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florencemtrash · 1 year ago

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The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Seventeen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

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

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

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“I will.”

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

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

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

“You’re not hurting me, Y/n.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you… do you regret it?”

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

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

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

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

“You’re wearing them again.”

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

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

“I know, Azriel.”

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

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

“So what?” You breathed out.

Azriel shook. “Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

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

You were like water threatening to slip through his fingertips.

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

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

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

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

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

Tell her. Tell her. Tell her.

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

Another day.

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

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

You’d kissed him. You’d kissed him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I think that was meant to be dessert.”

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

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

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

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

“No. I don’t doubt you.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid. Stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was all about realism.

Exactness.

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

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

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

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

It just might work.

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

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

It just might work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what if you’re wrong?”

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

“A Duel of Two Faces by Aechtion.”

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

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

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

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

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

Seven days.

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

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

“Where are you off to this time?”

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

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

Ten days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n—” Feyre began.

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

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

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

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Author's Note:

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

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

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

#the shadowsinger and the inkbird #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x reader slowburn #azriel x you #azriel x helion's daughter

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rottenpumpkin13 · 4 months ago

Note

I find it so hilarious that due to the shenanigans that happens in the tower, since mayor Domino has a security cameras everywhere, I can't imagine the things he sees and they're all funny as hell.

Out Of Context Things Mayor Domino Has Witnessed Through Security Cameras:

• Sephiroth, poised and disciplined, strolling through the SOLDIER floor calmly. Until he abruptly pivots into a broom closet, where the security feed catches a single, deafening "FUCK!" He then emerges, perfectly composed, like nothing happened.

• Reeve Tuesti, at 3 AM, roaming the halls in a full-body cat onesie, shaking two pill bottles like maracas.

• Zack sprinting full-speed down the hallway, screaming bloody murder. Moments later, Angeal appears in hot pursuit, wielding a buzzing electric toothbrush like a weapon, dental floss clutched in his other hand like he's about to lasso a runaway horse.

• Reno, walking at his usual lazy pace, cigarette in mouth, completely unbothered—until he spots a Sephiroth cardboard cutout in the hallway. He immediately looks left, looks right, then leans in and kisses it way too passionately before walking off like nothing happened.

• Genesis dramatically recounting gossip on the phone, gesturing wildly. Mayor Domino didn't catch the full story, but the part he did hear went "And then she slathered the honey on her breasts, which INFURIATED him, which is why he quit veganism. But that's unrelated to why he beat up his cousin with a block of salami."

• Rude, entering an elevator alone. No words, no hesitation. He reaches into his blazer pocket, pulls out a perfectly styled wig, and wears it for the entire elevator ride, staring straight ahead. The second the doors open, he removes it and pockets it again.

• Hours upon hours of footage of Lazard flipping off President Shinra every time he thinks no one's watching. Mayor Domino has seen so much of this footage that he printed out screenshots and made a mosaic collage of Lazard's middle fingers. It's framed in his office.

• Tseng caught on camera standing completely still in the break room, drinking coffee, when Reno enters and opens the fridge. Without breaking eye contact, Tseng casually says "That pudding is mine." Reno, unfazed, takes the pudding out. Tseng calmly draws a gun.

• Zack jumping from the ceiling vents, dusting himself off. Then he looks back up, spreads his arms wide, and coos "Come on, buddy, I got you! It's okay!" Mayor Domino expected a human. Maybe Cloud Strife. Instead, a giant rat leaped from the vents, lovingly into Zack's arms.

• Genesis, striding down the hallway, suddenly stopping. His gaze lands on a fire alarm. He stares at it. Long. Hard. The security feed shows him sighing deeply, pulling a religious book from his coat, and reading a verse about temptation aloud. Then, with a satisfied nod, he smooths his coat, flips his hair, and walks away. Exactly one minute later, he comes sprinting back, yanks the fire alarm, and flees the scene.

• Angeal, in the break room, just trying to enjoy some peace and quiet. The door swings open. Cait Sith waddles in cheerfully. "A good day tae be alive ain't it, lad? Ye know, in th' grand scheme o' things, assassinating President Shinra would be a real power move!" Angeal bursts into laughter—unhinged, exhausted laughter—like a man finally breaking under the weight of his reality. Still chuckling, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a bottle of sleep meds, pops two like they're breath mints, and leans back against the chair.

• Angeal, Sephiroth, and Genesis standing before the training room doors. This was after Lazard banned them after their last "incident." The security feed shows them hijacking the access panel, bypassing the lock, and triumphantly striding inside. Exactly ten seconds later, the doors reopen. All three exit with their hands in the air. Escorting them out is Lazard, shotgun in hand.

• Zack and Cloud enter an elevator together, alone. The doors close. The security feed catches Zack saying: "Now that we're alone… you know what we can do, right?" Domino thinks he might need to avert his eyes. But then, without hesitation, Zack clambers into Cloud's arms like a toddler.

• Sephiroth and Hojo, approaching each other from opposite hallways. They're destined to meet at the corner. Until they don't. The footage clearly shows Sephiroth stopping mid-stride, eyes narrowing. He has sensed something. A disturbance. Evil. The next second, he yeets himself out a nearby window.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #crisis core #tseng #reno ff7 #reeve tuesti

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iibgdrgn · 2 months ago

Text

STAR-SHAPED HEALING RECIPE! KWON JI-YONG / M! READER

↳ pairing: 2010! kwon ji-yong x male reader

↳ word count: 3.4k

↳ warnings: none

↳ a/n: heeellooo. don’t have so much to say, this is pure fluff. i got inspired by that video where bom goes to the studio even though she's sick. :p enjoyyy!

It was the second day of your cold, the day when everything just felt worse. Your head was heavy, your throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper, and your entire body pulsed with feverish heat despite the biting winter chill outside. You couldn't even remember how you got sick in the first place. Maybe it was the night you stubbornly walked out without a coat, thinking winter wouldn't dare mess with your schedule. Now, your whole body was paying the price.

Still, despite the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat that burned every time you swallowed, you didn't think twice about showing up. You'd promised Ji-yong you'd be at the studio today to record your part of the song, and you weren't about to break that promise. He'd been working hard trying to finish this track so he could move on to the next one. You knew how much it meant to him. How much he hated leaving things unfinished.

So... you didn't tell him you were sick.

Instead, you bundled yourself in two coats, wrapped your thickest scarf twice around your neck, and downed two mugs of ginger tea like a desperate spell. You even took cough drops like candy, hoping the mint would numb your throat long enough to sing something usable.

You arrived a little late, the cold biting at your cheeks as you stepped into the hallway. Through the half-closed door of the studio, you saw him.

Ji-yong was sitting at the desk, hoodie up, scarf around his neck, pen tapping rhythmically against his notebook. His head moved with the silent beat in his head, brows slightly furrowed, completely immersed in whatever he was writing. He was quiet, focused, beautiful in a way that made you pause outside the door, just watching.

You pushed the door open gently.

The sound made him lift his head, and the second he saw you, his whole face lit up. That soft, almost boyish grin appeared immediately as he patted the empty chair beside him.

Ji-yong turned his chair to look at you.

"Good morning, jagi." He said, smiling.

You barely had time to smile before his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks gently as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. His scarf brushing your face.

He pulled back slightly and frowned. "Wait... babe—you're burning up."

He stared at you, frowning now, one palm going to your cheek like he needed to confirm it. The warmth of his touch was oddly comforting, and you leaned into it for just a second too long.

"Hm? I had to run. I forgot to eat, so I stopped at that café near the corner. Didn't notice the time and I had to hurry."

Ji-yong squinted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Why didn't you just eat downstairs? The cafeteria's open."

You didn't answered for a moment, and you thought he catched you.

"They didn't had what I wanted."

He didn't speak for a second, just stared at you with narrowed eyes like he was replaying the conversation in his mind. But then... he let it go.

A soft exhale. A quiet smile. He gave your cheek one last squeeze, then turned back to his desk, spinning slightly in his chair as he focused on the screen in front of him. The track was already loaded, the waveforms of the instruments and vocals dancing on the monitor.

"Alright," he said, tone shifting into something more practical, "your part starts here."

He passed you his notebook, where your verse was neatly handwritten, little annotations scribbled in the margins, underlined words he wanted emphasized, a couple of circled syllables. His handwriting was a little messy, but somehow still elegant.

You nodded as you scanned the lines, trying to ignore the fact that the letters were starting to blur.

Ji-yong didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn't suspect anything beyond your usual sleep-deprived self. He leaned over the console, adjusting the levels, humming softly under his breath. "We'll do a soft take first. Just to warm up your voice."

He was being gentle without realizing it.

You stood, slipping off your coat slowly, careful not to let the sudden wave of chills show on your face. The cold clung to your skin like a second layer, and even with the thick scarf around your neck, your body trembled slightly as you crossed the room.

Ji-yong glanced up from the controls, smiling again. "Ready?"

