and mischief in their eyes, you knew you were screwed before they even mentioned what a ‘grumpy bitch’ you’d been the last week.

At first they thought it had been the blind date with Caed— courtesy of their scheming, but no. Rebekah had cottoned on quickly, her ever-sharp mind coming to new conclusions of a different male, and you’d downed your bottle to busy your mouth from spilling the regret that still sits heavy on your chest.

And somehow they’ve convinced Caed to meet you here— a pretty distraction, they’d said. No better way to get over someone than to get under someone else.

Yet each brush of his fingers over the flesh of your thigh does nothing but add to the sour feeling in your gut. The panic in his eyes when his feet are lost to darkness almost makes you smile, and you reassure them all they mean no harm, wondering if Azriel knows his shadows have snuck away to greet you.

You get your answer when they’re ripped away, clearly called back with all the gentleness of tearing away a bandage, and you down your drink to try and smother the way your heart sinks.

“Thank the mother for that,” Caed laughs, hand now fully resting on your bare thigh. “I don’t understand how you’re so calm, those things are fucking creepy.”

Saoirse gives you a knowing look over the top of her glass, and suddenly you’re standing.

“Anyone need a refill?” They’re barely given time to shake their heads before you’re moving, weaving between dancing bodies and apologising needlessly as they step on your toes.

You’re far, far too sober for this, and you squeeze into the only gap at the bar—- likely there as some folk are too scared of Illyrian wings. But you’re not, not anymore.

“Three shots of whatever’s strongest, and a glass of wine, please.” The barkeep takes your order and spins away, and you try so very hard to ignore the eyes on the side of your face.

“That bad, eh?” Fuck. You force yourself to meet his gaze, polite smile painted across your features, until you realise exactly who you were planning to tell to mind their own business.

“Ah, you’re—-“ for fuck sake. This is exactly why you avoid Rita’s like the plague, opting instead for some of the grottier bars when you just can’t shake the urge to indulge.

The fucking General of the entire fucking Army is staring at you like he’s trying not to laugh.

If you spot the High Lord, you’re making a break for it. Especially after waking him up in the early hours so recently.

“I’m Cassian.” He doesn’t bother hiding the amusement in his tone.

Your three shots are planted in front of you with a flourish, and you smile at the bartender before sinking them one by one. Normally, you can push any fluster down deep, face impassive and eyes steady— but tonight it’s harder. Because of the wine, because of the company.

The General is still staring, eyebrows high and a curl of mischief at his lips, and you shake away the burn of alcohol hitting your throat.

“Nice to meet you Cassian, I’m having a rough night.” Swiping your freshly poured wine, you raise it with a wink, before making a point of sauntering back to your table like that 10 second conversation didn’t shake you to your fucking core.

He’s definitely sat with Azriel. And he definitely knows something. The interest in his eyes had gone beyond that of a stranger, and now the oh-so-thin pretence that you’re not stuck in a stuffy room with each other is a distant memory, you’re sure of it.

You don’t spare Caed and the arm he’s slung over the back of your booth a glance as you slump heavily into your seat.

———————

Mor POV

“Green-girl is trouble.” Cassian announces the second he’s back, a large glass of something clear plonked unceremoniously in front of the Shadowsinger, who doesn’t waste a moment taking a long drink from it.

“You spoke to her?” Mor leans forward, delicate forearms resting on the table as her eyes flicker between the two Illyrians, Azriel’s face an impassive mask. He’s four drinks in now—- usually a little less stiff, a little more free with his half smiles and quiet laughter. But not tonight.

Eyes catching with Cassian’s, she forms a plan which she just knows he’ll keep step with, watching as his own eyebrow raises in challenge.

“Yeah, she said she’s having a rough night.” That gets a reaction, albeit small. Azriel blinks, eyes sliding to his brother for only a moment, but it’s all they need.

“She’s very pretty, maybe you could cheer her up a bit?”

“Yeah why should Rhys get to have all the fun. I might go ask her to dance—-“

“Well, that’s not gonna improve anyone’s mood,”

“Hey, I’m an excellent dancer.” And with a wink so exaggerated that Mor almost snorts, the male turns to face his brother. “You alright, Az?”

Az is clearly not alright. He’s statue-still, not unusual— but the rapid twitch of the muscle in his jaw is, shadows curling at his shoulders in a way they know means nothing good.

“I’m fine.” He’s a fucking liar, and Mor rolls her eyes before lightly prodding once again.

“Have you told your shadows that?”

Cassian cuts in before whatever colourful answer could escape Az’s mouth, his tone suddenly devoid of its normal playful lilt.

“Actually, I better go over.”

All eyes snap to your table, Rebekah and her partner now some ways away and dancing seductively enough that on a usual night without the boys, Mor would go join them. But you’re still seated, the golden-haired male’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, whispering something so close to your ear that she can see the pointed tips turn red.

Not her problem, or Cassian’s, or Azriel’s. Except your spine is straight and stiff, head angled away and shoulders tense like you’re just waiting for his touch to end.

Azriels seat is empty before she can even catch his eye.

———————

Reader POV

“Have I told you how sexy that dress is?” His warm breath tickles at your ear and neck in a way that’s making your skin crawl, nose wrinkling as you take another swig of wine.

“Yes. Like, three times now.” Why have your two so-called friends abandoned you with this? He’s not a bad guy, you’ve decided—- just a few too many ales and a hapless misunderstanding of the situation.

Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.

“I bet you look even sexier out of it.” Ugh. The man has little appreciation for the art of seduction, apparently, and you don’t try and hide your eye-roll.

“Caed, listen—-“

“Am I interrupting something?”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Azriel’s voice is deep and as sharp as a knifes edge, cutting through whatever drunken haze has clouded Caed’s judgement with astonishing speed. He straightens, although his arm still rests around your shoulders, and blinks up at the intimidating form at your table.

The wine in your blood forces a deeply uncomfortable giggle past your lips.

“No, Sir. Just chatting with my girl, here.”

‘My girl’? Absolutely fucking not. Your nose wrinkles involuntarily, each thought plain on your face even as you try your absolute best to avoid the Shadowsinger’s gaze.

“Huh. Are you ‘his girl’?” And damn if the low gravel of his voice doesn’t hit you straight in your core.

“Oh, get fucked, Azriel.” How fucking dare he? Sure—- you’d been rude and shitty and—and—-

You’re not his. You never were. Hell, at this point, you’re not even friends anymore. You can do whatever you like with whoever you like. Even if Caed isn’t quite who you’d pick.

And next to you, he's busy looking terrified and distancing himself from the person who dare swear at the Spymaster of the Night Court. Not that you’re paying attention.

Azriels eyes are fucking molten, dancing between yours and your lips, wings splayed wide and twitching as shadows curl up your legs almost intimately.

He looks like a dark angel, like this, and you find yourself unable to fight the siren-call of his presence, leaning toward him oh-so-slightly.

“We need to talk.” And then he’s dragging you away from both the booth and the boy in it by your wrist, feet unsteady in heels as you struggle to keep up.

Saoirse catches your eye across the dance floor and offers a wink instead of salvation, and you curse her out internally as you’re pulled out the back exit and into the quiet street.

With the click of the door, the music quiets, plunging you both into near total darkness.

“Are you here just to piss me off?”

