roseandxanderfics

[roseandxanderfics]

“The Quiet One” - Liam Dunbar x Reader

Summary: Liam thinks stiles’ little sister hates him—she barely speaks, never smiles, and always seems five steps ahead of everyone else. but she shows up when it counts. patches him up when he’s bleeding. walks him home without being asked. and liam, poor kid, starts falling. hard.

A/N: based on this brilliant request ‘Liam Dunbar x stoic reader. Something where she’s stiles younger sister and is extremely loyal just isn’t very expressive. And like Liam is kinda weirded out by her at the start (he’s a jock at heart what can you say) but she takes care of him nonetheless cause she’s used to being seen as weird and doesn’t really care. But then he pathetically falls for her and they have a bit of an overthinker x nonchalant dynamic.’

⸻

Liam Dunbar was almost entirely convinced you didn’t like him.

And not in a “you hate me” kind of way. No, it was worse than that.

You didn’t seem to register him at all.

It was unnerving.

You were Stiles’ younger sister—same blood, same house, same dry, often dark sense of humor—but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Stiles was all frantic energy and verbal overflow, you were… still. Stoic. Quiet in a way that made people nervous, like you were seeing things they couldn’t. And maybe you were.

Liam didn’t know much about you when you first moved back to Beacon Hills. You were a year below him, technically. Transferred in after some “time away” that no one really talked about. Stiles, of course, claimed you were simply “off being weird somewhere,” but Liam knew that wasn’t the whole story.

The first time you met, it was in the middle of a hunt.

A chimera had torn through the preserve. Everyone was scattered. Liam was bleeding, cornered, panting too hard to see straight—until you stepped between him and the creature, your face calm, movements precise, like someone walking through a storm without blinking.

You’d shoved a flare into the thing’s mouth without flinching.

And then, without looking back, you held out your hand to help him up.

That was the beginning.

⸻

You didn’t talk much.

When you did, your words came out clipped, quiet, perfectly chosen—like they’d been edited for efficiency before they ever touched air. And Liam, who was constantly second-guessing everything he said, found that deeply intimidating.

At first, he thought maybe you were just shy. Then cold. Then some kind of silent assassin.

But as time passed and you kept showing up—sitting beside him when he was hurt, walking him home after long missions, quietly replacing his broken lacrosse stick grip with a new one—you became something else entirely.

You were… constant.

Unmoving. Unfazed.

Like gravity.

⸻

The others thought you were weird. They didn’t say it aloud, but it hung in the air when you entered a room—the way even Coach quieted when you walked by, the way Lydia tilted her head at you like you were a particularly confusing riddle.

But Liam noticed the details they didn’t.

You were the first to move when Scott gave an order.

The last to speak, but always the one to say what mattered.

You never wasted energy on fear or flattery, and you always stood between others and danger, like your body existed only as a shield.

That kind of loyalty wasn’t loud. It wasn’t shiny. But it was absolute.

And it scared the hell out of him.

⸻

“You know she’s not gonna pat your head and call you a good boy, right?” Stiles said one afternoon, catching Liam staring at you across the locker room.

“I wasn’t—!”

“You were,” Stiles cut in, face twisted in a half-smile, half-grimace. “Don’t get your hopes up. She’s like a cryptid. The moment you think she’s gonna give you a compliment, she disappears into smoke.”

Liam rubbed the back of his neck, flustered. “I don’t care about compliments.”

“You absolutely do.”

“…Maybe.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

⸻

Liam didn’t mean to get attached.

But then he’d be bleeding in the school parking lot after some shapeshifter tried to gut him, and you’d show up without a word, toss him a bottle of water and disinfectant, and quietly help him patch himself up.

No fuss. No panic.

Just quiet hands, steady eyes, and the occasional dry comment that made him laugh so hard he forgot he was in pain.

One time, he said thank you.

You shrugged. “You’d do the same.”

But he wouldn’t. Not like you did. Not so wordlessly. So instinctively.

⸻

It was in the little things.

You never let him walk home alone.

You brought him cold packs without asking.

You listened—even if you didn’t always respond.

And you always, always, remembered what he needed.

He knew you weren’t being nice. That wasn’t the word for it. You weren’t warm, and you weren’t soft. But you were present, and that meant more.

And when you started sitting beside him during lunch, eating in silence while he nervously filled the air with words—he noticed that you never interrupted him.

Never judged.

Just… listened.

That was the most terrifying part.

Because he started needing you to.

⸻

One day, he finally said it:

“You don’t like me, do you?”

It came out more desperate than he meant. He was already kicking himself when you turned toward him, expression unreadable as always.

“I don’t dislike you,” you said.

“That’s not the same as liking me.”

You paused, thoughtful.

“Do I need to?”

Liam blinked. “I mean… I don’t know! I guess I just thought—”

“You’re used to being liked.”

Your voice was quiet, but it wasn’t unkind.

“You’re used to reactions. Smiles. People caring out loud.”

He stared at you, heart pounding.

You looked down at your hands. “I care in other ways.”

The air shifted.

“I know,” he said softly.

And for the first time, you met his eyes without your usual blankness.

“I’m just not good at showing it,” you added, barely audible.

“That’s okay,” he said.

You nodded.

He didn’t push.

He didn’t need to.

⸻

Liam noticed it after that.

How your hand lingered for half a second longer when you passed him a water bottle.

How your eyes flicked to him during pack meetings, like checking he was still breathing.

How, when he rammed into a chimera too fast and dislocated his shoulder, you didn’t panic—but your voice did crack, just once, when you told him to sit still.

He heard it.

And it felt like the loudest sound in the world.

⸻

He told Stiles.

“I think I’m in love with your sister.”

Stiles made a sound like a dying bird and walked into a wall.

“Dunbar. Buddy. Listen. I know things are bad right now, what with the supernatural hellhole that is Beacon Hills, but let’s not make it worse, yeah?”

“I can’t help it!” Liam whispered furiously. “She’s… she’s just—her! She’s quiet and weird and cold and I think she’d stab someone for me without blinking!”

“…Okay, that last part might be true.”

Stiles sighed deeply.

“If she hasn’t pushed you off a roof yet, that’s basically a declaration of love. Go for it.”

⸻

It happened late one night.

You were both sitting in the back of the Jeep, too tired to talk after a mission. The moon was high. Blood on both your sleeves. He was nursing a cracked rib, and you had dried mud down your neck, but the adrenaline had faded and all that was left was silence.

Liam turned his head slowly.

“I think I love you,” he whispered.

You didn’t look away.

“Okay,” you said.

“That’s it?”

You tilted your head.

“I’ve known.”

“You—wait. Since when?”

You gave the tiniest shrug. “Since you stopped flinching when I walked into a room.”

Liam’s heart might have short-circuited.

“Is that your way of saying you like me too?”

“I wouldn’t walk you home if I didn’t.”

“…Right.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your voice low:

“You overthink everything.”

“I do,” he groaned.

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

He laughed, tired and warm and buzzing with everything he was still too scared to say.

You didn’t need to say much.

You never had.

But that night, as your hand settled lightly over his and stayed there, Liam realized something simple and blindingly true:

You were his quiet place.

And he was falling, pathetically and completely, for the only person in the world who never made him feel like too much.

[roseandxanderfics]

“I Wasn’t Smiling” - Ted Lasso x Grumpy!Reader

Summary: You doesn’t smile. Ever. Ted makes it his mission to change that—and one accidental grin later, he acts like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

A/N: Based on this request 'Would you consider writing Ted Lasso x Grumpy Reader, along the lines of reader smiling and Ted catching them but they try to deny it'

--------------

It was a well-known fact around AFC Richmond that you didn’t smile.

You weren’t mean, per se. Just… direct. Efficient. Quiet. The kind of person who got things done, answered emails with one-word replies, and looked mildly irritated by the mere sound of whistling.

You liked your corner office. You liked spreadsheets. You liked when people left their mugs in the dishwasher instead of the sink like actual functioning adults.

You did not like Ted Lasso.

That wasn’t true, actually. You did like him. You just didn’t want to like him.

He was cheerful in a way that felt suspicious. Optimistic to the point of science fiction. The kind of man who said “fiddle-faddle” unironically and probably hugged trees. He brought everyone baked goods and dad jokes, and for some reason, everyone adored him.

Which made it worse that you were kind of… starting to adore him, too.

Especially because he kept trying to make you laugh.

He made it his mission—daily—to crack your armor. And you? You stood firm. For weeks. Months, even. A fortress of rolled eyes and unimpressed stares.

Until Tuesday morning. When it happened.

You were passing the lounge with a fresh cup of coffee when Ted popped out of nowhere like a golden retriever with good posture.

“Hey there, boss lady! Or should I say, boss cool cat,” he said, jazz-handing two imaginary finger guns.

You blinked. “Don’t ever say that again.”

He laughed like you’d just told the best joke in the world. “That’s the spirit!”

You sighed, shook your head, and kept walking.

He fell into step beside you.

“So, what’s the verdict today?” he asked cheerfully. “World still spinning? Coffee still too bitter? Spreadsheet gods treating you right?”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

You felt it. That little traitorous twitch in your cheek. That warmth rising in your chest. And unfortunately—Ted noticed.

He stopped mid-step. Froze. Gasped like he’d witnessed a miracle.

“Was that a smile?!”

You stopped too. Deadpan.

“No.”

“Oh yes it was.” His eyes widened like a kid on Christmas. “I saw it. Right there! A little lift—right on the corner! It was beautiful. Natural. Like a baby deer learning how to walk.”

