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tadpolesonalgae · 5 months

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 15

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I became suddenly ill about three days ago and my brain is still quite mushy so I think this has been proofread but there might be some errors here and there I’ll try to iron out once I’m better!! Sorry for any scruples and I hope you enjoy!! 🧡💛

warnings: angst, general depression, violence (self-attempted)

word count: 16,175

-Part 14- -Part 16-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Azriel catches her eye from across the room, weary hazel locking with bright amber that swirls in the faelight of the living room.

His tension is more palpable than usual, the conversation from yesterday with the golden-eyed male only further contributing to the death knell gonging quietly at the back of his mind, creaking through his knees, echoing in each footstep—each breath he takes. Time seems to be dripping by faster, even more so than usual. In the cobwebbed chambers of his mind he’s able to recall a time where days were his chosen measurement, where a twenty-four hour period contained beginning, middle, and end. But as he’d grown older, those chunks had grown with him, his perception of time shifting the more of it he lived through. Soon enough weeks were his days, calculating how much could be done over the period, sleep a small break to be indulged in between work. Then it had shifted to months—twelve to fit everything into, nights morphing into short naps.

Now years feel like days once had, time no longer a steady drip of water from the roof of a dark cell ceiling where he’d been kept locked away from the light, but a steady trickle as it carves its way through stone.

Shadows conceal his absence from the laughter-filled room, removing himself from the uncomfortably bright corner to a place of familiarity, shifting into the darker hallways as he sighs, feet positioned instinctively equidistant, weight spread evenly, fearing one lapse in discipline might bring him back to those days where he knew nothing of fighting, nothing of how to defend himself. To those days where he had to learn relentlessly, practice until his body couldn’t move in desperate attempts to cover the ground he’d lost years to.

Mor enters into the darkness, coming from the yellow-orange light that’s spilling into the blue-purple hallway, heels effortlessly silent upon the floorboards as her nocturnal eyes seek him out. Her features are already serious, easily picking up on his mood despite his efforts to conceal it. The depths of it, at least.

“Az?” Mor asks quietly, expression curious but solemn.

“She’s gone,” he murmurs shortly. Mor’s eyes flash with alarm at the revelation, before her brows tuck together. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where?”

“I don’t know,” he admits grimly. “I paid a visit to one of her friends afternoon yesterday, but he refused to answer anything.”

“What do you mean, she’s gone, Az?” Mor hisses, disbelief sharpening her muffled tone. Azriel grinds his jaw, but relents—this is more important. “I mean, she isn’t at the House of Wind. She left a note saying she would be at Bas’, and would be back but she wasn’t. When I went to get her, she wasn’t there either,” he summarises, expression sombre.

“What else?” Mor asks sternly, the brightness about her having faded faster than a flame extinguished. Azriel licks his lips, bracing himself, before explaining: she has magic but it’s been giving her trouble, she’d wanted to try using it without anyone else knowing and he’d let her, Elain’s vision prophesying his death at her hand.

To Mor’s credit, her features don’t drain entirely of colour, and it takes her no more than a few seconds of heavy silence for her to muster up a response. “What magic?” Mor asks first, keeping her tone quiet but clipped, judgement clear enough she doesn’t need to voice it. And Azriel won’t address it, either. “Her hands could glow a little around the fingertips. We didn’t know what it did, though.”

“And the trouble?”

“It dried her skin out, among other things.” Mor’s lips part, eyes closing briefly as she sighs. “The gloves.” Azriel doesn’t need to provide confirmation for her to have connected the dots.

But then her eyes open, slowly sliding to his, an edge of viciousness underlying their amber cut, one he withstands reluctantly. Mor swallows, jaw tense, watching him. “How long have you known about this?” She asks, lethally softly. Not how long has she had magic, how long has he known. And not told them. “About a fortnight.”

Mor’s eyes gleam with hostility, and his features become stony, walls raising up as she watches him silently. Judgement falling heavy on his shoulders. “Why tell me now?” She asks shortly. She isn’t chewing him out, nor is she outwardly rancorous. Not good a good sign. “Bas won’t tell me where she is,” he replies neutrally, Mor’s eyes flaring as she puts it together. “You want me to ask him.” Azriel nods, despite her already knowing.

She glances at him reproachfully, another look he withstands passively, and then she’s turning sharply on her heel, making back toward the light, back toward the laughter. Silent as a shadow, Azriel catches her upper arm, having to exert surprising force to keep her still. “Where are you going?” He asks coldly.

“Where do you think?” She counters sharply.

“They have enough on their plates,” Azriel mutters. As if on queue, Nyx’s laugher giggles through the halls, a stark contrast to the gloom lurking just beyond the light’s end. Mor snatches her arm away. “You have enough on your plate,” she says lowly, eyes glinting as they cut through him, “we could have made room. You should have told us.” But Azriel stands his ground, not giving an inch. “It was the right call.”

“You have no idea where she is,” Mor counters. “No idea where she is, or what state she might be in. What makes you think that was the right call?”

“You’re questioning my judgement?”

“Yes, I’m fucking questioning your judgement,” she hisses back lowly.

“She told me she didn’t want any of you to know,” he counters coldly, “she’s reclusive anyway, suddenly outing her wouldn’t have done anything helpful.”

The wording seems to strike something in Mor, ire banking, eyes shuttering briefly, before she’s gritting her jaw again. “You should have told us.”

“She barely managed to tell me,” Azriel states, “Elain didn’t even know until the vision that her sister had magic.”

“You know you should have told us.”

“And betrayed her trust when she chose to tell me?” Azriel asks cooly. “You didn’t see how scared she was.”

“Maybe she wasn’t scared of us finding out but of speaking with you.”

Azriel blinks, the only sign of his falter he’ll allow, caught off guard by the accusation. She’s never shown any fear of him before… “She has no reason to be scared of me.” He says finally.

A look of frustration flits through Mor’s amber eyes. “She’s young. This is probably the first time she’s experiencing strong feelings toward someone else,” she says lowly, “surely you can remember what that’s like.” Azriel bristles at the pointed look, the insulting comparison between his past love for Mor and the affection being unwelcomely pushed his way. “She’s infatuated. It happens,” he replies tersely, not taking kindly to the manipulation. “And she went through the war too—she isn’t that unaware. You’re doing her a disservice.”

“The disservice here is you not affording her the care she needs—to the point she’s chosen to run away,” Mor practically spits.

Terse silence stretches between them, sour and resentful.

“We aren’t going to come to an agreement,” Azriel says at last, tone clipped, but both of them know it’s better to move on for now. They can fight it out later, once things are resolved and taken care of. “You speak to Bas first, then we can find out who she’s gone to. She could be anywhere in the Night Court, knowing him.”

“We tell Rhys and Feyre first,” Mor demands lowly. But Azriel shakes his head, “if you want to be the one to tell Feyre her sister is missing and we don’t know where she is, be my guest.”

Silence stretches further, growing tauter by the second, until Mor sighs sharply. “Fine,” she grits out. “Bas first.”

Azriel nods, making to turn around, heading for the door.

“But you are telling Feyre,” Mor hisses lowly. “Whether we find out or not. Tonight.”

Azriel pauses, jaw tightening. But gives a sharp nod.

————

Once again he slinks back to the male’s house, the bright sun lost to winter’s oncoming grip, dark clouds shielding the stars from view.

Despite the silence between them, he can feel Mor’s judgement pressing into him, but he has no time to argue or persuade. After the…discussion, with the male the other day, he’d needed time to plan, regroup his thoughts. Time. Seemingly so sparse, as of late. He could afford little more than twenty-four hours of inaction before a decision would have to be made—he hadn’t come this far by sitting around aimlessly when faced with a hard choice. It seemed the only reasonably way forward would be to acquiesce to the male’s demand, as much as Azriel despised so. It was the smarter option.

The other would have been to lay hands on him, and no matter how urgent the matter was, the male was still a civilian, and untrained for war, at that. Violence was entirely out of the question.

He knocks thrice on the door, sharp and punctuated hits to alert the male of company, before stepping back to allow space for Mor.

Gleaming golden eyes pierce out into the darkness, and Azriel knows he doesn’t miss the hint of smugness in their gilded depths as he marks the presence of another, as he’d requested. To verify his claim that there were indeed urgent matters afoot. Azriel refuses to show even a hint of irritation, keeping his face cold and passive—Bas won’t get the satisfaction of seeing him riled. He’d have to work much harder for that.

“You’re back late,” Bas drawls from the warm glow of his house, once again leaning cockily against the broad wooden frame, ankles crossed, one foot keeping the door held to—away from prying eyes. “And you’ve brought company,” he muses, glancing to Mor at his side. The female steps forward, the yellowy-orange light from inside making her glow as she offers a tight smile. “Bas, correct?” Golden eyes sweep over her analytically, before he nods, shifting slightly. “Mor,” he acknowledges, “she mentioned you, too.” No signs of surprise mar her open expression, kept sealed beneath that deceptive mask she can wear to charm at any time.

“That’s why we came to see you, actually,” Mor begins calmly, straightforward. “I’m of the understanding you know her whereabouts, but are unwilling to disclose them for various reasons.”

“That’s right,” he replies slowly, expression shifting to something more wary. His provocative nature shying away from perceived earnestness. “She doesn’t want any visitors.”

Mor nods her head gently, understanding shimmering faintly in amber eyes, threads of her hair catching the golden glow of inner light, glinting with the motion. “I can understand that, but this is very important,” she says sincerely, worry shining in her face Azriel know she doesn’t have to fake. Still the male remains cautious in the doorway. “Azriel wasn’t lying when he told you this conflicts with Court matters,” Mor begins slowly, and the shadowsinger tamps down on the urge to glance at her warily. Though he knows she won’t reveal anything, there’s no need to offer scraps. “I’m afraid there’s little I can honestly tell you due to their private nature, but nonetheless I would like to speak with you about her. She is a part of our family, and we are deeply concerned about her. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”

Quiet pauses long enough to take a deep breath, before resuming to its consistent noise.

Eventually, Bas nods his head, standing straighter. A grain of tension is released from his shoulders as the male opens his door, yielding to a conversation. He makes to step forward, but sharp golden eyes flick to him, piercing and accusing in their nature. “I’ll speak with Mor, and Mor alone,” he states clearly, an edge of provocation creeping back into his features, though the Shadowsinger doubts its sincerity.

But Mor nods her head, “that’s fine,” she answers, brushing past his side, pulling the cold night air with her, a whisper of icy breath grazing his side as she moves forward, leaving him out in the dark. “Don’t move from here until we’re done,” Mor instructs from over her shoulder once Bas has disappeared from the entrance hall. Azriel nods, understanding the implication.

Listen in from outside.

————

The room she follows Bas into is cozy, well-kept. Clearly lived in.

The pillows of the sofas are slightly worn, slightly faded in colour, waned down to more earthy tones that compliment the pale terracotta of the walls. Fire crackles from the hearth, dried rosemary hung from the ceiling beams, as well as other dried herbs and plants. On the wall are some paintings, mostly stills, but they’re watery around their edges, faded colour bleeding over fine, distinct ink lines.

Bas takes a seat that seems to fit him comfortably, likely one he usually chooses, while Mor opts for one nearby, a quilt thrown over its back, squares of purple, blue, turquoise, and magenta knitted together, and she can make out small patches in the yarn where its been run thin and had to be darned with slightly mismatched thread.

“So,” Bas starts, quieter than she had expected, sitting forward in her chair, attentive. “You’re worried about her. Why?” It’s hard to conceal her frown at such a strange question, but she doesn’t really try to. She doubts she’ll get anywhere through masking her reactions. “She’s part of our family,” Mor replies, “why wouldn’t we be worried about her.” Bas settles deeper into his chair, hands braced on arms, head tilted back into the pillow as he watches her intently. It’s not an expression she’s unfamiliar with, but not one she had expected to encounter here—something wary and deeply protective.

“She doesn’t speak much about any of you,” he hedges slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. “But it’s enough. You aren’t as close knitted as family.” Mor opens her mouth to speak, but he continues. “Even if you try to be,” he says, nodding, “she isn’t easy to get to.” Mor closes her mouth, lips pursing in a tight line. He sighs, shifting in his seat, pushing a thick loc of hair from his face, hooking it over a thoroughly pierced ear. “I believe that you’re concerned about her, and that you truly want to help,” he says heavily, attitude shifted from how he’d been outside, and Mor wonders what Bas might have been told about the Shadowsinger to warrant such ice.

“We do,” she urges sincerely, and Bas nods again, hearing her.

“What I…worry about,” he starts hesitantly, forming the words carefully, considering each one. “I worry you don’t understand her enough to make an informed call,” he settles on, and Mor bristles a little. How long has Bas known her for? Does he know her more than Mor does? “What leads you to that way of thinking?” She asks, keeping the stiffness from her tone.

“I know you don’t see her much,” he replies simply, and again Mor’s lips purse. “She doesn’t enjoy…full, settings. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, though.” He sighs, eyes briefly closing, before reopening with a fresh intensity, sitting upright in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. “Do you know how we met? Me and her?”

Mor’s brow dips, but she answers anyway, curious where he’s going with this. “Through Nesta, right?” Bas nods, something passing through his eyes at the right answer. “Right,” he confirms, “making time to visit those stuffy inns, filled with groping hands—she hates places like that.” Bas sighs again, hand rubbing one side of his face. “I don’t even know if it helped at all, but I know she felt it was all she could do. Even if it was just company, and nothing material. Even if it might not’ve had an overall impact, that was her way of trying to help.”

Mor remains quiet, not seeing what he’s trying to say.

Bas shakes his head, as if telling her to forget about it, again rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t even know if I can speak on her behalf, and I like to think we’re fairly close with one another,” he admits, sighing heavily. “I don’t want to mislead you.”

“So you’ll let me where she’s gone?” Mor asks, concern heavy in her voice, making no effort to conceal her worry. She watches as the pads of his fingers rub over his eyes wearily, as she wonders if this is straining on him more than he’s letting on. “Try to understand her, when she talks,” he requests quietly, eyes still shut, fingers rubbing faintly. “She still confuses me sometimes, and she never shows if it bothers her, but I can’t imagine someone being okay with being misunderstood.”

“Bas,” Mor urges gently, sensing he’s on the verge of telling her whereabouts. “Please tell us where she’s gone. We don’t want her to feel alone.”

Bas doesn’t look up, face still covered by his hands, but Mor can make out the tightness of his brows, torn between his decisions. So close to cracking open.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

Mor blinks, eyes locking with gold as he looks at her through his fingers, fatigue obvious beneath his gaze, the lines more pronounced as the flame casts the shadows of his digits across his features, deepening the half circles that have appeared.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mor asks, biting down on shock, clearing it entirely from her voice. “She didn’t tell me,” he answers quietly.

Silence stretches, and even in the haze and confusion that’s been stirred up she has enough clarity to feel the piercing weight of a glare through a window, heavy and accusing. Tension crackles in her spine, flipping her golden hair over a shoulder, a subtle message to piss off to the shadows that are watching from outside.

She sighs heavily, meeting the golden eyes of the male opposite her, now sat back in his chair as he was before, but his back is slumped, as if containing all that worry had been stretching him taut. Relieved to no longer be the sole barer of her secrets. “Do you—…” Mor eases in a sharp breath, settling the worry and gradually increasing panic that’s tightening around her throat. She swallows, pulling herself together. Recomposing herself. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” She asks calmly. “Anything could help.”

But Bas shakes his head, guilt clear in his golden eyes. “She didn’t give me any hints. But she had a bag with her, so I’m guessing she had somewhere in mind and didn’t just aimlessly wander off.”

Mor nods, getting to her feet, golden eyes tracking her movements. “Thank you for telling me,” she says sincerely, before turning for the door.

“I know that leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone where you’re going seems rash—maybe even a bit stupid,” Bas says after her, voice a little clearer to catch her attention. “But she’s smart. I’d wager it was probably something she’d had in the back of her mind for a while.”

Mor swallows thickly, the possibility not sitting well with her, but nods nonetheless.

“I’ll let you know when we find her.”

————

Azriel waits sullenly in the front garden for Mor to exit the male’s house, darkening the doorstep he’d been instructed to remain in until she was done.

He watches the door open and close, Mor stepping out into the night air, latch clicking softly as it locks behind her, and the two make their way silently at first down the garden path, back into the street before they begin communicating. “That certainly didn’t take long,” he muses lowly, glancing at her sidelong. “I take it you heard everything?” She asks quietly, tension clear in the cold bite of her usually honeyed voice. Azriel gives a brisk nod, and Mor sighs. “What now?”

“There are only so many places she could have gone to,” Azriel replies smoothly, mind already running through the possibilities. Honestly, Bas not knowing almost helps more—it has to be someone she knows. There are only two places she could have possibly run off to, though neither of them seem particularly believable. That being thought, he knows where he’ll check first.

“You have an idea?” Mor asks tightly, a bit of a bite to her question. Azriel nods grimly, “Elain mentioned a fox in her vision,” he explains, “apparently they grow close—enough to make a bargain of some sort, anyway.”

“Elain saw the bargain in her vision?” Mor questions. Azriel nods. “We don’t know if that’s symbolism or not,” she mutters, “we have no idea how accurate they are, either. Nor how soon they’ll come to pass.” Her tone softens toward the end a little, but Azriel isn’t willing to speak about that part of the prophecy yet. That he will be dying. Probably soon, going off how vivid Elain’s descriptions were—as if it were urgent. Impending.

“And you’re sure Elain doesn’t know where she’s gone?” Mor asks, keeping her gaze ahead, brows pulled together in concentration, a glint in her warrior’s eyes. “She might do,” Azriel sighs, “they are close, after all. And the fox…”

“Could be Lucien,” Mor finishes heavily. “You think she’s run to the mortal lands. Back to her home.” Azriel remains silent, keeping pace as they return silently to the River House.

Piercing amber eyes dig into the side of his skull, the intensity of her attention almost startling if he hadn’t had centuries to grow accustomed to it. He senses the question, just as she could sense he was holding something back.

Azriel doesn’t look at her as he speaks, “there’s only one other person the fox might represent.”

Even without visuals, he can hear how her pace nearly falters, then comes to a stop. He pauses with her, at last turning to face the golden haired female. Her skin is paler, even taking the silver of the moon into account. “You think she might have gone to Eris?” She asks, voice thick, but quiet. No more than a breath of wind. “I think it’s one of the two. There’s no one else it could be.”

“She’s only met him once,” Mor snaps lowly, nails digging into her palms. Azriel makes a show of shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s one or the other,” he says calmly, “if she isn’t in the Mortal lands…”

Mor stares at him, amber eyes drained a little. “You really think there’s a chance he could have…taken her?” She practically spits, unable to keep the hiss out of her voice. Because when it comes to that long ago trauma, her only responses to fall back on are fear, or anger. He doubt she’ll allow the vulnerability of fear right now. Not with the tension between them. “I think it’s better to question Elain first to see if she knows anything. If she doesn’t, I’ll make my way down Prythian.”

Mor blinks, realising the situation. She had demanded Azriel be the one to tell Feyre, regardless of whether they find anything or not. But with the new possibility of her having somehow found herself in the Autumn Court…Mor’s throat rolls heavily. She can’t bring herself to go there. Even now, the thought alone…she pushes against the urge to settle her palm over her abdomen. “We question Elain first,” she manages quietly, and Azriel can see how she’s gathering herself back together.

Instinct is the closest it comes to, that feeling she’s somehow run off to the Autumn Court, like a tug toward the unfamiliar land. Surely Elain would have mentioned something to him about a plan for her sister to leave when she’d been telling him about the vision. It’s the option that makes the most sense, for her to have spoken with Elain, and used a tunnel to reach the border quickly. With all the books she’s read in the library…the kind of things they contain, he doesn’t doubt she’d be more than capable of figuring a way to sneak out of the Night Court. To sneak out of Prythian if she set her mind to it.

Mor nods, and Azriel redirects his attention to the street, continuing the pace. “Question Elain,” she murmurs, “then head to Autumn first. If she isn’t there, go to the Lower Lands. Be as quick as possible.” He nods, admittedly relieved he won’t have to yet face Rhys for the mess he’s inadvertently caused.

————

“Eris, I’m tired,” you sigh, hands aching, sitting dejectedly on a tree stump.

As much as you’d protested, he’d dragged you back out into the forest, where everything feels encased in a glass bubble. It’s hard to explain when you think about it, but it’s like being in another world, how easily the trees sweep away and redirect noise. Hairs prickle at the back of your neck as you remember the giant, boar-like creature that had rampaged upon you mere days ago. The sight and smell of steaming blood as skin slid from flesh, melted apart.

“You haven’t even done anything,” he mutters, watching. “Get back up.”

You sigh heavily, reluctantly getting to your feet, then blinking heavily, suddenly crouching down as you press your palms to your eyes, trying to steady yourself from the abrupt dizziness that had ballooned into your head. Lips part as you try to concentrate on your breathing, wishing away the sudden feeling of unevenness beneath your feet. Eventually it passes, a few extra moments spent crouched for good measure, before you slowly stand back up, hand pressing to the side of your head. Cutting whiskey and amber eyes are piercing into you from across the clearing. You scowl back.

“What was that?” He asks, disapprovingly, your scowl deepening at the tone.

“I told you: I’m tired,” you snap, but it lacks the bite you’d wished for, fatigue building into a slow but heavy pulse inside your head, just above and behind your brows. A yawn rises from your chest, and you cover your mouth as it stretches you open, eyes squeezing shut, watering a little before you slump back into your usual posture, no longer pulled taut by your muscles.