——————————

Taglist Baybee:

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 7

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: the one where things go rapidly downhill

TW’s: blood, injury, nightmares, angst, broody inner turmoil, a sharp turn from a great time

A/N: You can pry my italics out of my cold dead hands

~~~~~~~~~~

Reader POV

You awake in panic, hair and clothes sticking to your body as you greedily gulp down air— the night silent except for your fear.

That had been different— not your usual bitter flavour of night terror, but something new. Something awful. The ghost pains of flame licking your skin, of ash in your back still linger, and you swallow down the burn in your chest that threatens to overcome you.

Water. You need water.

The journey downstairs to your kitchenette is short, but lingering terror still clings to your skin— it’s only a few steps, but the dagger you use as comfort finds itself strapped to your thigh anyway.

And you’re so, so glad of that when you hear the bell of your definitely, 100% locked door break the silence.

It’s Azriel. You fucking know it’s Azriel. It’s never been anyone else.

But the footsteps are heavy and shuffled, and your dagger is tight in your grip.

“It’s me,” he calls, voice flat and exhausted and tinged with pain, and you’re rushing to the store front with speed long-since accessed.

“Shit. Shit. What are you doing here?” Your dagger has fallen, resting inches from his knee where he fucking kneels, head bowed and one wing extended—- one wing pierced with ash and shining with fresh blood. Panic begins to crawl up your throat again.

“Thought I’d drop in, say hi.” You could fucking smack him— now is not the time for jokes, but you drop to your knees, hands fluttering but not-quite-touching the wound.

“You know I’m not a fucking healer, right? You need to call Madja. Or the High Lord. He’s like, daemati right? If I yell in my head he’ll hear? Is that how it works?” Words will not stop rushing out, your eyes glued to the thin rivers of blood that aren’t slowing, aren’t clotting or stopping.

Large, scarred palms grab yours and finally still them, drawing your attention back to his face. And he’s fucking smiling.

“I’m fine. I just need the arrow out and then I’ll heal up straight away. Stop, just—- calm down.”

“Calm down?” You hiss with a venom that you hope is entirely unlike you, eyes wide and searching— is he fucking mad?

“I’m fine. I swear it. Just help me get it out and you’ll see.” The level of his voice, the firm grip of his hands seems to work, seems to calm the thumping beneath your ribs. You take one, two, three deep breaths, and offer a shallow nod.

“Okay, tell me what to do.”

———————

Azriel POV

It fucking hurts, but your hands are steady as you cleave the head from the arrow with that same dagger you had charged into the room with. But the pain is bearable here, when he has the excuse of injury to freely watch your face as you work, the way your brow puckers and your tongue peaks out in concentration.

Pretty.

He doesn’t even acknowledge the shadow, so used to this chant they’ve made specially for you.

“I’m gonna pull it now, okay?” The waver in your voice tugs at his heart, and the guilt of placing this on you washes over him once again.

He’s right— he is fine. An injury not worth waking Madja, but too difficult to tend to himself. He had considered waking Cassian or Rhys, but…

If he’s truly honest, the only Fae he wants touching his wings is you.

The gentle brush of your palm across the membrane forces a shudder through him, and your apologetic smile tells him you don’t understand, don’t know the effect of having someone like you touch him there can have.

And then you free the ash. He groans, jaw tightening and eyes shut as you fuss and apologise despite doing everything right.

“Oh mother, are you okay? I’m so sorry— shall I start mind-screaming? Will he hear me?”

Azriel opens his eyes just in time to see you scrunch yours shut, concentration leaking across your features, and he quells the urge to kiss it away.

Why am I getting yelled at by a shopkeeper about you bleeding on her floor at 4am?

Fuck. He didn’t think for a moment you’d actually reach him.

“Stop it,” he hisses quickly, although his eyes dance with quiet laughter. “I’m fine and you just woke up the High Lord.”

Your face pales and eyes open wide, blinking with a sort of abject horror that nearly breaks his composure. “Oh shit.”

Az?

Stay where you are, I’m coming.

No—- Don’t. No need. I’m fine, just ran into an overdramatic, uh, friend. Everything’s fine.

Friend?

He raises his shields up before the prodding curiosity of his brother’s talons can weasel out anything he isn’t feeling ready to give.

“Do you need to go? Or— mother, is he coming here?” Your expression is still stricken, a mix between panic and bewilderment, and Azriel has to stifle a laugh.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” True to his word, the gash in his wing was already scabbing, likely fresh and shiny within a couple of hours.

Your eyes lock with his, and finally, you let out a hysterical laugh, tension bleeding from your stature until you’re almost a rag doll on your bloodstained floor.

And he knows that just for a few moments, Azriel has managed to creep behind that supernaturally unflappable facade— the female who had threatened to kick him out of her shop, who never bat an eyelid at his sudden appearance or affectionate shadows— finally, he can see the cracks of the unshakable front that serves you so well.

Without thought, he gathers your still laughing form and pulls you onto his lap. You squeak and twist, eyes glued to the rapidly shrinking gash on his wings, but settle against him, and hand tangling on his shirt.

“If you ever burst into my shop bleeding and crack a fucking joke again, I’ll give you a matching wound myself.” He believes you, and doesn’t fight the urge to kiss your teasing scowl away.

You do, however— pulling back with narrowed eyes and a gentle swat at his chest. “No funny business, you literally have a hole in you.”

But he’s not listening, not now— he’s caught the scent of something on your skin. Without explanation, he leans forward and presses his nose to the junction of your neck and shoulder, inhaling deep even as you try and wiggle away.

The giddy mood vanishes in an instant.

“What’s happened?” Fear. Bone deep, all consuming fear clings to your skin, hiding beneath the scent of his blood and your more recent worry.

“Did you hit your head? You showed up at my door with a hole in your wing.” Confusion with a hint of defensive colours your expression, and the burning in Azriels chest beats out the pain of his wing.

“Not that. You were scared— that’s why you had that dagger again. What’s going on?” Without conscious direction, every shadow in the building swarms, pooling and seething a hunting for whatever could cause such a reaction from you.

They find nothing but the scent of fear, strongest in your bedroom that still holds the remnant scent of his presence.

“It’s nothing, Az.” You’re still on his lap, but your tone holds that same note of finality it did that first night— a boundary, one that seems to fester and grow in the space between your bodies.

“It’s not ‘nothing’, you were scared,” a creeping feeling of something dark and unpleasant is beginning to settle at his shoulders.

“I— it’s not—- I don’t want to talk about this with you.” Those cracks in your facade have sealed up so quickly, it’s like they were never even there.

“Why? I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I am safe. Just ‘cus we slept together doesn’t mean you get access to every little fucking aspect of my life.” The closeness of your bodies feels wrong after words like that, and you sense it too, scurrying from his lap and rising to your feet. There’s nothing but quiet anger in your expression now, eyes hard and unyielding.

And the thing is, you’re right.

He knows next to nothing about you. And you know even less about him. You may have welcomed him into your home— and your bed— but there has been nothing beyond that.

Your family are an unknown. Your past and beliefs a mystery. All it had taken for him to trust you with his wings had been two cups of tea and a fuck.

He’s a fucking idiot.

Of course this is too good to be true. How could a male like him even dare hope to find the sort of peace you offer— the secrets go both ways, and that slippery feeling of disgust trickles down his spine.

He may not know you, but you don’t know him. And if you did—- if that boundary is ever crossed or shattered, what would you think of him then? Knowing that a the little trickle of blood on his wing isn’t a drop in the Sidra compared to that he’s spilled.

A long, slow breath and he rises, but keeps that careful distance between you.

“You’re right. I need to go, anyway.” Your expression softens just a touch, but you don’t move, don’t try to argue. “Thank you for the help.”

And just like that first night, he’s out the door before your eyes can drag him back in.

~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Taglist, Baybee!

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 7

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: the one where things go rapidly downhill

TW’s: blood, injury, nightmares, angst, broody inner turmoil, a sharp turn from a great time

A/N: You can pry my italics out of my cold dead hands

~~~~~~~~~~

Reader POV

You awake in panic, hair and clothes sticking to your body as you greedily gulp down air— the night silent except for your fear.

That had been different— not your usual bitter flavour of night terror, but something new. Something awful. The ghost pains of flame licking your skin, of ash in your back still linger, and you swallow down the burn in your chest that threatens to overcome you.

Water. You need water.

The journey downstairs to your kitchenette is short, but lingering terror still clings to your skin— it’s only a few steps, but the dagger you use as comfort finds itself strapped to your thigh anyway.

And you’re so, so glad of that when you hear the bell of your definitely, 100% locked door break the silence.

It’s Azriel. You fucking know it’s Azriel. It’s never been anyone else.

But the footsteps are heavy and shuffled, and your dagger is tight in your grip.

“It’s me,” he calls, voice flat and exhausted and tinged with pain, and you’re rushing to the store front with speed long-since accessed.

“Shit. Shit. What are you doing here?” Your dagger has fallen, resting inches from his knee where he fucking kneels, head bowed and one wing extended—- one wing pierced with ash and shining with fresh blood. Panic begins to crawl up your throat again.

“Thought I’d drop in, say hi.” You could fucking smack him— now is not the time for jokes, but you drop to your knees, hands fluttering but not-quite-touching the wound.