“I didn’t smile.”

“You definitely smiled.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re hallucinating.”

“Nope. I’m Ted Lasso. And what I saw,” he said, placing a reverent hand on his heart, “was a grin. A genuine, honest-to-goodness sparkle of joy from the one person in this building I thought I’d never crack.”

You turned back toward your office. “You’re imagining things.”

Ted followed, beaming. “Nah. I’m remembering them. That moment’s going in the scrapbook. I’m gonna tell Beard. I’m gonna knit a sweater to commemorate it.”

You snorted. Which only made him grin wider.

“That was a laugh!” he crowed.

“No, it wasn’t—”

“Come on now, don’t fight it. You like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

He stepped in front of your door, blocking your way, eyes sparkling with amusement. “One smile. One laugh. What’s next? You gonna invite me to lunch?”

You raised a brow. “Don’t push your luck, cowboy.”

Ted’s grin softened—just a bit. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And with that, he stepped aside and let you pass.

You made it halfway into your office before you glanced back.

He was still there. Still smiling. Like he’d won the lottery.

You shook your head and muttered, “Ridiculous man.”

And maybe—just maybe—you were smiling when you said it.

[roseandxanderfics]

John Shelby x Playful Reader x Spanking (#3)

John’s grin is wolfish as he pulls you across his lap, one hand braced against the small of your back to keep you steady. “Oh, you think you’re clever, yeah? Sassing me in front of the lads?” he murmurs, the rough edge in his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

You twist to glance over your shoulder, lips curled in a teasing smile. “Couldn’t help myself,” you say, voice airy and sweet. “You’re too easy to rile up, John.”

He tuts softly, his calloused palm sliding down the curve of your ass, fingers pressing in just enough to make you squirm. “Is that so?” He lifts his hand, the first sharp smack ringing out and making you yelp, a flush rising to your cheeks.

John’s other hand tightens on your hip, anchoring you in place. “Cheeky little thing,” he mutters, punctuating his words with another spank—this one harder, the sting lingering long after his palm leaves your skin.

Your breath comes out in shaky pants, the heat of his hand and the roughness of his voice making your core clench. “John,” you gasp, biting your lip to keep from whimpering.

He chuckles low in his throat, leaning closer so his breath tickles your ear. “What’s that, love? Didn’t catch that,” he teases, his hand coming down again—smack—your hips jerking involuntarily.

“Please,” you manage, your voice trembling. “John, please—”

“Please what?” His tone is taunting, but his other hand slides between your legs, his fingers brushing the damp heat there, making you gasp. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, lips curving into a smirk you can’t see. “All that sass just a front, yeah? You love this.”

You can only whimper as he keeps alternating—sharp smacks that leave your skin hot and tingling, followed by soft strokes that make you ache for more. Each time you think he’s done, he lands another blow, each one a delicious promise.

By the time he’s finished, you’re limp over his knee, breathless and flushed, your body thrumming with need. John shifts you off his lap and cups your chin, tilting your head so you have to meet his heated gaze. “Next time you wanna be a brat in front of the boys,” he says, voice low and possessive, “remember how good it feels when I remind you who you belong to

[roseandxanderfics]

Alfie Solomons x Insecure Reader x Sensory Deprivation (#24)

Alfie’s large hands are gentle but sure as he ties the blindfold over your eyes, cutting off the world in an instant. “Can’t see me, can you, pet?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that makes your breath hitch.

“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Good.” His fingers trace your jaw, his touch deliberate and teasing. “You trust me, yeah? Trust me to take care of you.”

You nod, even though you can’t see him—can only feel the warmth of his body, the rough scrape of his beard when he leans in close. The sudden cold kiss of ice on your collarbone makes you gasp, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

“Such a good girl,” he breathes, moving the ice lower, watching your reactions with a hungry gaze. “You’re mine tonight, and I’m gonna show you just how sweet you can be when you’re not thinkin’ about anything but me.”

He switches to a feather next, the soft tickle against your nipples making you whimper and arch into the sensation. You can’t see him, can’t predict where he’ll touch next—each brush of the feather a jolt of pleasure that has your thighs clenching, your breath coming in shaky little gasps.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Alfie murmurs, his hands sliding down to your hips. “All that worry in your head… gone. Just feelin’, yeah?”

When he finally slides his hands between your legs, you’re already dripping, your body desperate for more. His touch is teasing, never enough, until you’re panting and pleading for him.

“Please, Alfie,” you whimper, your hands fisting in the sheets as you strain toward him.

He chuckles softly, his mouth hot on your throat. “That’s it, pet,” he says, his fingers finally sliding inside you, slow and deliberate. “Let me hear how sweet you sound when you can’t see a thing—when it’s all me.”

And you do—every moan, every gasp a testament to how completely he owns you in this moment, every last bit of your insecurity melting away under the weight of his voice and his hands.

[roseandxanderfics]

“Taming the Untamable” - Joe Goldberg x morally grey reader

⸻

Summary: Joe sets out to tame a fiercely independent, morally grey you—with slow, intense control, silk scarves, and dark promises. Pleasure and power collide in a dangerous dance where surrender is the ultimate choice.

A/N: This ones dark and smutty and intense. Beware.

————————

You pride yourself on being untouchable. Not just physically, but emotionally and morally — you’re sharp, a little dangerous, and you never let anyone get too close. Your world is yours alone, painted in shades of gray that no one else dares to navigate.

Joe Goldberg wants to change that.

⸻

Tonight, it’s just you and him.

His apartment is dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners. The scent of old books and faint musk lingers, but underneath it all is Joe’s scent — warm, a little sharp, and intoxicating.

You stand just inside the door, arms crossed, eyes steady on him.

He doesn’t rush.

Instead, Joe closes the space between you slowly. His hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing along your jaw with a feather-light touch that makes your skin prickle.

“You think you’re untamable,” he says quietly, voice low enough to vibrate through your chest, “but I’m not here to break you. I want to show you a different kind of control.”

Your pulse quickens, a mix of challenge and curiosity sparking inside you.

⸻

He takes your hand and leads you toward the bedroom, where a soft bed waits beneath dimmed lights. Nearby, on the dresser, lie silk scarves, leather cuffs, and a blindfold — tools you hadn’t expected, but instinctively understand.

Joe kneels before you, his eyes never leaving yours as he unbuttons your shirt with deliberate slowness. The cool air brushes against your bare skin as the fabric falls away, revealing the curve of your collarbone and the soft rise and fall of your chest.

His fingers glide over your skin, the sensation electric — not harsh or demanding, but a promise. A question.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice a low rumble.

You don’t answer. Instead, your breath catches when his hands wrap around your wrists, lifting them gently.

⸻

The silk scarves are cool and smooth as he ties your wrists together, the fabric snug but not painful. You flex your fingers, feeling the restraint, and a strange warmth blooms in your belly.

Joe’s fingers trail down your arm, tracing the path with patient care before pulling the blindfold over your eyes.

Suddenly, the room vanishes.

Darkness presses against your eyelids, and every sound sharpens — the rustle of his clothes, the faint scrape of leather, your own uneven breath.

Your skin tingles, hypersensitive without sight.

⸻

Joe’s hands find your neck first, thumb brushing along your pulse point with a soft pressure that makes your throat tighten. Then he moves lower, fingertips dragging lightly across your collarbone, down your chest, teasing the sensitive skin beneath your breasts.

You’re acutely aware of every sensation — the softness of his touch, the heat radiating from his body, the slight roughness of calloused fingertips.

He presses a kiss to your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to elicit a shiver.

“Not going anywhere,” he whispers. “You’re mine to explore.”

⸻

His hands roam freely now, mapping every inch of your torso with slow, reverent touches. When he cups your breasts, it’s gentle, his thumbs circling your nipples until they harden beneath his touch.

Your breath hitches, chest rising and falling faster.

Joe’s mouth follows, capturing one nipple between his lips, sucking lightly, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub.

The sensation is deliciously torturous — the contrast between the softness of his mouth and the firm pressure of his fingers.

You arch toward him instinctively, craving more.

⸻

Joe slides his hand lower, past your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, his touch bold yet measured. Then his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing your skin just where you want him most.

Your body responds before your mind can catch up — a flush spreading between your thighs, a wet heat pooling low in your belly.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with control and promise.

You swallow hard, voice barely a whisper. “You.”

⸻

He laughs softly, a dark sound that vibrates through you.

Joe’s hand slips inside your underwear, fingers tracing your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation is electric, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through your nerves.

When he presses a finger inside you, slow and sure, your hips jerk toward him, desperate for more.

He adds a second finger, curling them expertly, eliciting a sharp gasp from you.

“You don’t get to decide when this ends,” he says, voice low and possessive. “I do.”

⸻

Joe’s tongue follows, tracing patterns over your inner thigh, lips barely touching the most sensitive skin. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air of the room makes your body hum with anticipation.

He sucks gently on your clit, swirling his tongue in slow, tantalizing circles that have you trembling.

Your hands twitch against the silk, but you’re completely helpless — utterly his.

⸻

When he finally penetrates you with his cock, it’s slow and deliberate, the stretch and fullness grounding you in the moment.

His hips move with a controlled rhythm, deep and steady, punctuated by sharp kisses to your jaw and neck.

“Say it,” he commands, voice husky.

“Say what?” you whisper.

“That you’re mine.”

Your lips part, breath hitching as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside you.

“I’m yours,” you say, voice trembling.