You nodded once, then stepped inside the booth. You let out a quiet breath, one hand pressing against the headphones as you slid them on, the other adjusting the mic with fingers that trembled just a little too much.

He adjusted the track from the other side of the glass and gave you a thumbs up, his expression glowing with quiet anticipation.

The track started in your headphones. You took a deep breath, trying to summon the voice you'd practiced all week, but as soon as you opened your mouth, only a faint, strained whisper came out. The note cracked on the second syllable, your throat tightening painfully.

Ji-yong's brows pinched the slightest bit. He leaned toward the screen, adjusted the input volume, then spoke into the mic.

"Let's try that one more time, love. I think the input was a little low."

You gave a small nod, trying to act like it wasn't your voice at fault.

The instrumental restarted. You cleared your throat, softly, and tried again. This time you made it halfway through the verse before your voice gave out completely, breaking into a dry cough that you couldn't suppress.

Through the glass, Ji-yong's expression shifted, his smile dropped, concern flickering into his features as he leaned back in his chair.

He didn't press the button to speak this time. Instead, he stood up.

You saw him disappear from view for a moment. A second later, he was outside the booth.

You lowered your hand from your mouth, trying to play it off like nothing happened, but your flushed face and watery eyes because of the cough betrayed you before you could say a word.

Ji-yong stepped inside, softly closing the door behind him. The noise of the outside world faded instantly, leaving just the two of you in a cozy, quiet little bubble.

"Hey," he said, voice so gentle it made your chest ache. "You okay?"

You opened your mouth, but words didn't come out right away. His eyes, those warm, worried eyes, made it hard to lie.

Still, you gave a small, guilty shrug and managed a whisper, "I'm fine. Just... didn't warm up properly."

Ji-yong didn't respond right away. Instead, he took a single step closer, then slowly, lifted his hand and rested it against your cheek. His palm was cool compared to your skin, and the moment he touched you, his brows drew in with worry.

"You're burning up again," he murmured. "Like—seriously, babe. You've got a fever."

You looked away, guilty. "It's not that bad. I just didn't want to cancel today. You've been working so hard, and I thought if I layered up and drank tea, I'd be fine."

Ji-yong’s eyes softened, the corners of his mouth tugging down, not in frustration, but in that tender way he only reserved for you when he was worried.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear.

You blinked slowly, lips parting, but no words came out.

He sighed, but it wasn't annoyed. It was fond. Deeply, achingly fond.

"Baby," he whispered, stepping even closer, "I don't care about the song more than I care about you."

You looked up at him, and he cupped your face with both hands now, thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks.

"But-"

He didn't let you finish. He shook his head with the faintest smile, something half tender and half teasing, but all love.

"We can try it another day, yeah?" he said softly. "Don't force your pretty voice."

His words made your chest feel warm, well, warmer than it already was, thanks to the fever. You tried to hold onto your resolve, the need to not be a burden, to just do your part, but Ji-yong's voice had a way of quieting all that. He leaned in just a little, resting his forehead against yours again, his hands still cradling your face like it was something delicate.

"You think I'd rather hear the song than take care of you?" he asked, voice muffled by the closeness. "Nah. Not even close."

You laughed, weakly. "You're being too sweet now."

He smirked and pulled back just enough to look at you fully. "That's not even my final form."

Then, with that same relaxed confidence he always carried, Ji-yong dropped his hands from your face only to link your fingers together, squeezing gently. He tugged you toward the studio door.

"Come on," he said, glancing back at you with a boyish grin that made your chest do a little somersault. "You're leaving with me."

"We can try one more time—”

"The song isn't going anywhere," he interrupted, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. "You, however, are going straight to bed, with a hot drink and maybe my hoodie if you're nice."

You couldn't help it—you let out a small, tired laugh.

"I've got you, okay?" he whispered. "Let me take care of you."

And just like that, the fight left your body.

You nodded weakly, giving his hand a squeeze back. "Okay."

Ji-yong's smile widened, relieved, like he'd just won a battle he hadn't wanted to fight in the first place. He was already grabbing your coat, helping you slide your arms through the sleeves like it was something he did every day. When he noticed your scarf was too loosely tied, he fixed it too—wrapping it snugly, tucking it in neatly, and then stepping back to admire his work like a proud stylist.

"Perfect. My sick but still cute boyfriend," he murmured, kissing the tip of your nose.

You swatted his chest gently. "Don't make me blush while I'm a snotty mess."

"You always blush when I compliment you," he grinned. "Sick or not."

Once inside the car, he buckled you in before you could argue, then reached into the back seat and pulled out an extra hoodie—his hoodie. The one that always smelled like his cologne and fabric softener. He slipped it over your head gently, careful not to pull too hard.

[ ... ]

You were tucked into Ji-yong's bed like you were the most precious thing on earth. Between the three layers of clothes he insisted you wear—"just until your fever goes down"—and the mountain of blankets he'd carefully arranged around you, you were basically a walking pile of warmth. Or rather, a laying one.

The blankets smelled like his laundry detergent, soft and clean, but every now and then you caught hints of his cologne too faint, lingering on the pillow your head rested against.

Earlier, he'd pressed the thermometer to your temple, watching the numbers with narrowed eyes. The moment it beeped, he let out the gentlest tsk, shaking his head like he'd just confirmed a suspicion he didn't want to be true.

Then, he'd stood up with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

He vanished into the kitchen like a man on a mission. You could hear the shuffle of cabinets opening, a short pause, then the unmistakable clack-clack of him typing on his phone. A second later: "Okay, okay... lemon... honey... ginger...? Do we have ginger?"

You weren't sure who he was asking, but it made you smile.

Now, a few minutes later, you sat upright in his bed, your hands were wrapped around a mug he'd brought in earlier—tea, made exactly how Google (and Ji-yong's overprotective instincts) had instructed. The steam curled up toward your face, warming your nose and cheeks, and the sharp smell of citrus hit your senses just before the taste did. Your throat stung a little when you sipped it—but it was that good kind of sting, the one that made you feel like something was already working.

You smiled into the mug, heart stupidly full. You could hear him humming from the kitchen—some random melody, probably not even aware he was doing it. A clink of metal against ceramic told you he was still cooking, and you swore the soup was already healing you just from the smell alone.

You cleared your throat and called out softly, your voice still scratchy. "Ji, come sit with me."

There was a small pause.

"Jagi, don't force your voice!" he called back, half-panicked, like you'd just committed a crime. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I just miss you," you said, loud enough for him to hear.

He peeked into the room a few seconds later, holding a wooden spoon like a sword. His eyes narrowed dramatically, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You miss me? I've been gone six minutes."

"Too long."

Ji-yong sighed in exaggerated defeat, setting the spoon down on the counter with a theatrical spin.

"Okay, okay, fine. My soup chef duties can wait... for like, three minutes."

He padded back over to the bed, crawling up gently so he didn't spill your tea or crush any of the blankets. As soon as he settled beside you, he tugged the covers up a little higher around your shoulders and rested a hand on your thigh, patting it lightly.

"You warm enough?" he asked, voice quieter now, close to your ear.

You nodded, leaning your head against his shoulder with a tired sigh. "Mmm. Just missing the human heater effect."

"Aha," he chuckled, shifting closer so your legs touched. "So you admit you only wanted me here for body heat?"

You turned your face up slightly, giving him a small, sleepy smirk. "That... and maybe a forehead kiss."

Ji-yong grinned and didn't hesitate. He leaned in, brushing his lips gently across your forehead, staying there for a few seconds—long enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

"Demanding," he teased quietly. "But lucky for you, I'm obsessed with you."

You smiled into his shoulder, cheeks growing warm for a reason that had nothing to do with the fever. His fingers were still resting gently on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy little shapes through the blanket like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

When you looked up, Ji-yong was already gazing at you, eyes full of that soft, fond glow he always got. His face inched closer, breath mingling with yours. One second. Two. The distance between your lips barely existed anymore. Your heart skipped. Even sick and sweaty and puffy-eyed, he still wanted to kiss you?

But just as his lips brushed against yours, you turned your head away quickly, your cheek now pressed against his nose instead. He blinked in surprise and pulled back slightly, eyebrows shooting up.

"...Wait," he said, blinking again, pretending to look offended. "Did you just dodge me?"

You looked up at him through slightly tired eyes, your voice hoarse but serious. "I don't want you to get sick."

Ji-yong's expression softened in an instant, all mock offense melting away. His hand dropped to your knee, fingertips tracing gently over the fabric of the sweatpants he'd changed you into earlier. The pads of his fingers moved in soft circles, comforting and slow.

"I would take the risk," he said softly, almost in a whisper, like it was a confession he'd been holding onto all day.

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say a word, he leaned in and kissed your cheek instead.

Your breath hitched a little, throat tight—not just from the cold, but from the sheer gentleness of it all.

When he pulled back, he didn't move far. His hand slid up to your shoulders, large and warm, and in one tender motion, he pulled you into him, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping his arms around you like he was trying to shield you from the whole world.