“You know I’m not a fucking healer, right? You need to call Madja. Or the High Lord. He’s like, daemati right? If I yell in my head he’ll hear? Is that how it works?” Words will not stop rushing out, your eyes glued to the thin rivers of blood that aren’t slowing, aren’t clotting or stopping.

Large, scarred palms grab yours and finally still them, drawing your attention back to his face. And he’s fucking smiling.

“I’m fine. I just need the arrow out and then I’ll heal up straight away. Stop, just—- calm down.”

“Calm down?” You hiss with a venom that you hope is entirely unlike you, eyes wide and searching— is he fucking mad?

“I’m fine. I swear it. Just help me get it out and you’ll see.” The level of his voice, the firm grip of his hands seems to work, seems to calm the thumping beneath your ribs. You take one, two, three deep breaths, and offer a shallow nod.

“Okay, tell me what to do.”

———————

Azriel POV

It fucking hurts, but your hands are steady as you cleave the head from the arrow with that same dagger you had charged into the room with. But the pain is bearable here, when he has the excuse of injury to freely watch your face as you work, the way your brow puckers and your tongue peaks out in concentration.

Pretty.

He doesn’t even acknowledge the shadow, so used to this chant they’ve made specially for you.

“I’m gonna pull it now, okay?” The waver in your voice tugs at his heart, and the guilt of placing this on you washes over him once again.

He’s right— he is fine. An injury not worth waking Madja, but too difficult to tend to himself. He had considered waking Cassian or Rhys, but…

If he’s truly honest, the only Fae he wants touching his wings is you.

The gentle brush of your palm across the membrane forces a shudder through him, and your apologetic smile tells him you don’t understand, don’t know the effect of having someone like you touch him there can have.

And then you free the ash. He groans, jaw tightening and eyes shut as you fuss and apologise despite doing everything right.

“Oh mother, are you okay? I’m so sorry— shall I start mind-screaming? Will he hear me?”

Azriel opens his eyes just in time to see you scrunch yours shut, concentration leaking across your features, and he quells the urge to kiss it away.

Why am I getting yelled at by a shopkeeper about you bleeding on her floor at 4am?

Fuck. He didn’t think for a moment you’d actually reach him.

“Stop it,” he hisses quickly, although his eyes dance with quiet laughter. “I’m fine and you just woke up the High Lord.”

Your face pales and eyes open wide, blinking with a sort of abject horror that nearly breaks his composure. “Oh shit.”

Az?

Stay where you are, I’m coming.

No—- Don’t. No need. I’m fine, just ran into an overdramatic, uh, friend. Everything’s fine.

Friend?

He raises his shields up before the prodding curiosity of his brother’s talons can weasel out anything he isn’t feeling ready to give.

“Do you need to go? Or— mother, is he coming here?” Your expression is still stricken, a mix between panic and bewilderment, and Azriel has to stifle a laugh.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” True to his word, the gash in his wing was already scabbing, likely fresh and shiny within a couple of hours.

Your eyes lock with his, and finally, you let out a hysterical laugh, tension bleeding from your stature until you’re almost a rag doll on your bloodstained floor.

And he knows that just for a few moments, Azriel has managed to creep behind that supernaturally unflappable facade— the female who had threatened to kick him out of her shop, who never bat an eyelid at his sudden appearance or affectionate shadows— finally, he can see the cracks of the unshakable front that serves you so well.

Without thought, he gathers your still laughing form and pulls you onto his lap. You squeak and twist, eyes glued to the rapidly shrinking gash on his wings, but settle against him, and hand tangling on his shirt.

“If you ever burst into my shop bleeding and crack a fucking joke again, I’ll give you a matching wound myself.” He believes you, and doesn’t fight the urge to kiss your teasing scowl away.

You do, however— pulling back with narrowed eyes and a gentle swat at his chest. “No funny business, you literally have a hole in you.”

But he’s not listening, not now— he’s caught the scent of something on your skin. Without explanation, he leans forward and presses his nose to the junction of your neck and shoulder, inhaling deep even as you try and wiggle away.

The giddy mood vanishes in an instant.

“What’s happened?” Fear. Bone deep, all consuming fear clings to your skin, hiding beneath the scent of his blood and your more recent worry.

“Did you hit your head? You showed up at my door with a hole in your wing.” Confusion with a hint of defensive colours your expression, and the burning in Azriels chest beats out the pain of his wing.

“Not that. You were scared— that’s why you had that dagger again. What’s going on?” Without conscious direction, every shadow in the building swarms, pooling and seething a hunting for whatever could cause such a reaction from you.

They find nothing but the scent of fear, strongest in your bedroom that still holds the remnant scent of his presence.

“It’s nothing, Az.” You’re still on his lap, but your tone holds that same note of finality it did that first night— a boundary, one that seems to fester and grow in the space between your bodies.

“It’s not ‘nothing’, you were scared,” a creeping feeling of something dark and unpleasant is beginning to settle at his shoulders.

“I— it’s not—- I don’t want to talk about this with you.” Those cracks in your facade have sealed up so quickly, it’s like they were never even there.

“Why? I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I am safe. Just ‘cus we slept together doesn’t mean you get access to every little fucking aspect of my life.” The closeness of your bodies feels wrong after words like that, and you sense it too, scurrying from his lap and rising to your feet. There’s nothing but quiet anger in your expression now, eyes hard and unyielding.

And the thing is, you’re right.

He knows next to nothing about you. And you know even less about him. You may have welcomed him into your home— and your bed— but there has been nothing beyond that.

Your family are an unknown. Your past and beliefs a mystery. All it had taken for him to trust you with his wings had been two cups of tea and a fuck.

He’s a fucking idiot.

Of course this is too good to be true. How could a male like him even dare hope to find the sort of peace you offer— the secrets go both ways, and that slippery feeling of disgust trickles down his spine.

He may not know you, but you don’t know him. And if you did—- if that boundary is ever crossed or shattered, what would you think of him then? Knowing that a the little trickle of blood on his wing isn’t a drop in the Sidra compared to that he’s spilled.

A long, slow breath and he rises, but keeps that careful distance between you.

“You’re right. I need to go, anyway.” Your expression softens just a touch, but you don’t move, don’t try to argue. “Thank you for the help.”

And just like that first night, he’s out the door before your eyes can drag him back in.

~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Taglist, Baybee!

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 7

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: the one where things go rapidly downhill

TW’s: blood, injury, nightmares, angst, broody inner turmoil, a sharp turn from a great time