Joe’s smile is dark and satisfied as he picks up the pace, fucking you with a fierce tenderness that leaves no doubt who holds the power.

⸻

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave — intense, overwhelming, everything and nothing at once. Your body shakes, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Joe doesn’t relent. He keeps moving, dragging you through the aftershocks, until you’re spent and pliant beneath him.

When he finally pulls out, he slides his hands under your body, lifting you into his arms.

The silk scarves are gone, replaced by the warm press of his skin against yours.

He kisses your temple, voice soft now.

“I’m not here to tame you,” he says. “I’m here to hold you. And you choose to stay.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of his words and touch settle over you.

Maybe taming isn’t about breaking.

Maybe it’s about choosing who holds your fire — and letting them keep it safe.

[roseandxanderfics]

"Fighting Shadows" - Lorcan x PowerfulNaive!reader

Summary: When dark creatures attack, the court fights back—but it’s the shy reader who saves them. With a single burst of power, they unravel the threat, leaving the court in awe. Lorcan, who once saw them as timid, now sees their true strength and feels something change between them.

-----------

It started with smoke.

Thin, grey wisps curling into the blue afternoon sky. Subtle, at first. Almost easy to ignore.

Until the shadows came.

The courtyard of the Terrasen palace had been filled with laughter only moments before. Aelin leaned against Rowan, smirking at something Fenrys said, while Aedion sparred lazily with Lorcan in the ring. Lysandra, in human form today, lounged on a stone bench, one leg swinging idly, eyes bright.

The sun shone. The marble glinted. The world felt... settled.

And then the sky turned black.

Lorcan noticed it first. He stopped mid-motion, sword still raised, eyes narrowing on the horizon. A strange, unnatural silence fell across the courtyard—as if the world itself held its breath.

Then the ground shook.

Not a tremor. Not a suggestion.

A shockwave.

Stone cracked. Trees bent as a gust of wind, wrong and full of rot, tore through the gardens. Aelin was already moving, Rowan at her side. Aedion turned, swords drawn. Lysandra shifted, fur exploding across her body as her form blurred into a ghost leopard with bared teeth.

And then they came.

Dark-cloaked figures. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Pouring over the walls, erupting from the ground itself like smoke given shape. Shadows with blades, fast and silent. Not mortal. Not natural. Magic woven into their very bones.

“What the hell are they?” Aedion shouted.

“Does it matter?” Rowan growled. “Kill them.”

The clash was instant.

Steel met steel. Claws met shadow. Fire erupted from Aelin’s hands, streaking gold and white across the courtyard, but the creatures didn’t burn like normal. They shrieked, yes—fell, yes—but more kept coming. For every one that dropped, two more took its place.

Lorcan moved like a storm. Cold, brutal, efficient. He cut them down by the handful, a shield of magic lashing from his outstretched hand. Sweat beaded on his brow. He didn’t speak, didn’t snarl—just moved. Kept moving. Kept killing.

But they were losing.

He could feel it.

For all their strength, the shadows weren’t dying fast enough. And worse—something larger moved behind them. Something coming.

And you—shy, quiet you—were not there.

You hadn’t come to the courtyard. You’d stayed in the library, or your room, or wherever it was you hid when things got loud. When people looked at you too long. You who ducked your head when spoken to, who flinched at praise, who hadn’t even realized that the court watched you with wary, curious eyes. Not because of your shyness, but because of what you were rumored to be.

What power you carried in your small, unsure hands.

“Fall back!” Rowan shouted, dragging a bleeding Fenrys from a pile of writhing shadows. “Aelin—!”

“I’m trying!” she snapped, fire blasting from both hands in a scorching arc. “They’re immune to most of it!”

Lorcan had seen her angry. He’d seen her confident. He’d seen her with gods in her blood.

But now?

Now, even Aelin was panicking.

And that’s when you arrived.

The courtyard gates slammed open—not with a bang, but a pressure. Like the air itself shifted to let you through.

You stood in the archway, backlit by the light behind you, hair loose, cloak half-clasped as if you’d rushed without finishing dressing. Your eyes scanned the battlefield, wide with horror, hands shaking.

You looked like a ghost.

Small. Fragile.

Terrified.

And then Lorcan watched your eyes change.

It wasn’t rage. Not fury. Just… stillness.

Like something inside you clicked into place. Like you saw your people bleeding, saw Lorcan wounded and Fenrys barely standing, and something deep in your soul remembered.

He wanted to shout at you to run.

But he couldn’t speak.

Because the wind shifted.

And then he felt it.

Power.

It surged from you like a tidal wave. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just absolute. The kind of power the world bends around.

The shadows froze.

Every one of them.

Mid-swing. Mid-step.

The entire battlefield went still as death.

You stepped forward, barefoot. The stone cracked beneath your feet—not from force, but because the energy radiating from you didn’t know how to be gentle anymore.

You lifted a hand.

No words. No spells. Just intent.

And the sky obeyed.

A low hum vibrated through the air, deep and primal. The shadows screamed—not in victory this time, but in fear. They tried to run. Tried to vanish.

Too late.

Light—pure, blinding light—exploded outward. Not fire. Not flame.

Truth.

That’s what it felt like. Lorcan didn’t know how else to describe it.

Your light touched the creatures and they unraveled. Not burned. Not torn. Undone. As if they were never meant to be here. As if your presence simply reminded the world what belonged and what didn’t.

And they didn’t.

It took less than a minute.

Then the silence returned.

You stood in the middle of the courtyard, panting, body trembling. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted like you couldn’t quite believe what you’d done.

And everyone stared.

No one moved.

Not even Aelin.

But Lorcan did.

It was him—gruff, ruthless Lorcan, with blood still on his hands and shadows in his past—who stepped toward you.

Not quickly.

Not with force.

Like the air between you had changed. Like rushing might break something.

You heard his boots on the cracked stone, slow and steady, stopping just a few feet from where you stood, shoulders drawn in tight, as if bracing for some sort of reprimand. Or fear. Or rejection.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice so low it was nearly a rumble.

You looked up, startled to find him so close. Startled by the way his expression wasn’t cold, or closed off. It was… open. Searching.

“I—no,” you whispered, voice small. “Just… tired.”

He nodded once. His gaze dropped to your hands, still faintly glowing, your fingers curled like you didn’t trust them to stop shaking.

“You’ve been hiding this,” he said. Not accusing. Just… knowing.

You nodded slowly. “I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

At that, something in his expression changed—tightened.

“Scare us?” he echoed, stepping just a fraction closer. “You saved us.”

You tried to look away, but his voice caught you.

“You didn’t just arrive. You ended it. With a single thought.” His tone was quiet, but intense. Like every word had weight. “You walked into a battle none of us were winning, and turned the tide with nothing but your will.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

He let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh—but softer. Disbelieving.

“You call that a scene?”

You flinched. “Sorry.”

Lorcan blinked. And then—gods, he moved—stepped right into your space, raising a hand, slowly, until it hovered near your cheek. Not touching. Just… offering.

“You’re apologizing for saving my life?” he said, low and rough. “For saving all of us?”

“I just didn’t want to… make anyone uncomfortable.” You looked up, eyes wide and earnest, and Lorcan nearly forgot how to breathe.

“You think anyone here is uncomfortable?” he asked. “They’re in awe. I’m—” He stopped, caught by something in his throat. His voice was rough when he continued. “I’ve seen power. I’ve fought gods. But I’ve never seen anything like what you did. Never felt anything like it.”

Your lips parted. “I wasn’t sure I could control it.”

“You did,” he said fiercely. “And you didn’t just control it—you commanded it.”

You stood there, trembling. Not from fear now—but from the way he was looking at you.

Like you were not a quiet girl anymore. Not some background figure, not a gentle curiosity.

But someone who had remade the world with a single breath.

Someone who’d stood in the center of chaos and claimed it.

Someone he saw.

And not just for what you could do—but for who you were.

“I’ve watched you,” Lorcan murmured. “You walk softly. You speak only when spoken to. But I’ve seen it. The way you listen. The way you notice everything. The way you carry yourself. Like you’re always trying not to be too much.”

Your throat tightened. “Because people don’t like when I am.”

“I do,” he said. No hesitation. “I want all of it. Your silence, your strength, your chaos, your kindness. All of it.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I thought…” You took a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t really like me.”

His brow furrowed, mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to scowl or smile. “I didn’t know how to like you. You were too… good. Too soft. And I didn’t think I deserved that.”

“Lorcan…”

“I know I’m not easy,” he went on, voice roughening again. “I know I’m not the type people write poems about. But I see you. And I’m not scared of your power. I’m not scared of your silence. I’m scared of never knowing you.”

Something broke in your chest then. Quietly. Gently. Like sunlight breaking over snow.

And you stepped forward.

You leaned into his hand. Just enough.

He touched your cheek, finally. Just the backs of his fingers, calloused and warm, brushing down your jaw like a promise.

And when you whispered, “I want you to know me,” his breath caught.

He nodded once.

“I will.”

A silence followed—not between you and Lorcan, but in the courtyard around you.

Then:

“Well, gods-damned finally,” Fenrys muttered somewhere behind him.

You startled, blinking as if remembering the rest of the world existed.

Lorcan turned slightly, his hand dropping reluctantly from your cheek as the others slowly approached. Not cautious—just… careful. Like they were entering sacred ground.

Aelin was the first to speak, still catching her breath, firelight flickering faintly in her palms. Her gaze moved over the now-empty courtyard, to the blackened scars on the stone—and then to you. All of you.