His sharp eyes narrow accusingly, and you bristle at the look, trying to summon up the energy to glare at him. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” He asks sharply, and you grimace, knowing he won’t approve of the answer. But you really don’t have the energy to lie, either. “No, I didn’t,” you sigh, “I was feeling sick.” Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even attempt to recognise. “You were probably feeling sick from hunger,” he mutters, as if it’s obvious, arms folding over his chest, leaning back against a tree. “Using magic can take up a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You should have—”

“I know the difference,” you hiss, lip twitching up in the beginnings of a snarl, before once again flattening out, and you sit back on the stump, uncaring if it pisses him off. You hope it does.

“Do you?” He muses, a bladed edge to his tone that has your stomach tightening, glancing at him warily from across the clearing. You tense as he pushes off from the tree, then vanishes, and you jump as he appears on your other side, peering down at you, unimpressed. “You know how to tell when your magic is draining you? Because those are some pretty big steps to have made seemingly overnight.” Your lips purse, averting your gaze, sullenly looking away. “That’s what I thought.”

“I know the difference between hungry sickness and—” you falter, but manage to finish the sentence, “…and being unwell.”

Eris pauses, and you want to meet his gaze and glare at him, but your head just feels too heavy on your shoulders, and the general fatigue hasn’t been aided by the light sheen of sweat that’s been layering your body each morning, before you’ve wobbly stumbled to the washroom, clutching your stomach. You’ve yet to actually regurgitate anything though—your one blessing. It’s like those initial months after the Cauldron all over again.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you glare at the ground, irritation growing in your chest. It wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more gentle with his attitude. His demeanour, in general. A curse sits, unspoken, at the tip of your tongue when he grips your jaw, angling your chin upward so he can examine you. Again your lips twitch in a slight snarl, but the energy fails quickly. Amber eyes sweep over your features, and you avert your gaze when his own settle intensely on yours. He releases you after a too-long moment, allowing you your space again, and you glare at him. “What was that for?”

“You look worse than usual,” he answers flatly.

You glare at him resentfully, unable to muster up the laugh you usually would whenever he makes a comment like that. Instead you just feel irritated. His brows narrow further, “how much have you been sleeping recently?” He pushes. You shrug, briefly glancing away.

“A normal amount. I’m fine, just let me sit down, it’s not that big of an issue if I’m not standing, right?”

“Are you coming up for your cycle?”

The bones in your hands creak, groaning with strain and you hiss as pain flares weakly beneath your gloves at your fingertips. You tuck your hands under your arms, trying to soothe their sting as you glare at him. “Do not ask me that,” you snap, legs crossing on the tree stump. You half expect his lips to quirk at the easily given reaction, but his brow dips a little. “You don’t have to give me a direct answer,” he says at last, a touch gentler than before, but still stern. “Just answer if it could be related.”

You hesitate at the tone, jaw still tight with tension, but you swallow thickly. “No,” you manage quietly, “not for another few months, at least.”

“Then as much as you disagree, it would be a good idea to eat first, then see if you improve,” he replies, back to his usual drawl, laced with distaste. Enough to almost have your lips curving a little at their edges. “So we’ll be going back to have lunch right this second,” you muse, glancing up at him, “and you aren’t going to set some stupid challenge for me to fulfil beforehand. Right? Because that would be very impractical.”

His amber eyes glint with something you’ve decided is the closest he’ll get to open amusement, brow raising slightly. “Why waste a good motive?” He counters, “looks like you’re catching on.” You force a groan, if only in attempts to lighten the mood from whatever dark grave it had settled into, and you reluctantly get to your feet, taking it slow incase your head starts swimming again. “What is it this time?” Eris nods to the tree that looks to have been recently cut down, the counterpart to the trunk you’re sat upon. “I want you to try touching the bark,” he instructs, and you look at him quizzically. Seems easy enough.

You watch him questioningly as you stand and make your way over to the tree, putting your hands down.

“Done?” You say slowly, confusion blatant in the furrow of your brows as you stare at him.

Eris stares at you blankly, before raising his palm to cover the lower portion of his features, concealing his mouth. “Using your magic,” he adds disbelievingly, mouth still covered.

You blink, then flush with embarrassment, hand covering your own mouth as laughter bubbles up from your chest. “Oh,” you manage, shoulders shaking lightly, not helped by the matching amusement reflecting in his amber eyes—amusement he’s struggling to conceal. “I thought—” you break off, a smile stretching wide behind your palm, chest stuttering with mirth. “I thought you meant I just had to touch it.” He shakes his head, seemingly beyond speech. “You want to see how the bark reacts when I touch it with my magic,” you clarify, nodding your head, still trying to tamp down the laughter that’s heating your eyes faintly. He confirms with a slight nod of his head, and you take a deep breath, trying to sober up. “I see,” you nod again, at last recovered enough to lower your hands to remove your gloves, a smile still faintly curving your lips. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Why would I ask you to touch a tree?” Eris asks from somewhere at your back, tone almost settled back to his usual drawl, dripping of disapproval. “I’m tired,” you reply, not nearly as practiced as he is at keeping your tone neutral as you glance at him over your shoulder, “you should have clarified better.” Eris shakes his head, before nodding to the tree trunk.

You take in a breath, returning to look at the bark—what would happen if you touched it?

Closing your eyes briefly, you steady out your breaths, inhaling slow and deep, feeling your shoulders lose their tension before reopening your eyes. Focusing on the bark again now that you’re settled. “What should I do?” You ask, not taking your gaze from the tree or your hands.

“Try thinking about different things, exploring how they make you feel,” he replies steadily. How helpful, you think, but leave the comment unvoiced—you’re trying to concentrate. You think about how the light had appeared before, when he’d gotten you to briefly sustain it. It had hurt at first, you’d had the chance to realise, but after the initial rush of pain, the creak of bones and your groaning carpals, it had faded more into a slight tingle, like your fingers had fallen asleep, wrapped in a vague warmth.

You swallow thickly, thinking about the flat-topped ring in your pocket, the absence of weight in your ears, how they correlate. You don’t regret the decision to sell them off, to your slight surprise. More indifferent to the change, if not slightly excited at your choice. Doing something for yourself, on your own, that nobody knew about. It’s nice, having secrets.

“Now press them to the bark,” Eris instructs, and you look down in surprise to spot the faint greenish-gold glow weaving between your fingers—almost like fish slowly weaving throughout water as they struggle upstream, but less frenetic. Slowly, keeping your breathing steady, you press your palms against the bark, palms shaking slightly as the light flickers, almost flinching slightly as it hesitantly makes contact with the new surface.

You jerk away when something lances up your wrist, stinging pain spearing beneath your skin as the tang of copper bursts in the air. The magic extinguishes in an instant, snuffed out with a single recoiling thought, and your breathing loses its pattern as you glance down at your right palm. What looks like a popped blister sits on the heel of your hand, except the liquid that gleams had a red tint to it, mixed with blood. You sigh heavily, left hand holding your right wrist lightly, thumb pressing the flesh just below the blister, watching as blood rises to the surface. The skin around it is flakier than before, a little discoloured, and you spot a mole at the knuckle of your little finger, poking meekly out from the skin, as if worried over being spotted and pulled away.

Eris walks up to your side, glancing down at the bark, the absence of any sort of change. It looks exactly the same. “I guess nothing happened,” you hedge, glancing warily down at the tree, searching for some kind of change.

Eris is quiet, and you at last turn to peer up at him, wondering what he’s thinking. His silence is waring. Amber eyes latch with your own, narrowed and slightly impatient, before the emotion is swiftly wrapped away. “I had hoped to make more progress,” he muses lowly, and you regard him with caution at the hushed tone. His eyes gleam with something you can’t figure out, wariness intensifying as he pulls something from his pocket—a small silk pouch.

You tilt your head, brows furrowed, “what is that?”

His lips sharpen at the edges, and tension coils beneath your skin—that type of expression is never good. “Open it,” he instructs simply, and you cautiously take it from his fingers, eyeing him again before carefully pulling the strings open, tipping the contents out into your palm. You blink as you take in the smooth band of metal, silver and gleaming against the flaws of your skin. “A…ring?” You ask, peering up at him questioningly. He nods, and you suppress your jolt when his fingers brush over your knuckles, plucking the band up and watching you intently as he smoothly slides it down to the base of the pointer finger on your left hand.

His demeanour has noticeably shifted, and your brows narrow further, suspicion roiling in your gut.

“It’ll help with keeping your magic calmer,” he explains lowly, secretively, and you manage a nod, confusion running rampant in your blood stream. “How so?” You ask, glancing down at the band, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist to keep you from moving. “You have a habit of straining yourself to keep the full force of your power from coming out,” he answers, thumb brushing your knuckle, and this time you glare up at him. His mouth only sharpens, amber eyes glinting with something that has the hairs raising at the nape of your neck. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how the Illyrians use siphons—so their raw type of magic doesn’t destroy everything around them?” You nod, tension lessening, again glancing down to the band. “Think of it like that—now you don’t have to waste concentration on keeping it all in check.”

He releases your hand, and you pull it closer to look at the silver, angling your head a little, understanding this must have been what that exchange had been about, when he’d gone down that dim, dark alleyway into the hidden chamber. “So it’s…a magic ring?” You ask, brows scrunched together as you look up at him. He raises a brow, “how astute of you.” You glare, lips curving faintly at the familiar intonation.

You swallow, stepping back a little, nodding your head. “I guess…” you breathe deeply, “as good a time as any.” You pull the flat-topped ring from your own pocket, and extend it toward him. “I saw this the other day in the market,” you say honestly, watching as his expression shifts, brow raising as he opens his palm. “It reminded me of you a little, and I probably won’t see you over the solstice anyway, so might as well give it to you now.”

Eris takes the ring, examining it, the small carving of the fox set in sterling silver. “A rather unique gift,” he muses, making the edges of your mouth curve.

“If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it,” you say, smiling lightly, “I just wanted to get it.” Though to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to despise it, sliding it over the thumb of his right hand—it seems to actually fit.

That viper’s smile returns to his sharpened mouth, eyes glinting again. “I don’t think your family would approve of a gift like this,” he drawls, more clearly than before, causing you to cock your head in question.

Lips fashion themselves into a razor-sharp grin, the expression more vulpine than fae.

“Isn’t that right, Shadowsinger?”

————

Eris raises his gaze to the forest, how the trees had whispered to him, calling out about the figure stalking their movements. Really, the shadowsinger should know not to hunt outside his own territory. The hulking, shadowy figure steps silently out into the clearing, with a quiet that’s been well-earned by the Spymaster of the Night Court.

Powerful wings are pulled to his body in traditional Illyrian fashion, save for the darkness wreathing the gleaming talons at their peaks, cold hazel eyes clashing with Eris’ own. Marking what the Spymaster has come for. It’s proximity to the male he hates viciously, bloodily, gruesomely.

“Shouldn’t you know not to sneak around in the shadows by now?” Eris drawls, hands settling around its shoulders, feeling stone-tight tension beneath his palms. Its magic fading, unable to winnow two people away, so left trapped in the clearing as the male prowls closer.

“Eris,” the Spymaster greets coldly, darkness unspooling upon the ground he treads, coming to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Not close enough for hand-to-hand combat, but too nearby for a proper display of magic. At least he’s smart enough to recognise he’s at a disadvantage in a foreign court—uninvited, at that. “Shouldn’t you know the consequences of displacing a member of Rhys’ court?” The Spymaster questions, lethally quiet.

Tremors flutter beneath Eris’ hands, still gripping her shoulders to keep her in place, and he glances down, only to find her already watching him. If it weren’t for the tremors, she would be as still as death. Her brows lifted and slightly curved, mouth pointed down at the edges. Betrayal stark in her normally bright eyes.

“You’re clearly uninformed,” Eris muses, pulling away from her scared eyes to meet cutting hazel. “This is a perfectly amicable meeting, isn’t it, cygnet?”

The Spymaster’s canines flash at the pet-name, the blatant taunt, the insinuation he’s made that she would choose himself over the Spymaster. That well-concealed wrath suffers a blow when she raises her hands to grip his wrists, nothing demanding about the touch—it’s a weak hold. As if asking for attention.

“Amicable or not,” the Spymaster says, expression stony, “you’ll return her. Unless you want Rhys to know about this abduction?” Eris shrugs, amusement sharpening his mouth as he selects his words carefully, “I’m not her keeper. She will return when she likes.” By the looks of it, the arrow lands, pupils constricting as the Spymaster takes a menacing step closer.

————

Your ears have hollowed out, stomach swallowing your heart. A quiet kind of panic tightening through your chest, pulse spiking. Dread sluicing through the rope holding you taut.

You’re staring up at him, holding on with as much strength as you can manage as a strange emotion rushes through your blood, softening your muscles until you’re struggling to stand, pushing every pleading word you’ve ever read into your eyes, silently begging for him to do something. To keep you from facing him on your own.

You know how easy it is for him to shatter you.

Amber eyes lower to yours, walls risen against Azriel’s presence, and your fingers stutter over the cuffs of his tunic, before the last of your strength drains. They’re glinting again with that challenge, and in the very back of your mind you can understand he’s using this as just another training exercise, but it’s hard to focus on through the ringing in your ears, that strange quiet that’s so loud it drowns out every other thought, like a thousand whispers hissing instructions too swiftly, too viciously for you to make them out, coming together in a swirling spiral that’s pulling you under.

Eris’ mouth is moving, eyes peering at something behind you, but you’re fine not hearing. Would prefer to fade from the world, to slip away quietly, unnoticed and un-missed. But then amber again returns to you, and with it sound comes crashing in too. “Pack up,” Eris orders, and you blink, his hands tightening on your shoulders as he feels the slight sway of your body.

“She’ll take a while,” Eris drawls, glancing back at the Shadowsinger—your stomach lurches—who remains a heavy presence at your back. “You may be unwelcome, but let’s not waste this opportunity. Using your General’s absence as an excuse not to meet has lost its worth. You will suffice.”

————

You feel half-awake as you pack your things, watching from some far away place as you fold clothes meticulously, with much more care than you usually would, taking your time gathering the few items you brought.

Clothes, an empty blue box, the thickly bound volume. A thin wooden box about the length of your arm, a note attached atop.

Use it wisely.

You pack the box in your bag, recognising the elegant script.

————

Azriel had followed silently, concealed within Eris’s shadow as he’d strode through the stretching hallways, leading the way to his own chambers, where they will be able to speak freely and most importantly, privately. Tension had simmered beneath his war-roughened skin the entire time, disliking even having to blend his shadows with the heirling’s, but it’s an intimacy he’s forced to yield.

The room Eris takes him to is big, to say the least, and open, with a large bed against a wall, a wooden chest at its foot, his desk adjacent so natural light fills the cavernous room—one that’s above ground. It’s here he emerges from shadow, filling space just beside the large wooden chest, an unlit fire quite a way to his left. Eris takes his time walking around the desk, sitting down comfortably, having the nerve to look relaxed—prick.

“So,” Eris begins, and Azriel bites against the urge to grind his teeth at the smug tone. “She ran away from you. Took her long enough.”

“How long have you been planning this?” Azriel asks coldly, completing a triple check of the room, making sure there’s no one else around. “You act like it was my idea,” the autumn heir drawls, successfully snaring his attention, something foul rising at the back of his throat at the implication. Likely the confirmation he needs that she had indeed left of her own volition. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You want me to believe she came all this way on a hope that you’d provide temporary asylum?” Azriel asks, rooting deeper. “She has a smart head on her shoulders,” Eris drawls, amusement glinting in sharp, amber eyes, “she knows how to bargain.”

His blood ices over, skin turning cold at the wording, demeanour plunging as his shadows deepen. “You made a bargain with her?” Azriel growls, pulse spiking. If a bargain has already been made… But Eris waves his hand, enough of a light dismissal for Azriel to figure she hasn’t mentioned Elain’s vision to him. One small ray of light amongst the storming thunder clouds she’s already brought upon herself.

“Do you find it so unbelievable that she might be capable of making arrangements on her own? Why do you assume I had any hand in it?” Eris drawls, making that glittering rage sharpen into razor-tipped icicles, poised to carve and slice. “You’re a conniving bastard,” Azriel says lowly, violence glinting in his hazel eyes, “she wouldn’t have come to you without some prompting.”

“You think I tricked her?” Eris muses, a trace of humour in his tone, Azriel’s brows narrowing with detestation. “What would I get out of that, unless she was complicit? I have no way of forcing her magic out of her, she has to want that on her own—as much as that might irritate Rhys.”

Loathing simmers in Azriel’s chest, but he remains quiet, allowing Eris to talk so he can gather as much information as he can from both sides. So he can compare her side with his later.

“I’m sure after Nesta Archeron, Rhys would be eager to find out what other weapons he might have at his disposal.”

“She isn’t a weapon,” Azriel snarls lowly, fury held back by straining iron manacles.

“But she could become one,” Eris counters, tone shifting to something more serious, and Azriel stiffens. “The timing’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Her magic only now coming through? After two years?”

“That’s not for you to speculate on.”

“Even without an alliance, it is a matter of concern,” Eris growls, brows narrowing as ire blazes in his eyes, glowing like freshly forged steel. “Why doesn’t she know anything?”

Azriel growls in warning, violence itching at his fingers, fists aching to slam down. Sparks crackle in the air, his own intentions seemingly reflected in the male before him. “You don’t have the luxury to ignore this pathway,” Eris growls lowly, “choosing to turn a blind eye would be damning.”

“She has her own problems to deal with,” Azriel snarls lowly, “you do not get to make that call.”

“I will make the call if Rhys doesn’t,” Eris snarls back, canines flashing viciously, “she could use some toughening up.”

“You don’t know enough to make an informed choice,” Azriel mutters coldly.

“Then Rhys had better hurry up. It’s not as though he’s unaccustomed to having to make decisions like this. What’s taking him so long?”

Azriel keeps still, features neutral, refusing to let even a hint of emotion appear in his blank expression.

Eris’ eyes narrow, sensing he’s being denied information. Vulpine senses picking up on a weak spot. Unnervingly keen. Then he blinks, leaning back in his chair, torso losing tension. “You haven’t told him.” Despite the utter neutrality, Azriel knows he’s figured it out. The heirling nods, a cynical curve to his sharpened mouth. “She didn’t give the impression she’d willingly display her failures to you.”

“They aren’t failures,” Azriel mutters, ice burning in his eyes as he watches Eris with a glacial look.

“No? Because the control over her magic was pretty pathetic to me,” Eris replies lowly.

Azriel snarls, low and threatening, shadows concentrating into a darkness worthy of the Night Court’s Spymaster, deep and deadly as they writhe in warning. “I didn’t realise she had you so tightly wrapped around her flaky little finger,” Eris croons, and darkness rears back, preparing to strike, when three quiet taps are landed to the door, meagre and unimposing.

————

You peek your head into his chambers, bag slung over your shoulder as you pause on the threshold.

Tension is blatant in Azriel’s shoulders, wings slightly flared, an icy emotion tucked between the stern set of his brows, shadows darker—more frenetic—than they usually are. Looking over to Eris, you can see how he’s leaned back in his chair, that taunting glint in his naturally piercing gaze, and you can guess fairly easily the conversation they were having was not a friendly one—even without the aid of body language.

Maybe they were discussing Court matters.

“I—…Should I wait out—”

“Come in,” Eris orders, cutting you off, and your brows narrow a little at the tone, before softening out again, remembering who else is present. You shut the door behind yourself, turning your back to them to make sure it clicks shut quietly, then walking further into the room, stood a little distance from Azriel, not wanting to encroach on his space while he’s surely furious with you. At the very least immensely disappointed.

“Took you long enough,” Eris drawls, bringing your attention away from Azriel to meet his cutting gaze. Well, your eyes meet his. It’s practically impossible to not focus on the male at your right. You’re not sure if you're imagining the displeasure rippling from him, but you can only hope Eris hasn’t intentionally stirred things up. You know you won’t be able to protect yourself against whatever words he has for you after your abrupt departure.

“You haven’t left any tatters behind?” Eris asks, and a slight scowl dips your brows.

“I have everything,” you reply, readjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder.

“Excellent. Then you can leave.”

You blink at the abrupt dismissal, glancing at him warily. “Weren’t you discussing something?” You ask Eris hesitantly, cautious about prodding where you aren’t welcome. “We were,” Eris replies, a viper’s smile on his sharp lips, amber eyes cutting to the male at your right. “But it appears your Spymaster doesn’t think you’re trustworthy enough.” It’s obviously a manipulation of truth, but that doesn’t make it easy to hear, heart hollowing out, spine losing a bit of rigidity.

“And who could blame him,” Eris continues, “you haven’t exactly been particularly honest with him, have you, cygnet?”

Your lips purse, averting your eyes from both of them, peering at the floorboards to your left, shame tightening around your throat. “Seems logical enough,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice steady. You’d rather vanish right then and there, wiped clean from memory and existence than allow a tremor into your voice.

You’ve gotten yourself into this situation. Self-pity won’t fix anything.

“Then that is that,” Eris muses, pulling you from your thoughts. Azriel shifts, not saying another word to either of you as he makes for the door, and you glance at Eris a little longer, searching for a way back. He quirks a taunting brow, resting his jaw on his right hand, the flat-topped band of sterling silver catching the light with the motion. Your thumb brushes the ring on your own finger, before you turn, making for the door where Azriel’s waiting to take you back.