A/N: You can pry my italics out of my cold dead hands

~~~~~~~~~~

Reader POV

You awake in panic, hair and clothes sticking to your body as you greedily gulp down air— the night silent except for your fear.

That had been different— not your usual bitter flavour of night terror, but something new. Something awful. The ghost pains of flame licking your skin, of ash in your back still linger, and you swallow down the burn in your chest that threatens to overcome you.

Water. You need water.

The journey downstairs to your kitchenette is short, but lingering terror still clings to your skin— it’s only a few steps, but the dagger you use as comfort finds itself strapped to your thigh anyway.

And you’re so, so glad of that when you hear the bell of your definitely, 100% locked door break the silence.

It’s Azriel. You fucking know it’s Azriel. It’s never been anyone else.

But the footsteps are heavy and shuffled, and your dagger is tight in your grip.

“It’s me,” he calls, voice flat and exhausted and tinged with pain, and you’re rushing to the store front with speed long-since accessed.

“Shit. Shit. What are you doing here?” Your dagger has fallen, resting inches from his knee where he fucking kneels, head bowed and one wing extended—- one wing pierced with ash and shining with fresh blood. Panic begins to crawl up your throat again.

“Thought I’d drop in, say hi.” You could fucking smack him— now is not the time for jokes, but you drop to your knees, hands fluttering but not-quite-touching the wound.

“You know I’m not a fucking healer, right? You need to call Madja. Or the High Lord. He’s like, daemati right? If I yell in my head he’ll hear? Is that how it works?” Words will not stop rushing out, your eyes glued to the thin rivers of blood that aren’t slowing, aren’t clotting or stopping.

Large, scarred palms grab yours and finally still them, drawing your attention back to his face. And he’s fucking smiling.

“I’m fine. I just need the arrow out and then I’ll heal up straight away. Stop, just—- calm down.”

“Calm down?” You hiss with a venom that you hope is entirely unlike you, eyes wide and searching— is he fucking mad?

“I’m fine. I swear it. Just help me get it out and you’ll see.” The level of his voice, the firm grip of his hands seems to work, seems to calm the thumping beneath your ribs. You take one, two, three deep breaths, and offer a shallow nod.

“Okay, tell me what to do.”

———————

Azriel POV

It fucking hurts, but your hands are steady as you cleave the head from the arrow with that same dagger you had charged into the room with. But the pain is bearable here, when he has the excuse of injury to freely watch your face as you work, the way your brow puckers and your tongue peaks out in concentration.

Pretty.

He doesn’t even acknowledge the shadow, so used to this chant they’ve made specially for you.

“I’m gonna pull it now, okay?” The waver in your voice tugs at his heart, and the guilt of placing this on you washes over him once again.

He’s right— he is fine. An injury not worth waking Madja, but too difficult to tend to himself. He had considered waking Cassian or Rhys, but…

If he’s truly honest, the only Fae he wants touching his wings is you.

The gentle brush of your palm across the membrane forces a shudder through him, and your apologetic smile tells him you don’t understand, don’t know the effect of having someone like you touch him there can have.

And then you free the ash. He groans, jaw tightening and eyes shut as you fuss and apologise despite doing everything right.

“Oh mother, are you okay? I’m so sorry— shall I start mind-screaming? Will he hear me?”

Azriel opens his eyes just in time to see you scrunch yours shut, concentration leaking across your features, and he quells the urge to kiss it away.

Why am I getting yelled at by a shopkeeper about you bleeding on her floor at 4am?

Fuck. He didn’t think for a moment you’d actually reach him.

“Stop it,” he hisses quickly, although his eyes dance with quiet laughter. “I’m fine and you just woke up the High Lord.”

Your face pales and eyes open wide, blinking with a sort of abject horror that nearly breaks his composure. “Oh shit.”

Az?

Stay where you are, I’m coming.

No—- Don’t. No need. I’m fine, just ran into an overdramatic, uh, friend. Everything’s fine.

Friend?

He raises his shields up before the prodding curiosity of his brother’s talons can weasel out anything he isn’t feeling ready to give.

“Do you need to go? Or— mother, is he coming here?” Your expression is still stricken, a mix between panic and bewilderment, and Azriel has to stifle a laugh.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” True to his word, the gash in his wing was already scabbing, likely fresh and shiny within a couple of hours.

Your eyes lock with his, and finally, you let out a hysterical laugh, tension bleeding from your stature until you’re almost a rag doll on your bloodstained floor.

And he knows that just for a few moments, Azriel has managed to creep behind that supernaturally unflappable facade— the female who had threatened to kick him out of her shop, who never bat an eyelid at his sudden appearance or affectionate shadows— finally, he can see the cracks of the unshakable front that serves you so well.

Without thought, he gathers your still laughing form and pulls you onto his lap. You squeak and twist, eyes glued to the rapidly shrinking gash on his wings, but settle against him, and hand tangling on his shirt.

“If you ever burst into my shop bleeding and crack a fucking joke again, I’ll give you a matching wound myself.” He believes you, and doesn’t fight the urge to kiss your teasing scowl away.

You do, however— pulling back with narrowed eyes and a gentle swat at his chest. “No funny business, you literally have a hole in you.”

But he’s not listening, not now— he’s caught the scent of something on your skin. Without explanation, he leans forward and presses his nose to the junction of your neck and shoulder, inhaling deep even as you try and wiggle away.

The giddy mood vanishes in an instant.

“What’s happened?” Fear. Bone deep, all consuming fear clings to your skin, hiding beneath the scent of his blood and your more recent worry.

“Did you hit your head? You showed up at my door with a hole in your wing.” Confusion with a hint of defensive colours your expression, and the burning in Azriels chest beats out the pain of his wing.

“Not that. You were scared— that’s why you had that dagger again. What’s going on?” Without conscious direction, every shadow in the building swarms, pooling and seething a hunting for whatever could cause such a reaction from you.

They find nothing but the scent of fear, strongest in your bedroom that still holds the remnant scent of his presence.

“It’s nothing, Az.” You’re still on his lap, but your tone holds that same note of finality it did that first night— a boundary, one that seems to fester and grow in the space between your bodies.

“It’s not ‘nothing’, you were scared,” a creeping feeling of something dark and unpleasant is beginning to settle at his shoulders.

“I— it’s not—- I don’t want to talk about this with you.” Those cracks in your facade have sealed up so quickly, it’s like they were never even there.

“Why? I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I am safe. Just ‘cus we slept together doesn’t mean you get access to every little fucking aspect of my life.” The closeness of your bodies feels wrong after words like that, and you sense it too, scurrying from his lap and rising to your feet. There’s nothing but quiet anger in your expression now, eyes hard and unyielding.

And the thing is, you’re right.

He knows next to nothing about you. And you know even less about him. You may have welcomed him into your home— and your bed— but there has been nothing beyond that.

Your family are an unknown. Your past and beliefs a mystery. All it had taken for him to trust you with his wings had been two cups of tea and a fuck.

He’s a fucking idiot.

Of course this is too good to be true. How could a male like him even dare hope to find the sort of peace you offer— the secrets go both ways, and that slippery feeling of disgust trickles down his spine.

He may not know you, but you don’t know him. And if you did—- if that boundary is ever crossed or shattered, what would you think of him then? Knowing that a the little trickle of blood on his wing isn’t a drop in the Sidra compared to that he’s spilled.

A long, slow breath and he rises, but keeps that careful distance between you.

“You’re right. I need to go, anyway.” Your expression softens just a touch, but you don’t move, don’t try to argue. “Thank you for the help.”

And just like that first night, he’s out the door before your eyes can drag him back in.

~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Taglist, Baybee!

@lreadsstuff | @rcarbo1 | @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 7.5

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: an azriel-less interlude

TW’s: Amren

A/N: hilariously this is the idea that kinda spawned this whole fic. It’s tiny, and Az isn’t in it, but normal programming will return shortly.

Reader POV

The bell jingles, and the feeling of Old Power reaches you before her scent does.

“Amren, nice to see you.” It’s been a slow day and although the weariness in your bones is grateful, your purse isn’t, so the tiny female is met with a smile so welcoming that she snorts.

“Nice to see my money, you mean.” There’s no real bite to it— as a longtime and frequent customer, Amren has become somewhat of a companion over the centuries. A strange, otherworldly, tiny-bit-mean companion, but one nonetheless.

“I can appreciate both.” You place a cracked gem you’d been fiddling with on the counter, before wiping your palms on the little cloth to the side. “I’ve missed you, it’s been a little while.”

You know not to push. Court secrets and all, but given your newest friend, acknowledging it doesn’t seem too over the line. You definitely miss him.