She whistled low. “Remind me to never underestimate the quiet ones again.”

Rowan gave a grunt that might’ve been agreement. Or maybe just awe. He was still watching you, head tilted slightly. “That wasn’t just raw magic,” he said quietly. “It was will. You bent the world.”

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” you said again, instinctively, voice soft.

Lysandra stepped forward and tilted her head. “You didn’t. But you did terrify our enemies, which—honestly—ten out of ten.”

“More like eleven,” Fenrys added, leaning heavily against Rowan. He looked a little pale but still grinned at you. “I saw one of them try to run away from you. And it couldn’t.”

You flushed, eyes dropping, but Aedion stepped in closer and crossed his arms. “That kind of power? You’ve had that the whole time?”

You nodded, hesitating. “I didn’t know how to use it. Not like that. I still don’t… really.”

He huffed a breath. “Could’ve mentioned it before we almost died.”

“Aedion,” Lysandra said sharply, smacking him on the arm.

He grunted. “Fine. I’m just saying—” Then he looked at you again, properly this time, and his voice changed. “You saved our asses.”

“Yeah,” Fenrys said, giving you a little nod. “You did. And it was terrifying. And brilliant. And kind of the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lorcan shot him a dark glare, and Fenrys raised both hands in mock surrender. “Kidding. Mostly.”

“I’m sorry,” you said again, quieter. “I didn’t mean to take control. I just… couldn’t let you all die.”

That stopped Aelin cold. Her expression softened, the glint of the warrior dimming to something warmer. “You didn’t take control,” she said gently. “You took care of us. There’s a difference.”

Rowan nodded once in agreement.

You blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by the shift. Their teasing, their warmth, the sheer fact that no one was afraid of you—not even after what they’d seen.

And Lorcan, still beside you, didn’t step away. If anything, he stood even closer now. Not possessive. Just present. Steady.

Aelin’s gaze moved between the two of you, and a knowing little smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“Well,” she said with mock-seriousness, “if Lorcan ever breaks your heart, you have at least three other people here who’d happily kill him.”

Lorcan groaned.

Fenrys grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

You flushed crimson, and Lysandra laughed, linking her arm through yours. “Ignore them. They're just mad you're officially cooler than all of us combined.”

“You always were,” Aelin added softly. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

You looked around at them—this strange, brilliant, chaotic court—and saw it.

Saw the shift.

Not fear. Not wariness.

Respect.

Not for what you could do, but for who you were.

And maybe—just maybe—you could finally stop hiding.

Lorcan’s hand brushed yours again, grounding you as the others slowly turned to begin cleaning up, checking wounds, and teasing one another back into comfort.

But you stayed still for one more moment.

Just long enough to whisper, “Thank you.”

Lorcan looked at you, eyes soft despite the blood on his face and the weariness in his bones.

“You saved me before I even knew I needed saving,” he murmured. “I should be thanking you.”

[roseandxanderfics]

Peaky Blinders – Innocent Reader x Spanking (#3) – Alfie Solomons

Your mouth was dry as you leaned over Alfie’s heavy wooden desk, your skirt rucked up around your waist, your hands trembling where they gripped the edge. You’d been so sassy with him earlier—so bold, so sure of yourself—and now you were paying the price.

“Now, love,” he said in that gravelly voice that made your knees weak, his big hands smoothing over your ass, “you’re gonna learn to watch that sharp tongue of yours.”

You whined, your cheeks burning, but he just chuckled, giving your skin a light, teasing slap that made you gasp. “That’s it,” he murmured, leaning in close, his beard scratching at your neck. “Pretty little thing, all bent over for me.”

He didn’t start hard—he was patient, his hands exploring, warming you up with gentle smacks that had you squirming in anticipation. Each time his palm connected with your skin, you let out a little gasp, your body arching back toward him.

“Such a good girl,” he crooned, his tone dark and indulgent. “Look at you, takin’ it so well.”

When he finally gave you a sharp, stinging spank that echoed through the room, you cried out, your hips bucking forward. Alfie’s other hand slipped around to your front, his fingers brushing your clit with a featherlight touch.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he said, his lips brushing your ear. “You like when I make you burn a little.”

You could only nod, your body trembling, tears prickling in your eyes as the sting and pleasure tangled together.

“Good girl,” he said again, his voice a low growl. “Now, let’s see how many more of those sweet sounds I can pull from you.”

[roseandxanderfics]

“Still Your Hands” - Connor Rhodes x fem!nurse!Reader

Summary: After losing a patient she’d grown close to, nurse!reader starts to question if she’s cut out for the job. Connor finds her in the break room, and helps her remember the kind of heart it takes to care—even when it hurts.

A/N: Based on this request 'Could you do a fem!reader fic with either Conner or will from Chicago med where the reader is a nurse but recently lost a patient that hit really hard? That loss has made her anxious/insecure'

---------------

The break room was empty.

At least for now.

You stood motionless by the sink, your scrubs wrinkled from the twelve-hour shift you hadn’t really survived so much as staggered through. The hospital buzzed behind the glass, but everything inside the room was silent—except your breathing, ragged and uneven.

You had done everything right.

Vitals monitored. Notes triple-checked. Gentle hands, a steady voice, the kind of care that could have cracked even the toughest attending’s shell.

And still… she died.

A teenage girl. Her name had been Mariah. She liked sour gummy worms and wore mismatched socks even to chemo. You had told her she'd be okay.

You lied.

The kettle whistled behind you, sudden and shrill. You flinched. And before you could stop them, the tears welled up, hot and humiliated. Not the kind that poured from grief, but the kind that came from that gnawing thing in your gut whispering—

You're not enough.

You failed.

You gripped the counter, fingers white-knuckled.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Connor’s voice didn’t startle you, but it did crack something open. You didn’t turn. Couldn't.

He came up behind you slowly, carefully—like approaching a wounded animal. You heard the rustle of his white coat, the shift of his stance.

“Hey,” he said gently, “I know what happened.”

You tried to say I’m fine. You almost did.

Instead, your voice came out like gravel: “She was getting better.”

Connor didn’t rush to correct you. He didn’t fill the space with doctor logic, the usual reminders about how sometimes bad things happen no matter how good the care. He just stood there, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him behind you.

“She asked me if she was going to die.” Your breath hitched. “I told her no.”

Connor reached out slowly, placing a hand on your arm. “You didn’t lie. You gave her hope.”

You finally turned to face him. Your eyes were red, and your lip trembled in a way that made you furious at yourself. But Connor—he didn’t flinch. He just looked at you like he always did. Like you were worth holding onto.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, his hands moving to your waist. “You are.”

“I can’t stop thinking about what I missed—what if I didn’t push hard enough, what if I—”

“Hey.” His thumbs brushed over your hips, grounding. “You gave her comfort when it mattered most. You showed up. You cared. That matters.”

You broke, just a little, burying your face in his chest.

Connor held you like he meant it. One hand stroking your hair, the other wrapped tightly around you like a promise. “You’ve got the steadiest hands I know,” he murmured into your hair. “But it’s your heart that makes you incredible.”

The tears didn’t stop, but they slowed. You weren’t okay. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

But in his arms, you weren’t falling apart. Not entirely.

“I don’t want to lose that part of me,” you said quietly. “The part that gets attached.”

Connor pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek. “Don’t. That part is why you’re you.”

You nodded, leaning into him again.

Outside, monitors beeped and gurneys rolled past and life kept going.

But for a few quiet minutes, in Connor’s arms, it felt like you could breathe again.

[roseandxanderfics]

Ink and Quiet Things - Aelin x Rowan x Naive!Oc

Summary: Late at night in the safe house, Aelin finds Lysari reading a book upside down—and ends up sharing quiet warmth, soft words, and a blanket. When Rowan joins them, something unspoken settles between the three of them, gentle and growing.

----------

The city outside still breathed, even this late. Drunken voices echoed far below, but the safe house was hushed, everyone asleep—except Aelin.

She padded barefoot into the sitting room, half hoping for solitude, half hoping someone would be awake. Her fingers itched from too much planning, her mind a tangle of escape routes and kill orders.

But there, curled on the floor by the cold fireplace, was Lysari.

The girl was sprawled across a pile of cushions, legs tangled in a throw blanket, holding a book upside down with a look of deep concentration on her face.

Aelin crossed her arms, leaning in the doorway. “You know that book’s upside down, right?”

Lysari blinked. “Oh. Is it?”

She turned it the right way around without shame, then squinted at the page like it had personally offended her.

“I thought it would speak to me eventually,” she said. “Most things do.”

Aelin smirked, stepping into the room. “It’s just an old journal. A soldier’s diary. Mostly complaints about boots and soup.”

“Mm,” Lysari said. “No wonder it’s so grumpy.”

Aelin sat beside her without asking. They didn’t talk for a few minutes. Just the soft rustle of a turning page and the occasional crackle from the hearth’s embers. Aelin pulled a blanket around her shoulders.

“I don’t know how to read most of your letters,” Lysari said softly. “Too many edges. The script in Wendlyn is… softer. Rounder. Like water.”

Aelin glanced at her. “You speak the common tongue fluently.”

Lysari tilted her head. “Words are easier than symbols. Emotion is easier than logic. No one ever taught me the rules—I just feel what people mean and answer from there.”

Aelin hummed. “That’s dangerous.”

“I’m used to that,” Lysari said. Her glow dimmed a little, just a flicker beneath her skin. “It’s dangerous to be soft. It makes people uncomfortable.”