Back to the Night Court.

Back to Velaris.

Back to your family.

Back to be judged.

————

It was unnerving how alone you’d felt on the way out of the palace. Even knowing he was present, slipping through shadows, you couldn’t sense a single thing, and on more than one occasion had glanced around, worriedly trying to find him—but nothing.

It wasn’t until you passed the walls, heading out into the forest again that he emerged—silent and looming—unable to hear his footsteps even when he was right beside you. Unnervingly ghost-like.

You wait for him to speak, to say whatever it is that’ll inevitably bring tears to your skin, but he’s completely silent, leading the way. Knowing you’ll follow behind. Knowing you won’t speak to him until he initiates.

You’d been brought here by winnowing, but he makes no move to wrap either of you in his shadows, and a small part of you whispers that he wouldn’t want you to contaminate them. You try to ignore that part, but even the quietest voice will be heard over silence. Instead the tales spin deeper, that he hadn’t even wanted to retrieve you, content to have you out of the way, out of the Night Court, away from his home. At least that way there’d be no chance of his prophesied death coming to pass.

He’d be safe, and you wouldn’t be bothering him.

Wouldn’t be bothering any of them.

He walks deeper into the forest, silent and steadfast, while you watch as his boots tread through the fallen leaves, not daring to look any higher in case it disgusts him further. You have no concept of how long you follow after him for—long enough your feet begin to ache lightly, but you push through it—silently waiting for the conversation to start. For the first question to be asked. For the first blow to be landed.

Azriel doesn’t stop when you try to shift your bag to the other shoulder, your right one aching, and something in your stomach drops when your pace slows but his remains constant, so you hurriedly finish the switch, and make an effort to catch up, careful not to trip. Hunger gnaws at your bones, but you keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt his pace. It’s not until your stomach audibly protests that he comes to a pause, glancing over his shoulder to you, and you swiftly duck your head, averting your eyes from his painfully familiar hazel set. Breaths deepening as you come to a stop with him.

“When did you eat last?” He asks. The first words he’s said to you.

“Yesterday,” you answer quietly, pressure tight across your chest as you try to keep your breaths quiet but even. “Do you have food on you?” He asks. You nod. You’d wrapped up a pastry from breakfast, it being the only thing you’d be able to savour. Even years later, the habit of not wasting food still remains prominent.

His boots shift, turning to face forward as he begins walking again. You follow silently, seeing no point in nodding or replying. It’s not like you’re going to do anything else. “There’s a clearing up here. You can eat there.”

Azriel pauses beside a particularly large oak tree, and you swallow, and you habitually consider where the least offensive place to sit would be. So you’re nicely out of his way. The ground is muddy, so you’re forced to follow beside his footsteps to the oak, setting as silently as you can on one large branch that’s gnarled and shoved through the earth to curl into a large seat.

Your pulse spikes, wondering if this will be where you have the one-sided discussion, perching the bag on your legs, searching through for the little pastry. It’s made harder by your bare hands, how every piece of fabric seems to bite at your skin with each brush, piercing painfully as you search, until you spot the orange scarf, pulling it out to find the pastry wrapped in a napkin.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel like you’re wasting time.

You peer at the pastry in your hands, not particularly keen on eating it. You’re close enough to nausea as is, and don’t want to tempt fate with giving your stomach something to regurgitate. But it would be weird to put it away now, so you’ll just have to take small bites. Hope that you can stomach it. A few minutes pass, but you’ve hardly made a noticeable dent in the food, guilt weighing on your bones, pausing between each mouthful to peer around the clearing dully.

Your fingers fumble a little when Azriel moves, settling on the root beside you, your muscles stitching themselves taut, and you hastily shift yourself tighter so he has his space. Almost dropping the pastry in your stuttering movements.

He’s quiet for a bit, and you swallow thickly, attempting to focus on the food before you so as not to stare, but internally you can feel the beats passing, heart ticking tighter…tighter…

“Why did you leave?” He asks quietly.

You still, able to feel the narrow wooden box digging into your thighs. Pausing as the tension abates a little, like how you imagine it would feel to watch an arrow loose from a bow, watching it arc in the sky, then slowly plummet down, seeking out its target. The breath that would breathe out in relief once it embedded itself in flesh, those few, stretching moments at last having come to an end, and one can relax into the clarity of the pain. The certainty of the wound.

“I wanted to get out,” you mumble thickly, keeping the shake from your voice.

“So you went to him?” Azriel asks. You head lowers a little in sorrow.

Where else were you supposed to go?

“You could have asked to be taken somewhere,” he says quietly, and guilt tightens itself around your throat. Is there any way to explain to him why you’d left when you hardly understand it yourself? It had been a crescendo of nerves, of bottled up worries tightening with pressure, like air being blown into a brown paper bag until it burst. Is there any way to tell him you’d like to be able to ask things of him, but in truth you’d rather be slowly pulled apart by pressure than worry him with pointless tasks that only serve your benefit? How can you ever hope to speak with him honestly, when your very heart seems to be the thing warning you away—that same heart that wants to press into him, to beg and cry for forgiveness and reassurance.

“At least have the decency to answer,” he says quietly when you don’t respond, and you feel the small tremor that shudders up your throat, fearing the oncoming disaster. “I wanted to go on my own,” you get out, words softer than a whisper.

He’s quiet, and you wonder if that’s the end of the discussion for now.

But, “did you think at all about what the consequences would be from going to him?” He asks, gaze ahead, but attention pressing down on you. “Or did you forget you have people around you, that your actions impact.”

Your grip loosens on the pastry, choosing to wrap it back up in the napkin, fingers shaking slightly. A lump rising in your throat.

“Answer,” he murmurs, promptingly.

“I just wanted to go,” you whisper hoarsely, fingers wringing together. “I thought—… I thought it would be better if I was fur—… If I was gone.”

“Are you going to tell Mor where you went?” He questions softly. “Or did you not think about that part either?”

“I made progress,” you try, raising your gaze to his. “I can summon it, if I concentrate.”

His lips remain unmoving, but his eyes…gods, his eyes. You betrayed her, you know. All of them.

Breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away. Unable to face him. It. Any of it.

“Why is it so bad?” You ask quietly. “All I did was leave for a little under a week. I was trying to get better.”

“Stop. Lying,” he mutters lowly, blood freezing in your veins, fingers wringing together. Silence ticks by, and you wonder if he can hear the humiliatingly loud pulse of your heart, erratic and stumbling as it usually does around him. You don’t think he’s ever so obviously shown what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling.

Why is this the first way you see it?

Why is this the first time he allows it?

“Just tell me what you want,” you ask quietly, voice faltering as you stare at him helplessly. “You’re never happy with anything I do,” you manage, trembling with growing turmoil, “so please, just tell me what you want, and put me out of my misery.”

He exhales harshly, leaning back into the trunk, lips tugged down at the corners, reproach tucked between his brows, so rarely softened by charm anymore. At least not while you’re around. Almost never when you’re around.

“I don’t feel I should have to tell you how you fucked up here,” he replies lowly, and you push back on the flinch at the crude wording. “You made a bad choice.”

“Imagine how much worse the others were,” you reply lowly, a hint of resentment—not directed at him—present in your tone. He stiffens at your side, then his gaze slides slowly over to you, lethal and condemning, but it’s like you can’t look away. You physically can’t duck your head, or shy away. “You’re really joking at a time like this?”

You meet his eyes fully, presently, taking him in against the darkening sky, winter sun already on the way out for the day, the chill more than prominent, but you don’t dare reach for the scarf in your bag. “Tell me what you want,” you repeat softly, no louder than a last breath on dying lips.

“I want you to be honest,” he replies, brows narrowing, “for once, apparently.”

“About what?”

“Why you went to him.” He nearly spits, unable to entirely keep his ire at bay, something passing behind his eyes.

You’re quiet. Silent.

Then you lean back into the trunk of the tree, head tilting back into the rough bark, hands settling numbly in your lap. Shoulders slope, and you peer up into the grey sky, gloomy and heavy with unshed tears. Thick and thunderous. Fitting for the storm that’s on its way.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper, hardly a breath from your lips, a prayer whisked away by the static air. He’s silent, and your throat closes up. “Azriel,” your murmur, swallowing thickly. “Please.”

Moments tick by, stretching and warping as your heart thumps heavily in your chest, utterly bewitched, utterly at his mercy. It’s exhausting.

He sighs, and you try not to stiffen as he glances over to you, feeling that familiar prickle of skin as lovely hazel settles on you. A few warm rays making it through the dim clouds before being frozen off by the icy breeze. Winter’s most definitely on its way.

“I won’t be angry,” he murmurs softly. “Just…talk to me. Like you used to.”

Your arms fold over your chest, closing in on yourself, feet pressing together as you hunch over the bag in your lap, peering at the muddy ground. The smell of parchment rises from your memories, dusty and familiar, but lacking the warmth of nostalgia. Like the bitterness of a tea left to steep for too long, so it dries out your throat, eyes watering from its ticklish bite.

“I couldn’t do it on my own,” you admit quietly. Fingers brushing your knuckles. Raw and flaky.

The thoughts swirl in the back of your mind, ready to roar and rage, becoming so loud they’re deafening, suddenly cutting quiet so fast you have no desire to understand what it means when the waters draw back. What it means when the sea itself shrinks away, leaving a barren and washed-up beach.

“But, the idea of trying in front of you…any of you…and then falling flat at such a small hurdle…” You look to your left, away from him, pulling tighter into yourself. Can anything good come of this kind of honestly? With him?

“I don’t have much anymore, Azriel,” you breathe lowly, struggling silently with the humiliating vulnerability. How bare you are, just waiting for steel to pierce your skin. Like tossing yourself over a cliff and hoping the jagged rocks far below will soften your fall.

“I just wanted to keep my dignity. The scraps left of it after…what happened…”

Your toes curl in your shoes, feet crossed, feeling as though your heart is trying to cave in on itself, swallowed by a vacuum suctioning you back down with the force of a flooded spring river.

“So it was better to fail in front of Eris?”

“But I don’t owe him success,” you argue uselessly, eyes squeezing shut in attempts to keep the tears at bay as your head falls into your hands. “I don’t—…I don’t owe him anything.”

“You don’t owe us anything either,” he replies.

“I owe my entire life to you,” you nearly hiss, spine curving in as your brows cramp together, jaw wound so tight you feel like a tooth might crack beneath the intense pressure, nails pressing into the soft skin of your brow.

“Feyre was the one who saved the three of you,” he reminds quietly, slowly, but you’re shaking your head. Staring down into your lap, tension rippling so clearly from your bunched up form Azriel considers laying a hand on your trembling shoulder as if to pull you from a trance. “No. I know, but…” Your fingers press into your eyes, unable to articulate what you can feel in your stomach. “If she hadn’t gone to Night,” you breathe heavily, shakily, “if she hadn’t gone here, we’d still be back there, entirely human, and I—… I wasn’t going to last much longer there.”

Azriel pauses at your side, taking on the information silently. “You were ill?” He asks softly—he’d had no idea about that. Your shoulders shake, and he can’t tell if it’s with laughter or muffled sobs. Maybe a little of both.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “I don’t know enough about medicine to say, but I…” You shake your head again, and he’s able to sense that’s as much as he’ll get. It’s been over two years, and this is the first he’s hearing of it even in vague detail—he knows this isn’t something he can press.

“It doesn’t matter now,” you say with rueful conviction, palms pushing wetness from your cheeks, spine straightening before collapsing back against the trunk. Tired and exhausted. “We’re out. I don’t need to do anything now.”

Azriel’s brow furrows. “You’re content to stay in your room and rot away?”

You rest your head in your hands, leaning over the bag, staring down into its contents. What else is there?

“You could spend time with your family, for starters,” he replies and you aren’t sure if you imagine the note of impatience in his voice. “Your sisters worry about you a lot. It’s not good for you to be up in that room all the time.”

“Well it seems every time I come out of that room I somehow end up getting in your way.”

“Is that what this is about?” He asks abruptly, and your lips press together, lower one curving over. “I thought we sorted that out,” he says quietly, calming the sharpness of his tone, hearing it even in his own ears, glancing over your hunched figure. “We did,” you reply, muffled by your arms, voice turning watery as you ease in a short breath. “We did.”

A beat passes, then tension stutters in your chest as he gently lays his palm over your shoulder. “Please just talk to me,” he says softly, and you struggle to keep your breaths even as your lungs shudder beneath that touch. After spending so long wanting it…craving it…convinced feeling how gentle his touch could be over and against your skin would fix everything…even temporarily… You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “If not me, then Elain, or Feyre, or Nesta,” he pauses, “…Bas.”

You aren’t paying much attention, though, thankful for the way your mind melts beneath the warmth of his palm. How heat is sinking into your skin, slowly spreading through your shoulder as your muscles thaw. Pressure is lessened, and the tension that had been stitching the tendon taut loosens, allowing breath the ease in and out of your lungs with tiring relief. You could deflate with fatigue. Just turn limp and boneless, better for absorbing impact than having it crack against you.

“Just talk with us some more so this doesn’t happen again,” he urges quietly. “Come down to the river house—you know Feyre keeps your room open—or join us for dinner. At least try. If that doesn’t work, we can find something else.”

You don’t reply. Just remain tucked away from the world. Content to remain within your small shell as long as you can keep that warmth on your shoulder.

The pressure lightens, and your heart hides away as his hand slips from your shoulder, leaving your skin starkly cold with the absence of his presence.

“I’m sorry for what I…for how things transpired. Between…us,” Azriel murmurs, unsure how much to say, to not bring up past pains, especially if they aren’t as healed as you’ve led him to believe. He’s starting to become unsure what to believe about you—he hadn’t ever considered you might run from them. How bad things might have become to force you into that position. Are things that bad?

“I’m sorry, too,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse, and Azriel listens attentively. “I shouldn’t have told you how I felt, in the library. I shouldn’t have made my feelings your problem.”

“They aren’t,” he says softly, but you shake your head as if you haven’t heard him.

“I’m sorry.”

————

He tries speaking twice more on the way back, but the conversations lead nowhere, no longer flourishing as they had, once upon a time. So long in the past they feel coloured by age. Turned stiff and yellow at the edges.

He tries slowing his pace so she’ll walk at his side, but she just drops further back, silently pressing between his footsteps as she trails, head kept down to remain focused on taking one step at a time. The shadow that is cast across her face from the down-tilted angle of her head is deeper than he would have expected.

When he hears her shifting the bag across her shoulders for the third time, he quietly plies the straps from her hands, relieving her of the physical weight. She makes no obvious protest, aside from the stiffening of her body at his approach, but he can spot the relief when he takes the bag. Moving it to his own shoulder, he can make out what feels like a wooden box, the kind made to keep a weapon from being damaged. The thought gives rise to instinctive alarm.

Why might she have a weapon in her bag?

His shadows subtly shift at his back, rising secretively to examine her. Questions begin rising to his mind: unkind, unfair questions that are habitual in his line of work. He tries to shake them off, but they remain firmly rooted in his mind, burrowing deeper with each stride that has the narrow box digging into his side, as if already trying to burrow into his flesh.

How did she know Eris would take her in? How could she possibly guarantee making the trek across Prythian over night would pay off? It’s an absurd risk to take, regardless of circumstance. He can think of answers to those questions, but they don’t sit well with him. An answer to why she might be so familiar with Eris supposing they’ve spoken less than a handful of times. A certainty she must have possessed to take the risk that isn’t one she would have from that little contact. And if she’s hiding how much contact she might’ve had with him…

She was already hiding her magic from them…then there’s the prophecy too. Bas, and the illness. Why were these things she hadn’t mentioned? He can understand the recent silence, but why not before…? Regardless of immediate relevance, it shows she’s prone to secret-keeping.

Azriel eases in a steadying breath, descending into a calm, cold mental state. Sinking into indifferent objectivity.

She isn’t stupid. Far from it, having spent so much time in the library, where there’s all kinds of information just ripe for the picking. And Eris isn’t stupid, either. If he saw a weak spot, he’d go for it. And if Eris went for her, would she be able to resist something she was unable to see for what it truly was?

Azriel’s skin goes a little cold, reminded of the prophecy.

He will die, and it will be by her hand.

He supposes he can only control how much impact it will have on those around him. If Eris has managed to wrap her up in some slow-moving scheme…but that’s just speculation. Still, his instincts are telling him something is wrong with the narrow wooden box, one that must have come from Eris. A box fashioned like those to hold weapons. From Eris. To the female who will kill him.

He should ask her what it is.

Azriel would’ve shaken his head if those habits hadn’t been crushed out of him centuries ago. He can’t just ask her if she’s planning to kill him.

But it would allow a chance for her to explain what’s in the weapon case.

But it would alert her to his knowing about the blade inside her bag. She’d wanted to hide her magic from the start, and earlier she’d mentioned she’d gotten further…how much further? If it’s magic any similar to Nesta’s, it would be unwise to have a confrontation here, alone. Still within Autumn Court territory.

But it would be more dangerous to bring her back to Velaris. To bring her back into the beating heart of the Night Court where her detonation would be fatal.

Azriel blinks, and returns back into the waning light of day—it’ll soon be night.

What can he do, really? If he’s destined to die….who is he to try and get in the way of the Mother? Would he kill her to save his own life? Is that what he would do in order to live a little longer, before a new threat looms to end him? He wants to kill her no more than he desires his own death.

But if it came down to it…what would he choose?

His shadows observe her silently, as they had been throughout his internal struggle. He focuses on what he can see, discarding the lens of suspicion that’s been embedded in him as Spymaster, centuries of limited trust having an impact on his mind.

All he sees is a young woman walking through a dark forest, following him off the pathway.

Internally, he sighs—there always seems to be a constant flow of problems as of late, and peace seems to be persistently remaining just out of reach. A few more years, and then there will be peace; a few more political aggressions to navigate, and then they can rest; just one more person to heal, and then they can be happy. When will the peace truly arrive, though? Is it all wishful thinking? An imagined utopia that will make every sin he’s committed acceptable? Is it just his mind finding more excuses to justify the things he’s done in the name of protecting his family and court?

She’s just one more disturbance, keeping peace from settling.

Azriel swallows, thinking heavily. Even if she was out of the way, there would still be everything else to deal with. Will this problem be the last one, or will a new threat fall in to fill the space of the old one? Hasn’t it been long enough, by now? Hasn’t he done enough?

Shadows check on her again, her head hanging silently, those once bright eyes dull and dark as they follow numbly in his footsteps. The female with whom he’d spent so many afternoons with discussing things in the library…where is she? Is he at fault for her disappearance?

Closing his eyes briefly to relieve the ache that’s been slowly building just below his brows, he allows himself to ponder.

Is it pointless to try and salvage their relationship?

Would it be better if she did kill him?

————

The storm clouds have gathered, full and swollen with rain and thunder. No lightening though. Lightening would suggest some kind of magnificence, and there’s nothing magnificent about the cool temperature of your blood, nor the dull buzz in the back of your mind. The overwhelming grey of your surroundings as you emerge from the tunnel.

The air is drier in the Night Court, you vaguely realise. No dampness nor humidity that you’d grown subconsciously accustomed to from less than a week’s stay in Autumn. A small break of sunshine between the dismay grey you’d all grown so accustomed to for the first few months of the year, back when you were human. Weak, fallible humans, but simpler. Quiet and peaceful, even if that silence was from the constant prowl of starvation. It had been easier to bear.

You don’t wait to see if Azriel will try to speak again once he’s flown the both of you back up to the House of Wind, silently turning your back to trace the familiar halls of the House, moving without awareness, muscle memory guiding you down the corridors, past the tables littered with napkins and cutlery, past the shelves displaying pale crockery and silver chalices, past the chest with a few discarded daggers atop, arrowheads littered haphazardly across the surface as if someone had cast them down carelessly.

The room is greyer than you remember, too tidy to be a lived in space, but it has those reminders—the gifts you were given, and you absently touch your earlobe, squeezing it between your finger and thumb.

Azriel pauses at the threshold, taking the bag off his shoulder. Does he know you sold the earrings? Those pretty, pretty earrings? Probably some of the nicest things you could have believed to be your own.

They must be getting tired by now. All of them.

Blonde hair and sparkling eyes pass dully through your mind, and your heart dies a little more, understanding how you’ve ruined the small blessing. There’s no coming back from what you’ve done—not without significant work, at least, and you’re so tired. In your bones, in your eyes, in your mind. You’ve lived through a lot, but thanks to immortality, you have no choice but to live through more. A body being dragged through the mud, carried towards a grave that was never dug.

Azriel’s mouth is moving, has been moving since he removed the bag from his shoulder, but you haven’t been hearing. Mind too tired and numb to manage focus, grasping only basic colours and lines.

He’s looking at you, and you’re looking back, but not into his eyes. His words pass through your mind meaninglessly, and you wonder if you’re real. A strange pressure is wrapping its tingling fingers around your skull, squeezing like you’re wearing a hat that’s a little too tight. It will take a lot of work to fix what you’ve done. A lot of work you can’t manage. A debt that deepens faster than you can repay it. A sink draining faster than you can fill it. Blood cooling faster than you can stop it.

Maybe it would be better to let it cool, for a while.

————

Azriel doesn’t feel comfortable leaving her in the House alone, with that dull look in her eyes.