He was just starting to drift off, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go, when suddenly, a thought popped into his head that jolted him awake.

"The soup!" he gasped, sitting up like a cat sensing danger, eyes wide with realization.

Before you could even answer, Ji-yong had already leapt off the bed with all the grace and panic of someone who'd just remembered they left the stove on—which, well, he technically did.

You couldn't help it—you laughed, a hoarse little giggle that made your throat scratch but warmed your chest anyway.

"I'll be right back, jagi!" he called over his shoulder, already halfway into the kitchen.

You heard drawers open and close, and a triumphant hum coming from him like he was scoring his own cooking montage in his head. You leaned back against the pillows, cradling the tea he made you, feeling ridiculously spoiled.

A few minutes later, Ji-yong poked his head around the doorframe, cheeks slightly pink from the heat in the kitchen.

His hair was a little messier than before, a few strands sticking up like they'd fought a mini battle with the steam. A dish towel was slung haphazardly over his shoulder, and he was holding a steaming bowl like it was a trophy.

"You better be sitting exactly where I left you," he said, raising a brow in mock sternness.

You lifted the tea mug with both hands like a student proving good behavior. "Still here. Drinking your homemade medicinal lemon potion."

He chuckled, stepping into the room fully now. "Put that down. I have something better."

With a flourish and a proud little bow, Ji-yong revealed the soup bowl like he was presenting a gourmet dish on a cooking show.

"I added noodles," he said, puffing up slightly, "so it doesn't look so… depressing. And a tiny bit of sesame oil, because I heard that's comforting. I also cut the carrots into stars but don't look too close because some of them are... a little abstract. "

You laughed, and then looked down at the bowl—and yeah, some of the carrots were absolutely lopsided and slightly tragic-looking, but there was something so soft, so purely him in every crooked little cut. There were even tiny flecks of green onion floating around, and a few baby mushrooms peeking from the broth like they were shy.

You picked up the spoon, blew gently on the surface, and took a small sip. It was warm, savory, a little too peppery—but honestly? It was perfect. Not because of the flavor, but because he made it.

You turned toward him slowly. "This is honestly... so good."

He beamed. Beamed. That unmistakable kind of grin that stretched from cheek to cheek and made his eyes turn into little crescent moons. His shoulders rose with pride like you'd just told him he won an award. "Yeah?"

You nodded, patting the bed beside you in invitation, and he didn't hesitate—his steps light as he made his way over like you'd just opened the gates to his favorite place in the world. He climbed onto the bed gently, careful not to jostle your tray, and immediately leaned in with his whole side against yours, shoulder to shoulder, like he wanted to be as close to you as physics would allow.

Then he stopped himself. "Eat first," he said, kissing your temple. "Then we cuddle. No negotiations."

You gave a sleepy little nod, resting your head against his shoulder for a second before taking another spoon.

And in that moment, with noodles shaped like stars, warm blankets wrapped around you, and Ji-yong watching over you like you were the most precious thing on the world, you started to feel just the tiniest bit better.

#bigbang x reader #bigbang x male reader #kwon jiyong x male reader #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x male reader #gdragon x reader #kpop x male reader #kpop x reader

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aurossaga · 5 days ago

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No Rush~ | Venti 2025 Birthday fic 🍃

Venti x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff

Word count: ~1.2k

Warnings: Alcohol

Based on the new birthday letter! A picnic in the woods by the lake, made perfect by good company.

You notice the letter only because you were sure you shut that window just moments ago.

The breeze slips through now, light and perfumed with the early scent of summer blooms. You inch closer and find a folded piece of parchment sitting on the sill, sealed with a simple emerald green ribbon and the faint imprint of an anemo sigil pressed into teal wax. The ribbons flutter as if brought to life, tugged gently by the wind.

Curiously, you break the seal and unfold it.

"When you receive this letter, hold it in your hands and stand by the window."

You glance outwards, the parchment crinkling faintly between your fingers. Beyond Mondstadt's high walls, the sun hangs low and lazy in the sky, casting long golden sun rays over terracotta roofs and cobbled streets. The wind brushes your back, soft and persistent, and you swear you can almost hear a laugh carried on it. It’s a familiar sound to you.

Smiling, you reach for your cloak.

��

Outside, the city hums with life.

Down below the steps of your living quarters by the plaza, you pass by Sara at Good Hunter. She gives you a wave, midways through an order to a customer. The smell of seared meat and baked bread clings to the air, comforting and warm. Around the fountain plaza, kids chase pigeons, much to Timmie's dismay. Flora's flowers bloom bright and full in her shop, and she’s already organizing tomorrow’s bundles into neatly woven baskets.

You catch sight of Lawrence and Swan posted near the gate, alert despite the peaceful day. The two of them nod as you pass, though Swan’s eyes flick briefly toward the leaf that flutters ahead of you, light as a feather and drifting purposefully through the open archway.

The moment your feet touch the path outside Mondstadt’s gates, the wind tugs more eagerly..

The hum and buzz of the city fades, replaced by serene bird’s chattering and the low murmur of the wind as it weaves through trees and over hills. Cider Lake glistens around you as you cross the bridge, glassy and blue, and the familiar scent of dandelions, pine, and sun-warmed stone fills your lungs. Wildflowers sway beside the road. Dandelions, windwheel asters, and sweet mint nods along in the gentle wind.

The breeze pulls at your light cloak like an eager hand, encouraging but never rushing. You let it guide you through the crossroads, down a shaded path through the whispering woods, until the sound of your footsteps softens into grass.

And then you see it.

A checkered picnic blanket is spread beneath a sturdy tree by the lake’s edge, its canopy fluttering with green. A small basket sits at its center, half open, with the scent of sweet cider and sunsettias drifting lazily from within. There’s a lyre propped beside it.

And just a few steps away, you see him.

Venti turns at the sound of your approach, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. His smile is instant, soft and charming.

“You came,” he says, like a verse finally finishing its line.

You let your steps carry you the last few feet, ignoring the way your heart beats just a tad louder.

“You sent the wind to fetch me. I couldn’t exactly ignore it.”

Venti laughs, and it’s a sound that fits the day perfectly. Light, bright, and just a little mischievous. “She does tend to be persuasive.”

You settle onto the blanket beside him. He tosses you a chilled bottle of apple cider and reclines beside you, arms tucked behind his head. His eyes are half-lidded as he gazes up at the sky, lashes catching the sunlight.

“I thought you might like this spot,” he murmurs. “It’s where the wind plays her softest songs.”

You pour the two of you a glass each before sipping the cider and glancing at him over the rim of your cup. “You mean it’s where you write yours.”

His eyes crinkle in a smile. “Well, maybe we work together on occasion.”

You both fall into a quiet rhythm then. The sound of the lake gently lapping the shore, birds chirping lazily from the trees, and Venti’s fingers idly plucking his lyre in between sips of cider and nibbles of sticky honey roast. A dandelion seed floats past, and he watches it go, humming under his breath.

You turn toward him. “You planned this just for me?”

“Of course,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “The wind told me you needed a day just like this. One where the city couldn’t find you. One with a lake and a song and… me.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then…

“And you?”

His voice softens. “I needed it, too.”

He rolls onto his side, propping himself up with one elbow. The breeze catches his hair, making the braids sway gently. His gaze holds yours, uncharacteristically steady, completely unguarded.

“I like when you follow the wind,” he says. “But I love it when you follow it to me.”

You don’t answer, not with words, at least. You shift closer, letting your hand find his. His fingers curl easily around yours, warm and familiar. A content sigh escapes him, and he leans in until your foreheads brush, eyes slipping closed.

The breeze hushes, as if holding its breath.

You can feel the soft rhythm of his breath, his forehead resting against yours. Venti’s hand tightens around yours just slightly. Not possessive, not urgent. Just… sure. Grounded. Like the whole world has settled into place just for a little while.

His voice is barely a whisper.

“You know, sometimes I sing for crowds. Sometimes for the gods. But this… this song in me right now…? It’s only for you.”

You chuckle slightly, heart fluttering like the rustling leaves around you. “Then sing it,” you suggest, voice low and warm.

He smiles, that rare kind of smile that doesn’t dance or tease, the kind that lingers. And instead of reaching for his lyre, he leans closer, letting his nose brush against yours.

“No need,” he whispers. “You’re already hearing it.”

And then, he kisses you.

It’s gentle, feather-soft as expected. Like a note plucked in the silence after a long melody. There’s no rush, just the press of his lips, light and warm, like the sunlight filtered through the canopy above. The hand not holding yours comes up to cradle your cheek, fingers cool from the breeze but trembling just slightly, like he can hardly believe you’re real and here and choosing him.

He can act as composed and sure of himself as he wants… But you know how to make him buckle.

You lean into him, tilting your head, deepening the kiss just enough that he exhales, not from surprise, but relief. It feels like something you’ve both been circling around for a long time, and now you’ve finally landed in it, safe and sound.