Aelin looked at her sideways. “You’re powerful. You know that.”

“I know,” Lysari whispered. “And I don’t always like it.”

Something quiet passed between them.

“I used to think softness was weakness too,” Aelin said eventually. “But it’s not. It’s armor. Harder to keep up than steel.”

Lysari’s eyes shimmered like glass full of stars. “That’s why I like you.”

Aelin blinked.

Lysari smiled, curling her legs beneath her. “You carry your fire like a sword. But you still laugh. And cry. And want things.”

Aelin looked down. “That scares people too.”

“Maybe that’s why Rowan and I both followed you,” Lysari said, almost to herself. “You burn, but you stay.”

Aelin didn’t answer. Her throat was too tight.

Soft footsteps padded across the hall. Rowan appeared in the doorway, shirtless, sleep-rough and still somehow too graceful for his own good.

His brows lifted slightly. “What’s going on?”

Lysari smiled, utterly at ease. “She’s teaching me to read upside down.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “We’re just not sleeping.”

Rowan came to sit beside them without a word, one leg brushing against Lysari’s and the other against Aelin’s. He looked between them for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes—then reached over and flipped to the next page in Lysari’s book.

“The soldier never got new boots,” he said dryly. “He complains about it for four more pages.”

Lysari gasped. “Don’t spoil it!”

They all laughed softly, and somehow, that was more intimate than anything else.

Later, the three of them stayed there—shoulders touching, blanket shared, warmth building like a quiet promise.

Nothing had been said. Not really.

But the thread between them pulled a little tighter.

[roseandxanderfics]

Ted Lasso – Tired Reader x Body Worship (#20) – Roy Kent

You’re so tired your limbs feel heavy, your shoulders slumped as you sink onto the couch. Roy sees it immediately—the dark circles under your eyes, the slump in your posture—and something softens in his expression.

“Get up,” he grumbles, his voice gruff but gentle as he kneels in front of you, pulling your legs apart. “Let me take care of you.”

You protest halfheartedly, but he shushes you with a low growl. “No arguments. You’re mine, and I’m gonna make sure you remember that.”

He starts with your feet, strong hands massaging every ache and knot, his lips pressing soft kisses to your ankles and calves. “Always pushin’ yourself,” he mutters, his mouth brushing over your skin. “But I see you, love. I see how hard you work. You deserve this.”

He works his way up, his hands and lips coaxing every bit of tension from your body, his rough stubble scraping your skin just enough to make you shiver. By the time he reaches your thighs, you’re trembling, your head tipped back, a soft whimper on your lips.

“Roy…” you murmur, but he cuts you off with a gentle bite to the inside of your knee. “Shh, love,” he growls, his breath hot. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He worships every inch of you, his mouth and hands a promise that you’re his to care for. When he finally slides his fingers between your legs, it’s slow and deliberate—no rush, no urgency, just a steady, grounding devotion that leaves you boneless in his arms.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he says, his voice hoarse as he presses his forehead to your belly. “And I’m gonna spend the rest of the night reminding you.”

And as he finally slides his mouth over your most sensitive spot, you let go of everything—every worry, every doubt—because in this moment, with him, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

[roseandxanderfics]

"The Moonlight Bond" - Fenrys x Naive!reader

Summary: A nervous half-Fae outsider at Orynth’s palace feels out of place but is approached by Fenrys Moonbeam. Despite his flirtatious reputation, he offers kindness and comfort. As they talk, a quiet connection forms, and they end up falling asleep together, their bond deepening.

---------

The silver halls of Orynth’s palace were colder than you’d imagined.

Not physically—though the stone walls retained a chill from the long Terrasen winter—but in spirit. The kind of chill that had nothing to do with weather, and everything to do with how people looked at you.

You didn’t belong here. Not really.

It didn’t matter that your village elders had sent you as a “representative” of your small half-Fae settlement in the Northwood. It didn’t matter that you’d trained for this, practiced your greetings and table manners, studied the names and faces of Terrasen’s most powerful. You were out of place. You were quiet. Polite to a fault. Nervous. And very clearly not a courtier.

You had only been in Orynth for three days, and already, you’d managed to mix up the seating order at breakfast, bow too deeply to a steward, and—worst of all—mistake a dish of lemon-scented finger water for a beverage. You’d taken two sips before a kind-eyed servant gently corrected you, and you’d been dying inside ever since.

Now, seated at a long banquet table lined with gold-rimmed plates and serious people in serious clothing, you kept your head down and your hands folded in your lap.

If you don’t speak, you can’t say the wrong thing, you reminded yourself. If you don’t move, you can’t knock anything over.

A poor mantra, perhaps, but the best you had.

The dining hall was all candlelight and polished marble, the sound of clinking silverware and laughter bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. And yet, you felt more invisible than ever. At the far end of the table, Queen Aelin herself laughed over a private joke with her cousin, General Aedion Ashryver. Even from this distance, her presence crackled like lightning.

You hadn’t spoken to her. Gods above, you didn’t want to. Just being near this many powerful people made your skin itch.

So you kept to yourself, nibbling cautiously at your roasted pheasant and trying very, very hard not to look out of place.

You didn’t see him coming.

Not until the chair beside you slid back with a low scrape—and a tall, silver-haired male folded into it.

You froze.

Fenrys Moonbeam.

You recognized him immediately, of course. The Queen’s elite cadre of warriors—the famed cadre—was as well known as any legend. But Fenrys had a particular reputation. He was the flirt, the charmer. The beautiful one with teeth. Deadly and dazzling. Untouchable.

He was also the kind of person who belonged in the heart of the room, not sitting beside you.

You tried not to stare.

“Relax,” he murmured, not looking at you as he poured himself a glass of wine. “I’m not here to interrogate you.”

You stared harder at your plate.

“Though,” he added with a smirk, “I did see you drink the finger bowl earlier. That was bold.”

Your stomach turned to ice.

“I didn’t— I mean— It was an accident,” you said quickly, words tumbling over themselves. “I wasn’t—no one told me—”

“Easy, sweetheart.” He leaned his elbow on the table, resting his cheek against his knuckles as he looked at you. Really looked. “I’m not laughing at you.”

You blinked, stunned into silence by the golden warmth in his voice. His eyes were molten amber, lined with long lashes, his expression far softer than you’d imagined it could be. You’d thought he’d be mocking. Sharp. The way others at court were when you faltered.

But he wasn’t.

He was watching you like you were some kind of puzzle. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of you.

“That’s the second time someone’s called me ‘sweetheart’ since I got here,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Fenrys raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how do you feel about that?”

You stared at him, confused.

“No one’s ever… said things like that to me before,” you admitted, voice soft.

His expression shifted—just barely. Like something in him had stilled. He swirled the wine in his glass, then leaned in closer.

“Well,” he said quietly, “they should have.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that.

So you fiddled with your fork, heat creeping up your neck.

The silence between you stretched—not awkward, exactly, but heavy in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“You’re not from here,” he said finally. “And you’re not a court-trained anything, are you?”

You hesitated, unsure if it was a trap.

“I’m… from a village near the Northern border,” you said at last. “A half-Fae community. Small. Peaceful.”

Fenrys nodded like that explained everything. “You don’t talk like the rest of them.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And you’re nervous.”

“…Yes.”

He smirked. “You’re honest, too.”

You weren’t sure if it was meant to be a compliment. But it sounded like one. It felt like one.

A few minutes passed in quiet. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

Then, softly, Fenrys reached across the table and pushed your wine glass an inch to the left, away from your water bowl. “That one,” he said gently. “That’s the real drink.”

You looked up at him.

And for the first time, you smiled.

Fenrys didn’t leave after that.

He stayed beside you for the rest of the meal, occasionally offering quiet commentary when the table conversation turned political or snide. He didn’t talk down to you—never made you feel small or like you didn’t belong. If anything, it was the opposite. Somehow, just by being near him, your breathing slowed. The food didn’t taste like sawdust anymore. And when you laughed—really laughed, once, at a joke he made about Aedion’s dramatic brooding—you caught him smiling too. Softly. Like your amusement meant something.

It was strange, how someone like him—untouchable, golden, too radiant to even look at for too long—could feel like a tether. Like steadiness.

When the feast ended, you stood with the rest of the court, unsure where to go next. You hadn’t been told what came after—whether you were expected to mingle, retreat to your guest rooms, or simply disappear.

You turned to ask someone—anyone—and found Fenrys watching you again.

He didn’t speak at first. Just held out a hand.

You stared at it, hesitant.

“I won’t bite,” he said, lips tilting in that easy grin. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Your face went hot.

But… you took it.

His hand was warm, his grip sure but gentle as he led you away from the dining hall—not through the grand corridor, but through a side door that opened into a quieter wing of the palace. The servants’ candles burned lower here, casting gold light against stone and tapestry. You walked in silence for a few moments, his fingers still loosely curled around yours.

Eventually, you found your voice. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace less crowded,” he said. “You looked like you needed a break.”

You blinked, surprised. “You noticed?”

He stopped walking.

Turned to face you.

His voice dropped to something quieter. “I notice everything about you.”

The words stole the air from your lungs.

You didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t understand what he meant. But the look in his eyes… it was real. Unflinching. Like he meant every word, and more he wasn’t saying.

“I’m sorry,” you said instead, because that was your reflex. Your habit. “I know I must seem—awkward. I don’t have experience with… with any of this. Politics. Conversation. Men like you.”

He cocked his head, expression unreadable. “Men like me?”

“You’re charming,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “And confident. And everyone watches you when you walk into a room.”