He had planned to fly back down to the River House, to let Rhys and Feyre know she was back, and she was safe, to give her some space maybe for an hour or so to let her get her bearings again. Not too long alone, though. That look hadn’t been bright. Instead he ends up slumping into one of the boney, wooden chairs in the kitchen, the House already brewing two cups of tea. He reaches out for Rhys, mentally feeling for the hidden bridge kept open. He finds it almost immediately, and an icy wind slams into him in greeting. Cold, swift, and perfectly telling to his brother’s current temperament.

You’re back.

Azriel bites back on the cringe at the ice in his High Lord’s voice—belying fury. He should have put together Rhys would be furious for Feyre, too, for stirring up this kind of stress for his mate.

She’s with me. How is Feyre?

More furious than I am, though I doubt she’ll show you.

There’s a pause, and Azriel steadies himself.

How is she?

It would be good for her to have company. Preferably in the River House, but if not, then having people up here. This time Azriel pauses, before adding, I think the ward on her room should be removed. So she’ll be able to hear that people are around, should she need them.

He’s met with silence, and Azriel wonders if Rhys is repeating the message back to Feyre, or if he’s simply that furious. A small part of him feels resentment at the constant speculation, that if the matter had been left between him and her then it wouldn’t have gotten so blown out of proportion.

We’ll be up in ten minutes, comes the clipped reply, before the mental bridge is severed. Leaving Azriel no choice but to wait in silence. It will likely be Rhys and Feyre coming up then—knowing she isn’t ready to see all of them so suddenly, though they’ve yet to learn where she’s been.

Feyre will go and speak to her sister.

And Rhys will be the one to speak to him.

What a mess.

The tea has a few minutes left of brewing, and he wonders if the House will demand he be the one to take the mug to her, or if it will be delivered on its own. He’s not sure she would appreciate being disturbed right now.

As if his thoughts summoned her however, he hears quiet footsteps out in one of the hallways, reaching his sharp ears even through the closed doors and secure walls. He listens carefully, but she seems to just be pacing around, not coming toward him, or even really going in any particular direction. They pause, the silence heavy, and Azriel pays full attention. Another minute passes, then another, and another, but he couldn’t have missed those familiar footfalls.

After a fourth minute, he hears them again, ever so slightly heavier than before, and then they cut off abruptly. Sound sliced in two as she closes the door to her room.

Azriel glances over to the brewing tea, then blinks when he realises the House has set it on the table within reach. Just one cup, made with milk and sugar—not the way he likes it.

Looking over to the countertop, his mug remains steeping, steam trailing up from the hot liquid. The House seems to be demanding he take her the tea now.

Azriel shifts in his chair. It isn’t a good idea to disturb her again. He’s trying to give her at least these few minutes to herself, before Feyre arrives with Rhys—and that’s a conversation that might very well stretch hours. There’s a lot to discuss, after all. She’ll need her energy, and he’s probably the last person she wants to—

The mug slams down on the table before him, hot liquid spilling over with the force that it was dropped onto the surface.

He stiffens, watching the mug tensely as if the House might spill it onto his lap. The liquid ripples in the mug, splashing from side to side for longer than it should, before reluctantly calming.

Blowing out a breath, Azriel wraps his hand around the mug’s handle, reluctantly standing from the kitchen table.

If the House is being so adamant about giving her the cup, then he supposes he’ll just have to follow.

He still finds it a little strange, how the House came alive after Nesta lived inside it.

————

Silence hums in your ears, so quiet.

You’ve caused them so much trouble. Irreparably ruined your ties to the people you hadn’t wanted to hinder.

Silently, quietly, you move the bag to your bed, able to even hear the stretch of fabric as you raise it from the unnaturally clean floorboards. Opening it, you begin pulling the first thing you see out—the orange scarf form Autumn that has some small crumbs tucked between its folds, smelling faintly of pastry and something damp. One piece at a time, you make the slow trek to and form the wardrobe, feet unfeeling as they tread numbly across the smooth grain of the wood, mindlessly repeating the to and fro, the mechanical movements of unaware motion, folding fabric and hiding it away.

Your fingers bump the box, surprised by the hard collision, having expected to find more fabric, but are instead confronted by the narrow, wooden box. Use it wisely, written on the note in a neat and elegant script. Raising it from the bag, you sit down, hands resting over the surface before slipping your fingers into the indentations for ease of opening, cracking it open to find what’s inside. Eyes ease across the narrow length of wood tucked inside, the softly flared end for it to whistle through the sky.

The world disappears around you as you fall into thought, suctioned inwards by a gentle riptide as you dissolve into your mind. Imagining the blank look in Mor’s eyes when she finds out what you’ve done to her, the wall that will rise up as she sections you off from her life, rightly so, brings a quiet kind of sadness into your chest. A longing that has been numbed and dulled, desaturated by hopelessness. Imagining the dinners, voices chatting merrily around you but never at you, the way she won’t look at you. They are all immortal, and their disgust will reflect their lifespan.

You’ll be stuck. Endlessly dragging you feet after them in attempts to make amends. Stumbling and fumbling carelessly trying to make reparations, but smashing more pieces in your frantic hurry to clean the mess you’ve made. Gazing up from the pit of a well as the icy water slowly drains in, the small pin-prick of daylight so far above there’s no hope even trying to scale the wall. It would be more honourable to drown.

To wipe yourself from memory.

It would be better, you understand. To snuff out your own dwindling light, than force the trouble on them of bearing your sputtering flame.

You walk out into the hallway, quietly, silently. Passing the table with napkins and cutlery set, past the shelves with crockery and cups, past the chest with dull steel and blunt arrowheads. Passing further along, until you pause before the large mirror that’s mounted on the wall. You peer dully into the reflection, deciding to look upon and assign shape to name for what’s been causing all these problems. To see what they think of when burdens are mentioned, to understand where the impatience is directed.

You peer higher, the reflection skewed as you meet your own eyes in the blade’s polished steel, held above the mirror’s frame.

Time warps, and you look through the drawers. A few daggers, some unused sketchbooks, a piece of yellow wool, a ball of string. You check the second draw. Some folded napkins, more arrowheads, a shard of porcelain, a thimble, a discarded marble. You check the third draw. Some salts, spices, dried leaves, matching Illyrian blades, pots of ink, a copper coin. You check the fourth draw. Crisp bedsheets, off-white pillowcases, a dented metal mug, a small container of some kind, one arrowhead, a crossbow.

You return to your room with the ball of string and the empty crossbow.

Swallowed in the silence of the bedroom, hidden behind the wards.

The snare is easy to set up, directions still vivid in your mind and for a few short moments, you allow yourself to settle into the certainty of following through with those instructions. Encountering a bit of trouble with how to keep the tension of the string with no earth, but your mind works quickly, weighing the string taut with the one book from your shelf, and a square box containing a mechanical universe. Making sure the string is just tight enough so the faintest touch will snap the tension loose.

You glance at the string on the floor, eyes catching on the small painting on your desk.

You slot the arrow into the crossbow with a satisfying click.

The ash stings your fingertips.

You stand with your back to the door, facing the crossbow head on. Your heart bleeds a little, tears at last dripping slowly down your cheeks, but it will be better this way. Easing in a deep breath, you relax into that feeling deep in your chest that’s telling you this is the right thing to do. It was always going to happen, there was never a path you could have taken that wouldn’t have lead you to this one way or another. It’s a feeling almost like relief: there’s finally a way out.

One perfect, swift, execution. An ash arrow to your heart, splitting the muscle and ending its relentless beat. Your breathing increases to a stuttering pulse before calming, and you swallow, glancing to the windows. You know you’ll cause a mess.

Fingers open the latch to the window, fresh air gently rolling in, and your breathing stutters again. You’ll be irrevocably gone.

Peering about the bedroom, one you hadn’t felt was truly your own, but had stayed long enough to begin putting down roots—the bookmark laying beneath the pendant on the desk beside the painting, the jigsaw still wrapped in a bow beneath the bed, the sealed nail polish and briefly used lip tint within the cupboard. Sobs shudder through your chest strangely.

A part of you doesn’t want to leave yet.

A small, human part, that still fears solitude despite your chosen loneliness.

You step toward the book, body caving in, heart collapsing in on itself, the emotive feeling similar to the convulsions you’ve experienced after vomiting. A vacuum hidden inside of your chest, finally imploding. You should end it now.

The door creaks behind you, and you flinch from terror at someone witnessing your vulnerability.

Hazel eyes meet your own, at once scanning the room out of habit, and those lovely eyes widen as you recoil on instinct, foot knocking into the book.

————

Given the pleasure of time, he had been allowed to ponder the impossible question: to choose between his death and her own, each equally impossible. How is anyone to make a choice like that?

But, caught in between precious moments, there’s no time for thought or debate. It’s easy to declare gallantry, to flippantly comfort a companion with those easy words—I’d take an arrow for you.—but it’s an entirely different matter when the arrow is whistling straight toward them.

And yet before the mug has even hit the floor, he feels the familiar, burning pain as the arrow pierces through his flesh, slicing him open as the wrongness bleeds into him, swiftly poisoning his blood, draining the inherent magic from his body.

————

You stare up into wide hazel eyes, agony etched across his delicate features, the very tip of the arrow lightly piercing your skin from where it’s shot straight through him, caught in his flesh.

He groans lowly, his weight falling more heavily on your shoulders where his hands had grabbed you to switch your positions, and you’re helpless as his knees give out from pain, dragging you down with him as he collides with the ground.

Horror pounds through your body, heart beating a thousand times a second until it’s risen into your throat, hands shaking violently as you try to hold him steady, stinging with the burning heat of blood from his side.

Mother murder you.

“Az,” you stammer hoarsely, staring at his twisted features, brow furrowed deeply, breathing ragged as it puffs against your skin. The familiar scent of blood filtrates through your system, undiluted and metallic, and he’s dying he’s dying he’s dying—

His hand weakly grasps the back of your neck, grabbing your attention as your hands fumble, trembling with uncertainty and despair, fingertips beginning to sizzle as panic floods your veins, tossed into the rapids, utterly out of control as your mind unravels, regret stabbing through your heart.

His lips are moving but your ears are ringing, itches burning at your skin, a streaking noise piercing through your head like the screaming from those bloody fields. He’s speaking and you try to read his lips, but your eyes aren’t focusing, tears blurring your vision as sobs heave in and out of your chest, burning at your throat and lungs. You had tried to stop it! You were so close to preventing it!

Your hand settles on his cheek, already feeling cool beneath your burning, burning, glowing—

Feyre and Rhys, his lips form, and you shake. Eyes scanning his features frenetically. His own flick to the door, and you understand them to be here? You stare at him helplessly, hopelessly—it won’t matter how you scream or cry for them, not even if you bled your throat raw. The ward against noise that you’d been so thankful for, that Feyre had given in attempts to help, to remedy a wrong.

Something so small, yet so immoveable. Impossible to defeat. Felled by your own, stupid need—

He’s going to die.

Neither you nor Azriel have a second to prepare as the power wells up inside of you with the force of a damn broken loose, that internal wall shattering entirely, blown to bits as you feel the staggering pressure swallow your brain, crushing in intensity at the rapid division of cells, splitting atoms colliding as the explosion blows you apart.

Brilliant green light detonates, silence settling for a second before the noise crushes back down, the room blown to pieces.

The ground shakes beneath you, floorboards cracking and splintering as a hole is torn through the side of the House, tearing through the wards as the noise thunders above the city, sweeping across Prythian with the force of the Cauldron that had torn down the Wall.

One final surge of magic before the life is taken from his body.

Pain lacerates through your figure as something fundamental cracks open inside of you, all at once draining the agony that had beens steadily building up, all of it gushing out, skin resplendent with a sickening golden-green light, radiating your flesh.

Then you collapse, falling into the pool of steadily cooling blood surrounding Azriel’s body.

The prophecy having come to fulfilment.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel fic #cbmthy #can’t bring myself to hate you

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valeriianz · 9 months

Text

Dream is trying to be good. He is out of his house, for starters, attempting to mingle among the crowds. He figures this effort alone is worth at least 10 points on the socialization scale.

He may be wearing black on black as usual, but at least this is his nice pea coat, and his jeans don’t have any rips in them. His hair is even washed (though he hadn’t bothered with a combing, minus 3 points).

It’s New Year’s Eve, he’s standing at one of the few scattered tables around the large space. The bar’s ceiling and walls are lit up in a colorful agglomeration of Christmas lights and twinkling decor, so much that the people around him appear to have pink or blue or orange skin, otherwise the place is dark.

Dream drums his fingers on the tall table’s surface, scanning the crowd and trying not to look too uncomfortable at the DJ’s choice in thumping bass and current rap trends blanketing the ocean of conversation happening all around him.

“Hey, how are you?”

Dream watches as a man walks around him to stand across the table, setting a drink down and smiling in a lazy, drunk way.

Dream just stares.

“Sorry, I saw you standing alone and thought you might want some company.”

The man has to lean forward and yell to be heard over the music and people. Dream is responsive enough to at least lean in as well to catch the stranger’s words.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Dream barely has to raise his voice, thanks to his natural baritone. He’s thankful for that; he hates shouting and to do so just to commit to a conversation would be tribulation.

The man doesn’t seem to catch Dream’s response though, or doesn’t care to. He takes a sip of his drink and tries again, his fingers curling around the pint.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Dream seizes the opportunity to politely turn this man away from him.

“No, thank you. My boyfriend is getting my drink.”

The man’s brows pinch together.

“Where is your boyfriend?”

He says it like it’s a joke. Like he’s caught Dream red-handed. Dream sighs and turns to look at the crowded bar.

“He’s right…” Dream’s eyes desperately scan the scene of chaos at the bar, hoping to find Hob’s familiar head of dark brown hair, his mischievous caramel brown eyes, or even the bomber jacket he wore tonight. But from here, it’s difficult to spot anyone’s face in the crowd. The blinking lights give off strange shadows and everyone is moving, either dancing or stumbling to push through the dense sea of bodies.

He hears a soft laugh from the man across from him and looks over to find him shaking his head, but he’s smiling.

“Look, I don’t mean to come off strong, but someone as gorgeous as you shouldn’t be alone on New Year's Eve.”

Any patience left for this man is immediately snuffed out, like water tossed onto a fire.

“I told you, I’m–”

“Waiting for your boyfriend, uh huh.” He grins with his teeth and Dream barely restrains from throwing his head back in annoyance.

If there weren’t a threat of getting lost in the crowd, Dream would abandon his station here and go looking for Hob. But he knows it’s better to stay here and wait as he had been, despite the nuisance still attempting to converse with Dream.

He steps around the table to stand next to Dream, who takes a deliberate step sideways away from him.

“What’s your name?”

Dream ignores him, head now permanently angled towards the bar.

“You know,” he starts up again and Dream eyes flutter shut, praying for patience. “The longer you ignore me, the more persistent I’ll become.”

Dream opens his eyes and levels the man, who is definitely drunk, with an unamused look.

“Even if I weren’t already spoken for, this is a terrible way to receive my affections.”

“He speaks!” The man exclaims and laughs. Dream pinches the bridge of his nose and has officially made the decision to lose his mind at the stranger, when he blessedly feels two familiar strong arms wrap around his waist.

“Sorry that took so long,” Hob speaks directly into Dream’s ear, no need to shout with lips tickling his skin. “I got us two drinks each so we don’t have to deal with that again.”

Dream smiles, unaware of how tense he was as his body relaxes against Hob’s– before it sharpens to a smirk at the utterly baffled expression on the strange man’s face.

Hob’s lips trail up the shell of Dream’s ear, his nose nudging in his hairline as he speaks again, his hot breath warming Dream up from the inside and sparking a sudden and intense feeling of surrender in Hob’s possessive hold.

“Who’s your friend?” And fuck, Dream can hear the control in Hob’s voice. The question is innocent enough, but the way his tone pitches into a growl, low and dangerous, makes Dream’s toes curl.

“I don’t know,” Dream answers simply, one brow arching at the other man, giving him the decency to turn and walk away on his own before Hob can make a show of animalistic ownership that Dream can practically feel radiating off Hob’s self-control.

Thankfully the stranger leaves, which is just as well, though Dream would have rather liked being ravished with an audience.

He turns to face Hob properly, duly noticing the drinks on the table and slips his arms around Hob’s middle, bringing them flush together in what can only be described as a bear hug.

Dream tucks his face under Hob’s jaw– bending his knees a little– and inhaling deeply, the scent of Hob’s cologne grounding him, and exhaling loudly through his mouth and smiling again at Hob’s deep chuckle that rumbles through his own body.

“You good?” Hob asks into Dream’s hair, placing a kiss there.

“Mm…” Dream hums. “I’m great.”

#happy new year!#dreamling #hob x dream #have a little possessive Hob. as a treat #inspired by events that transpired last night #my writing

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theblueflower05 · 7 days

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These Violent Delights: Chapter One

A/N: Thanks for bearing with when it came to getting this first chapter out! Work has been dragging me by my hair, but i'm going to try to get this story updated every week. At least until I’m able to work through this Spike Fearn brain rot I’ve got going on rn.

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy from the jump. I mean, check the source material. Talks of suicidal thoughts and tendencies. Loneliness. Smut coming later!

Pariring: Bjorn x Reader

Summary: A friendship is formed under the most unlikely of circumstances.

✨Masterlist

✨Playlist

Next Chapter

Every day is exactly the same.

The sentiment runs through your head as you blearily blink up at the water stained ceiling. The comforter is tangled around your legs and your mouth is dry- a side effect from the sleeping pills. The shrill ringing of the alarm is the only indication that the morning has rose on the horizon, outside the singular window in your apartment it is still black as pitch. Your joints crack when you finally force yourself out of bed.

You go through your morning routine in an almost mechanical manner. Shower. Brush teeth. Get dressed in the standard issued trousers and blouse you’d been given when you got your assignment- the holes you’d sewn up yourself are barely noticeable. Barley. Clip your hair back. Even the movements as you eat the tar like oatmeal feel too practiced. Fake.

Lately, you’ve found you dont feel very real anymore. There’s probably droid’s walking around, wires for veins, that feel less hollow than you do.

Jackson Star is a planet in the Alfeios system, and in the 11 years you’ve been stationed here you’ve realized, that it is a planet that should've never been colonized. It’s harsh, by nature. Sweltering summers followed by frigid winters, and the ever present, extremely active volcanoes. The atmospheric processors can only do so much.

And they cant do shit about the lack of sun.

They can try to replicate it; expensive lamps and vitamin C tablets acting like a cheap knock off. Like Weyland-Yutani Corps way of saying sorry we dropped you in hell- here's the shittiest consolation prize in the galaxy.

This particular Friday is gloomier then usual, rain accompanying the dark. The walk down the cluttered streets feels even more…hopeless than usual. Like maybe this is all there is. Blurring lights of neon signs and the ruddy faces of children that hold out their hands on corners, begging for their next meal.

Like maybe if you stepped in front of the bus in this cross walk- then it would end the loop. You’d be able to get out of this eternally dark purgatory.

They aren't new thoughts, but you lifting your foot to step of the curb is. You go numb, not thinking or feeling as you step into oncoming traffic.

Theres the blaring honk of a heavy hand on a horn and then you're being yanked backwards, hard.

You gasp as you’re pulled back onto the sidewalk and out of the way of oncoming traffic. You’re equal parts grateful and disappointed. But mostly you’re shocked.

The girl is small statured, her brown eyes wide behind unruly curls. She curses filthy and fast in Spanish.

Her gaze makes you feel uncomfortably scene. Its assessing and…worried. Its been a long time since anyone worried about you. “Are you alright?”

You’re taken aback by her question.

“I’m fine. Didn’t see the cars coming” you don’t understand why you’re explaining yourself to this stranger. It’s probably the hot embarrassment that’s pointing your face red.

She doesn’t look amused by your answer but nods slowly “Okay…”

The signal turns red, the cross walk sign lights up and you’re gone, fast as your feet can take you away from your unlikely savior. Leaving her standing there, confused.

“You’re welcome!” Comes her snark filled holler. You don’t blame her. But with the shame filling you, you also can’t look at her. You just give a haphazard wave behind you. A piss poor thanks, you know.

You hope you never see her again.

After the blip this morning, the routine persists- until it doesnt.

The office is how it always is. Bleak. The yellow lights flickering and the wallpaper peeling. Patty, a heavy set woman with an acidic smile sits at the front desk. The grim reaper at the mouth of the river Styx. It’s pleasantries, your badge is scanned and then you find your way back to your cubicle. As ready as anyone can be to stare at a screen and four walls for the next twelve hours.

Maybe it’s something in the damp air, but once again, the day deviates from the norm.

You only ever work with electronic filing. Sorting piles and piles of e-documents into they Weyland/Yutani system. An office grunt you’ve been called. And yet today they want you up front, something about “Yolanda from zoning and housing” missing a day because her son is dying from black lung. God forbid she want to be by his side. It leaves the office understaffed.

“I’m not trained for that position” you try to reason but it falls on deaf ears. There are numbers to be punched, and your lack of true no how doesn't really matter. You begrudgingly leave your familiar desk, taking only the thermos of hot coffee with me. Small mercies, really.

Front desk is as hellish as one would think it would be. Between having to interact with real human beings, not the computers you’re used to combined with Patty’s snooty remarks; you’re absolutely jonsing to get the fuck out of there and go home by the afternoon.

In the back office the digital copying machine is down for the fifth time this week. All of the filing systems have honestly been off- a result of the shitty outdated tech on this planet.