When you part, your foreheads rest together again, the edges of your smiles touching like they never left.

“Don’t tell the wind,” Venti says, breathless and giddy, “but that felt better than flying.”

You laugh, eyes glimmering with mirth. “I won’t… if you promise not to write a whole ballad about it.”

He lifts a brow, already humming a few suspicious notes. “...Too late.”

You shove him playfully, and he tumbles back onto the blanket, laughing freely and joyfully and completely at peace. You follow, resting beside him once more, your fingers still laced in his.

And above you, the breeze swirls again, content, mischievous, and full of songs.

#bard!reader and venti will have to pine hopelessly another day #his letter gave me butterflies omg #venti x reader #venti genshin impact #genshin impact venti #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin venti x reader #venti #venti x you #venti x gn!reader #venti x y/n

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mysecertdiaryofableedingheart · 5 months ago

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Lil Office Romance pt. 4

Terry Richmond X Black Fem OC (Troi)

No warnings: Light heart fluff. A little flirty, a lil possessive streak, and a male pissing contest

Terry

I couldn't hide the pep in my step coming into the office. Even with staying up until 11 on FaceTime with Troi and still getting up for my morning gym session at 5am. I still felt energized

"The way you walking in here you musta would have won the lottery last night or got some cut nigga" Kelvin my college buddy and Co worker look me up and down suspiciously

"Man watch out" he step towards me to look over my shoulder, I quickly covered my phone, my newly minted lock screen giving away my night activities. Troi's plump butt posed for the camera in her best pin-up pose blowing a kiss for the camera. "I was making some jerk chicken for my lunch last night"

"Ahhh , for your lunch date with little miss accounting" Kelvin was fully versed in infatuation with Troi. "BBQ on a Monday night after work nigga you in love"

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at his taunts. It is well known among all our friends that I am a lover boy, a romantic, as my mother would boast to her walking club, trying to hook me up with any daughter or niece.

I saw my mother being doted on,catered to and how much pride and love my father would glow with when she returned his affection.

"If that's what you call it man. Sign me up" I opened my phone to see the 3 rd picture I snapped of Troi pouting into the phone. Opening my messages clicking Wifey

“Hey Wifey 12pm sharp and bring my goodies or hubby won't be happy”

Read at 9:45am

Yes hubby, your goodies and the baker will be waiting by the security desk at lunch

12pm couldn't come any faster. I had to shake the spell of Troi from my mind to focus on the new building plans.

Troi

"So at yall wedding I can't wait to be the maid of honor matter fact he need to me make me the best man too" Celeste looked away from her excel spreadsheet to tease. "Ms. Wifey"

The image of me in a white dress and Terry towering over me in front of the altar flooded my mind. I rested my hand over my chest to attempt to calm my heartbeat.

"Celeste,you can't tease me about that I might actually pass out. I'm just getting comfortable with the idea of him liking me" I hated it how I sounded like a teenager whining

"Troi I'm just kidding, it's too sweet how two real lovers are finally getting together. Its goals baby got me wanting to hang up my city girls membership" Celest pulled my desk chair closer to her to give me a side hug. After the much-needed reassurance, I was able to breathe easier

Glancing at the clock reading 11:45 I hurried to refresh my lip gloss and fluff my hair. "Do I look okay ? Not too much right" gesturing towards my swells of B Cups breast on display in the black wrap dress

"Girl honestly you should've gone with push-up bra really gave him a show" Celeste grabbed her own boobs and gave me a shimmy.

"You're too much!" I grabbed the container with our lunch desert in it. Settling my purse on my shoulder, I walked out to beat the lunch rush of those trying to leave the building for noon meal break.

Terry

Call me eager but at 11:50, I had cut my zoom meeting with construction short knowing those motherfuckas will talk my ass off and make me late to meet with Troi. Grabbing the plastic bag the contained today's spread I bee lined for the elevators. Kelvin joined me in the elevator "Going to see your girl huh? " His hand clapped my shoulder

"Not my girl but soon" we watched as the numbers slowly descended to the ground floor. When the doors open immediately I was greeted with the Troi soft curves wrapped in black. Before I could fully enjoy the view. Her distressed expression caused me to follow her eyes

Omar, the resident HR violation, was in front of her, clearly talking to her chest and not her. My hands formed into a fist. I couldn't help but see red at the cause of Troi's discomfort. Kelvin's grasp on my shoulder halted my warpath.

"Be easy bruh, don't go over there swinging " he let me go after stating his peace

Omar didn't even notice me as he was too into having a one sided conversation with Troi's chest but her eyes softened when they caught mine. Side-stepping Omar I snaked my arm around Troi's slim waist. Probably a little too possessive but a point needed to be made " Hey pretty girl you ready to eat? "

Troi stepped further into my side looking between me and Omar "Yes! See Omar I already had plans I'm gonna have to pass on the invitation sorry" Even to the freaky frog of the company she was still polite

"Next time then Troi." This nigga was ignoring that this woman was tucked into my side and clearly mine well almost but he didn't know that.

"Nah, we got a standing lunch date. " I pulled Troi a little closer into my side.

"My bad Richmond I didn't know this was you" Omar finally met my eyes which I knew were shooting daggers at him. I knew if I spoke again I was going to call him everything but a child of god. So instead I pulled Troi away sucking my teeth.

Troi

"He's never spoken to me ever I have no idea what possessed him to act like that" I couldn't help but explain to Terry. I felt icky after that encounter with Omar like his eyes left grease marks from looking at me too long

Terry balanced the container of jerk chicken on his massive thigh closet to me. "Pretty girl, you're what cause him to act like that. You must not be looking in the mirror " Terry voice sounded extra husky. "Here taste a little bit of the chicken without the extra sauce. " he held a fork up to my lips I instinctively wrapped my mouth around it to capture the morsels of food.

I couldn't help but moan as the flavor exploded onto my tongue. I couldn't read his expression as he stared at my mouth. His eyes felt much different than Omar almost like the cool breeze running through square but also warm like the sun shining through the leaves of the willows above us. "You've got to teach me how to make that Terry! You were holding out on me" I playfully hit his shoulder

"Anytime Wifey, I teach you whatever you like" There's that husky voice again that made me clench my thighs and belly tighten

Would anybody like to be in a tag list? I think I have like 4 more parts maybe to wrap up where my mind went?

#terry richmond #Terry Richmond fanfic #terry richmond fic #Terry x Troi

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sleepyfan-blog · 5 months ago

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Planting

A/N: it's been a hot minute, but not dead! I hope you enjoy this. This is the first fic centered on darsas in the husbandry verse!

Link to darsas' husbandry fic collection page

Summary: You give your bonded death guard, Darsas, a little gift.

Warnings: none, ask me to tag if something bothers you.

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @i-am-a-dragon34 @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts

You find Darsas. As he so often is, arms deep in your garden, softly humming to himself, the bioluminescent stripes on his armor gently glowing and flashing in tempo to the song that he is singing.

He pauses in his singing, his armored gauntlets dirty from the rich, dark soil that you'd purchased for him to supplement the clay-filled soil that your home was built on. He's never removed his armor in your presence - and from what research you've done on Chaos Marines, he likely can't. But you can tell that he's smiling at you as you approach.

There is a soft buzz, as usual, as he speaks “Good morning, my flower. Did you sleep well?”

It is mid-morning, with the sun warm and high in the sky, with the occasional fluffy white cloud skating by, as a gentle breeze stirs through the immaculate garden that Darsas lovingly tends to.

There are flowers and bushes of every description (except for roses. For some reason, Darsas hates roses, despite their thorns not being enough to pierce his armored gauntlets) and the saplings he has just finished planting promises to grow into beautiful dwarf apple trees. Alongside them he has planted mint, chives, coriander and lavender. Several fennel bulbs lay on the ground next to him, waiting and ready to be planted.

You smile up at your kneeling marine - even at half his height, he's still so large… But he is a gentle giant. You smile and kiss his helmet before answering “I did sleep well, Dar. I've also got you a gift.” Your hands are behind your back, hiding the long green-stemmed, multi-white flowered plant with bright yellow stamen.

Darsas let's out a curious trill, his glowing green eyes brightening a little “A gift for me? Oh, you spoil me, my radiant blossom!” He shakes the dirt from his gauntlets and turns, still on his knees as he gathers you up in a tight but gentle hug. You hear the soft click of his lower helmet opening as he presses happy kisses to your cheeks and lips, a happy purr rumbling from his chest.

You giggle at his eagerness and kiss him back - his lips larger and more scarred, but as always, almost feverishly warm as you do so. “I love you too, my handsome garden bug.” You hum, leaning into his touch.

His purr only intensifies as his form curls around yours. His voice is ragged and nearly worshipful as he slides into a language you do not understand, pressing more kisses to your cheeks and neck.

You're happy to let him cover you in kisses, kissing him whenever his lips find yours. You gently prompt him as the chamomile plant in your hands grows heavy “Would you like to see your gift, Darsas?”