His lips twitched. “And you think that means I don’t get nervous?”

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he admitted, shrugging, “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember what it felt like.”

Your steps slowed as the hallway opened into a quiet, moonlit balcony overlooking the palace gardens. The scent of early-blooming jasmine floated through the air, soft and sweet.

You walked to the edge, resting your hands on the stone railing.

Fenrys stayed beside you, close but not crowding.

“I used to be afraid of court, too,” he said after a long pause. “Not for the same reasons. But I know what it’s like to pretend you know the rules.”

You glanced up at him. “I’m not pretending very well.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s what I like about you.”

Your heart skipped.

His tone had changed. Quieter. More serious.

You looked away, afraid you’d say something foolish. He was too much—too bright, too steady, too kind in a way that felt… dangerous. Because you didn’t know how to protect yourself from someone like that.

“I don’t really understand what’s happening here,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them. “I don’t know what to say to someone like you.”

Fenrys turned to face you, the moonlight catching in his hair, turning him to silver and fire.

“Then don’t say anything,” he murmured.

And he reached up—slowly, gently—to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers brushed your skin, and you felt it like a spark.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The silence between you wasn’t empty now. It was charged—filled with something warm and fragile, something you didn’t have the words for yet. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. Your fingers curled tightly on the stone edge of the railing.

He stepped a fraction closer.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” you whispered, before you could think.

He smiled again, this time softer.

His hand fell to your shoulder, then lower—fingertips brushing your arm, barely there. His touch wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t demanding. It was a question, and an answer all at once.

“I don’t play games,” he said, serious now. “Not with things that matter. Not with people like you.”

“People like me?”

“You’re real,” he said. “You look at this world like it’s too big, too fast—and you still try to be kind in it. You don’t hide behind pretty lies.”

“I don’t know how,” you admitted.

“Good.” He tilted his head. “Don’t learn.”

You didn’t know who leaned in first.

Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him.

But the space between you vanished, and the kiss was nothing like you expected. Not urgent. Not bold. Just… warm. Steady. A brush of his lips over yours like he was asking permission even now. Like he was letting you lead.

When he pulled back, his thumb ghosted over your cheek, catching the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. Dazed. Heart full.

He leaned his forehead gently against yours.

“Then let me walk you to your room,” he said. “And if you want me to leave after that, I will.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But your fingers found his again, twining softly between his own.

And he understood.

The walk back through the palace was quiet.

Fenrys didn’t let go of your hand.

You didn’t talk much—not because there wasn’t anything to say, but because the silence between you had changed. It was no longer full of nerves and gaps. It just was. Comfortable, like the hush between pages in a book, when the story is still writing itself.

You reached the guest wing without incident. No curious stares. No lingering courtiers. Just a stretch of moonlit hallway and the soft hush of your footsteps across marble.

When you reached your door, you turned toward him.

He didn’t crowd you. Didn’t press. Just waited.

“I…” You weren’t sure what you wanted to say. You’d never invited anyone into your space like this. Never wanted to. But something about him—his steadiness, the way he looked at you like you weren’t something to be fixed or reshaped—made it feel… safe.

You stepped back and opened the door.

He followed you in quietly, pausing only to close it behind you with a gentle click.

Your room was simple—guest quarters, nothing grand. A fire burned low in the hearth. The window was open, letting in the scent of pine and distant snow. A single candle flickered on the bedside table, its light soft and golden.

You turned to face him, suddenly unsure again. “I don’t know what to do now.”

Fenrys’s gaze met yours, steady and unhurried. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“But I want—” You stopped yourself. Blushed. “I think I want you to stay.”

He stepped forward and lifted a hand to your cheek. Just rested it there, thumb brushing over your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“Then I’ll stay.”

You didn’t move away when he pulled you gently into his chest. You didn’t stop the way your head tucked under his chin, or how your arms slowly found their way around his waist. You just stood there, wrapped in the quiet strength of him, and let yourself feel it.

The calm. The warmth. The truth of being held without expectation.

He didn't kiss you again.

He didn't need to.

Instead, he guided you to the bed—not rushed, not suggestive. Just gentle. Kind. He helped you out of the heavy outer layers of your formal clothes, then took a step back to let you change, eyes turned respectfully away. When you were curled beneath the covers in your nightclothes, he sat on the edge of the bed, silent for a moment.

Then: “Can I lie beside you?”

You nodded. He pulled off his boots, loosened his shirt, and joined you under the blankets.

He didn’t wrap himself around you. He didn’t make it anything more than what it was: comfort. Presence.

But eventually, as the firelight dimmed and the quiet pressed in, you shifted.

Turned.

Found your way into his arms.

He didn’t say a word. Just held you close, his body warm and solid against yours, one hand curled loosely at your waist, the other stroking lazy patterns along your back.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” you whispered, sleep tugging at your voice.

“Neither do I,” he murmured. “But I like it.”

“Me too.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And you did.

For the first time in days, your chest didn’t feel tight.

For the first time in months, your thoughts weren’t racing.

And for the first time in your life, you fell asleep in someone’s arms knowing—really knowing—that you were wanted exactly as you were.

Naive or not.

New or not.

You.

That was enough.

It always had been.

[roseandxanderfics]

Marvel – Shy Reader x Cockwarming (#28) – Bucky Barnes

You’re tucked into Bucky’s lap, your face buried against the crook of his neck, your breath shaky as you try to process how full you feel. His cock is buried deep inside you, but he’s not moving—he’s just holding you there, his arms like a fortress around your body.

“Easy,” he murmurs, one warm hand stroking slow circles on your back, the other resting possessively on your thigh. “We’re not in any rush.”

You whimper, shifting just a little—enough for him to tighten his grip and still you completely. “Stay still, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and patient. “I just want to feel you.”

You shiver at the raw need in his tone, your skin flushing with heat as you cling to him. “Bucky… I don’t know if I can,” you admit, your voice small and breathless.

He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Just let me have this. Let me have you.”

Every time you try to shift or squirm, he gently presses you back down, his hands firm and reassuring. The intensity of it—the way he fills you, the way he holds you there—it makes your head spin.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down to your jaw. “So warm and soft around me… I could stay like this forever.”

And you believe him—because every breath he takes is a testament to how much he needs you, every gentle word a promise that he’s not going anywhere. So you let yourself go, relaxing in his hold, letting the weight of his need anchor you to the present.

You’re his—completely and utterly—and you know he’d burn the world down to keep you safe.

[roseandxanderfics]

"What the moon saw" - Lorcan x BlindSeer!reader

Summary: The court is losing until you show up, unmake their enemies, and tell Lorcan, “I heard you, even when you didn’t speak.” He breaks.

----------

The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, and yet everything felt on edge.

Aelin’s court was on alert—Rowan stood tense beside her, Fenrys prowled the edge of the shadows like a wolf barely leashed. Even Lysandra, half-shifted, rippled uneasily beneath her skin. Lorcan didn’t like it. He rarely liked anything, but tonight, his discomfort had teeth. Something was coming.

Something that didn’t feel like an enemy. But not quite an ally, either.

And then you arrived.

You didn’t ride a horse. You didn’t walk like someone afraid. You came barefoot, your long, midnight-dark cloak trailing behind you like fog. Head high. Expression serene.

Eyes… unfocused.

Lorcan’s hand went to his sword. Not because you were threatening, but because you were strange. Unnerving. He watched you move like someone who couldn’t see and yet missed not a single step. Aelin stiffened.

The warding stones didn’t flicker. You had passed through them like mist.

Rowan stepped forward. “Who are you?”

You smiled. Gentle. Almost apologetic.

“I’ve been called many names,” you said softly, voice barely above the hush of wind. “But the one that matters is the one I carry now.”

You didn’t give it. Of course you didn’t.

Lorcan didn’t trust you. Not with that ancient weight clinging to your magic. It pulsed, heavy as winter. But not cold. You smelled like myrrh and parchment, like temples that had been burned and rebuilt.

“You’re blind,” Lysandra said, half a question.

You tilted your head. “Yes. And more than that.”

“You’re a seer,” Rowan murmured. “A powerful one.”

Aelin’s voice was steel beneath velvet. “Why are you here?”

“I was called.” You stepped into the center of the courtyard, the moon catching in your hair. “Not by name. But by need.”

Lorcan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You turned toward him, though your eyes didn’t focus.

“I heard you,” you said. “Even when you didn’t speak.”

He scowled. “I don’t need—”

“But you do.” Your voice cut cleanly, though still so gentle. “You’ve been needing for a very long time.”

Before he could speak again, the night shattered.

A scream tore across the stars—a soundless, wordless ripping of the air. Then the dark flooded in: creatures not of this world, breaking through the veil with shadow-wrapped claws and snarling mouths. Rowan’s wind burst out. Aelin’s fire followed. Fenrys vanished and reappeared mid-strike.

But they were losing.

There were too many.

Lorcan’s power ripped from him like a tidal wave—but even he couldn’t see the end of it. His arms bled. His sword broke. Someone screamed behind him—Aedion, wounded. He couldn’t reach him in time—

Then time itself paused.

Or maybe it bent.

You walked through the battlefield, utterly untouched. You didn’t draw a weapon. You simply raised your hands and spoke.

It wasn’t a language he knew. It was older than Fae, older than gods.

The shadows stopped moving.

The creatures turned—every single one.

And then, with the calm of someone brushing leaves from a path, you erased them.

You didn’t kill. You unmade.