“Ugh- they really dont know what they're doing back there” Patty sighs, muttering under her beath about how she doesnt get paid enough for this shit “Im going to go help. Again. Keep your head down and follow the guideline on the forms” she gives me stern instructions and a side eye “And dont touch my stories”

She cares more about the trashy soap operas she watches on her tablet then the mother she just evicted from her apartment.

Where’s a fucking droid when you need one? This is most definitely a job that shouldn't be done by anyone with a conscience.

With dread in your stomach you put on a brave face as the security system announces the next client;

Oh.

It’s a girl. With a small stature and wide brown eyes. Ones that reflect the same recognition you feel. It takes a moment for you to swallow the surprise.

“Name” You demand in a practiced voice. The shakiness you feel not transmuting to your tone. Or at least you hope it doesnt.

“Kay Harrison” and just like that, she’s not a stranger anymore “I’m here for an appointment”

You type quickly, plugging in the details on the keyboard. Pulling up her file. Scanning the information quickly. “Yes, I can see that. Here to formally request an eviction extension”

Damn. Thats tough.

“Yes. But only because we truly will be able to pay it next week. I brought not only mine but my brothers work logs and proof of direct deposit-” she pulls out a beat up old tablet and slides it under the glass. “We’ll be able to get the rent paid in full by the fourth”

What kind of cruel fate is this? The most twisted form of serendipity. She saved you this morning and now you have to co-sign on her eviction this afternoon.

You know it doesn't matter, you saw their file. The Harrisons arent newbies to being late for rent and their landlord is chomping at the bit to get them out.

“I’ll scan these into your case but at this point in the process it really doesn't matter” at your words, panic induced tears fill her eyes.

“No- because. We’re late. But we always pay. We’ve never been negligent, not on purpose. Since my dad died we’ve done our best” Kay rambles an explanation that doesn't matter and you feel frozen. Stuck. Conflicted in a way that you we’re supposed to have trained out of you.

“I cant-” you sigh and she looks pathetic. Drained…void.

A feeling you know all too well. That had almost led you right into the grill of a bus this very morning. And yet- she’d stepped in.

You gnaw on your lip and as discreetly as possible, your eyes scan around the empty office. Your co-workers still not back yet. You’re the only one in here. Its madness, but if there was any time to act on madness- it would be now.

You begin typing furiously, entering in codes that a normal front desk clerk wouldn't know, it isn’t in their training. But you’d been trained for filing.

“An extension wont be needed” You speak purposefully, giving Kay a pointed look “The landlord marked the eviction for the fifth. That gives you three more days to get a payment in before the constable is scheduled to come for the lock out”

There’s a moment of heavy silence.

The landlord had actually marked the second but well. It’s an easy enough over turn. Easy, but extremely illegal. You just did something that could not only cost you your job but risk your contract. Land you in jail-

“He marked the wrong date…” Kay chews the words, like she cant believe what she’s saying.

“Yep” I say quickly, finishing up, covering my ass by copying multiple files into the system. It would be hard as shit to uncover it, if anyone cared to bother. Kay’s just another file in the hundreds today. “Here you go, Miss Harrison. You have seventy two hours to get the payment to the respective party. If not the constable will be there to conduct the eviction”

I slide her tablet back towards her.

“I- I don't know what to say” She stutters and you give her a glare. You don't have the time for groveling, for un- needed thanks. As far as you’re concerned, you are now even.

“Don't say anything. Take your things and go”

I don't look at her again, not even when she leaves. Instead I refocus on my computer screen. Trying to breathe through the nerves that wrack my body. That was just about the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.

Your heart beats furiously and it’s the most alive you’ve felt in months.

After that it seems like something has been broken. The pattern no longer functions.

Jackson Star is by no means a small colony. Thousands strong, full of unfamiliar faces. And yet. You keep running into the same one.

“Here, I grabbed you a coffee. Extra sugar, like ya like, even though it’s going to rot your teeth out” Kay waits for you at the same corner that the two of you had met on. Weeks ago. She’d hunted you down after that fateful day and had shown that she wasn't giving up on showing her gratitude so easily.

Having friends in the colony is a dangerous game. Every friend you’ve ever had has either been transferred off planet or died. And yet here you are, eagerily bounding over to Kay. Taking the paper cup full of cheap coffee.

“My teeth are my own business thank you”

And it goes like this; the train station where Kay catches her ride to the mines isn't far from your job so the two of you make your morning commute together, gabbing about nothing. It's nice. It feels familiar, you used to have loads of friends.

Kay’s easy to talk to and she shares so much of herself so freely. Her little stories about her family make you smile. Make you feel warmth, and secretly longing. And yet still, every time the topic of you meeting everyone comes up you shy away.

Being friends with Kay is one thing. Meeting the most important people in her life is another.

She offers again today. Dinner at her house, ya’ know, the one she still has because of you. It’ll be lowkey. Just the friends. Fun.

Although you crave it, you’re scared of it too. That’s why you’re shaking your head, giving another of those flimsy excuses. Kay just pats your arm.

“If you change your mind, you’re still more than welcome to come. I’ll text you the details, okay?” She’s got this way about her. Gentle but not condescending, a hard balance to strike. Too bad she’s on this near barren planet, she’d be a great mother.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you”

When the two of you hit the proverbial fork in the road- you go your way and she goes hers. You to the office and her to the mines. Both prisons in their own rights.

You watch her cross the street and join a tall man at the train station. His skin’s the same shade as hers, his eyes the same almond shape. He’s handsome in a way that you’ve only seen on screens, in those old movies your mom used to watch.

This must be the older brother she talks so much about. Tyler.

He says something you can’t quite decipher to her and then looks over her shoulder, across the street at you, and beams.

Its not a normal smile. It’s pearly whites flashed at you in a way that makes your heart skip a beat in your chest. When he gives you a smooth wave you feel like you might be knocked over.

You just know the grimace and jerky hand motion you give back is as awkward as it feels.

If you obsess about how much of an antisocial weirdo you are all day, that’s your own prerogative.

I mean come on? You can’t even manage to wave back at someone? You truly need to get it together.

You think about that as you eat dinner at your makeshift table that night. Maybe, you’re just out of practice. You’re not awkward, just dusty. You just haven’t spoken to anyone for more then five minutes since your upstairs neighbor had a pipe burst.

It’s what leads you to pulling out your phone, to pulling up Kay’s contact. It’s still new. Still fresh.

Is there anything I should bring?

You don’t have to wait long for a response.

Kay: Nope, just yourself!😊 [location attachment] see you tomorrow.

You stare at her response on the small bright screen until your eyes burn. This is the change you had craved so badly.

So why are you so scared?

This chapter kind of took on a life of its own. I so desperately wanted to have Bjorn in this but there was just- a lot of ground to cover. Next chapter we’re jumping right into introducing him (and smut towards a the end of that chapter to!)

Big shout out to @spikedfearn for letting me ramble like a crazy lady in her inbox. Her Bjorn content literally makes me salivate.

If anyone else is still going through Romulus hyperfixation please feel free to comment or send asks! I’m always here to chat!

#bjorn alien romulus #bjorn alien #bjorn alien x reader #bjorn alien romulus x reader #kay harrison #tyler harrison #alien romulus

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sentientgolfball · 4 months

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Can't Get Enough

So the anniversary of my first fic is on the 23rd and to celebrate here's a Rulti fic. Rain/Swiss was the first pairing I ever wrote for and it's interesting to see how far I've come in just a year.

Special thanks to @jesusbutbetterrr for the idea ! Also @hypnoneghoul @revengeghoulette come get your food!

Read here or on Ao3

Word Count: 4142

Tags: GILLS, intox, water ghouls are wet, this is the like the only time I've written sub Rain and I am in awe

Summary: Rain and Swiss disappear to the greenhouse to partake in their stormy night ritual.

The sky had been overcast all day. Dark clouds sat heavy, a slight chill in the air. The scent of rain was so thick even the Siblings could smell it. Despite the dreary conditions, the clouds did not break until past sunset. It began softly, a gentle patter against the windows; before long though, it turned into a downpour. Rain and Swiss had snuck off to the greenhouse when the first drop fell.

Now they are laid out on the beat up old mattress Mountain keeps around for winter naps. Fairy lights provide a soft orange glow to the otherwise dark building. The occasional flash of lightning acts as the only other light source.

This is their ritual. When the air finally turns warm and frost turns to dew, Rain and Swiss will end up at the greenhouse whenever there is a storm. It gives Swiss space to relax. Storms always give him a strong surge of energy, one that usually leaves him with a migraine. The curse of housing multiple elements in one vessel. It gives Rain a place to be immersed in his element while also avoiding the chill that causes an ache in every joint. Coming to the greenhouse together lets them still have company when they need away from the whole pack.

The first time had been an accident. It was a big storm, one that cut the power from the Ministry and left a multitude of fallen tree limbs. Swiss had needed to get outside before lightning exploded out of his body. He had no idea what was happening, his elements had never surged like this in the Pits before. Rain was letting the storm fuel him, ignoring the ache in favor of letting out massive bursts of water magick. It was the most fun he had had so far in his short time Topside. They ran into each other when the storm got so severe even they knew they needed to get back inside. They both ducked into the greenhouse instead of going to the den for the same reason. They weren’t ready for it to end. They hadn’t known each other very well back then, so they sat on the dirt floor and talked until pain zapped through Swiss’ skull and he nearly collapsed. When the storm passed and Swiss’ pain went away, Rain asked if they could do that again; sit and talk while they watched their element.

Sometimes it's soft and sweet, like that first night. Sometimes they break into Mountain’s secret stash and smoke until time melts away into honey. Sometimes they fuck until one of them bleeds. Most of the time, it’s a combination. Tonight is no exception.

They have one of Mountain’s tins sitting in between them on the mattress. Their legs and tails intertwine as they pass the joint back and forth, giggling about nothing and everything. Swiss takes it back from Rain, inhaling deeply and holding for a few moments before blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. He laughs and runs his hand over his face.

“Fuck this shit is good. It’s cruel and unusual that he hides this from us.” Swiss takes another hit before passing it back to Rain.

Rain coughs when he exhales, batting the smoke away from his face, “Why don’t you get him to show you how he does it? You’ve got some earth in you.” Rain takes a drink from the bottle of blackberry wine by his feet, also stolen from Mountain’s stash.

“Oh believe me rainstorm, I’ve tried. Bastard likes to keep his secrets.” He snatches the bottle from Rain’s hands the moment it’s away from his lips which are now stained a delicious deep red.

Any protests Rain has die on his tongue when he looks at Swiss. He can’t seem to be annoyed that he’s basically chugging the damn thing, too transfixed watching his throat bob with each gulp. He wants to reach out and touch, feel it move. He wants to lick over his neck and feel Swiss swallow on his tongue. Wants to feel the prickle of his stubble, the sting of fangs. Wants to drown in his sweet and spicy taste, utterly consumed by Swiss. He can’t help it, the weed always gets to him. Rain swears Mountain laces the stuff with aphrodisiacs. It doesn’t help that he can still feel the thrum of energy in his veins through the haze of smoke. He begins to lean closer when a flash of lightning startles him, making him jump back.

“See something you like, rainstorm?” Swiss laughs and looks towards Rain. His eyes glow when a rumble of thunder shakes the greenhouse.

They stare at each other for a moment. It's quiet save for the storm and their breathing. Swiss grins and leans in close to him. He stops just a few inches away from Rain’s face. Rain has to cross his eyes to keep staring at him. He can feel his breath. He smells sweet and herbaceous when he opens his mouth, his usual spice covered by the wine. Rain closes his eyes, waiting for the crash of his lips.

“Your eyes are red,” Swiss giggles before closing the last remaining inches. Only he doesn’t kiss him, he boops his nose to Rain’s and makes a honk noise. He throws his head back with a laugh almost as loud as the thunder outside. Rain huffs and tries to push him away. Swiss doesn’t budge, he’s still laughing as he wraps his hands around Rain’s wrists. He doesn’t try to remove them or push back, he just holds them.

“Don’t be pouty princess, you know I won’t leave you hanging.”

“Liar,” Rain snaps his fangs “I can count all the times you’ve stuck your tongue down my throat and then left.”

Swiss laughs at the same time lighting cracks through the sky. It illuminates him, for a millisecond more of his ghoulish features are visible.

“What can I say? Sometimes the chase is better than the reward.” Swiss suddenly yanks on Rain’s wrists, causing him to fall forward and practically face plant onto Swiss’ chest, “But not here. You always look so cute with that pretty little blush of yours.”

Rain hadn’t even realized. He doesn’t feel the heat in his cheeks until Swiss points it out. He can feel it get deeper, spreading down his throat when his brain finally catches up. He feels like he’s burning when Swiss cups his face with both hands to force him to look up.

“Wanna know why I love coming out here with you and no one else?”

Rain nods. He can’t find his words. Not when his limbs feel heavy and his mind is fuzzy. Not when Swiss’ eyes burn so bright he swears he can see every elemental color in them. He can’t tell if his mouth is dry from the weed or Swiss’ proximity. He doesn’t even realize his mouth is slightly agape until he feels Swiss rub his thumb over his bottom lip.

“Because I love seeing you like this. Big bad rainstorm too stupid he can’t even ask for what he wants.”

Rain swallows, throat clicking as his honey filled mind processes Swiss’ words. He can feel the drool in the corner of his mouth. He knows he needs to say or do something but mind and body refuse to cooperate. He can’t look away from Swiss, he doesn’t want to. He’s only brought back into himself when he feels Swiss’ thumb brush the dribble of drool away. He wants to turn his head, get his fingers into his mouth to suck on them. All he can do is let out a wheezing breath, something more akin to a whine than a sigh.

Swiss waits. He waits for Rain to do anything. He truly does love it when Rain gets like this. Needy in a way he’d never let himself be completely sober. Always has to be in charge even when he’s on the bottom. He enjoys it when Rain is cruel, but this is special. Little bit of wine, little bit of weed gets him so sensitive. Swiss sometimes wonders if he’s faking all the little whimpers he chokes on. It’s captivating, addicting, watching how everything he knows about Rain gets flipped.

Rain swallows again. Swiss can feel his throat bob from the hold he has on his cheeks.

“Gonna say something, princess?”

“Please…”

“Please what?” Swiss tilts his head, grinning wide.

Rain’s lips move without the words. He knows what he wants. He wants everything Swiss has to offer. He wants to be distracted from the hum of elemental energy by more than just drugs. But his head is so hazy he can barely get the words out.

“Lips. Mouth. Kiss…please?”

Swiss huffs a laugh before pulling him in. It’s soft at first, a simple press of lips. Rain still clings to him like he’s being devoured, hands twisting in Swiss’ tank top. He wants to draw it out, really make Rain shake, but the weed and the weather make his resolve slip. The kiss turns hungry fast, a cycle of pulling back an inch just to press back in. Lips meeting lips over and over again with a satisfying wet click.

Swiss kisses Rain hard one last time before licking across the seam of his mouth. Rain doesn’t hesitate to let him in, groaning when the tip of Swiss’ tongues swirls around his. Rain feels the bead of Swiss’ piercing slip between the fork in his tongue and he nearly doubles over. He tries to lick into Swiss’ mouth with the same hunger, but it feels like his tongue is made of lead. All he can do is tilt his head, open his mouth a little wider, and let him taste.

Swiss pulls back just enough to bite Rain’s bottom lip before plunging back in, licking over his fangs. Rain’s cock kicks and he suddenly becomes very aware of how hard he is. He uncurls a hand from Swiss’ tank top in favor of palming himself through the sweats he stole from Cirrus. He gasps into Swiss’ mouth the moment his hand touches his cock. So sensitive even through layers of clothing.

Swiss knows he shouldn’t, knows Rain will just pout and whine and paw at him until he gives back in. He can’t help himself though. He loves seeing the flash of fear in his eyes, truly believing he won’t give him what he needs with his mind muddled with weed. Swiss grabs Rain’s wrist, holding him still the same moment he pulls away from the kiss.

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts, “not yet, rainstorm.”

There it is. The wide, almost panicked look in his eyes. He feels the hand still clutching his tank top tighten, claws scraping against his skin. The sting causes a zap of electricity to shoot down his spine. He gets dizzy with arousal for just a moment. He growls, nearly abandoning his little plan in favor of pouncing on Rain. Maybe Mountain really does lace this stuff?

It’s a high-pitched whine that brings him back. His eyes refocus, looking down at Rain. His lips are shiny and swollen, parted slightly as he breathes through his mouth in quick short huffs. There’s a pinch between his eyebrows that Swiss can help but reach up and smooth out.

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna give it to you. There’s just something you have to do first.”

“Please,” Rain begs, “anything. Please just need you.”

Swiss smiles and fishes the half-smoked joint out of the tin. He wiggles it in front of Rain’s face.

“You gotta finish it Rainy. Can’t let Mountain know we were here.”

He knows Mountain will know. They both do. It’s rare they make it back to the den after a night of going through Mountain’s stash. He’ll find them in the morning when he shows up for his chores. Even if they somehow stumbled back inside, the smell alone is enough to prove their guilt. Swiss doesn’t care. He wants a lap full of stupid, pliant little water ghoul.

Rain looks between Swiss and the half-finished joint. He blinks slowly, processing Swiss’ request before looking up at him with big eyes.

“S too much,” he shakes his head, “can’t do it. Too much.” He almost looks like he’s going to cry.

Lucky for him Swiss isn’t totally heartless. Not tonight at least. He coos and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“It is, isn’t it? Barely had half of one and you’re already brainless.”

To be fair, he knows he’s not faring much better. He’s not as reactive as Rain, but Mountain’s stuff never fails to make him feel like he’s living in a space between solid and gaseous. Like he’d float away with a too strong breeze.

Rain nods at his words, a whine escaping his throat. Like one of a dog left in its cage when its owner leaves the house, a sad and broken little noise. Swiss pets through his hair.

“Don’t worry rainstorm, I’ll help you. But I’m not touching you until we finish it, got it?”

Rain nods again. Swiss grins and sticks it into Rain’s mouth. His eyes widen momentarily before brings his hand up to hold it. Swiss snaps his fingers and a small flame flickers on his thumb. He holds it close until the end catches, snuffing it with a wave of his hand. Rain takes a deep breath, chest visibly expanding. He blows the smoke directly into Swiss’ face. He can’t tell if it was on purpose or if he’s just that out of it he didn’t even think to turn away. He doesn’t care either way. Rain slumps against him and Swiss moves him so that his ear is pressed against his chest. He keeps one hand around his waist and the other on his thigh. Dangerously close to the bulge in Rain’s sweats.

Swiss plucks the joint from his lips, taking a quick hit before shoving it back in place. He watches Rain. Watches the way his chest inflates, the way his hand shakes a little. He can’t see his face from this angle, his hair falling in a way that makes it impossible. What he can see, though, consumes all his attention. His gills. They flutter with every breath he takes, exposing the soft membrane for a millisecond. Every flash of deep cobalt blue makes Swiss’ mouth water. He can just barely make out the little razors that line the inside. He’s totally enraptured watching them ripple minutely.

The next inhale from Rain is big. Swiss can faintly hear him when he sucks in the smoke. He holds for a moment before letting it out. Swiss’ jaw drops when he watches the smoke pour from his gills. They flare and he’s able to see completely inside of them for however long it takes for Rain to exhale. He swears he can see his throat moving. It makes him dizzy. He leans closer on the next hit, squinting to see if he actually can look into his throat. He can feel the smoke get blown into his face. He’s not touching him, but Rain must be able to sense how close he is because he whines.

“Thought you said you were gonna help me?”

Swiss blinks slowly, drawing his attention away from Rain’s gills to formulate a response, “I am. Go ahead rainstorm, I'm right here.”

When Rain exhales on this one Swiss leans down close. Close enough that Rain can feel it when he sucks in a breath. He shudders when he feels the warmth on his gills when Swiss exhales the smoke.

“Swiss,” Rain warns.

Even with his mind totally submerged in honey, Rain knows if Swiss gets his mouth on his gills it’ll be over for him. They’re already sensitive enough when he’s not high. He’s afraid he’ll cum in his pants with the first pass of a tongue. He has cum in pants when he’s with Swiss like this and that was without a clever mouth hovering over his gills. He swallows thickly when he feels Swiss laugh.

“C'mon finish it Rainy.”

Rain doesn’t know what else to do but listen. He knows what’s coming. He knows what Swiss is going to do. He inhales and waits, holding out until his lungs ache. He barely has a chance to breathe before he feels Swiss lips wrap around his gills, sucking. He gasps and shudders, hips twitching involuntarily in search of friction. Swiss lifts his head for just a moment, lips brushing over the membrane when he speaks.

“You’re so close raincloud, finish the damn thing and I’ll give you everything.”

He dips back down when he feels Rain shift. He sucks in the smoke from his gills once more and the noise Rain lets out makes his cock jump. He doesn’t let go this time, breathing the smoke out of his nose. He licks across the slit just to hear him make that pretty little sound again.

Rain drops what’s left of the joint with a gasp. His whole body shakes when he feels Swiss’ tongue enter his gills. He couldn’t care less about whatever Swiss told him to do earlier, all he knows is the feeling of the warm, wet appendage. He can feel Swiss’ hand press closer to his cock, but the assault on his gills steals all his attention.

Swiss is practically making out with them. He sucks on them before dipping his tongue inside as far as it’ll comfortably go. The other hand, the one on Rain’s waits, slips under his shirt. His fingertips brush gently over the gills on his abdomen making Rain moan loud and wanton. He slips the tips of his fingers inside with practiced ease, muscle memory helping him avoid the tiny razors. He pets at the inside membrane and Rain sobs.