He pulls away just far enough to nod, content to hold you close and purr. His bioluminescent stripes glow bright when you bring out the chamomile plant “Thank you, my beloved. I will plant this in a place of pride and care.”

You smile adoringly at your sweet Death Guard as he gives you one last quick cuddle before he starts to pick a good spot for the chamomile to grow. Why your neighbors are so nervous of your large, friendly love bug you'll never know. Then again… Chaos Marines don't have the best reputation, and Darsas, bless him, hates bathing and is on the more obviously mutated end of the spectrum.

#death guard #space marine husbandry sentience au #oc: darsas #my writing #something short and sweet #warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #reader insert #gn reader #reader x space marine

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highclasshomosexual · 7 months ago

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intro post!

Ok so, basic info:

Name: alex/star/felix

Im a therian/theriomythic ! :) my therotype is a red fox, kitsune and raccoon!

Hair: green, wolfcut

Sexuality: pan, questioning gay, probs just a lean towards men

Pronouns: he/him

Ethnicity: native American, Jewish, German, Russian, Ukrainian (my dad's side is German and Russian literally help)

I'm not religious but I respect yours as long as your not rude abt it! ^^

other stuffs

Fave color: dark green, just earthy tones, NeOn, black

Aethestics???/styles?: goblincore/gremlincore, midwest emo, gyaru,scene,grunge, loser core, goth,punk, cryptidcore, trashy y2k,mori kei and morute!

Fandoms/shit I like: racheldrawsthis/sig verse, pup, stray kids ,everything but your life,pepper cinnamon world , Komet kismit, stray kids ,ghost eyes, tmnt, gravity falls, otgw,amphibia, owl house, American football, mom jeans, jazmin bean ,modern baseball,Pjsk ,destroy boys, Fidlar, Tyler the creator , bbno$ ,jjk, bsd, sk8 the infinity , mid 90s, Alien stage, bad parenting, indie animation,dickheads, nitw, spicy mints,bojack horseman, Alex g, pine point!

Hobbies: diy-ing shit, music (making or listening), art, beading, literally going to any concert I can find because where i live fucking sucks. Canada. Is Canada a hobby? Idk I js rlly love Canada

DNI: proshipper, p3do, r@pist, s3xist, homophobic, r@cist, Canada haters 😔 , zoophiles (ICK), people named Wendel (J☆spers half sibling)

my kin’s!

Reki Kyan, Miya chinen, denki, rui, Dazai, Gregg Lee, bojack horseman, hibiki, Stephan stills, Leonardo, Aiden Clark , kanade, Ichika, tsukasa, mafuyu,nagito, Luka (alien stage), sahed,kou

Anyway I love yall 💗

Follow these peeps plz: @zuicidegay you’re amazing!! @vuvvishere my BFFL @crinklywinkly my goated brother<3 @ratseathumans *head pats and holds gently* @alienfromthedeepsea wishing you a hopefully day filled with hope

My pin is @noshwaffle ^^

NONE OF THESE BANNERS OR DIVIDERS ARE MINE

#Intro post #Queer #webtoon #silly #Cartoon #tv #music #spotify #red fox therian #raccoon therian #Kitsune therian

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tomionefinds · 9 months ago

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Spooky/Creepy Fics

h/t to mod @april-17-rose for the graphic!

For Spooky Season (mind the tags on all fics listed below)

Check out our list of Halloween/Samhain themed fics

Apple of My Eye by MrMxLemons

E | One-shot| 18k

Hermione wants to help the boy. The boy who has nothing to offer but an apple. - “I do not ask for much: I only want you to take a bite of my apple. Is that truly such a large favor to request? Have you no heart, Hermione?” She did have a heart, but when her gaze flickered back up to his it stopped in her chest.

Revenant by quinault

E | One-shot | 2k

“Hermione” he whispered into her cool, pale skin, crushing her mouth against his. She tasted exactly how he remembered, like raspberries and mint and something slightly tart, something that made him want to take her into his very pores. The wind picked up, rustling through the grasses of the wood, rushing through the trees. The whole world sighing in recognition. — Submitted for the tomione smut fest 2021. Object prompt: resurrection stone

Damned by Meowmers

M | Complete | 38k

"That's what I like about you," He told her, his fingers pressed against her pulse, "You don't believe in fairytales," His thumb traced the curve of her jaw and she watched his eyes flash red for a single, dream-like moment, "Do you believe in nightmares?" Tomione.

Demon Lord by WildKitsune

E | Complete | 6k

Hermione gets captured by the Death Eaters and is about to be sacrificed to summon their Demon Lord. Too bad for him that is exactly where she wants to be, they may not survive.

Demonic Stake by WildKitsune

E | Complete | 15k

Hermione makes a bet with one of her students on the first day of class. Now she is dragged into a world of demonic intrigue and the best sex of her life. Will she find a way to free herself, or will she end up as Hell’s newest queen?

Reflection by uleanblue

T | One Shot | 1k

The sound is so faint it almost doesn’t register at first.

The Summoning by LovelyVillain

E | One Shot | 4k

Hermione never meant for this to happen. No one was supposed to get hurt. She was summoning an Angel after all... She forgot to read the fine print.

The Last by Ciule

E | One-Shot | 3k

It was strange being here at 12 Grimmauld Place alone, but nothing was as strange as Hermione Granger wondering if she was losing her precious mind.

The Marked by LittleMulattoKitten

T | One-Shot | 2k

He’d seen her through the Weasley girl’s eyes. He’d seen the mark on her left wrist, recognized it as the twin to his own, and decided in that moment that the Weasley girl was no longer of use to him.

Any Other Verse by disillusionit9

T | Two-shot | 3k

His not-quite corporeal form leaned against the opposite end of her workbench, his neck exposed to the setting sunlight, a streak of red-tinted light across his neck in a violent slash. Hermione was doing her best to ignore the way his breathing filled the space between bubbles in her potions or how the air in the room changed whenever he entered. AU. COMPLETE.

After 3 Am by Nekositting

E | One Shot | 7k

“W-what are you?” Hermione breathed, voice wavering when a low laugh bubbled from the mouth at her neck. Her ears rung with the sound. “The man of your dreams.”

Sleep is the cousin of death by Nekositting

E | One shot | 4k

“Your scent—“ The creature sniffed the air, its eyes closing for a brief moment before its gaze flickered to hers. Hermione could only cringe. Its eyes were hungry, no, famished. “—is absolutely delightful.”

Lucky 7 by seollem

M | Two-shot | 2k

She couldn’t bring them back. All she could do now was survive. (Scream AU)

Don't Check the Closet by LadyUrsa

E | Complete | 23k

After a slew of miserable dates, including being stood up four times in a row, Hermione can't believe her luck when she gets the attention of a man like Tom Riddle. He’s brilliant, gorgeous, and absolutely devoted to her. He’s perfect for her in every way, and her life is so much better with him in it. Everything is perfect with Tom. Completely perfect. Except… Except he knows things he shouldn't. Except there are four missing Quidditch players who stood her up and then vanished. Except Tom has a closet door that’s only sometimes there. Except he lies to her about the door when it’s not. Except Hermione wants to know. What’s in the closet?

#tomione #rated ma/e #rated t #tom:dark #creature #alternate universe #tom:supernatural #horror #all hallows reads #halloween

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soulbrothershow · 1 month ago

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The Daughters of the Divine

from The Gospel According to Chris

The sun was soft that afternoon, casting honey-colored light across a stone courtyard that had seen centuries come and go. The breeze carried the scent of cumin, cardamom, and crushed mint—prayers rising through the spices, through the laughter, through time itself.

Three women sat around a table, not in ceremony, but in something holier—communion without pretense. They were dressed in beauty, not for attention, but because they understood that adornment could be sacred too.

The first, robed in soft cream, her long locs cascading like a river of roots, was called Yeshua. There was healing in her gaze. Not the kind that shouted miracles, but the quiet kind—the kind that made wounds feel seen. Her tattoos told stories of crucifixion and rebirth. She spoke with the authority of one who had touched sorrow and made peace with it.

Beside her sat Muhammad, wrapped in black silk, her face framed by grace and hennaed hands. Her eyes were deep and wide like a moonless night in the desert, ancient and knowing. When she moved, it was with the intention of one who’d walked through revelations and returned with verses hidden in her silence.

The third woman, vibrant in magenta with laughter that rang like temple bells, was called the Buddha. Her energy was calm and playful, wise and open. She poured juice from a mason jar with the mindfulness of a monk and the joy of a child.

They passed the bread—fresh, warm, fragrant with the breath of the earth. All three reached for it at once, and their hands met in the middle. No words were needed. In that moment, the bread was not just food. It was memory. It was a bridge.

Yeshua broke the bread and said softly, “Each piece we tear away is still part of the whole. Just like us.”

Muhammad dipped the bread into the bowl of hummus and replied, “And in every piece, there is enough. For all of us. Always.”