When silence returned, you stood in the center of the courtyard again. Breathing slowly. Pale. Trembling.

Lorcan moved before he could stop himself.

You flinched when he touched your shoulder—only slightly, a twitch. And he realized: for all your power, you weren’t used to being touched.

He pulled back. “You alright?”

“I’m always tired after I change the thread,” you said quietly. “It’s like… pulling too hard on a fragile seam.”

Lorcan stared at you. This small, blind woman who had rewritten reality with a whisper.

“You changed time,” he said.

You nodded once. “I saw a thread that ended in all your deaths. I snipped it.”

“You said you were called by need.”

“Yes.” You turned your face toward him again. “I was listening. And you were lonely.”

That did it.

That broke something in him.

Lorcan had faced death, betrayal, gods, monsters. But this—this kind, ageless seer speaking so softly of his loneliness—unmade him more thoroughly than any sword.

You tilted your head again, curious. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“I’m not—” His voice cracked. “I’m not used to kindness.”

“I know.”

You reached out carefully, touching the edge of his torn sleeve.

“I see a lot. But sometimes, people are quieter than fate. Harder to look at directly. You were one of those.” Your fingers skimmed his forearm. “But now I see you.”

He was shaking.

Gods, he hadn’t shaken in centuries.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he said hoarsely.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just sit beside me.”

“And what—what happens next?”

You smiled again. That same unbearable gentleness.

“That depends on the moon.”

The others watched from a distance.

Rowan, leaning against the ruined gate, said nothing. But Aelin’s eyes were wide with wonder—and something else. Respect.

“She’s older than all of us,” Lysandra murmured. “Older than Mab, maybe.”

Fenrys whistled low. “And she chose Lorcan?”

Rowan shook his head faintly. “She heard him. No one else ever has.”

Aedion—bruised, bloody—managed a half-smile. “Maybe that’s all he ever needed.”

In the center of the courtyard, Lorcan sat beside you.

Just close enough that your hands brushed.

He didn’t say another word. But he didn’t move away either.

And far, far above, the moon watched in silence. As it always had. As it always would.

[roseandxanderfics]

The Witcher – Bold Reader x Hair Pulling (#15) – Geralt of Rivia

Your laughter is a spark in the cold night air as you press yourself against Geralt’s chest, your fingers deftly undoing the ties of his armor. “Thought you were supposed to be the strong, silent type,” you tease, your lips curling in a wicked grin.

He grunts in response, his hand tangling in your hair before you can react. The sudden tug makes you gasp, your laughter dying on your lips as he yanks your head back to meet his gaze.

“Careful,” he growls, his golden eyes dark with heat. “You’re playing with fire, little witch.”

“Oh, I think I can handle it,” you murmur, breathless and defiant. You’re half-expecting him to let go, to push you away. Instead, his hand tightens in your hair, his other arm banding around your waist as he hauls you closer.

“You want me to lose control?” he asks, his voice a low rasp that sends a shiver straight to your core. “You want to see what happens when I stop holding back?”

You can only nod, your breath caught in your throat. He smirks then—a dangerous, feral thing—and crushes his mouth to yours. The kiss is bruising, claiming, his teeth scraping your bottom lip as his hand in your hair pulls just enough to make you whimper.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper, “I hope you’re ready, because I’m not going to be gentle tonight.” And you’re trembling already at the promise in his voice.

He spins you around, pressing you up against the rough stone wall of the keep, your hands braced for support. You feel the warmth of his body crowding yours, the rough scrape of his beard on your neck as he leans in close.

“Every time you mouth off, I’m going to remind you exactly who’s in charge,” he says, his teeth grazing your skin.

And he does—again and again, until your voice is raw with his name and you’re a boneless mess in his arms, your hair mussed and your lips swollen from all the ways he’s claimed you.

[roseandxanderfics]

"What you leave unsaid" - Aedion x Reader

Summary: You’re quiet, guarded, and morally gray—but Aedion sees through your silence. When you kill to protect a child without hesitation, he begins to understand you in ways no one else does, and starts to fall for the person you are, not just what others see.

---------

People never knew what to make of you.

You didn’t smile much. You didn’t meet many eyes. You rarely spoke unless something needed saying. And when you did speak, it was clipped and quiet—precise in a way that made some people uncomfortable. You didn’t laugh when others did, didn’t flinch when others froze.

But Aelin trusted you. That was enough to keep the rest from questioning it—at least out loud.

Aedion, though? Aedion noticed everything.

You could feel his gaze before he ever said a word to you directly. It wasn’t hostile. Not exactly. But it was watchful. Sharp in a way that made your spine tense every time he was near. He was careful, yes, but not quiet. He filled space with noise and heat and charisma—things you’d long since stopped trying to mirror.

You hated crowds. You hated unpredictability. And most of all, you hated being touched.

None of which was compatible with Aedion Ashryver.

Or so you thought.

The first time he spoke to you properly was during a debrief. You were sitting in the corner of the war tent, fingers working through a piece of cloth, grounding yourself through texture while Aelin spoke. You had already processed what you needed to; now it was just too loud to think.

And then:

“You don’t like meetings,” Aedion said.

You glanced at him—briefly—and nodded. “Too much talk.”

He tilted his head. “But you stay.”

“I need the information.”

He didn’t smirk like you expected. Didn’t tease. He just nodded, like you’d given a perfectly reasonable answer.

You blinked.

That was the first time he made space for you. Quietly. No fanfare. Just a shift in posture, a softening of his voice when he leaned closer later and said, “They’re discussing border placements. The rest is politics.”

He was telling you what you needed so you could leave.

You did.

The next day, he brought you a map with the placements marked.

Still, he didn’t understand you. Not really. He was kind, yes. But wary. Unsure where you stood, or how far you’d go.

You never tried to reassure him.

You weren’t particularly good. You didn’t pretend to be.

You knew how to end life far more precisely than you knew how to comfort it.

But you never lifted your hand without reason.

That changed the day the caravan was attacked.

It was supposed to be routine—supplies being delivered to a village outside Terrasen’s border. You volunteered to go. You didn’t mind quiet tasks. Didn’t mind being alone.

But Aelin had insisted someone go with you. So Aedion did.

You said nothing the entire ride. He didn’t push.

You were three miles from the village when the screaming started.

A trap. Bandits, or something worse. You and Aedion split off from the main guard, trying to flank the attackers. The air smelled like smoke and magic. You saw children running. One of them—small, maybe six—tripped in the dust, directly in the path of a charging horse.

Aedion shouted.

You moved.

Fast.

You didn’t run to the child—you flicked your hand.

The horse dropped mid-charge, its body seizing as its mind was crushed with invisible weight. The rider barely had time to scream before you twisted your fingers, and the earth beneath him cracked open like it had been waiting for your command.

Silence fell in the clearing.

Aedion stared.

You walked to the child, crouched carefully, and offered your hand. Not touching—never without permission. Just… waiting.

The child blinked at you, then reached up.

You carried her to safety.

You never said a word.

Later, Aedion approached you by the river. Your sleeves were rolled, your boots stained with dust and blood. You were cleaning a blade you hadn’t even used—more out of habit than necessity.

“You didn’t hesitate,” he said quietly.

You looked up, eyes cool. “She was going to die.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You waited.

“I’ve seen power before,” he said. “I’ve seen killing. That was different.”

Still, you said nothing.

“You didn’t even blink.”

“She was a child. He was armed.”

“And if someone else had gotten in your way?”

Your eyes didn’t shift. “Then I would’ve moved them.”

That answer should’ve chilled him. But it didn’t. Not entirely.

Because he was watching you now—not with fear, but understanding.

“Is that how you see the world?” he asked.

You considered it. “I see cause. I see effect. I don’t always understand the lines people draw between them.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s not wrong.”

“No. Just… different.”

After that, he started talking to you more.

Not constantly. Not all at once. But gradually. He asked what you liked—what helped you ground yourself. He made space at meals when the hall was too loud. He tapped your shoulder before speaking if you looked overstimulated. He never touched unless you touched first.

And you started noticing him in new ways too.

He paced when he was thinking. He clenched his jaw when he was hiding frustration. He was reckless sometimes, too emotional, too reactive.

But he waited for you.

When others interrupted or rushed you, Aedion simply… didn’t.

When others asked what you felt, he asked what you saw.

And one night, weeks after the river, you told him.

“I don’t trust easily,” you said, voice almost inaudible.

He didn’t ask why.

You went on anyway.

“My world doesn’t work like theirs. I don’t… respond the right way. People assume I don’t care.”

His hand hovered near yours. Close, but not touching.

“I know you care,” he said. “I see it.”

You looked at him.

“You do?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

You reached out—slow, careful—and touched his fingers.

And he held very still, letting you decide how close was safe.

The first time you kissed him, it wasn’t dramatic.

You were watching the sunrise on a cold morning. He brought you tea and didn’t try to make conversation. You were quiet for nearly an hour before you turned, met his eyes, and said:

“May I?”

He nodded once.

So you leaned in and pressed your lips gently, tentatively, to his.

It was a short kiss. A breath. But it was real.

And when you pulled back, he smiled—not wide or smug or cocky.

Just soft.

Like he knew what it cost you to reach.

Aelin never said anything. But she looked at you both with a rare, knowing sort of pride. The others didn’t understand. You preferred it that way.

Because they didn’t see how your hand found Aedion’s when the noise got too loud.

They didn’t hear the way he translated the chaos of war meetings into clear, bullet-point summaries just for you.