“I’ve been busy. Which—“ she stops, hand plunging into her bag and rooting around as though looking for loose change “— is why I’m bringing you this.”

A massive fucking ruby. Not any ruby, a blood ruby. The sort you’ve heard of in legend but seldom seen, twinkling in Amren’s relaxed palm as though she’s showing you an interesting bug.

“Can you have a look at it? For imperfections?”

“Cauldron’s tits, Amren.” You hiss, eyes wide. “How the fuck did you get that? Actually, no— don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

And you really don’t— what on the Mother’s green earth do they get up to in that Court?

The aforementioned court’s Second simply laughs, stepping forward to drop the weighty stone on your desk, before stilling. Her nostrils flair, eyebrows furrow, and those hellfire eyes lock on yours.

“You stink of Azriel, girl.”

You choke on your spit, coughing once in surprise, praying for the sudden heat in your cheeks to go away.

“I don’t stink,” it’s muttered lamely, and Amren’s expression changes to the closest thing to delight you’ve ever seen her wear.

“You do. You’re fucking the Spymaster.” You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose, legendary ruby almost forgotten on your countertop.

“Well— yeah, I mean I guess— why— is that—? Actually.” With a steadying breath, you put on your absolute best I-mean-business face, and meet the short fucking demon’s eyes. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

This seems to only grow her delight, an almost smile threatening to break free.

“Of course it’s not. I just wanted to see if your face would match my ruby.”

She simply shrugs off the curse you throw her way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Taglist! Since I’ve been slack and didn’t realise some people had requested to be tagged (also hope I’m doing this right lol)

@lreadsstuff ~ @rcarbo1 ~ @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 8

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: a failed date and the promise of a comfy sofa.

TW’s: Smut, nighttime stranger danger, a difficult to understand dress

A/N: Stop reading after * if you’re not about that smut life, I promise nothing important happens except the smut itself. Also turns out I struggle to write it but here we are! Enjoy

Azriel POV

This time, he makes no excuses as he meanders toward your store. It’s not quite as late as usual— usual? It’s evidently habit-forming, being around you— yet this part of the city still holds a stillness that settles his bones.

He knows if he ventured further south the lanes would be abuzz with bustling cafes and tipsy revellers, but it isn’t just any company he’s after tonight. No, it’s your heady mix of brash yet authentic, soothing but energising that he’s finding himself craving.

Here. Here. Wait.

The whisper at his ear makes Azriel pause and step into the shadows, eyebrows furrowing as he scans the star-lit alley for what exactly is ‘here’. It’s not too long before his sensitive fae hearing offers an answer.

Footsteps. Yours, he’s sure, but off. Brisk and clipped and—- are you wearing heels?

You are. The click-clack rings stark against the stone, eating up the distance between you both rapidly— and then nothing.

There’s just a beat where Azriel holds his breath, instinctive stealth taking over, before your voice rings out in low warning.

“Who’s there?”

You’re just around the corner, and with a deep breath that helps him remember this is Velaris, this is you, he steps back into the light with a soft smile.

You’re decidedly not smiling, a fucking dagger in hand and eyes sharp and narrow- for a moment at least. As soon as the cogs click into place, a weary smile of recognition takes over, weapon sheathed with practised smoothness in the band at your thigh.

Your thigh that is largely exposed. Because you’re in a dress. A short, fitting dress of rich navy that makes your skin seem to glow and your curves sing and Azriel’s entire body tense.

What’s going on? The dagger— the dress? He doesn’t know what to say or where to look, blinking lamely at you in the dark.

“Oh, it’s you. You shouldn’t sneak up on women in the night you know.” It’s followed with a barked laugh and rouge-painted grin, and he wonders if you’re doing this to him on purpose.

He swallows, internally begging his body to behave. “Where have you been?” It’s none of his business, really, but he just has to know.

With an incline of your head to follow, you begin to walk on toward your storefront, arm brushing against his own.

“I had a date,” Azriel’s wings flare and settle, “but it was a total dud. Nice enough guy but— eh, you know?” A quick shrug of your shoulders and suddenly he feels much better, momentary flicker of something drifting away on the wind.

“No second date then?” His brow furrows, he meant to ask about the dagger— not that, and you shoot him a grin as you round on the door of your store.

“Well, depends how much longer this dry spell lasts.” With a click of your keys, the door swings open and you step inside, thankfully missing the way the shadowsingers eyes round and lips part.

At this point, he’s sure you’re torturing him for fun.

You’re slipping off the delicate heels before you’ve even fully crossed the threshold, groaning with relief, and the sound crawls its way down Azriel’s spine in the most delicious way.

Fuck. Fuck. Get it together.

“C’mon Shadow Man, I’m finally taking you upstairs tonight.”

What.

The quirk of your brow seems entirely innocent, but there’s no way you can say things like that while dressed like that and smelling like—-

“Unless you want to sit on the stool again instead of a comfy sofa? I don’t bite y’know.”

He swallows down telling you that he wouldn’t mind if you did.

Finally, the realisation of what you’re actually offering breaks through the fog, and he nods just in time to avoid looking completely ridiculous, moving to follow you behind the counter and up a narrow set of stairs.

This feels like something. Being corralled into hot tea and good conversation is one thing in the shop— but here? In your actual home? Some invisible line is being crossed, and with the way his heart is racing, it seems as though he’s almost enjoying the prospect.

———————

Reader POV

After spending the last few dragging hours with a male so perfectly perfect, Azriel’s presence feels like a strong glass of your favourite wine.

Caed was lovely. Smart and bubbly and so sweet it made your teeth hurt with every compliment, every smile. A perfect male for a perfect female— someone with no rough edges. Someone who sleeps well when the sun hides behind the mountains. Someone… not you.

So, a new friend. Maybe. Or perhaps not, given the heat behind his eyes or the gentle brush of his fingers over your thigh— things that would normally stir you, but not tonight. Instead, you find yourself once again enchanted by a quiet Illyrian who’s wings are dangerously close to knocking over every trinket in your tiny apartment.

“It’s not much but it’s definitely comfier than than downstairs.” You’re not the type to be embarrassed by the amass of cushions and trinkets and keepsakes, but for reasons unknown, the quiet contemplation in Azriel’s eyes makes you feel the need to justify it, to seek his approval.

“It’s lovely.” He sounds genuine, and so you offer him a soft smile.

“Make yourself at home, I’m gonna get changed.” The dress is lovely— something saved for special occasions and nights where you need a boost, but it’s not for tea on your plush sofa, and the tightness is starting to wear on you.

Without waiting for him to comply, you pad into your dim bedroom, pushing the door to with your elbow and sighing with relief as you unclasp the leather band from your thigh. You would think by now that the band would have softened with time and use— but no, light red marks wrap your skin same as they do every night, and you scratch at them absentmindedly.

What are you doing?

Why is the Shadowsinger sat in your living room? And why will your heart not stop racing?

From the moment you’d seen him in the street, a part of you had relaxed and another awoken, fizzing down your spine with a heat so inappropriate for someone who clearly just needs a friend.

Your dusky sidekick— who hasn’t left your side for a single moment since left here again last week— tickles across your shoulder and settles at the shell of your ear.

Pretty.

You offer a chuff through your nose and an affectionate smile, before moving to unclasp the catch at the nape of your neck.

It’s done that since last time— since it’s master had given permission to speak, the little menace has evidently decided said permission was blanket, and never seems to waste an opportunity to whisper that same word directly into your mind.

Pretty. Clearly the strange workings of whatever kind of consciousness shadow can conjure—- there’s no way it’s reflecting Azriel’s thoughts. He’s the fucking Spymaster, for Mother’s sake, and you’re just some——

Pretty.

It’s said with enough oomph that you’re snatched from your train of thought inelegantly, laughing quietly into the dark.

“You okay in there?” His voice is low and rough through the wood, tugging at something deep in your stomach, and you take a long, steadying breath as you continue to struggle with your clasp.

“Yeah— the baby shadow is just flirting with me, I think.” There’s a beat of silence, and then his own voice is laced with a smile.

“It’s not a baby, it’s just small.”

“Oh, that’s much more normal. The small shadow is flirting with me, then.”

You hear a long-suffering sigh. “As long as you’re okay.”

And it’s at that point you realise your arms are aching, fingers still fiddling with metal clasps which just won’t budge. You could just rip it— you’d be forced to if you were alone, but it’s such a pretty dress, and maybe if you just asked, and he helped and stood real close—

“Actually, I could use a hand,” it’s out of your mouth before you’ve even thought it through, pink staining your cheeks in an instant.