“Please touch me, Swiss. Need it, it hurts. Please.” He’s shaking. He sounds pathetic. He doesn’t care. Not as long as Swiss wraps one of his massive hands around his dripping cock.

Swiss laughs, speaking into his gills. The vibration drives Rain crazy, “I am touching you, princess.”

Rain weakly tries to pull the hand that’s under his shirt away. Tries to pull it down to cup the tent in his sweats. It doesn’t even budge. Rain can feel the grin spread across his lips.

“I told you, didn't I? I wasn’t going to touch you unless you finished the whole thing. Did you?”

Rain looks at the joint on the ground. It’s almost laughable how close he was to the end. He hiccups, sob catching in his throat.

“No.”

Swiss hums and shoves his tongue and fingers back into Rain’s gills at the same time. He chokes out a broken little moan.

“But what oh what about me?”

“Well,”

Lick

“You’ll either cum from this,”

Lick

“Or you won’t.”

Swiss shoves his fingers in just a bit deeper and Rain keens. He can’t take it. He’s so hard it hurts. He can feel the wet patch that soaked through the front of his sweats. He’ll have to wash them before giving them back to Cirrus. With shaky hands, he pulls the waistband of his pants and boxers down just enough to pull his cock out. He shudders when hot skin meets cool air. He’s slick and shiny, wet from the copious amounts of pre he had started leaking since Swiss kissed him. He gives in to Swiss. He slumps his entire body weight onto him, closing his eyes with a sigh at the same time he wraps his hand around his dick.

He gets lost in it. The feeling of Swiss practically eating out his gills. At the feeling of him fingering the gills on his abdomen. He jerks himself in quick little strokes, trying to go at the same pace as Swiss’ tongue and failing. He’s vaguely aware of the feeling of Swiss rutting against his back, but it’s hard to focus on anything with his brain effectively turned to mush. If he turns his attention to Swiss at his gills then his movements turn sloppy, barely providing any sense of relief. If he focuses on stroking himself then he’s not as aware of the assault on his gills. In a brief moment of clarity, he vows to never touch Mountain’s shit again. A promise he’s made a million times. One he’ll continue to break.

He lets out a broken gasp when he feels Swiss’ unoccupied hand wrap around his cock. He gives him no time to process, no time to question. He strokes him fast, fist twisting over his head with each pass. He couldn’t take it anymore. The sweet little sounds spilling from Rain’s lips became too much. He needed to watch him cum, needed him to make a mess so Swiss could lick it up and taste him. Rain is utterly helpless to it. Swiss has every part of him. All he can do is whine and whimper and attempt to buck up to meet Swiss on the down stroke. He can feel his slick dripping down his cock and into his sweats, can feel it soaking his balls and his thighs.

Swiss presses his thumb into the sensitive skin on the underside of his head at the same time he plunges his tongue into his gills as far as it’ll go. Rain can feel him in his throat. It’s too much, it’s all too much. He cums with a shout, high-pitched and feminine. Swiss slows his movements but doesn’t stop stroking him. Milking him for everything he has. He doesn’t stop until Rain’s crying turns from relief to pain. Swiss pulls his tongue and fingers from his gills, pressing sweet little kisses to his jaw. He mutters praise in between each press of his lips. He holds Rain tight against him, not entirely sure he’ll be able to keep himself upright if he lets go. He rocks them gently. The only sound that fills the greenhouse is Rain’s pants and the storm outside. Eventually, he catches his breath enough to speak. He says the only thing that comes to mind.

“You touched me.”

Swiss laughs as loud as thunder, “Had to make sure you caught up.”

Rain furrows his brow before slowly turning in Swiss’ hold to face him. His body shakes as he moves, groping the front of Swiss’ lounge shorts. His falls open, a brief moment of shock before he giggles. Swiss grunts when he squeezes, smearing the mess in his pants over his spent dick.

“Don’t give me that look. Not when you just soaked half of Mounty’s mattress.”

Rain slumps his head forward to rest on Swiss’ shoulder, “You like it.”

“Damn right.” He kisses Rain’s temple before bringing his hand up and popping each of his fingers into his mouth one by one. He sucks Rain’s spend off, groaning when the taste of petrichor and sea salt hits his tongue.

Rain is asleep by the time Swiss licks the mess off his hand. He huffs a quiet laugh before lying down, keeping Rain on top of his chest. He rubs up and down his back, until he starts purring. Swiss is quick to follow him after that, closing his eyes and giving in to the pleasant haze in his head.

It’s a bright and sunny morning. The exact opposite of what yesterday was. Everything has a shine to it, still wet from the storm that raged all night long. Rain is awake, but he hasn’t opened his eyes. He’s warm from the sunlight streaming into the greenhouse. The rise and fall of Swiss’ breathing comforting. His head still feels a bit fuzzy, but nothing like the previous evening. He’s content to lay there all day, but his ear twitches at the sound of a snuffle. He cracks an eye open only to see Mountain standing above them, arms crossed and a neutral expression. He snuffles again, nostrils flaring.

Rain elbows Swiss in the ribs. He jumps with a groan.

“Too early. Go bed.” Swiss rolls over causing Rain to scramble off him.

“Swiss wake up!” He hisses.

“Whaaaaaaat?” He sits up, blinking slowly.

When he finally opens his eyes all he sees is Mountain. He practically jumps up, rolling off the mattress to kneel on the dirt floor. He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Hey Mount. Funny seeing you here we were just—“

“You have five seconds to run.”

Rain and Swiss exchange a quick look before bolting up and running. Rain stumbles, nearly tripping but he catches himself and keeps going. Mountain watches them through the glass. Rain sprints to the lake, Swiss back towards the Ministry.

Mountain cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders as he walks towards the door, humming a tune only he knows.

#the band ghost #ghost bc #nameless ghouls #the band ghost fic #rain ghoul #swiss ghoul #swiss x rain #rulti #18+ mdni #mdni #golfball writes

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 11 months

Note

AITA for wanting my mother to stop making so much noise in her own house when I’m staying here?

So me (22M) and my mother (62F) have a complicated relationship. She is very very toxic and always has been - she used to induce illness in me and make my pre-existing disorders worse so that she could keep me with her when she separated from my father, she never let me leave the house because she would tell me I would be harmed or something would happen to me if I was away from her, she would control everything I did and what I ate or drank, where I went, etc. The house she and I lived in was an incredibly bad environment for me. It’s not taken care of, it’s dirty and unhygienic, I was constantly ill and having allergies set off, she would try to feed me dirt-covered food I watched her pick up off the floor, the shower didn’t work and she wouldn’t let me go elsewhere to bathe. I kept talking about moving out, especially once I got into a serious relationship with my girlfriend (26F), but it would always devolve into an argument with her telling me I wasn’t going anywhere, that my girlfriend would leave me, that she’s the only person who’ll stick by me, and so on.

All of that is basically background context to counterbalance the (fair) preconceptions of “you’re guests you’re imposing on her you can just leave” etc you’re about to have.

So I finally moved out this year and in with my girlfriend and it was wonderful. However, my mother was blowing up BOTH of our phones 24/7 telling me to come back, and it reached the point she was contacting Other people (family, our friends) to get Them to tell me to move back in with her and asking where I was at all hours of the day, who I was with and what I was doing. I was ignoring her as best I could. Then a couple of weeks ago mine and my girlfriend’s house flooded after our upstairs neighbour burst a pipe in the building and water began fountaining through all our electrical sockets and lights and pouring from the ceiling. We had nowhere else to go except to stay with my mother until the house was repaired and made safe again, especially because so many of our belongings were ruined.

So we’ve been back here since. We’re forced to sleep on the couch together in the living room because in the time I was gone she somehow let bugs infest my old room and her cat pee all over the mattress of the bed.

Now, my girlfriend and I are both very non-confrontational and I’m usually super hard to annoy, but I’m also autistic and highly sensitive to noise. And my mother is. Very noisy. She blasts the TV at full volume all day even when she leaves the room and gets angry if you turn it off even if she’s not watching it, she’s a chainsmoker who’s constantly hack-coughing, she’ll have the radio playing OVER the TV, she shouts out the windows to her neighbours, she keeps all the windows and doors open, she’ll play music at full volume without headphones on, etc. I have noise-cancelling headphones from when I still lived here but she’s often so loud it doesn’t muffle it at all.

Recently it’s reached the point where she’ll wake up during the night, say 2-4am, come through to the room we’re sleeping in where the TV is, and just turn the TV on, turn the radio on, start singing along to music, slam doors, VACUUM. For the past 2 weeks she’s been waking me and my fiancée up every single night, often several times, and we’re at the end of our rope with it.

We can’t afford a hotel and have nowhere else to go, when we try to ask her to keep it down at LEAST during the night she says she can do whatever she wants because it’s her house and says we’re being ungrateful, and when we’ve offered to try to clean up my old room so we can sleep in there she snaps at us not to touch anything of ‘hers’ and gets mad because we’re implying her house isn’t clean, that we don’t want to be near her, that we must be telling everyone her house is shitty, etc.

Yesterday I got into an argument with her because I was having an extremely bad sensory day, my girlfriend said she had a migraine, and my mother responded by turning up the TV. When she saw I was holding onto my headphones and my girlfriend was near tears, she turned it up even louder and smirked at me. The argument basically ended in her screaming at me that if she was so bad we could leave, I impulsively said okay we would, and then she got physically aggressive and barred the doorway and told us I wasn’t going anywhere because she’d make sure of it.

It’s just. Exhausting! GF and I are constantly sleep-deprived, drained, grumpy, tired, and dealing with headaches on top of the stress of trying to financially recoup from the house flood and deal with getting everything fixed, and half of me is mad at my mother for not having even basic respect for us sleeping or our issues when half the time she is not even watching the damn TV or in the same room as it, while the other half of me feels conflicted because it’s her living room and we’re sleeping in the TV room and she’s putting us up when we have nowhere else.

AITA (/are we the assholes) for wanting her to accommodate us despite being guests?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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beesspacedotorg · 5 days

Note

bbeebeeeeebebebeeee what abt the convo we’re having rn…. a lovely wonderful date with your sweetie hybrid boyfriends linocat and binnierabbit

Hey bro happy birthday. It's still your birthday where I live, so please accept this gift. Thank you for being my friend !! I hope this year around the sun treats you well. I also hope skz comes to (redacted for privacy) so we can meet up. @cbini

There's no smut in this because uhm. Because. But there are sex jokes because I'm me.

You love your boyfriends very much. When they started living with you, everyone called you insane. They asked why you would have a cat hybrid and a rabbit hybrid at the same time. Rabbits can be messy and cats cause problems on purpose they had said. Rabbits are just cats with longer ears and curled tails they had said. You’re signing yourself up for trouble they had said. You had waved your hand in dismissal, pointing at your boys and how much they loved each other and went about your business. Looking at them now, you’re starting to wish you hadn’t brushed off their concerns.

They took you to a restaurant, a nice fancy one, to celebrate. They’d told you to get a little dressed up, so you had, and they’d shown up with their slightly dressy attire and you drooled a little and Changbin had to wipe it off your chin. They’d taken pictures with you, nice aesthetic ones in the low light of the dining area, Minho’s glass of wine temporarily acting as a prop. Minho had made a salacious joke about licking wine off of your body and Changbin had kicked him in the shin. Minho then accused him of being jealous and offered to lick wine off of his body, too. It made the younger flush and shout indignantly.

All in all, the night had gone well. Your boys were handsome and polite to the waitstaff, they’d taken turns making you flush with love and something else, and they’d both made promises about what awaited you at home. The problem only started when they’d gotten their food.

You’ve seen them eat before, you know they have slightly weird eating habits brought on by them being alive or their hybrid genes or something, but it didn’t click in your mind that they would do it at restaurants, too. It had been seconds after Changbin had gotten his plate of pasta, the waiter barely away from the table, that he flipped it over onto the table cloth and started to eat it that way. You stared at him for a minute, mouth opening and closing like a fish as you tried to come up with something to say.

“Was there something wrong with the plate?” You asked, staring at the mess he was making of the table.

“Too small. The vibes were bad,” he said simply. You blinked a couple times at him before turning your attention to Minho when you heard a choking noise.

“Oh, Jesus, this is why you need to slow down when you eat.” You hand him a water and a napkin, praying he doesn’t upchuck all over the table.

“What if it runs away?” He says, staring at you. You watch his ears twitch on his head, listening to the sounds of the waitstaff milling about and the chatter of the other customers.

“Where the fuck is it gonna go?” You point at the food he’s practically inhaled, “It’s dead.”

“You never know,” is what he gives you. You sigh, looking up towards the ceiling before hanging your head in defeat. You start to eat your own food, and outside of their initial outbursts, things seem to be going fine. That is, until Binnie��s ears stand tall above his head and his nose twitches, leg thumping under the table,

“Stop that,” he says, glaring daggers at Minho.

“Stop what? I’m not doing anything.” Minho has a shit eating smirk on his face. He is most definitely doing something.

“What’s that noise then?”

“What noise? Are you hallucinating, Changbinnie? Should we take you to see someone?” Minho fakes concern and you hear the soft little growl that comes out of Changbin.

“Two can play this game, hyung.” You’re suddenly worried for the state of the restaurant.

“What if none played this game? Wouldn’t that be nice?” Your pleas go ignored.

“And what exactly are you planning on doing?” Minho is leaning across the table now, shoving the pretty centerpiece out of the way so he can get closer to Changbin and it’s not too long after that you hear a chirp. Minho’s ears twitch and his pupils widen before he shakes his head and glares.

“Low blow, Seo Changbin.”

“And playing frequencies only I can hear isn’t?”

“You’re just a sore loser.”

“Loser? I haven’t lost anything.” You sigh when you hear Changbin’s voice start to rise, quickly calling for the tab.

“I’m so sorry,” is what you say to the waiter after he comes back, gesturing to the mess your boyfriends made of the table and the way they’re almost wrestling right now. You tip him well, it's the least you can do.

When you get your card back you stand up, grabbing your things and hauling your boyfriends out of their seats by the collars of their shirts. If you were meaner, you’d pinch their ears between your fingers for causing a ruckus, but you aren’t, so you don’t.

Changbin’s ears hang droopily when you get outside, and he hugs your arm tightly.

“Did we make you upset?” You turn your head to look at him and his eyes are as wide as the moon. You think of that tweet, I’m not arguing with a man who has pretty brown eyes. Whatever you say, beautiful. You sigh and pet the velveteen fur of his ears softly.

“A little bit, but, I’ll get over it.” Minho plasters himself to your other side, and when you turn to look at him, his ears are pinned down.

“Ah, I’m sorry, jagiya. I just wanted to have a little fun.” Changbin punches him in the shoulder and he winces.

“Like I said, I’ll get over it.” You start trying to walk to the car, but it’s easier said than done with the two of them hanging off of you like this. You see their heads move a bit out of your peripheral vision before Minho makes an affirming little hum and you’re being half-carried half-dragged down the sidewalk.

“You’ll get over it faster if you have help,” Minho says, and Changbin nods, long ears flopping around.

“Exactly. We have to apologize to our sweetie.” You squint at them. It’s never good when they both agree on something.

“What are you going to do?” Changbin opens your car door and nudges you gently until you’re all the way in.

“Have you ever been to Paris?” Minho asks, buckling himself into the backseat.

“I was thinking about seeing the Eiffel Tower,” Changbin finishes, sliding the key into the ignition. You snort at the joke, rolling your eyes.

“I think a little tourism would be nice.” Changbin smiles at you, nose scrunching slightly, and rests a hand on your thigh.

“Good. We were thinking the same thing.”

#in:box #ems more like mommy #happy ems day #bee blurbs #ft.changbinnie #ft.lino #lee know x reader #lee know x you #changbin x reader #changbin x you #lee know fluff #changbin fluff #skz x reader #skz x you #skz fluff

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papaleon · 11 months

Text

I'm Still Full of the Love You Want

pairing: RE4R!Leon Kennedy x afab!Reader

wc: 2.4k

summary: Leon has come back from Spain and, on the advice of his therapist, he's learning to associate the bad memories with something good. That something happens to be you.

content: leon gets cuffed, p in v, oral (reader receiving), no protection (wrap it up guys), i just replayed resi4r and i can't get over leon being chained to the ceiling (inspo), leon is a good boy

18+ MDNI, this is literally just pwp

a/n: please be gentle, i haven't written fic in years, this post has a lot of my writing firsts including the perspective and the smut. it has been sorta proofread, all mistakes are my own. enjoy! <3

Leon let out a deep groan as you moved to straddle his unclothed thighs. The handcuffs you had just finished latching to the headboard clinked as he tested their strength. See, Leon had just returned from his mission in Spain. He was, of course, tight-lipped and bound by a very intimidating NDA to keep the details quiet. But, even though he wasn’t able to share the grisly details with you, you could read Leon like a book. He always wore his pain, anger, and anxiety in his eyes, as much as he’d hate to admit it.

Right now though, his face only told of pleasure, and that was enough for you. You offered him a soft smile as you ground down onto the meat of his muscular thigh, pressing down just enough for him to feel your want.

“C’mon baby, please.”

Leon’s work mandated therapist, Dr. Woolf, had recommended he work to associate the horrors and trauma he’d experienced with something positive. You were certain that Dr. Woolf did not intend those new associations to be with sex, in fact you had a few qualms with the whole thing but it was the only thing that seemed to help Leon. After years of witnessing the love of your life suffer with his own memories, day and night, you figured you’d do anything to help him.

So here you both were, blue moonlight kissing warm candle light as it danced over both of your bodies. You had just finished stripping Leon down and cuffing him, wrists over his head, after a very lengthy discussion about limits and how this tied back to Spain.

This wasn’t that bad, baby, I swear. You had stared at him as he spoke, looking for any hint of a lie. My gear was taken and we were chained to the ceiling. It could have been worse. He smirked at that. You had feigned indignation and lightly smacked his chest. This you could deal with. You knew he suffered much worse but you tried to leave your worries unspoken.

He looked beautiful like this though, you thought as you ran your eyes over him. Leon Kennedy certainly had a reputation that preceded him. A rookie cop turned hardened agent, a bit of a sarcastic, stoic dickhead if you pissed him off, and a selfless protector. Someone you would want on your team but certainly never wanted to get on the bad side of. But you knew more. He had lived through so much strife and hardship, he was hidden behind years of trauma and survival instincts, but deep down he was a person who longed to be cared for and understood. You were more than happy to give that to him.

“Darling, I need-“ Leon’s request stuck in his throat, hips kicking up, cock jumping as you ground down hard against his thigh. The pressure on your clit pulled a small sigh out of you. You started to pick up your pace, riding his thigh in earnest now.

“What do you need, hmm?” You smiled wide at Leon, his hands flexing as he tried to move to touch you. He let out a frustrated groan.

“Need to see you, s-since I can’t touch.” You dropped your eyes, scanning over Leon’s naked body, still covered in scars and healing bruises. Your gaze stopped at his cock, hard and lying up against his toned stomach. You could see how flushed the tip looked, slick pre-cum dripping, pooling where his cock met skin. Your mouth watered, you simply couldn’t help it. A very vocal part of you wanted to lean down, lap up his mess and take him into your mouth. Later, you promised yourself.

You, of course, were still dressed. You wanted to give Leon a show. These ‘re-associations’ were to be as involved and lengthy as possible, Dr. Woolf had mentioned. Anything to give Leon’s mind more incentive to replace the bad with the good.

“You wanna see me?” You teased as you ran your hands along your body, fingers teasing under the hem of the t-shirt you were wearing - stolen from Leon’s drawer.

“Fuck, yeah please l-let me see you angel,” Leon nodded fervently, his words were starting to slur together slightly. You always liked seeing Leon lose his poise and control, your strong-willed boyfriend squirming and begging underneath you. It didn’t happen often but you relished in the moments Leon would let you in like that, let you take care of him, show you his trust. “…shit baby you look so good in my clothes.”

“Okay baby, you’re such a good boy for asking.” You smirked as you swung your legs over to kneel next to Leon, needing to remove your lounge clothes. He whined and bucked his hips at the loss of contact, your own slick shiny and cooling on his thigh. Leon just stared at you hungrily. He’d been so patient for you, so good, so you teased the hem of the t-shirt before pulling it off in one quick movement, dropping it off the side of the bed onto the floor.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Leon’s eyes darted to your chest, taking in the sight. You blushed lightly. Leon always looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole, like you were the only other person in the entire world, like he loved and desired nothing more than you. Wanting to hide your blushing cheeks, you leaned down quickly to kiss him, chaste and soft given the current circumstances. The chains rattled again as he moved to reach for you.

“You’re so good to me,” You whispered as you sat up to pull your sleep shorts and panties down and off. You shuddered as the cold air met your soaked cunt. Leon went slack jawed, his cock jumping slightly off his belly.

“‘Course sweet thing,” his voice was gruff, filled with want as he stared at your dripping core. You discarded your shorts onto the floor next to your top before moving to straddle Leon’s hips this time. You firmly dropped down to drag your slick cunt against Leon’s cock, the tip bumping against your clit. Leon moaned low and deep, his look of shock immediately replaced by his eyes rolling back into his head. Your own breathing started getting ragged, you wanted nothing more than to slip him inside but you had to control yourself, you really wanted to do this right, to make this last.