Buddha took her share, her fingers adorned with gold rings catching the light. “This is the dharma,” she smiled. “Not in temples, not in scrolls. Right here. In this.”

They ate slowly, savoring not just the flavors but the presence. Their laughter rose like incense. Their silence was scripture.

Passersby saw three beautiful women sharing a meal. But the Earth saw three frequencies harmonizing into one. The Universe saw its own reflection braided in flesh, crowned in love.

They didn’t speak of theology. They didn’t need to. They spoke of gardens and music, of dreams and healing, of what it means to be fully alive and fully divine.

And when they stood to leave, there was no ceremony, only joy. A piece of bread left behind on the plate. A whisper left in the wind.

The courtyard never forgot that afternoon.

And neither did the stars.

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cwwv9 · 2 months ago

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«Quieter than smoke, louder than the abyss»

— fem!rockstar!reader x Sae Itoshi

Warnings: Mention of alcohol, Smoking, Signs of eating disorders (refusal to eat), Self-destructive behavior, Psycho-emotional instability, Love on the verge of codependency.

mailbox open for queries!!!!

Somewhere between Osaka and Tokyo, one o'clock in the morning, the bus is driving as if it doesn’t matter. Tires on the asphalt - like a phonogram: same beat. people are sleeping. You’re not, as always.

You stand by the window, wearing a T-shirt from someone else’s shoulder, your bare feet are chilled. The cigarette is burning in your fingers, the smoke in your eyes, but you do not blink. Tar and melancholy have long been your companions. Sometimes you think that you are made of these substances.

You forgot to eat again today. and drank it again with energy and rum from the minibar. Sang as if for the last time, the voice broke off on the verse, but the hall was in ecstasy. you too - on the edge and in euphoria. your element - adrenaline and destruction. You live like a song that no one can play twice.

behind the door creaked. you didn’t turn around. knew who it was. he always walks quietly like a shadow. like control. Sae Itoshi.

He shouldn’t have come. He has matches, schedules, his own perfect life, where everything is on schedule, where coffee is sugar-free, where eight hours of sleep and discipline are built into the DNA.

– again? – his voice sounded calm. almost gentle. but you know what I mean: it’s always icy.

You were stuck. She breathed slowly, through the window, as if trying to breathe her essence.

– if you’re talking about cigarettes - yes. if you’re talking about nerves - also yes. if you’re talking about the fact that I broke up again and glued together like that - bingo.

He came closer, took the cigarette and put it out in the nearest cup.

– we agreed.

you scoffed:

– sae, we agreed on a lot. Like you wouldn’t love someone like me.

He leaned towards you, and his hair tingled slightly on your cheek. He smelled of freshness, of mint, of order. Everything that was in you not a gram.

– I’ve never been good at keeping promises, – he said quietly. – Especially when you’re all that’s real to me.

you turned away, clutching your hands. This conversation is like a thorn in your side. You want to hear it and you hate it because it’s so right. Damn, he can be cold, but next to you - as if warmed by a fire that itself is afraid to burn

– You know I can’t be normal, Sae. – Your voice is trembling, but you’re masking it with sarcasm. – I’m a microphone disaster. I smoke, drink, flirt on stage, forget what today is like. I can wake up in another country with a new tattoo and a new finger. I only know how to burn.

He nodded. Not arguing. He justified.

– You’re not empty. – his eyes like a storm before the rain. deep, attentive. – something lives inside of you. something wild, beautiful and frightening. and I... want to be there for it while it’s breathing.

You couldn’t. You reached for him, clenched your fingers behind the door of his coat. You pulled closer. kissed not like in movies, not tender - greedy, as if for the last time. lips salty as tears, breath hot as sin. He replied to you the same way - with restraint, but with sincerity. His hands were light, almost awe-inspiring. He touched you as if he was afraid of losing.

You were apart in silence. for a moment everything was frozen. no road, no past, no fakes of yours. just him and you.

– I’m not asking you to be good, he whispered. Just don’t disappear altogether. Leave me at least the part that sings. who smiles when she thinks no one can see.

you clenched your forehead on his shoulder, whispering:

– if I burn down, will you stay?

– I’m with you even in the ashes, he replied, holding on tighter. – Just so you know: I am here. always.

#bllk x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock #itoshi sae #blue lock x female reader #bllk #bllk x you #blue lock x you

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magebastard · 5 months ago

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when i’ve slept so soft against her

ship: neve gallus x rook ‘tula’ ingellvar

wc: 791

rating: g

notes: gay thoughts wouldn’t leave my gay brain

Neve realizes, eventually.

An understated gold ring on her middle finger becomes, three on her right hand. A subtle jeweled earring—too ornate, too fine to wear on the job—dangles from her left ear. She’s acquired a small collection of thin, gold bracelets.

(“They won’t jingle. If you ever want to wear them while you’re out on a case.”)

She has. A few times.

They’ve collected kisses and precious trinkets alike since that late afternoon at the docks. Tula isn’t versed in flirtation, only a wind-chilled honesty. It all sprouts like mint—the attachment, the fondness. What’s worse; this thing between them doesn’t feel a thing like the heady romances Neve is used to. There are no midnight trysts under the mage lights in Dock Town. There’s no dark mystery of a person to crack. It’s a dangerous unknown.

Tula throws herself like a blanket over the flames of Neve’s doubt. She’s honest because she cannot help it. It touches the bruise of Neve’s heart when she explains—lectures on—all of the reasons why it makes sense for them to be together.

“You’re a detective, I’m a scholar. We have a shared passion for understanding.”

“You love bad coffee, and I am uniquely horrible at making it. I can provide a valuable service.”

“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, and I’m a great admirer of beautiful things. We’re very clearly two halves of a whole.”

“If we’re having an academic discussion about size and softness, it’s obvious to me that your hands and mine are remarkably suited to hold one another.”

The debates are weak and only growing weaker as they carry on. Rook makes a compelling argument.

And when the gifts start…

Wordlessly she slides a thin golden band up to rest just above Neve’s knuckle. There’s no fuss or explanation. The detective in her cows at the fear of discovering why, so suddenly, Tula decided to give her this. But her own hands are bejeweled so haphazardly. Must be a Nevarran thing.

She’ll go with that.

Softly, softly steady hands gently adorn her in discreet, complimentary jewelry. Neve tuts.

It‘a all very sweet and exasperating. She could believe it entirely benign. If only it weren’t for her pesky propensity to put the pieces together.

“This is your grave dowry, isn’t it?”

Her dark eyes instantly betray her excitement.

“It was! The practice of Watchers hoarding gold is customary and—in my opinion—darling. It’s expected within the Mourn Watch but there are greater intentions for the wearer in death. At some point, I suppose I just-,” she stops short with a soft ‘hm’ as if only just realizing her own thoughts.

She gazes off for a moment. Tula will do this. Some errant idea will seize her, some undeniable fact will flit about, wisp-like in her mind and take her far from the conversation she was just a participant in. Neve is intimately familiar with both sides of this happening.

“I only wanted you to have them. I imagined you wearing them.”

Tula reaches for Neve’s hand and she gives it. They’re sat limbs akimbo, facing each other on Neve’s cot. They try not to think about the groaning effort of the wood beneath them.

“If it makes you uncomfortable-,”

“Not uncomfortable. I’m not much of a jewelry kind of girl, usually. An earring, at most. I’ve never thought to wear bracelets. I don’t tend to collect anything, save evidence. I don’t know if you’ve caught on—I have quite a case of tunnel vision when it comes to the job.” Her thumbs skate over Tula’s own set of rings. (Sparser, now.) “It’s a nice change.”

“They suit you.” Imploring fingers trace the thin chain resting in the dip between her collar bones. The soft touch, the chill of her skin sends a thrill up Neve’s spine. She wants to flatten her palm over that hand, pressing the print of the other woman firmly into her chest.

“It’s usually a practice for married couples. Parceling and sharing a dowry like this. I’m sorry. Again, I wasn’t-,”

“Trouble,” around a stone in her throat.

It was a mistake. A honest mistake. They haven’t been in the most reliable state of mind—neither of them have, since all of this began. And this is just one of many missteps they’ve taken so far. It isn’t even so terrible of a thing to forgive.

It was a silly mistake. No hidden meaning to be found. Tula wanted Neve to wear her jewelry and that itself was a sweet thing. It was enough and it still is. She desperately tries to catch the kite-string of her thoughts before they fly too far too fast.

I would share them. The rings, the bracelets. Say we’ll stay. Prove me wrong.

Neve loosens only one ring on her index finger, gently pulls the hand from her neck and presses it, reluctantly into Rook’s open palm. She swallows.

“No harm done.”

#datv #dragon age: the veilguard #neve gallus #neve x rook #datv rook #c: tula #myfic #dragon age #neve x tula #neve x f!rook #neverook

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 4 months ago

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Let's be jolly

The first chapter of the MSI-verse Christmas fic (ignore the fact that it's almost March, time is fake) is up, featuring ugly Christmas sweaters, Charles being totally normal about that time Edwin banged Thomas in a supply closet, and pixies. You can read the first couple of chapters below or the whole thing here on AO3.