What are you doing!?

The silence that follows almost ends you, heat crawling up your neck and turning your stomach.

You fucking idiot—-

“Sure, shall I come in?” Mother, his voice. Is it always that low? That rough?

You nod lamely, before remembering to use your words. “Uh, yeah. My dress is caught and I can’t get it to unclasp.”

He’s inside and stood so very close behind you before you’ve even finished your sentence.

The air seems thick, buzzing with what must be your imagination, but his soft breaths near the back of your neck make every hair stand to attention. Your skin is practically screaming for his touch, heart thumping so loudly you’re certain he’d hear even if he was mortal. With a swallow, you will your voice to come out even.

“It’s just the clasp at the top, it’s stu—“ the ghost kiss of his fingers at your skin renders you silent, eyes drifting shut in the dark.

Nothing but the sound of your gentle breaths fill the air as his calloused fingers smooth your hair across your shoulder, baring the curve of your spine— and that damn clasp—- to his hazel eyes.

You’re statue still as he works, deft fingers fixing the catch in a second, the band at your throat falling lax against your skin.

Two fingertips dance over sensitive flesh, tracing each vertebrae with such tenderness that your breath catches, turning to face him in the dark.

He’s so close your chest brushes against him, and you meet his gaze through your lashes, his pupils blown and expression almost dangerous.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Its whispered and gravelled and dances straight to your core, making your arms lift to loop at his neck.

“No,” it’s whispered. “Why don’t you show me.”

He’s on you in an instant.

*

The kiss isn’t timid, it’s hungry— large palms roving across your body and tangling in your hair until all you can feel, all you can think is him.

Your entire world shrinks to the smell of cedar and the feel of muscle beneath your fingers, each kiss stealing your breath and tightening your core.

He walks you backwards until the bed hits the bend of your knees and you fall, his massive body following to hover over you, a knee rising to knock yours apart as he settles between them like he was made to be there.

A hand slides down, down, down, smoothing across your stomach and hips and thighs until settling at your apex, and you moan, already soaking wet through your underwear.

“Fuck,” it’s a broken groan into the kiss, his deft fingers rubbing over cloth and making you keen beneath him.

But you’re impatient, hips rolling as your own hands seek the ties of his trousers, desperately pulling them away and down before palming at—- stars above.

He’s huge, and thick and hot and so hard, and you feel him shiver against you the moment you take him in your hand. A few deep, slow strokes and his lips move to your neck, the fingers at your underwear finally pushing it aside and pushing into you, curling to hit just that spot, and you’re sure you’re going to die.

“A-Azriel,” it’s panted out, and he licks a stripe up your throat as his hips roll into your hand.

“Mm,”

“I need you.”

His movements slow, tenderly pulling your underwear down and away, and then he straightens, hazel gaze burning across your skin.

Your dress is bunched around your middle, hair tangled, lipstick smudged—- but the hunger in his eyes only seems to grow as he looks at you.

“Are you sure?” It’s gravelled honey, and you reach up to grab at his shirt, needing him close again.

“Yes.”

And when he finally pushes into you, you’re both done for.

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 7.5

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: an azriel-less interlude

TW’s: Amren

A/N: hilariously this is the idea that kinda spawned this whole fic. It’s tiny, and Az isn’t in it, but normal programming will return shortly.

Reader POV

The bell jingles, and the feeling of Old Power reaches you before her scent does.

“Amren, nice to see you.” It’s been a slow day and although the weariness in your bones is grateful, your purse isn’t, so the tiny female is met with a smile so welcoming that she snorts.

“Nice to see my money, you mean.” There’s no real bite to it— as a longtime and frequent customer, Amren has become somewhat of a companion over the centuries. A strange, otherworldly, tiny-bit-mean companion, but one nonetheless.

“I can appreciate both.” You place a cracked gem you’d been fiddling with on the counter, before wiping your palms on the little cloth to the side. “I’ve missed you, it’s been a little while.”

You know not to push. Court secrets and all, but given your newest friend, acknowledging it doesn’t seem too over the line. You definitely miss him.

“I’ve been busy. Which—“ she stops, hand plunging into her bag and rooting around as though looking for loose change “— is why I’m bringing you this.”

A massive fucking ruby. Not any ruby, a blood ruby. The sort you’ve heard of in legend but seldom seen, twinkling in Amren’s relaxed palm as though she’s showing you an interesting bug.

“Can you have a look at it? For imperfections?”

“Cauldron’s tits, Amren.” You hiss, eyes wide. “How the fuck did you get that? Actually, no— don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

And you really don’t— what on the Mother’s green earth do they get up to in that Court?

The aforementioned court’s Second simply laughs, stepping forward to drop the weighty stone on your desk, before stilling. Her nostrils flair, eyebrows furrow, and those hellfire eyes lock on yours.

“You stink of Azriel, girl.”

You choke on your spit, coughing once in surprise, praying for the sudden heat in your cheeks to go away.

“I don’t stink,” it’s muttered lamely, and Amren’s expression changes to the closest thing to delight you’ve ever seen her wear.

“You do. You’re fucking the Spymaster.” You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose, legendary ruby almost forgotten on your countertop.

“Well— yeah, I mean I guess— why— is that—? Actually.” With a steadying breath, you put on your absolute best I-mean-business face, and meet the short fucking demon’s eyes. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

This seems to only grow her delight, an almost smile threatening to break free.

“Of course it’s not. I just wanted to see if your face would match my ruby.”

She simply shrugs off the curse you throw her way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Taglist! Since I’ve been slack and didn’t realise some people had requested to be tagged (also hope I’m doing this right lol)

@lreadsstuff ~ @rcarbo1 ~ @zanaorian

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 8

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: a failed date and the promise of a comfy sofa.

TW’s: Smut, nighttime stranger danger, a difficult to understand dress

A/N: Stop reading after * if you’re not about that smut life, I promise nothing important happens except the smut itself. Also turns out I struggle to write it but here we are! Enjoy

Azriel POV

This time, he makes no excuses as he meanders toward your store. It’s not quite as late as usual— usual? It’s evidently habit-forming, being around you— yet this part of the city still holds a stillness that settles his bones.

He knows if he ventured further south the lanes would be abuzz with bustling cafes and tipsy revellers, but it isn’t just any company he’s after tonight. No, it’s your heady mix of brash yet authentic, soothing but energising that he’s finding himself craving.

Here. Here. Wait.

The whisper at his ear makes Azriel pause and step into the shadows, eyebrows furrowing as he scans the star-lit alley for what exactly is ‘here’. It’s not too long before his sensitive fae hearing offers an answer.

Footsteps. Yours, he’s sure, but off. Brisk and clipped and—- are you wearing heels?

You are. The click-clack rings stark against the stone, eating up the distance between you both rapidly— and then nothing.

There’s just a beat where Azriel holds his breath, instinctive stealth taking over, before your voice rings out in low warning.

“Who’s there?”

You’re just around the corner, and with a deep breath that helps him remember this is Velaris, this is you, he steps back into the light with a soft smile.

You’re decidedly not smiling, a fucking dagger in hand and eyes sharp and narrow- for a moment at least. As soon as the cogs click into place, a weary smile of recognition takes over, weapon sheathed with practised smoothness in the band at your thigh.

Your thigh that is largely exposed. Because you’re in a dress. A short, fitting dress of rich navy that makes your skin seem to glow and your curves sing and Azriel’s entire body tense.

What’s going on? The dagger— the dress? He doesn’t know what to say or where to look, blinking lamely at you in the dark.

“Oh, it’s you. You shouldn’t sneak up on women in the night you know.” It’s followed with a barked laugh and rouge-painted grin, and he wonders if you’re doing this to him on purpose.

He swallows, internally begging his body to behave. “Where have you been?” It’s none of his business, really, but he just has to know.

With an incline of your head to follow, you begin to walk on toward your storefront, arm brushing against his own.

“I had a date,” Azriel’s wings flare and settle, “but it was a total dud. Nice enough guy but— eh, you know?” A quick shrug of your shoulders and suddenly he feels much better, momentary flicker of something drifting away on the wind.

“No second date then?” His brow furrows, he meant to ask about the dagger— not that, and you shoot him a grin as you round on the door of your store.

“Well, depends how much longer this dry spell lasts.” With a click of your keys, the door swings open and you step inside, thankfully missing the way the shadowsingers eyes round and lips part.

At this point, he’s sure you’re torturing him for fun.