“C’mon baby, ride me,” Leon’s hips pushed up, attempting to slide in whenever you bucked your hips forward. You shuddered, slowly but surely losing the will to tease. It was especially hard when Leon was looking up at you like that, like he was about to cry. ��W-wanna make you come.”

“Yeah?” You groaned loudly, losing the rest of any willpower you had before reaching down to line up his thick cock with your dripping hole. You slammed your hips down hard, a sharp smack mingled with the loud moans of you both. It burned, the sudden stretch, but that didn’t matter when Leon filled you up perfectly, you just couldn’t help it, you craved that feeling. You could see a flash of frustration in his eyes as you slowly started fucking yourself on him. You could feel him shift beneath you, feet planted on the mattress so he could find his own pace. You leaned forward, back arched as your chest met his as you tucked your face into his neck.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you-“ Leon chanted softly, groaning as he thrust up into your tight, wet cunt. The sounds were obscene, you felt impossibly wet, Leon’s pre-cum mixing with your slick.

You finally gained your wits enough to push back into his thrusts, angling your own hips just right so each thrust hit the right spot. You had heard Leon wince as your nails dug into his shoulders, but it barely registered as you barrelled toward your own orgasm, hanging onto Leon like a lifeline.

“Gonna … gonna come baby, you’re gonna make me come,” you felt Leon’s cock throb inside you as his own thrusts grew erratic. “Unlock the cuffs f’me darling, wanna touch” he squeezed his eyes shut, and let out a sigh. You stilled your hips, leaning over to the nightstand to grab the small key. Leon took advantage of your position to lap and bite at your nipple. You leaned into the sensation.

“L-leon please,” you reached over to unlock one of the cuffs finally allowing Leon’s hands down. He remained limp, pliant under you.

That is, until you unlocked the second cuff.

He pushed himself up quickly, slipping out of you, rolling you both over until he was firmly planted between your thighs and had you pinned down by your wrists. You were about to whine from the emptiness when you felt him slide back into you, bottoming out in one quick motion.

Leon set a frantic pace from there, pushing your knees together and leaning over to press them to your chest, his eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows furrowed as you took him even deeper. You could feel the tip of his cock nudge against your cervix with every thrust, sending small sparks of pain through your abdomen, but it only made the fire in your belly grow hotter, made your skin tingle all over.

“Ah, ah, ah, fuck, Leon!” You bit through gritted teeth, losing all the poise and confidence you had when you controlled the pace. Leon’s fingers intertwined with yours and you held on for dear life, unable to do

“so fuh-fucking good for me baby, taking me so well,” Leon moaned. It took all the energy you had left to open your eyes just to see Leon lean closer, his soft hair falling over his brow and his jaw locked, willing every bit of his body not to let go yet, he wasn’t done with you. He leaned even closer to kiss you. “You were meant to take this cock right? Only you. Your pussy is so tight huh, angel? Fuck you were made for me weren’t you?”

All you could do was nod dumbly, squeezing your eyes shut as the fire raged inside both of you. Leon was relentless, fucking into you hard and fast, like a man starved, every thrust hitting the perfect spot inside you. The pressure was building, and you couldn’t really hear what you were saying anymore, you were just babbling about how perfect your cock is, and fuck me, I love you.

Leon’s pace started to falter, just as you felt your orgasm approaching, but that didn’t matter, as you felt him move to pull out. But you simply couldn’t have that. “No, no, no, no! Come in me Leon, baby, please!” You whined, squirming underneath him. “Wanna feel you, puh-lease, fuck!”

Leon growled lowly, “You want my cum darling?” There was no more teasing as he lined his cock back up with your puffy, fucked out cunt. Yes, and please, fell out of your mouth like a chant even before he was finished the question.

“Come in me please, Leon, ‘m close, so close.” And who was he to deny you a single thing? Leon grunted as he started up his brutal pace again, only managing several more thrusts before slamming into you, bottoming out, as he fucked his cum deep inside you. You clenched hard at the throbbing warmth, your soft, tight cunt milking every last drop out of Leon.

“That’s right, good baby. Take it all. So good just f’me, hmm?” You moaned, nodding weakly, still trying to push your hips against his. The fire raged on in you, your cunt was begging for release.

“Wanna come, make me come Leon, please, need it.” You whined, putting on the best pout you could manage. Leon chuckled lightly at the sight before pulling out and letting your legs down gently. You were about to complain when Leon leaned in to leave kisses all over the column of your throat, down to your breasts and over your soft stomach before he laid himself down between your legs.

Your hands reached out to tangle in his hair as he started suckling little marks in the crease of your thigh, so close to where you needed him.

“Duh-don’t tease,” you whispered, tugging lightly on his strands and bucking your hips up, hoping he’d take the hint. And so he did. You felt yourself melting into the mattress from the very first slow drag of his tongue. Leon seemed content fucking his cum even further into you with his tongue. You sighed and moaned and the fire in your belly burned bright again. You felt his fingers run their way up the inside of your thigh. He pushed two fingers inside, replacing his tongue, crooking them and fucking you, hard and fast. You felt the pressure building quickly, and your cunt squeezed down hard.

“Gonna come Leon, you’re gonna make me co-“ Leon chose that very moment to latch his mouth over your poor, neglected clit and suck. You finally felt that heat snap as you came, gushing out all over Leon’s hand and face. He continued fucking you through it, the wet sounds positively obscene as your sensitive cunt twitched and dripped. Leon didn’t stop until you were twitching from overstimulation. You had to drag his face away by the iron grip you still had on his hair. He winced lightly as he moved up the bed to drape his body over you. “Sorry,” you whispered, easing up on his hair, followed by “Thank you.”

“No, thank you!” Leon said as he nuzzled into your neck. You both just laid there, panting for a while, locked in a warm embrace. You dozed in and out of sleep, waking just enough to feel Leon starting to move his hips and feeling something warm and hard pressing up against your thigh.

“Really Leon?” You mumbled, amused. “Already?”

Leon just chuckled, pushing himself up to lean over you and line his hips up with you again, slowly sinking back into your wet, warm cunt. “Can you blame me?”

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #leon s kennedy #re4r leon #ns/ft #idk what possessed me to write and post this considering i haven't written in like a decade but anyway #my own works #idk how good this is lol

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fancyfeathers · 9 months

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The Moon Will Sing (Yandere Rex Lapis/Zhongli x Goddesses!Reader) (Normalized Yandere AU) (Sneak Peek) (+Art)

A/N- the full fic may not be published for quite sometime, but if you wish to read it early let me know and you can be one of my (first) beta readers or you can let me know if you wanted to be added to the tag list for when the full fic gets published

(TW- kidnapping, restraints, extreme isolation, semi torture, dehydration, starvation, marking/body modification)

Inspired by this post

(Edit- the full fic has been published, read it here)

You sat on the hard cold ground, it felt like ice in here despite this cave being carved out by the lord of geo himself. Speaking of the lord of geo, you haven’t seen him since he locked you in here, how long has it been? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? You didn’t know anymore. Your clothing was tattered, you sat here half naked, and that was putting it nicely. You may not need to eat but it was still unpleasant not to, one of the cons of you choosing a mortal form.

That’s not the worse of it, you can forget that when you sleep, escaping to your dreams. The dreams are full of the days where you would lay in the field with your sister and watch over your people in their village. There is only one thing you can’t escape, the constant pain in your body, every time you move the searing pain that rips at your wrists ankles, even in your dreams you can escape that pain, it ruins the happiness you get from those memories.

Chains…

Enchanted chains…

A special gift from Rex Lapis himself…

The chains linked around your wrists and ankles and attached to the floor of the cave. Sure they were long and if it was just that you would be able to pull yourself to the wall to have something to lay against, but it’s never that simple. Every time you move the chains surge geo energy into your body, it feels like you bones are shifting like tectonic plates during an earthquake. Even breathing hurts now, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was due to to the geo energy literally grinding most of your ribs to dust. A mortal would be dead by now, but not you, you just went through the same pain, and it never ended. You could only lay here, on your back, and stare at the same spot on the rock ceiling as dust and dirt collected on your body. But never any water, this place was bone dry, fitting for a place meant to hold the goddess of rain and moonlight.

Then there was the silence, it was maddening. The first few days, or maybe weeks, you sang to break the silence, keep your sanity, but most importantly fulfill your godly duties. But that was Celestia knows how long ago, you could only hope your sister was doing the best she could to watch over the day wherever she was now, because now you could only guess how violent the night has become in your absence. The night was already unsafe, but without the light of the moon, it was deadly.

A soft steps echoing in the cave snapped you out of your thoughts of simply reminding yourself to breathe in an out since it has become such a task. But now there was only one thought in your mind, after all this time he had finally come to see you again in this stone cage he made for you. You could not even turn your head to look at him in fear that your neck would break from the pulses from the chain, nor could you give him one of your usual witty greetings due to your throat being as dry as sand in the Sumeru desert in summer from the lack of water or even moisture in this cave.

You could only see him when he stood right beside your broken body, gazing down at you, but you were to weak to even make out the details of his face. He stared at you for a long time before kneeling down so that he could get a better look at your limp form. You could finally make out his expression, calm as ever, but it was unsettling for you to witness. He was ever so calm as he reached out his clawed hand and ran his finger along your cheek, collecting the dust that had landed on your skin. He looked at the dust on his fingers then back at you, like how you would treat a vase on the shelf you had forgotten to dust off.

“Oh my dear…”

He sighed as he reached down with his hand to graze over your arm, down to the chain that was sealed to your wrist without a lock. Suddenly he gave it a pull which resulted in a bloodcurdling scream ripping from your throat as your felt the surge of geo energy surge from the chain into you arm and your bones began to rub against each other and snap like twigs. As he does this you can feel your arm rapidly repair itself and breaking it again as your limb begins to change, the skin turning black and where you could feel the surges, golden markings begin to form the same one the Geo Archon bares himself.

“It seems perhaps the punishment was too strong for the crime.”

#yandere genshin #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere zhongli #yandere zhongli x reader

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magicbystarlight · 2 years

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Before I Knew You - Part Nine

Masterlist, Part One

I appreciate all the love this fic gets, I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get the next chapter up. Thank you for reading ❤️

Summary: You’ve spent years training under Madam Pomfrey in the hopes that you would join the Healers at St. Mungo’s at graduation. But in the aftermath of the death of Albus Dumbledore, you chose to join the Order instead. When you’re forced into hiding, you find yourself alone with Bill Weasley and his new wolfish tendencies.

Word Count: 3,507

Warnings: 18+, smuuuuut, fingering, unprotected sex (there won't be any suprise pregnacy, let's just pretend all witches and wizards are on birth control), jealousy, self-image issues, Bill being a cocky little shit, some dom Bill/sub reader undertones. Minors DNI.

A/N: If you requested to be on the taglist and found that you weren’t on it, it’s mostly likely because there is not an indicator on your blog that you are 18+ which is a requirement for my taglists.

“We can discuss it more tomorrow. After he leaves.”

You’d fled left his room quickly after.

What had you done? Why had you offered to have sex with Bill Weasley?

You knew why.

It was Bill Weasley. One look at him explained why. But still, it was a bad idea. He was your patient. And you were technically under his protection. It was a bad idea. Really. Truly. But you couldn’t come up with an excuse convincing enough to talk yourself out of it.

At least he won’t be in pain, you told yourself.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night, though in honesty you hadn’t slept well since that last night in Bill’s arms before Kingsley's arrival. But the tossing and turning of other nights was stilled, your eyes boring into the ceiling until the morning sun chased out the void.

Bill was in a far better mood at breakfast. Though the conversation was far from light as Kingsley’s plans and Death Eater activity were discussed, the underlying animosity that had been a defining trait of Bill’s tone in the weeks following Kingsley’s arrival was noticeably missing. Even as he left to work, Bill’s attitude was unusually chipper.

Kingsley himself seemed in a jolly mood as you checked him over for the final time.

“It has been very nice to get to know you better, but I have been laying in bed too long. And I wouldn’t mind a bit of payback,” he said as you jotted down the results of the diagnostic spells.

He wasn't quite as good as he had been before the attack, but he was improving. His magic worked just the same. As far as you could tell there had been no complications of your blood mixing with his. The logical part of you knew there wouldn't be any. But years of Mudblood being mumbled from people passing you in the halls was difficult to forget.

“Take it slow for a couple days though, okay? And don’t skip any meals and drink lots of water. If you feel even the least bit unwell or out of sorts, come straight back.”

“I’ll take care of myself. Maybe not as well as you have but," he smiled out at the ocean beyond the window as it crashed into the beach, “I have made it this far in life mostly by myself.”

The words made your heart hurt. Alastor had made it further in life, survived terrible things, yet he was gone now. Dumbledore was too. It had only taken one moment in the wrong place at the wrong time for even the most powerful and experienced wizards to be nothing but corpses. “Still, avoid the revenge plots for a week or two. Or three.”

He made no agreement to that.

The final hours of Kingsley's stay at Shell Cottage ticked by at an odd pace. There were moments that seemed to rush by as you helped him pack away what he would need. A tent Bill had pulled out of somewhere. Some defense items from Fred and George. Food. Other moments would linger unendingly. When you were alone with your thoughts and worries as Kingsley napped. Standing beneath the stream of water as every terrible thought ran through your mind.

He could change his mind. He could have only agreed to buy himself time to let you down easier. Worse, he could have been serious. He could actually have been serious about it, but not because he wanted you. “Well not you specifically! Just the fact that you’re, you know, a person who isn’t related and, um, of the right age…”

If Bill hadn't been inflicted with his cursed wounds he would have never spared you a second glance. You weren't ugly, not by any means, but you were no Fleur. Men did not struggle to speak comprehensively in your presence. Women did not envy your very existence. You were simple. Ordinary. Pretty, but not stunning. And Bill was…extraordinary. Even with—especially with—his scars. If he had more choices, you couldn't delude yourself into believing you would make the cut.

Those thoughts haunted you until Bill strolled in with a wide grin just before the clock read six. Kingsley was standing beside you in the kitchen watching you plate out hearty servings of shepherd’s pie. Bill's smile didn't disappear when he took in the scene, but it tightened and no longer met his eyes.

Dinner was nothing like breakfast. Bill's gaze was searing as he sat beside you. You could feel him shift during every interaction between you and the Auror. It was like you were under observation and he did not like what he was seeing. Not that Kingsley seemed to take notice. He smiled and laughed like he was at the Burrow again, regaling a crowd of eager listeners with well practiced tales of grandiose adventure. You tried your best to follow along, but Bill was less willing to let you do so.

At some point after the food had been finished, he’d slung an arm across the back of your chair and let his legs spread wide. Focusing on anything other than the fingers that occasionally grazed your arm or the thigh that rested lightly against yours was nearly impossible. By time the clock struck eight and Kingsley pulled his pack of supplies across his shoulder you were surprised to find yourself able to stand.

"Take care of yourself," Kingsley said as he embraced you tightly at the door. "I am sure I shall see you again very soon."

"Not too soon. And less bloody, please."

"I will do my best."

Bill's ears had turned a rather deep shade of crimson when Kingsley pulled away from you. You stayed behind in the kitchen to clean the last of the dishes as Bill walked him out.

The water stung as you scrubbed. Magic could have taken care of these in half the time, but the distraction was good. If you focused too much on what would happen next you were sure you would combust. Unfortunately, you ran out of dishes before you heard the pop expected of Disapparition. It made you wonder if they'd gotten lost in conversation over some Order business and if Bill had forgotten all about you. Or perhaps he was just trying to delay the time before he had to face you alone.

You shut off the water, grabbed the dish towel to dry your hands, and turned wondering if you should check in only to have your heart try to leap up your throat at the figure standing in the open doorway.

"For Helga's sake," you huffed, hand over your chest. "I didn't hear you come in."

"He's gone," Bill said.

"Good." You fidgeted with the towel. "We can talk."

"Talk," he said softly. The door shut loudly as he left its frame, stalking towards you. It wasn't until your back met the counter that you realized you'd been stepping back. "I'll be bloody honest with you.” His arms were on either side to cage you in an instant. “I've spent the last twenty blasted hours thinking about how your cunt will feel wrapped around my cock—”

The towel slipped from your hands.

“—and I don't think I'll be very intelligible until I've found out. So unless you've changed your mind, we can talk tomorrow."

Helga help you.

He leaned in. "Have you changed your mind?"

You shook your head.

"Words, love. Use your words."

"No, sir." The words came out so low, you weren't sure they could be heard.

His forehead came to rest against yours as his eyes clenched shut. "You're going to be the death of me."

"That's sorta the opposite of what I'm trying to do," you breathed in barely more than a whisper.

His hands were on your waist, pulling himself closer. They moved slowly down your hips and back up your waist. "Is it?"

A “mmphmm” was your only response as he cupped your face.

“Then I suppose I should kiss you before I die of curiosity.”

His lips caught yours and the world shifted. There was no air in your lungs. No beating in your heart. Nothing but his lips against yours. You had never been kissed before. Not like that. Whatever it was that you had done before couldn't even be considered anything like this.

The moment shattered when he pulled away. A deep breath in. An almost painful hammering against your chest.

A whispered, "I'm fucked," was the last thing he said before he came crashing back.

The calluses on his palm were rough against skin as they slid under your shirt and his tongue slipped past your lips when the feel made you gasp. It wasn't like the awkward fumblings and hesitant touches you'd experienced with Cillian, both of you still figuring it out quietly in your childhood bedroom. Bill's hands were sure of themselves as they pushed under your bra and rolled his thumbs over your nipples.

"I can already smell you." The palm of a hand flattened against your stomach and slid under the band of your pants and knickers. "Bloody hell," he said, a long finger gliding along the slick folds before plunging in, "I can just slip right in, can't I?"

You grabbed a hold of his shoulder, knees shaking beneath you. "Don't tease me," you groaned, clenching as the finger withdrew.

"This isn't teasing," he grinned, pushing it back in with a second as you squirmed. "I'll show you what teasing really is another day when I'm feeling a little more patient."

Your head fell back as his fingers worked within you like they were magic themselves. Your own had never felt this good. Nothing had ever felt this good.

A surprised squeak escaped as his fingers retreated and you were suddenly lifted in the air and slung over his shoulders like you weighed nothing.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding unapologetic. The soft cushions of the couch met your back as he set you down. Your jeans were undone and pulled off your legs a breath later followed by your knickers.

Instinctively, your legs tried to clamp shut to shield yourself from the hungry gaze. But Bill was faster and stronger and pried them apart. “Don’t hide from me.” The tone was stern and your legs relaxed. The blue of his eyes had darkened like the sky before a storm as he kneeled between them. His hands traveled along your thighs, over your hips, pushing the hem of your shirt up. "Take this off." It was barely over your head before he reached between you and the couch and unhooked your bra with an ease even you couldn't have accomplished.

You were hesitant to shed the last layer as the earlier worries filled your head, folding your arms to prevent the straps from falling down your arms. The dread that he'd find you as ordinary as you were pooled in your stomach.

"Why are you hiding from me?" The gentleness of his question was a stark contrast to his earlier demands.

"I—" What could you tell him? You were scared he'd stop finding you attractive the moment he looked at your body? No. You stared at him. He was still kneeling between your spread legs. Fully clothed. "It's weird being the only one naked."

The smug satisfaction that took over his face made you wish the couch would swallow you.

He bent forward and pressed a kiss against the your inner thigh. "Is it?" The words reverberated off your skin before he moved to the other side to repeat the kiss. "I don't recall you having a problem with it when you were the one asking me to take off my shirt for you.”

You’d only ever had him remove his shirt when you were conducting a physical. “That wa—”

“Different?” he interjected mockingly, hands finding the crease of your hips. “Why? Because you were the one in charge then?”

“I wasn’t—it was—" His grip made thoughts hard to articulate. The worries of earlier forgotten in the haze of his fingers dragging across skin. "It was a very different situation.”

His touch disappeared and the couch shifted as he straightened. "I suppose it was." You were entranced watching his fingers as he undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing a scene you'd already witnessed but never truly appreciated when the shirt was tossed to the floor. He'd gained weight since that day he'd been brought into the Hospital Wing. Slender still, but with muscles more defined. The scars were much the same having never properly healed, though they seemed to have been pulled taut across his frame.

"Because I had to sit in that bed in that room alone with you," he continued, deft fingers now working at undoing his pants, "and undress for you," he pushed them down, shifting awkwardly to pull them off his feet behind him, "and I couldn't tell you how much I wanted to fuck you."

He was left only in boxers strained nearly beyond their limits. You'd thought it had felt big, but…fuck.

“You're drooling, love."

Your hands shot up, wiping at your mouth and allowing the bra you'd been clutching to fall away.

It was impossible to miss the way the fabric tightened as his cock twitched. "Well ain't that a fuckin' sight."

Then he was over you again, caging your body between his and the couch, claiming your lips. You could feel his cock pressing against you, the fabric growing damp as he ground down. The sensations were enough to get lost in as his hands began to roam. A stuttering gasp escaped as his clothed cock rubbed against your clit when his hips bucked. His lips trailed kisses to your ear as he did it again, your nails digging into his back with a whimper.

"Gods, don't you sound desperate?" he hummed against your ear, smiling against it as his hips pulled another whimper from you. "These little noises are why I couldn't fuck you yesterday. Wanted them to be for my ears only."

Cocky fucking Gryffindor.

“Are you even going to fuck me today?”