They didn’t know that when the world was too much—too bright, too loud, too full—Aedion didn’t pull you out of it.

He just waited inside the silence with you.

Until you were ready.

And slowly, you learned to stay.

[roseandxanderfics]

“Stay Where I Put You” - Joe Goldberg x shynaivemorallygrey!reader

⸻

Summary: Joe ties you down after you try to handle something without him—showing you exactly who’s in control.

A/N: This one is dark and smutty.

————————

You didn’t mean to disobey him.

Not really.

It wasn’t even that serious—just a little problem you thought you could take care of on your own. A man who asked too many questions. A phone call you intercepted before Joe could hear it. A visit to someone who might’ve seen too much. You’d only wanted to help.

But that’s not how Joe sees it.

And now, he’s quiet. Too quiet.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the hem of your oversized shirt—his shirt—watching him pace the room like he’s solving a riddle only he can hear. When he finally turns to face you, there’s something different in his eyes. Not anger. Not coldness.

Possession.

“You didn’t tell me,” he says.

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

That’s when you see it: the faint flicker of disappointment, the wounded pride beneath all that intensity. You’d bruised something in him, something delicate and territorial.

“You don’t get to decide what’s necessary,” Joe says calmly, stepping closer. “That’s my job. That’s always been my job.”

You open your mouth to apologize, but he’s already reaching into the drawer beside the bed.

Your breath hitches when you see the silk ties.

“Joe…”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t even look angry. He simply says, “Lie back.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Because part of you knew this was coming. And another part of you—one that’s shamefully warm between your thighs—has been waiting for it.

He ties your wrists first, snug and patient. No rush. Just the soft drag of silk, the brush of his knuckles on your skin. Then your ankles. You’re splayed open for him, laid out like something to be worshipped or ruined. Or both.

Joe stands over you, gaze slow and deliberate as it travels the length of your body.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Trying to fix things like you’re not the most breakable thing in this house.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You were trying to protect me.” He nods once. “But I don’t need protecting. You do.”

His fingers trail down your body—your arms, your breasts, your stomach—until they rest between your thighs. He doesn’t touch you properly yet. Just brushes his knuckles over your soaked underwear, watching the way you shiver.

“This is what happens when you forget that,” he says softly. “When you get curious. When you act like you’re in control.”

Then he pulls your panties aside and slips two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, arching as much as the ties will let you.

“God, Joe—!”

But he doesn’t stop. Just curls them inside you, slow and cruel, until your hips buck and your breath stutters. His thumb finds your clit, circles it expertly, and your body starts to tremble.

“Already?” he says, lips brushing your ear. “Already so close and I’ve barely touched you.”

You nod, eyes glassy. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need,” he says. “And you’ll take what I give you.”

Joe doesn’t let you come. Not yet.

He pushes you to the edge again and again, only to back off. His fingers, his tongue, the way he whispers filthy praise against your skin—it’s all calculated, all meant to unmake you. Your arms pull at the silk restraints uselessly, but there’s no escaping him. You don’t want to.

When he finally fucks you, it’s slow at first—deliberate and deep. Like a warning. Like he’s teaching your body something.

“You’ll ask next time,” he says, hips rolling into you hard enough to make the headboard shake.

“Yes—yes, I will—!”

“You’ll tell me. You’ll stay where I put you.”

You nod, frantic. “I’ll be good. I’ll—Joe, I’ll be so good—”

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, fucking you faster now. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—I’m yours, Joe, I’m—”

Your orgasm hits so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs. But he doesn’t stop.

Not even when you cry out, when your legs shake, when you’re so overstimulated that pleasure starts to blur into pain. He keeps going until you’re boneless beneath him, until there’s nothing left in your mind but him.

Only then does he untie you.

He gathers you into his arms like you’re something sacred. Kisses your damp temple. Covers your body with the blanket and pulls you into his chest, stroking your hair gently.

“There you go,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I always do.”

You fall asleep with his hands still on you—like if he lets go, you’ll slip away again.

But you won’t.

Because you’ve learned now.

You stay where he puts you.

[roseandxanderfics]

"The girl who forgets to breathe" - Fenrys x DitzySeer!reader

Summary: Everyone thinks you're just spacey... until you predict Fenrys’s death to the hour and stop it. Now he’s watching everything you do.

-----------

They called you “the girl who forgets to breathe.”

It started as a joke, whispered in the training yard. You’d go quiet in the middle of a conversation, your eyes somewhere far away. Sometimes you forgot to answer questions. Or you laughed a few seconds too late. You’d wander off without warning, fingers grazing the wall like you were looking for a tether in a storm no one else could feel.

Fenrys heard it first from Aedion—said with a snort of laughter and a casual shake of the head.

“She just… drifts. Like her mind’s made of clouds.”

But Fenrys kept watching.

It started with little things. You never responded when someone spoke behind you. You didn’t react unless you were facing them, watching their lips. If the courtyard was loud, your expression went fuzzy and withdrawn, like you'd been unplugged from the moment.

But other times, you were sharp as a blade.

Like when you warned Lysandra to step back from a loose stone seconds before the battlement collapsed. Or when you reached out and grabbed Fenrys’s arm during a hunt, whispering, “Don’t take the next step,” right before a hidden snare would’ve shattered his leg.

He’d tried to laugh it off, the way the others did. But when you looked up at him—soft, blinking, as if confused why he was staring—he couldn’t.

Because Fenrys had seen your eyes in that moment.

And they weren’t blank.

They were knowing.

He started paying attention after that.

You didn’t seem to notice. You didn’t notice much, not the way people usually did. You rarely met his eyes for long. You smiled too quickly and apologized too often. You flinched when someone touched you unexpectedly, even if it was just a nudge.

But the more time Fenrys spent around you, the more he realized you weren’t ditzy. You were… elsewhere.

Always elsewhere.

“Do you hear music?” you asked once, your fingers pressing lightly against a pillar in the hallway.

Fenrys had blinked. “No?”

You tilted your head. “It’ll start soon. That usually means bad weather.”

And two days later, a storm broke over the castle so violently the roof of the war tent blew off and nearly crushed Lorcan.

When Fenrys teased you about it, you just gave him that same dazed little smile. “The music gets louder before storms. That’s all.”

You always had strange answers like that.

It wasn’t until the day you said he would die that Fenrys stopped pretending this wasn’t real.

You had come into the war room barefoot, your cloak inside out, one side of your hair tangled in a braid that never quite finished. No one had seen you in nearly a day, and your entrance stopped even Lorcan mid-sentence.

You looked only at Fenrys.

“I need you to stay out of the field tomorrow,” you said.

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

You didn’t answer.

Fenrys cleared his throat. “Why, sweetheart?”

Your eyes met his, and they were clearer than he’d ever seen them.

“Because you die at the ninth hour,” you said softly. “If you go.”

The room was dead quiet.

He tried to laugh—but his throat didn’t work. “You… what?”

“Speared. From behind. You don’t see it.”

Lysandra took a step toward you. “Are you sure?”

You just nodded. Then you sat down, right on the floor, and didn’t speak again.

Fenrys didn’t believe you.

At least, not until the next day, when the scouting party returned—without him, because Rowan had quietly held him back—and reported that one of their men had fallen exactly the way you described. Same hour. Same place. Same angle.

Lorcan had gone pale.

“She was off by a heartbeat,” he said quietly.

Fenrys hadn’t moved. He just stared at the map, unable to breathe.

You were right.

You’d seen it.

You’d saved him.

That night, he found you sitting beneath a tree outside the castle, your knees drawn to your chest and your fingers pulling at threads on your sleeve. You were humming something he couldn’t hear. When he got closer, you didn’t flinch—but you didn’t look up either.

“You’re always quiet after,” Fenrys said, lowering himself beside you. “Why?”

You shrugged. “It’s loud inside. After I see things.”

He watched you for a moment, the way your lashes trembled with each blink, how your hands shook when you reached for a flower in the grass.

“Do you know everything?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Only what I’m given. It’s like… pockets of the future. They open and close.”

He let that settle.

“And your hearing?”

“I lost it young. Magic took it. I can still feel voices when it’s quiet. I can hear if I’m looking.” You touched your ear lightly. “But I miss a lot. People think I’m strange.”

“I don’t.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“Really?”

“You’re terrifying,” he said, smiling faintly. “But not strange.”

You blushed. Actually blushed.

“I like you,” you said, very softly, like it was something you weren’t sure you were allowed to say.

Fenrys’s heart squeezed.

He leaned in, voice quiet. “I like you too, little moon.”

You looked at him, startled. “Why would you call me that?”

He touched your cheek, brushing a curl from your face. “Because you pull the tides without realizing it.”

He stayed with you that night. Not close—he knew you startled easily—but near enough that your shoulder brushed his sometimes. He let the silence grow comfortable, let the stars come out.

After a while, you whispered, “Lorcan dreams too loud.”

Fenrys laughed, but gently. “I’ll let him know.”

You tilted your head. “He’s lonelier than he admits.”

“Yeah,” Fenrys said. “He is.”

You paused.

“…He looks at me like he sees the edge of the world.”

“Does that scare you?”

You shook your head. “No. It makes me want to offer him a chair.”

Fenrys took your hand.

He knew, then, without words: you could love more than one person. You already did. Not with fire, but with stillness. With gentleness. With silence, and visions, and your fingertips brushing the threads of the world.

And for the first time in his long, chaotic life, Fenrys felt quiet too.

Like maybe this—sitting beside you, watching you blink slowly at the moon—was the kind of peace he never thought he’d deserve.