You’re slipping off the delicate heels before you’ve even fully crossed the threshold, groaning with relief, and the sound crawls its way down Azriel’s spine in the most delicious way.

Fuck. Fuck. Get it together.

“C’mon Shadow Man, I’m finally taking you upstairs tonight.”

What.

The quirk of your brow seems entirely innocent, but there’s no way you can say things like that while dressed like that and smelling like—-

“Unless you want to sit on the stool again instead of a comfy sofa? I don’t bite y’know.”

He swallows down telling you that he wouldn’t mind if you did.

Finally, the realisation of what you’re actually offering breaks through the fog, and he nods just in time to avoid looking completely ridiculous, moving to follow you behind the counter and up a narrow set of stairs.

This feels like something. Being corralled into hot tea and good conversation is one thing in the shop— but here? In your actual home? Some invisible line is being crossed, and with the way his heart is racing, it seems as though he’s almost enjoying the prospect.

———————

Reader POV

After spending the last few dragging hours with a male so perfectly perfect, Azriel’s presence feels like a strong glass of your favourite wine.

Caed was lovely. Smart and bubbly and so sweet it made your teeth hurt with every compliment, every smile. A perfect male for a perfect female— someone with no rough edges. Someone who sleeps well when the sun hides behind the mountains. Someone… not you.

So, a new friend. Maybe. Or perhaps not, given the heat behind his eyes or the gentle brush of his fingers over your thigh— things that would normally stir you, but not tonight. Instead, you find yourself once again enchanted by a quiet Illyrian who’s wings are dangerously close to knocking over every trinket in your tiny apartment.

“It’s not much but it’s definitely comfier than than downstairs.” You’re not the type to be embarrassed by the amass of cushions and trinkets and keepsakes, but for reasons unknown, the quiet contemplation in Azriel’s eyes makes you feel the need to justify it, to seek his approval.

“It’s lovely.” He sounds genuine, and so you offer him a soft smile.

“Make yourself at home, I’m gonna get changed.” The dress is lovely— something saved for special occasions and nights where you need a boost, but it’s not for tea on your plush sofa, and the tightness is starting to wear on you.

Without waiting for him to comply, you pad into your dim bedroom, pushing the door to with your elbow and sighing with relief as you unclasp the leather band from your thigh. You would think by now that the band would have softened with time and use— but no, light red marks wrap your skin same as they do every night, and you scratch at them absentmindedly.

What are you doing?

Why is the Shadowsinger sat in your living room? And why will your heart not stop racing?

From the moment you’d seen him in the street, a part of you had relaxed and another awoken, fizzing down your spine with a heat so inappropriate for someone who clearly just needs a friend.

Your dusky sidekick— who hasn’t left your side for a single moment since left here again last week— tickles across your shoulder and settles at the shell of your ear.

Pretty.

You offer a chuff through your nose and an affectionate smile, before moving to unclasp the catch at the nape of your neck.

It’s done that since last time— since it’s master had given permission to speak, the little menace has evidently decided said permission was blanket, and never seems to waste an opportunity to whisper that same word directly into your mind.

Pretty. Clearly the strange workings of whatever kind of consciousness shadow can conjure—- there’s no way it’s reflecting Azriel’s thoughts. He’s the fucking Spymaster, for Mother’s sake, and you’re just some——

Pretty.

It’s said with enough oomph that you’re snatched from your train of thought inelegantly, laughing quietly into the dark.

“You okay in there?” His voice is low and rough through the wood, tugging at something deep in your stomach, and you take a long, steadying breath as you continue to struggle with your clasp.

“Yeah— the baby shadow is just flirting with me, I think.” There’s a beat of silence, and then his own voice is laced with a smile.

“It’s not a baby, it’s just small.”

“Oh, that’s much more normal. The small shadow is flirting with me, then.”

You hear a long-suffering sigh. “As long as you’re okay.”

And it’s at that point you realise your arms are aching, fingers still fiddling with metal clasps which just won’t budge. You could just rip it— you’d be forced to if you were alone, but it’s such a pretty dress, and maybe if you just asked, and he helped and stood real close—

“Actually, I could use a hand,” it’s out of your mouth before you’ve even thought it through, pink staining your cheeks in an instant.

What are you doing!?

The silence that follows almost ends you, heat crawling up your neck and turning your stomach.

You fucking idiot—-

“Sure, shall I come in?” Mother, his voice. Is it always that low? That rough?

You nod lamely, before remembering to use your words. “Uh, yeah. My dress is caught and I can’t get it to unclasp.”

He’s inside and stood so very close behind you before you’ve even finished your sentence.

The air seems thick, buzzing with what must be your imagination, but his soft breaths near the back of your neck make every hair stand to attention. Your skin is practically screaming for his touch, heart thumping so loudly you’re certain he’d hear even if he was mortal. With a swallow, you will your voice to come out even.

“It’s just the clasp at the top, it’s stu—“ the ghost kiss of his fingers at your skin renders you silent, eyes drifting shut in the dark.

Nothing but the sound of your gentle breaths fill the air as his calloused fingers smooth your hair across your shoulder, baring the curve of your spine— and that damn clasp—- to his hazel eyes.

You’re statue still as he works, deft fingers fixing the catch in a second, the band at your throat falling lax against your skin.

Two fingertips dance over sensitive flesh, tracing each vertebrae with such tenderness that your breath catches, turning to face him in the dark.

He’s so close your chest brushes against him, and you meet his gaze through your lashes, his pupils blown and expression almost dangerous.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Its whispered and gravelled and dances straight to your core, making your arms lift to loop at his neck.

“No,” it’s whispered. “Why don’t you show me.”

He’s on you in an instant.

*

The kiss isn’t timid, it’s hungry— large palms roving across your body and tangling in your hair until all you can feel, all you can think is him.

Your entire world shrinks to the smell of cedar and the feel of muscle beneath your fingers, each kiss stealing your breath and tightening your core.

He walks you backwards until the bed hits the bend of your knees and you fall, his massive body following to hover over you, a knee rising to knock yours apart as he settles between them like he was made to be there.

A hand slides down, down, down, smoothing across your stomach and hips and thighs until settling at your apex, and you moan, already soaking wet through your underwear.

“Fuck,” it’s a broken groan into the kiss, his deft fingers rubbing over cloth and making you keen beneath him.

But you’re impatient, hips rolling as your own hands seek the ties of his trousers, desperately pulling them away and down before palming at—- stars above.

He’s huge, and thick and hot and so hard, and you feel him shiver against you the moment you take him in your hand. A few deep, slow strokes and his lips move to your neck, the fingers at your underwear finally pushing it aside and pushing into you, curling to hit just that spot, and you’re sure you’re going to die.

“A-Azriel,” it’s panted out, and he licks a stripe up your throat as his hips roll into your hand.

“Mm,”

“I need you.”

His movements slow, tenderly pulling your underwear down and away, and then he straightens, hazel gaze burning across your skin.

Your dress is bunched around your middle, hair tangled, lipstick smudged—- but the hunger in his eyes only seems to grow as he looks at you.

“Are you sure?” It’s gravelled honey, and you reach up to grab at his shirt, needing him close again.

“Yes.”

And when he finally pushes into you, you’re both done for.

[gotta-spew-words-somewhere]

Countdown: 8

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: a failed date and the promise of a comfy sofa.

TW’s: Smut, nighttime stranger danger, a difficult to understand dress

A/N: Stop reading after * if you’re not about that smut life, I promise nothing important happens except the smut itself. Also turns out I struggle to write it but here we are! Enjoy

Azriel POV

This time, he makes no excuses as he meanders toward your store. It’s not quite as late as usual— usual? It’s evidently habit-forming, being around you— yet this part of the city still holds a stillness that settles his bones.

He knows if he ventured further south the lanes would be abuzz with bustling cafes and tipsy revellers, but it isn’t just any company he’s after tonight. No, it’s your heady mix of brash yet authentic, soothing but energising that he’s finding himself craving.

Here. Here. Wait.

The whisper at his ear makes Azriel pause and step into the shadows, eyebrows furrowing as he scans the star-lit alley for what exactly is ‘here’. It’s not too long before his sensitive fae hearing offers an answer.

Footsteps. Yours, he’s sure, but off. Brisk and clipped and—- are you wearing heels?

You are. The click-clack rings stark against the stone, eating up the distance between you both rapidly— and then nothing.

There’s just a beat where Azriel holds his breath, instinctive stealth taking over, before your voice rings out in low warning.

“Who’s there?”

You’re just around the corner, and with a deep breath that helps him remember this is Velaris, this is you, he steps back into the light with a soft smile.