Rating: T

Warnings: none

Relationships: Payneland and Palasaki; past Catwin

Summary: When Charles drags Edwin to the MSI’s annual holiday party, Edwin expects the extent of his troubles to be the appalling jumper Charles makes him wear. No one is expecting the attack by pixies.

Excerpt:

"Back in my day, Christmas was a dignified affair,” Edwin says with a sniff. “Garlands of holly and plum pudding. Not all this garish nonsense—”

“So, you don’t like the jumpers, mate?” Charles asks from behind him.

Edwin turns to his partner, dismayed. “You expect me to wear this in public, Charles?”

“I think you look mint! And we’ll match.” Charles does a little twirl. Their jumpers are an eye-scalding shade of green, each sporting a skeleton tangled up in Christmas lights and wearing a Santa hat. “And see, they light up!” He presses a button on the inside of his sleeve and the Christmas lights begin to blink.

Edwin just stares.

“Listen, Dougie told me the competition for the ugly jumper contests in Birmingham was fierce,” Charles says. “The London office is twice its size, so we have to be on our game.”

“People have contests about this?”

“You’ve really never been to a Christmas party, mate?”

“Not since 1915. If anyone had walked into my parents’ house in this getup, they would have faced social ruin.”

“No social ruin here.” Charles grins. “So long as you don’t overdo it on the eggnog.”

Only a few short months ago, before Charles Rowland was transferred to the London branch and turned Edwin’s entire life around, Edwin would not have dreamed of attending the MSI’s yearly holiday party. Before Charles, he had only attended the monthly socials once, on Niko’s behest, and had never stepped foot in the holiday party. Charles, however, is a firm believer that it’s healthy to get to know one’s coworkers socially and that it can even be enjoyable. Edwin thinks he might be a bit mad, but he humors him. To a point, at least. He refuses to do this monthly.

“So, you want to wear them?” Charles asks, so hopefully that there’s really only one answer that Edwin can give.

Edwin sighs. “I suppose.”

“Brills!” Charles beams at him. “Let me find my shoes and then we can go.”

“Best of luck.” Edwin’s eyes scan over the heaps of boxes that cover most of Charles’s tiny flat. He moved in September and yet still hasn’t unpacked. Edwin doesn’t know how he tolerates this chaos, but Charles seems perfectly content to live out of boxes and swears that he knows where everything is, though he texts Edwin asking to borrow some kitchen implement or another that he’s misplaced at least once a week.

“You know, we really shouldn’t be wasting our time at a holiday party,” he says to Charles’s curls, which are the only thing he can see behind the teetering pile of boxes. “We have a case to solve.”

“Mate, we always have a case to solve. That’s the job, isn’t it?”

“For all we know, there will be another robbery while we’re drinking eggnog and cavorting with the likes of Brad and Hunter.”

“I bring you to one party and now you’re talking about cavorting. Slow down there.”

Edwin huffs. “It simply seems wrong to engage in a night of revelry when we haven’t gathered a single lead.”

Their current case is most vexing. Nearly a dozen antique stores, museums, and private homes have been robbed in the past month, with no signs of windows and doors being disturbed, no footage caught on security cameras, and no helpful witnesses. The items stolen range from diamond jewelry to an Ancient Greek vase to a coin purportedly fished from the wreckage of the Titanic. The only thing they have in common is that they’re rumored to have some kind of supernatural properties, though in most cases, that can’t be corroborated.

“And you think we’re going to gather any leads if we stay in tonight?” Charles asks.

“We could speak to the witnesses again.”

“Yeah, don’t think either of them are going to be any more help than they were the last ten times.”

Edwin sighs, having to silently concede the point. The only people present during the robberies have been a clerk who was so addled that he attacked officers who responded to the alarm, a security guard found sound asleep in the middle of a trashed museum exhibit, and a homeowner found dead from a fall from his balcony. The dead man’s ghost didn’t linger long enough to be questioned and none of the survivors offered any useful information. If they remembered what happened, they weren't forthcoming.

“We could put in another call to the Paranormal Investigation Bureau in New York,” he says without any enthusiasm. The MSI’s American counterparts tend to be challenging to work with, but the robberies bear a striking resemblance to a string of robberies in New York last year.

“Nah, those knobs didn’t solve it when it was their case. They’re not going to be much help with ours, are they?”

“Then we should consult with the local ghost population.” Edwin’s working theory is that they have a ghost culprit, as ghosts don’t show up on cameras and can often work magic. He simply needs to find out what a ghost would need with so many cursed objects.

“Crystal already reached out to her ghost informant for us.”

“Yes , but—”

“Maybe taking a step away from the case will be good for us. We can come back with fresh eyes on Monday.” Charles’s voice takes on a wheedling tone.

“We do not need fresh eyes, Charles. We need a lead.”

“And we’ll find one, mate. On Monday. Here they are!” Charles emerges from the pile of boxes, holding two pairs of trainers. “Which ones go better, do you think?”

Edwin rolls his eyes at the ceiling. For such an easygoing person, his partner can be incredibly stubborn. “Charles, I assure you, there is no shoe in creation that would go with that outfit.”

Charles’s grin only widens. “Yeah, I was thinking the white ones too. Thanks, mate. Be ready in a tick.”

“Please, do take your time,” Edwin says. “I assure you, I’m in no rush.”

“Look, we’ll only stay an hour and if you need a break, we can step outside for a tick,” Charles says, hopping about as he puts his shoes on. Edwin doesn’t bother telling him that it would be much easier if he would just sit down. “If we’re still hungry afterwards, I’ll buy you dinner, yeah?”

That mollifies Edwin slightly. “The usual place?” The hole in the wall Indian restaurant where he and Charles had dinner together the first time has become their go-to spot.

“Where else? I’ll buy you extra samosas.” Charles’s voice takes on a wheedling tone.

Edwin sighs and resigns himself to his fate. At least everyone else at the party will look as ridiculous as they do.

***

“So,” Charles says. “Seems like Birmingham’s holiday parties are a bit different than the ones you have here in London, yeah?”

Edwin gives him a look like he’s caught him eating a burrito while standing over a one-of-a-kind book. “I would say so.”

Everyone around them is dressed as if for a posh cocktail party, in dresses and suits, not an ugly jumper between them. Personally, Charles thinks they wear suits all week and shouldn’t need to wear them to a holiday party, especially when the party is held in the second floor conference room and not even anywhere fancy, but what does he know?

He can’t quite suppress a grin as he says, “This is one of those things we’re going to laugh about later.”

“You are already laughing,” Edwin accuses.

“You’ve got to admit, it’s funny.”

“We look absurd.”

“Nah, we look like we’re ready to have a good time. Everyone else looks absurd.”

“Oh my God!” Niko comes hurrying towards them, wearing a red dress with a fluffy tulle skirt and dangling Christmas ornament earrings. She, at least, looks festive. “You guys look amazing.”

“See? Niko says we look amazing.” Charles nudges Edwin, who just sighs.

Crystal follows her, smirking. She’s dressed in a tasteful little black dress. “And you match.”

“It was Charles’s idea,” Edwin says in a long-suffering voice. “He seemed to think there would be some kind of contest.”

Charles shrugs. “They had one in Birmingham. Figured they’d have one here too.”

“You figured?” Edwin demands. “You didn’t check?”

“Well, you guys definitely win the ugly sweater contest,” Crystal says.

“They light up.” Charles demonstrates, much to Niko’s glee. Edwin looks like he wishes he could sink through the floor. Charles claps him on the shoulder. “I’m going to go get us some eggnog.”

“I’ll come with you,” Crystal says. “I want to watch Nurse’s reaction when she sees you.”

“Oi,” Charles says without any heat and lets her steer him towards the hallway, where they’re keeping the refreshments. Whoever was in charge of the decorating did the bare minimum—there are a few strands of garland hung between the light fixtures on the ceiling and a lopsided Christmas tree in the corner—but the food and drink spreads look decent.

“Do you have something on Edwin?” Crystal asks as he hands her a glass of eggnog. “Are you blackmailing him? That’s the only way I thought I’d ever see him in a Christmas sweater.”

“Maybe I’m just that convincing.” He flashes her his most charming smile.

She snorts loudly, which is her usual reaction to his flirting. They both know he doesn’t mean anything by it. Charles thinks that Crystal is bloody awesome and one of the fittest women he’s ever met to boot, but he figured out pretty early on that they’re destined to just be friends. The first time he had dinner with her, Edwin, and Niko, it didn’t take much detective work to see that she and Niko are mad about each other, even if neither of them seem like they’re going to do anything about it. Charles doesn’t know what they’re waiting for, but Crystal gets cranky whenever he brings it up.

“Niko looks nice,” he says innocently.