You’re decidedly not smiling, a fucking dagger in hand and eyes sharp and narrow- for a moment at least. As soon as the cogs click into place, a weary smile of recognition takes over, weapon sheathed with practised smoothness in the band at your thigh.

Your thigh that is largely exposed. Because you’re in a dress. A short, fitting dress of rich navy that makes your skin seem to glow and your curves sing and Azriel’s entire body tense.

What’s going on? The dagger— the dress? He doesn’t know what to say or where to look, blinking lamely at you in the dark.

“Oh, it’s you. You shouldn’t sneak up on women in the night you know.” It’s followed with a barked laugh and rouge-painted grin, and he wonders if you’re doing this to him on purpose.

He swallows, internally begging his body to behave. “Where have you been?” It’s none of his business, really, but he just has to know.

With an incline of your head to follow, you begin to walk on toward your storefront, arm brushing against his own.

“I had a date,” Azriel’s wings flare and settle, “but it was a total dud. Nice enough guy but— eh, you know?” A quick shrug of your shoulders and suddenly he feels much better, momentary flicker of something drifting away on the wind.

“No second date then?” His brow furrows, he meant to ask about the dagger— not that, and you shoot him a grin as you round on the door of your store.

“Well, depends how much longer this dry spell lasts.” With a click of your keys, the door swings open and you step inside, thankfully missing the way the shadowsingers eyes round and lips part.

At this point, he’s sure you’re torturing him for fun.

You’re slipping off the delicate heels before you’ve even fully crossed the threshold, groaning with relief, and the sound crawls its way down Azriel’s spine in the most delicious way.

Fuck. Fuck. Get it together.

“C’mon Shadow Man, I’m finally taking you upstairs tonight.”

What.

The quirk of your brow seems entirely innocent, but there’s no way you can say things like that while dressed like that and smelling like—-

“Unless you want to sit on the stool again instead of a comfy sofa? I don’t bite y’know.”

He swallows down telling you that he wouldn’t mind if you did.

Finally, the realisation of what you’re actually offering breaks through the fog, and he nods just in time to avoid looking completely ridiculous, moving to follow you behind the counter and up a narrow set of stairs.

This feels like something. Being corralled into hot tea and good conversation is one thing in the shop— but here? In your actual home? Some invisible line is being crossed, and with the way his heart is racing, it seems as though he’s almost enjoying the prospect.

———————

Reader POV

After spending the last few dragging hours with a male so perfectly perfect, Azriel’s presence feels like a strong glass of your favourite wine.

Caed was lovely. Smart and bubbly and so sweet it made your teeth hurt with every compliment, every smile. A perfect male for a perfect female— someone with no rough edges. Someone who sleeps well when the sun hides behind the mountains. Someone… not you.

So, a new friend. Maybe. Or perhaps not, given the heat behind his eyes or the gentle brush of his fingers over your thigh— things that would normally stir you, but not tonight. Instead, you find yourself once again enchanted by a quiet Illyrian who’s wings are dangerously close to knocking over every trinket in your tiny apartment.

“It’s not much but it’s definitely comfier than than downstairs.” You’re not the type to be embarrassed by the amass of cushions and trinkets and keepsakes, but for reasons unknown, the quiet contemplation in Azriel’s eyes makes you feel the need to justify it, to seek his approval.

“It’s lovely.” He sounds genuine, and so you offer him a soft smile.

“Make yourself at home, I’m gonna get changed.” The dress is lovely— something saved for special occasions and nights where you need a boost, but it’s not for tea on your plush sofa, and the tightness is starting to wear on you.

Without waiting for him to comply, you pad into your dim bedroom, pushing the door to with your elbow and sighing with relief as you unclasp the leather band from your thigh. You would think by now that the band would have softened with time and use— but no, light red marks wrap your skin same as they do every night, and you scratch at them absentmindedly.

What are you doing?

Why is the Shadowsinger sat in your living room? And why will your heart not stop racing?

From the moment you’d seen him in the street, a part of you had relaxed and another awoken, fizzing down your spine with a heat so inappropriate for someone who clearly just needs a friend.

Your dusky sidekick— who hasn’t left your side for a single moment since left here again last week— tickles across your shoulder and settles at the shell of your ear.

Pretty.

You offer a chuff through your nose and an affectionate smile, before moving to unclasp the catch at the nape of your neck.

It’s done that since last time— since it’s master had given permission to speak, the little menace has evidently decided said permission was blanket, and never seems to waste an opportunity to whisper that same word directly into your mind.

Pretty. Clearly the strange workings of whatever kind of consciousness shadow can conjure—- there’s no way it’s reflecting Azriel’s thoughts. He’s the fucking Spymaster, for Mother’s sake, and you’re just some——

Pretty.

It’s said with enough oomph that you’re snatched from your train of thought inelegantly, laughing quietly into the dark.

“You okay in there?” His voice is low and rough through the wood, tugging at something deep in your stomach, and you take a long, steadying breath as you continue to struggle with your clasp.

“Yeah— the baby shadow is just flirting with me, I think.” There’s a beat of silence, and then his own voice is laced with a smile.

“It’s not a baby, it’s just small.”

“Oh, that’s much more normal. The small shadow is flirting with me, then.”

You hear a long-suffering sigh. “As long as you’re okay.”

And it’s at that point you realise your arms are aching, fingers still fiddling with metal clasps which just won’t budge. You could just rip it— you’d be forced to if you were alone, but it’s such a pretty dress, and maybe if you just asked, and he helped and stood real close—

“Actually, I could use a hand,” it’s out of your mouth before you’ve even thought it through, pink staining your cheeks in an instant.

What are you doing!?

The silence that follows almost ends you, heat crawling up your neck and turning your stomach.

You fucking idiot—-

“Sure, shall I come in?” Mother, his voice. Is it always that low? That rough?

You nod lamely, before remembering to use your words. “Uh, yeah. My dress is caught and I can’t get it to unclasp.”

He’s inside and stood so very close behind you before you’ve even finished your sentence.

The air seems thick, buzzing with what must be your imagination, but his soft breaths near the back of your neck make every hair stand to attention. Your skin is practically screaming for his touch, heart thumping so loudly you’re certain he’d hear even if he was mortal. With a swallow, you will your voice to come out even.

“It’s just the clasp at the top, it’s stu—“ the ghost kiss of his fingers at your skin renders you silent, eyes drifting shut in the dark.

Nothing but the sound of your gentle breaths fill the air as his calloused fingers smooth your hair across your shoulder, baring the curve of your spine— and that damn clasp—- to his hazel eyes.

You’re statue still as he works, deft fingers fixing the catch in a second, the band at your throat falling lax against your skin.

Two fingertips dance over sensitive flesh, tracing each vertebrae with such tenderness that your breath catches, turning to face him in the dark.

He’s so close your chest brushes against him, and you meet his gaze through your lashes, his pupils blown and expression almost dangerous.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Its whispered and gravelled and dances straight to your core, making your arms lift to loop at his neck.

“No,” it’s whispered. “Why don’t you show me.”

He’s on you in an instant.

*

The kiss isn’t timid, it’s hungry— large palms roving across your body and tangling in your hair until all you can feel, all you can think is him.

Your entire world shrinks to the smell of cedar and the feel of muscle beneath your fingers, each kiss stealing your breath and tightening your core.

He walks you backwards until the bed hits the bend of your knees and you fall, his massive body following to hover over you, a knee rising to knock yours apart as he settles between them like he was made to be there.

A hand slides down, down, down, smoothing across your stomach and hips and thighs until settling at your apex, and you moan, already soaking wet through your underwear.

“Fuck,” it’s a broken groan into the kiss, his deft fingers rubbing over cloth and making you keen beneath him.

But you’re impatient, hips rolling as your own hands seek the ties of his trousers, desperately pulling them away and down before palming at—- stars above.

He’s huge, and thick and hot and so hard, and you feel him shiver against you the moment you take him in your hand. A few deep, slow strokes and his lips move to your neck, the fingers at your underwear finally pushing it aside and pushing into you, curling to hit just that spot, and you’re sure you’re going to die.

“A-Azriel,” it’s panted out, and he licks a stripe up your throat as his hips roll into your hand.

“Mm,”

“I need you.”

His movements slow, tenderly pulling your underwear down and away, and then he straightens, hazel gaze burning across your skin.

Your dress is bunched around your middle, hair tangled, lipstick smudged—- but the hunger in his eyes only seems to grow as he looks at you.

“Are you sure?” It’s gravelled honey, and you reach up to grab at his shirt, needing him close again.

“Yes.”

And when he finally pushes into you, you’re both done for.