The narrow-eyed look that gets him tells him she’s not fooled. “Of course she does. Notice that we didn’t show up in matching outfits like an old married couple.”

“Maybe you should have. Nothing like an ugly jumper to get in the spirit.”

“You should see our apartment,” Crystal says. “Trust me, Niko doesn’t need more holiday spirit. But neither does Edwin, I guess.”

Charles is surprised at that. He hasn’t exactly talked to Edwin about it, but he didn’t expect his partner, who needs to be cajoled into taking a day off as carefully as Charles used to have to coax his mum’s mean old cat into the crate to go to the vet, to be big on Christmas. “He doesn’t?”

“No, Edwin loves Christmas,” Crystal says. “Well, ‘proper’ Christmas, like they did back in his day. He even took over our kitchen last year to make plum pudding and roasted chestnuts. He even found a pheasant to roast. It was all pretty good, actually. Though I told him this year, we’re doing Christmas at his place. He can make a mess of his own kitchen.”

“Oh,” Charles says. “You guys do Christmas together?”

“We did last year. Edwin cooked an Edwardian feast for twenty people and we made him watch a Hallmark movie marathon.”

“That's aces.” Charles doesn’t know why he never thought to ask what his friends do for Christmas. He guesses he just assumed they’d all be off with their own families, which was pretty daft, now that he thinks about it. He knows that Edwin doesn’t really have anyone besides him, Crystal, and Niko, unless he counts Director Nurse, and he doesn’t see her inviting him over for Christmas. He’s glad they have each other.

It just would have been nice if they’d thought to invite Charles. Christmas is a week away and he plans to spend it alone with some curry and a Home Alone marathon, like he has every year since he left home. It’s not like he can go to his parents’ place, not even though his mum invites him every year. He wanted her to come spend a few days in London with him this year, but his aunt and uncle are visiting for the week, so she can’t get away. They’ll see each other sometime in January.

It doesn’t really matter, does it? Christmases at home were miserable when he was a kid. His dad was never happy with what Charles and his mum got for him and always ended up drunk and angry by the end of the night, which was never a good combination. Charles is an adult now, with his own flat and a decent job. He should just be happy he doesn’t have to spend Christmas at home.

“Charles!” Assistant Director Kashina calls as he walks by with a plate of oysters and an overfull glass of eggnog, Director Nurse at his side. “Fantastic jumper! Asa, we should have an ugly jumper contest next year. It’d be great for morale, don’t you think?”

Nurse looks at Charles, closes her eyes for a brief instant, like she doesn’t understand how her life got to this moment, and keeps going.

“Cheers!” Charles raises his own glass of eggnog to Kashi. “Merry Christmas!”

When he turns back to Crystal, she’s grinning. “That was everything I was hoping for.”

“Aces.” Charles grins at her, pushing aside the melancholy of a moment earlier. This is a party, after all. “Come on, let’s find the others before Edwin tries to escape through the air ducts.”

They’re both giggling at that mental image all the way back to Niko and Edwin, who they find talking to a sandy-haired bloke in a glittery green suit patterned with Christmas ornaments. Charles would admire the suit—it’s not as good as his and Edwin’s jumper, but it’s close—except he’s standing a shade too close to Edwin and that puts Charles’s hackles up. There are too many people in this office who enjoy giving Edwin a hard time and if this prat is one of them, he’s about to have a bad night.

“Here’s your eggnog, mate.” Charles inserts himself between Edwin and the newcomer, pressing a friendly hand to Edwin’s back as he passes him his glass. Edwin has warmed to casual touches over the last few months, which is brills, because Charles would hate it if he couldn’t put his arm around him or annoy him by ruffling his hair.

“Ah, thank you.” Edwin takes his glass. “Charles, this is Thomas King.”

Charles blinks at Thomas King, a memory returning to him. “You work with Thomas fine. When you’re not having sex with him in supply closets.” “Supply closet Thomas?” he blurts without thinking, regretting it as soon as it leaves his lips.

Niko falls into a giggling fit and Crystal nearly chokes on her eggnog.

Edwin’s head whips around to glare at Charles, cheeks pinkening. “Charles,” he hisses, his eyes darting about. He’s under the impression that everyone in the office doesn’t know that he and Thomas used to get it on in the supply closet and Charles hasn’t had the heart to correct him.

Charles isn’t sure why the knowledge that Edwin used to shag Thomas King in a supply closet has stuck with him, why he thinks of it every time he has to grab more printer paper from the closet two doors down from Edwin’s office. Was it that closet? It had to be that one, didn’t it? Edwin wouldn’t have been indiscreet enough to do it in the supply closet near the workroom. Or did they move around, switching it up a bit?

“Supply closet Thomas.” Thomas nods thoughtfully. He’s holding a martini, though Charles didn’t see any drinks on offer except for eggnog, punch, hot chocolate, and water. “I’ve been called much worse.”

“And this,” Edwin grits out. “Is my partner, Charles Rowland.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow at Charles. Charles doesn’t know if he cares for that eyebrow. “Another partner? I thought Nurse gave up on that after that disaster with Agent Russell.”

“No disasters yet, mate.” Charles props his elbow on Edwin’s shoulder. “Things are going brills, aren’t they, Edwin?”

“Quite,” Edwin says. “We’ve been working together since August and the only disaster has been the mess Charles makes of my office on a regular basis.”

“Sorry I make you eat and drink every day, mate.”

Edwin sighs. “Where were you this time, Thomas?”

“Seville, again.” Thomas rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his martini. “Always Seville.”

“What’s in Seville?” Charles asks, intrigued despite himself. He knows that Thomas works for the MSI’s International Office, meaning he travels all over the world, doing lots of undercover work. If it weren’t for wanting to stay within driving distance of his mum, Charles may have tried to join. He thinks he’d be aces at undercover work; he’s good with people.

“Vampires,” Thomas says. “Way too many vampires. Well, less than there were after two years of turf wars, but that’s what you get when you can’t keep your teeth to yourself.”

Thomas tells them all about the Seville vampire wars and Charles tries to listen, because it sounds like an interesting story, but his brain is hung up on supply closets. He has to admit that Thomas is a good-looking chap, if you look past the part where he obviously thinks he’s James Bond, shaken not stirred martinis and all. Why’d Edwin end things, he wonders. It had to be Edwin who ended it, from the way Thomas looks at Edwin like he wants nothing more than to stir his martini. And who would break up with Edwin, who is a bonafide catch?

“Anyway, I should catch up with some people,” Thomas says finally. “But lovely to see you, Edwin, ladies. And to meet you, Chester.”

Charles’s eyes narrow. “It’s Charles.”

“Is it?” Thomas’s smile grows more toothy. “My mistake. Fantastic sweaters, by the way. Green is your color, Edwin. Maybe come find me under the mistletoe later?”

Edwin flushes. “I cannot imagine there’s any mistletoe at an office party.”

“Not yet,” Thomas says and turns away.

“Bit of a prat, isn’t he?” Charles asks as soon as Thomas is out of earshot.

Edwin gives him a strange look. “What do you mean?”

Charles just shrugs, because he isn’t really sure, truth be told. “Why’d you two break up, anyway?”

“Niko, let’s go check out the snack table,” Crystal says.

“But—”

“Snacks!” Crystal steers her away.

“Thomas and I didn’t break up, per se.” Edwin is still looking at Charles strangely. “I was young and lonely when we were having our… assignations, but I eventually realized that being intimate with one’s colleague would only lead to trouble. No one needs a repeat of the mess between Agents Bradley, Kahn, and Drake, do we?”

“Right, so…”

“Charles, what does it matter? It’s been well over a year since the last time Thomas and I…”

“Got it on in a closet?” Charles supplies helpfully.

“No, the last time was at my flat. Obviously. And it’s been at least three years since it was a regular occurrence, so none of this is relevant.”

“Right.” Charles spends a lot of time at Edwin’s flat, probably more than his own. It’s a nice flat, a cozy little one bedroom overflowing with bookshelves. He can’t imagine Thomas with his shiny suits and his martinis sitting on Edwin’s comfy blue sofa, surrounded by paperback mysteries.

“Is something the matter, Charles?” Edwin sounds peevish now and it occurs to Charles that he may be the one being a bit of a prat.

“Just looking out for you, mate,” Charles says quickly. “Wasn’t here to make sure you were alright back then, was I?”

“I assure you, Charles, I am not going to require smelling salts because of the presence of a former paramour.” Edwin’s tone is snippy, but his expression softens somewhat. “Thomas and I have successfully worked together for years without it being an issue. Now, should we go find Crystal and Niko?”

“Good idea,” Charles says, relieved that the moment of awkwardness has passed. He’s not used to having awkward moments with Edwin; they clicked on their first case together and haven’t looked back. He makes a mental note not to mention the supply closet thing again. Or think about it, for that matter. “Lead the way.”

***

Read the rest here on AO3.

#dead boy detectives #payneland #palasaki #ministry of supernatural investigations au #ghost's fic #ghost's writing

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