A dark chuckle sent vibrations through you as most of his body stilled. “If I knew you were gonna be such a brat,” one of his hands reached down and tugged his waistband, “I’d have put your mouth to better use.”

An audible smack came when his cock was freed and fell against your mound. A shiver of excitement coursed through you as he nuzzled into your neck. His hips moved back, dragging the head down over your clit and between your weeping lips. He held it there for what must have been an eternity before you whined, “Bill.”

Your hips tried to push upwards, but his hand moved to hold you firmly in place. “Yes, love?”

“Please.”

"Please what?"

Your fingers slipped through the strands of his hair and tugged until he lifted his face. "Fuck me, please."

His gaze threatened to drown you as he finally gave in to the plea and eased his cock into your eager folds. He moved slowly, your body arching with the welcome intrusion. A raspy groan of satisfaction escaped as he filled you. Your eyes fluttered at the almost painful stretch he caused.

“Gods.” He groaned, pulling out all but the tip. “Even better than I imagined.” The force of his return jolted your body, your hands gripping his biceps to brace for the next impact as his cock retreated again. "So much fucking better."

Your soft sounds of before turned high and sharp as his thrusts wrecked you. One hand held your hip and the other held his body as he leaned forward to swallow the sounds in a fevered kiss. The feeling was all consuming, each stroke a wave of pleasure that shook the ground. It was like nothing with…

Bill drew back, his eyes following the path of his hand as it traced down your face and neck to sweep over your breasts. He continued lower until it joined his other. His mouth parted as his gaze turned to admiring how his cock sunk into you. It was a beautifully vulgar sight.

Your own admiration was rewarded with a hiss as you clenched around him. Emboldened, you did it again. The steady pace he had set faltered.

Sharp blue eyes cut to yours, unamused. “Brat.”

A pleased grin broke across your face and you clenched again. Rough pressure against your clit wiped it off your face a second later.

“That’s more like it,” he said as his thumb drew tight circles around the bundle of nerves.

He found his rhythm once more despite your involuntary hold on his cock his minstraitions caused. Your hands gripped the couch as the pleasure began to roll over you in waves. "Bill," you quivered, "I think I'm—I think—"

"No need to think, love." His thrusts quickened. "Just cum on my cock for me, yeah?"

Your body willingly obliged, arching breathlessly as you were finally dragged under.

Bill cursed, his even pace once more interrupted as he felt you convulse around him. His hips continued to slam haphazardly into yours as the air returned to your lungs. Your back had barely met the couch again before you were lifted again. The haze of your orgasam left you dizzy and clinging to Bill as he moved, only realizing he had arranged himself into a seated position when he pulled you down on his cock.

The sensations were overwhelming, his size emphasized by the position. Your mouth opened to tell him it was too much, but the words were abandoned with another kiss. His release followed a moment later with his warmth coating your cunt.

The kiss broke. You sat there, foreheads pressed together and chests heaving, for a while.

“You okay?” His voice was hoarse.

“Yeah.” You pulled away, remembering his condition that had led to this. “And you? How are you feeling?”

“Uhh uhh,” he chastised, “no Healer questions when you’ve got my cum leaking out of you.”

He chuckled as you slapped his shoulder. “Fine.” With reluctance, you lifted off of him and grimaced at the feeling. “Then I’m going to shower and when I come back you’re going to answer.”

—

For the second time that day, you stood under the blistering downpour and wondered if you’d made a mistake.

The ghost of his touch still lingered as you scrubbed, taunting. Every inch of skin tingled in anticipation for more. Cause gods, who wouldn’t want more?

Despite the full meal he’d eaten earlier, Bill’s appetite seemed to have returned with a vengeance. When you returned showered he was sitting at the table in only his boxers with the remaining half of the shepherd’s pie and wand discarded beside it. "Are you hungry?" he asked, offering you his spoon as you sat across from him. You shook your head and declined with a small wave. You watched him scoop a spoonful into his mouth. He looked glowing, almost. Relaxed in a way you'd never witnessed.

No, that wasn't quite right. You had seen him this serene once. Laying half mutilated in a hospital bed, laughing with his sibling before he'd heard of Fleur's horrified departure.

The sleeve of your sweater became very interesting as you began to pick at it. "So how are you feeling?"

He took his time chewing, putting the spoon down and threading his fingers together to rest his chin against. "Like I just got shagged."

You huffed.

"It's a bloody great feeling, innit? Especially remembering your face when I—"

"Bill, I'm serious." You looked up at him wearing a mask you'd perfected during the years in the Hospital Wing. "There's no point in us…shagging if it's not alleviating your symptoms."

His face dropped. “I thought you enjoyed it.”

The hurt in his voice made you flounder. “Of course I enjoyed it. It was—fuck it was great.” You rubbed at your forehead. “But I’m your Healer. My main priority is your health. And if this is not benefiting it, then we need to start looking into other options.”

He glared, accusingly. “Other options like you leaving?”

“If you can’t tell me how you’re feeling, maybe.”

You winced watching his body tense. It felt too familiar. A scene that had been played out before.

His hands fell to the table as he leaned back in his chair. “I don’t smell him as much. His scent is still here, lingering, but it doesn't bother me. I feel—or felt—content."

"Is it because he's gone?"

His head shook.

Outside the window, the waxing moon stood proudly over the ocean. "We'll see how you feel tomorrow and run a full diagnostic. Figure out how we’ll deal with the full moon.”

The chair scraped against the floor as he stood. “Right, tomorrow then.” With a wave of his wand, the food and utensil flew back to the kitchen into their proper places. “I’m gonna head off to bed.”

“Goodnight.” You said nothing more as he climbed the stairs.

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated ❤️

Before I Knew You Tag List: @believinghurts @frozenwisteria @maralisa124 @voiddylanobrosey @kyla-hale-blog @pearlsofme @minstens @sofrian @sheeple @alldaysdreamers @hotleaf-juice @elnmop @sweetphantomofyournoodler @itshardbeingamultistan @remuslupinscumslutt @thesecretwriter @cali-girl-in-heart @thxtmarvelchick @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @bitch-biblioklept @unstableyetloveable @psamathegoesrawr @camelliaflow3r @undeniablyyou @luciferismybabe @luvrsbian @pink-hufflepuff @queen-of-elves @bountydroid

HP Tag List: @bamboozledflamplant @charmingandfantasticfics @discogrrl @squishytomatoes @benonlinear @byelannie @itsccc @bluegiraffeplushie @pancakefancake

#bill weasley x fem!reader #bill weasley x reader #bill weasley #bill weasley smut #hufflepuff!reader #the knots are coming #before i knew you

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todayisawthewhxlewxrld · 1 year

Text

"hey Lucid Dreamer make up your mind, caught on the other side."

"you dream for the one you swoon."

synopsis// a boy you believed to simply be a figment of your imagination ends up being real.

pairing// izuku midoriya x gn!reader

word count// 3.4k

contents// fluff? maybe like a hint of angst? UA is a hero college, y/n's quirk is never told/explained but plot armor yk.

notes// i feel like this kinda sucks n is kinda cringe bc i wrote this MONTHS ago but i digress !! anyway omg guess what... this is actually inspired by a song... omg i know ive never done that before how unique!!! the song is the dreamer by I the mighty (my fav so good ughhhh)

You lean against the sink, palms flat against the countertop, your head hovering over the sink bowl, water dripping from your face. You, in a poor and ultimately futile attempt, splashed yourself with water to try and calm your nerves. Tomorrow was your first day at college, but not just any college; no, it was your first day at UA, the ultimate hero college. How could you not be nervous for something like that? You sigh deeply before standing up straight and grabbing a nearby towel to dry your face off; once finished, you begrudgingly shut the bathroom light off and make your way back into your room. You stop at the side of your bed, looking down at your bedside table and the clock on it.

The clock reads one a.m., and you groan; even if you somehow manage to fall asleep right now, you’ll still be completely dead in the morning. You ignore that thought and slip back under your covers, sighing. You lie there for what seems like an eternity with your eyes closed, tossing and turning, trying desperately to fall asleep but to no avail. You quickly return to lying flat on your back before turning your head to the side to check the time. You let out the loudest and most guttural groan in frustration, realizing it’s barely been ten minutes. Once you’ve accepted that you can’t fall asleep and probably aren’t going to for a long while, you decide to just lay there glaring at your ceiling, as if that would help your situation at all. Eventually, your mind starts to wonder toward everything and anything, from your first day of UA tomorrow to your childhood, and you suddenly remember him.

You frown at his remembrance; you haven’t thought about him in ages, nor have you seen him in ages—which makes sense given that the him in question is an imaginary friend from your youth, and typically, most college students don’t have imaginary friends anymore. Now that the first thought of him has occurred, you can’t stop the rest from coming. Recalling how you spent your entire childhood with him. You first met him a few months before you turned five. You had just come to the realization that you weren’t a late bloomer in developing your quirk; no, you simply didn't have one. So it’s safe to say that almost five-year-old-you was absolutely devastated and you cried yourself to sleep that night.

You ended up waking up in a cold sweat, soon realizing that this was not your bed—nor your room, for that matter. There were All-Might posters plastered all over the walls, and even the new sheets that covered you were All-Might themed. After looking around the room in confusion, your attention was drawn to a desk in the far corner of the room and the video playing on the computer that sat atop it. You made your way out of the bed and toward the desk only to find a little boy sitting there, a boy who didn't seem shocked to see you there at all. After a few minutes of talking with him, you learn his name is Izuku, and he’s also quirkless like you, something you were excited about considering how terrible and alienated you felt about it.

The two of you were inseparable after that day, or as inseparable as you and a figment of your imagination could be. Considering that you only ever saw him once you fell asleep, you spent more time sleeping than what would be deemed healthy your whole childhood, constantly sleeping just to spend time with your only (imaginary) friend. You appreciated having him around since he was constantly going through the same things you were at the same time. Like when, you realized you truly were just a late bloomer in middle school, and then that night when you saw Izuku, it turned out he was also a late bloomer. Though it was bittersweet, yes, you appreciated it, but how sad and lonely were you that your brain felt the need to provide you with an imaginary companion for all of your huge life experiences?

Though in high school you stopped seeing him when you slept completely, you were relieved at first to finally feel normal. Relieved to not be the only teenager who still had an imaginary friend, but that relief very quickly faded when you realized how lonely you were without him. Even though he wasn't real, Izuku was your closest and dearest friend, and you missed him so much it hurt. Most days, you'd take sleeping pills in hopes of seeing him again, but to no avail, your childhood best friend seemed to have been completely wiped from your brain. So you accepted it; it took a long time, but you eventually came to terms with the fact that he was just your imaginary friend, and that was all he’d ever be; he wasn't real, and he’d never be, so you stopped thinking of him. Until tonight, when you ended up dozing off while thinking about him.

☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。

You groan as you awaken to a faint light shining in your face. Your eyes shoot open when you remember that you didn't leave any lights on or leave your curtains open.

You’re not in your room.

Your heart begins to race.

You are not in your room.

You sit up straight, anxious yet impatient, and are pleasantly surprised to see the familiar walls filled with All-Might posters and the familiar All-Might themed bed sheets, which you can't help but laugh at because if Izuku ages when you do, he'll be a college student with All-Might sheets. Suddenly, your gaze darts all around the room, hoping to spot Izuku, but he's nowhere to be found, and you frown.

“I can make up his room again, but not him?” you mumble angrily to yourself.

You get out of his bed with a sigh and begin looking around his room; everything is mostly the same as you remembered it, but there are some new things. There are new pictures of him and his friends on his walls scattered amid the All-Might posters, as well as clothes thrown haphazardly on his floor and a messier desk. All in all, it appears to be his room, but a more mature version, which you chalk up to your brain just taking after your own room since it seems like your brain likes to do that a lot. You attempt to pick up some things from his desk only to be brutally reminded that anything you touch here simply ripples away before returning to normal, as if you just touched a puddle of water. Except for his bed, you can't physically interact with anything here. You dont hear the door creak open because you're too busy glaring at the stuff on his desk that you can't touch.

“Y/n?” someone calls out breathlessly from behind you.

You whip around so fast that you momentarily lose your balance, mouth agape, as you stare at the boy in front of you. “Izuku?”

He cracks the largest grin you’ve ever seen from him. He looks exactly how you remember him, yet different all at once. He still has his curly green hair that messily falls in his face despite his best efforts, and his cheeks are still permanently flushed with his constellations of freckles, but this Izuku is bigger. He’s tall and lean, you can see all the muscles that have grown on him, and you think if you ran a finger down his jawline, it would cut you. But it doesn't matter; you can't touch him anyway; he's not real.

“Holy shit! I can't believe it's you!” He exclaims excitedly, and he looks just like he used to when he would tell you about All-Might as a child.

You can't help but giggle at his excitement because you're feeling the exact same way. “When did you start cussing?” you ask, still giggling.

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Ah well, I picked it up from a friend of mine…”

“It’s really nice to see you, Izuku," you mumble softly with a grin as you take a step forward toward him.

Izuku’s entire face turns into the perfect hue of pink. “It's really nice to see you too, Y/n,” he mumbles back, “I missed you.”

He’s not real, what are you doing?

“I missed you too,” you say without missing a beat.

Izuku poorly attempts to bite back from smiling even harder than he’s already been this whole time as he walks to his bed. Once he's sat down, he pats the space next to him, and you go wide-eyed. He remembers that you can only interact with his bed?

You sigh and murmur to yourself, “Of course he remembers; he’s pretty much you, Y/n.”

He tilts his head at you. “What’d you say?”

You shake your head quickly and sit down. “Nothing,” you squeak out far too hastily for belief.

“Where have you been?” He blurts out quietly, and the way his voice wobbles ever so slightly sends a twinge of agony directly to your heart. God, your brain is very good at making him seem like he has actual emotions.

You sigh and fidget with your hands, which are resting in your lap. “High school was rough, but at least it's over now, right?”

He hums in agreement. “It was rough for me too... Do you wanna talk about it?”

You shrug. Oh fuck it, why not? This is essentially your brain giving you free therapy; you might as well indulge yourself. “I’ll talk about it if you talk about it.”

He nods enthusiastically. “Deal.”

You sigh before lying down, and he does the same, turning your heads to look at each other. “I’m gonna be honest, high school was only rough for like a few reasons.”

He frowns. “You say that like you think it means it shouldn’t have been rough... Any reason is reason enough.”

You give him a small smile before continuing, “One of them was just me pushing myself to my limit to try to get into college, another was just not really having any friends, and uh... The last one was because I missed you.”

You don’t miss how his eyes practically flutter at your words. “Would you believe me if I said all of those reasons were also why high school was rough for me?”

You hum. Yes, because he's literally just made up to make you feel less alone. “Zuku, you have pictures of yourself with your friends.”

“I know, I know! but I didn’t really make them until senior year…” He explains sheepishly. “You mentioned college; you’re going, right?”

You nod. “Yep, I’m assuming you are too?”

“Yeah!” he exclaims. “What college are you going to?”

You exhale heavily in defeat, remembering that you do, in fact, have college to attend when you end up waking up from this. “UA, I actually start tomorrow.”

Izuku sits up excitedly. “No way! I’m going to UA too!”

Of course he is.

You sit up with him. “That’s great, Zuku! I’m so proud of you for getting in. Not like it’s been the only thing you’ve ever talked about since we were little.”

He laughs, and if you were standing up, the sound would’ve made you weak in the knees. “I did talk a lot about that, didn't I? But didn’t you also talk about not wanting to go to UA?”

Even though you know he’s not real, you're flustered by how much he remembers about you. “Yeah, changed my mind.”

“And what made you change your mind?” he asks, coyly.

“Definitely not you.”

“Rude."

“Okay, maybe it was you,” you admit sheepishly, mostly because you’re embarrassed at how a figment of your imagination could have such an effect on you.

He smiles at you warmly and places his hand mere inches away from yours. Lord knows he’d love to hold your hand, but he also knows that if he even tries, you’ll disappear. “I never forgot about you, Y/n.”

You go wide-eyed at his unexpected confession, and a lump forms in your throat. “I—I never forgot about you either, Izuku,” you practically have to choke out the words past the lump in your throat.

“You know, we practically grew up together,” he reminisces fondly. “And we've still never actually, um, I don’t know, met in person?”

Cause he's not real.

“I know.”

“You should find me,” he whispers, his voice deep and low, and his eyes never looking away from yours, sends shivers down your spine.

You swallow harshly. “Find you?”

He nods, his gaze still unwavering. “At UA, we’ll both be there. Find me.”

You can’t.

“Okay."

He smiles softly, but there’s a hint of melancholy in it, and you realize why when he says, “One of us is probably gonna wake up soon.”

You feel your heart drop; he’s right; you’ve been here far longer than usual; it’s only a matter of time. “Izuku."

“Yes?”

Oh god, this is so humiliating. What has gotten into you? Why are you seriously about to confess to someone who isn’t even real? “Izuku. I lo-“

He puts his hands out in front of him in a stop pose and immediately interrupts you, “Don’t.”

If possible, your heart drops even more; actually, no, it doesn’t drop; it breaks. This is your brain, your imagination. Why is this not going as planned? How is someone you made up rejecting you?

“Don’t?” you ask quietly for confirmation, like you don’t even really want him to clarify what he meant.

“I know what you’re going to say, and I want to say it too, but I want to say it in person.”

Okay, well, that’s never going to happen.

“Izuku.”

“Please?" he pleads, his expression softening. "Find me and tell me that face to face.”

You.

Can’t.

“Okay.”

He can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

You return his smile before sighing. Oh fuck it, this is most likely the last time you’ll ever see him again. “I’m going to do something, but the minute I do, we’ll wake up.”

He looks at you wide-eyed, slightly afraid even. “Do wh-“

He doesn't have time to finish his sentence before you’re pulling him into your embrace, or you would be if you could touch things here, so the minute you do "touch" him, both of you are rippling away like reflections in a pond.

☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。

You jerked awake at the sound of your alarm clock, sitting straight up. Your chest heaves as you take in the fact that you’re back in your room and you just saw your imaginary friend, whom you're evidently not over, which is, within itself, embarrassing that you even caught feelings for someone who's not real in the first place, but you digress. You cringe as you have to practically peel your covers off of you from how much you were sweating. You quickly find yourself back in your bathroom, your head hovering over the sink and water dripping from your face. You, again in another futile attempt to calm yourself down, tried splashing your face, but like last time, it didn’t work. Every time you close your eyes or let your mind wander for even a second, you're met with Izuku telling you to find him. You can’t seem to escape how he was staring at you, like he could see right through you, like he was real and sentient. Like he wasn’t just a figment of your imagination. You slap your cheeks softly as if to slap the thought away.

After a few moments, you take a deep breath and point at yourself in the mirror. “No. Nope. We are not going to be delusional today, Y/n. We have places to be,” you say to yourself, half-heartedly.

And someone to find.

You shake your head at the thought before ignoring it ever happened and getting dressed.

☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。

By the time you were finished getting ready, it was already a little past eight in the morning, and class starts at nine, which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that you have to walk. You practically flew out of your house and down toward UA, never stopping for a second, even when you were breathing so heavily that it sounded like you needed medical attention immediately. You start to calm down a bit when you can begin to see UA, but you’re still running, even through the other college students who are calmly heading toward the entrance. But you can’t stop now because, honestly, if you do, your legs would most certainly give out on you and then you really would be late, so it’s either you keep running or you'll tumble to your demise. The closer you get to the entrance, the more people you have to run past and the more crowded it becomes, so it’s no surprise when you run into someone's back just as you're about to enter UA.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” You exclaim breathlessly as you stumble backward from the impact.

The person stumbles forward momentarily before regaining their footing. They turn around to face you, reassuring: “It’s okay! Don’t wo-“

Both of you grow wide-eyed when you’re face to face with each other, and you feel your mouth go dry.

“Izuku?”

“Y/n?”

You don’t say anything; you simply stare at each other in disbelief until recognition flashes in your eyes, then excitement; your whole demeanor shifts as you realize what's happening.

“Izuku!” you exclaim excitedly as you quite literally jump into his arms, causing him to stumble backwards, falling down and taking you with him. You instinctively cover the back of his head with your hands to save it from hitting the pavement. It dawns on both of you simultaneously that you’re touching him. He’s real, you’re real—and you’re touching him, and he’s actually alive. He’s actually a person, a true thing, no longer just a figment of your imagination.

He smiles up at you, who’s straddling him from the fall, your face hovering over his. “You found me.”

You nod fervently. “You’re real,” you remark breathlessly.

Izuku reaches up and cups your cheek with one of his hands. “You’re real.”

You can't say anything or do anything but laugh with glee; he’s real. His curly green hair is real; his constellations of freckles is real; he’s actually real. You push a strand of his hair out of his face and watch how his cheeks flush scarlet.

“You’re staring, Y/n.”

“How can I not?”

You notice his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows harshly and brings up his remaining free hand to cup your other cheek, both hands engulfing your face, and you know there's no way in hell he doesn't feel his palms burning from your face growing hot.

“Can I kiss you?”

You go wide-eyed, your mouth falls slightly open, and you catch his attention flit down to it before returning to your eyes. You nod slowly and lean down hesitantly.

Izuku meets you half way by lifting his head off the ground, and with his mouth just inches from yours, you close your eyes, nervous from the anticipation. You can feel his breath fan against your face as he prepares to kiss you. But when he does, he doesn't kiss your mouth; he more so kisses the corner of your mouth before pulling away slightly to see you staring at him in confusion, though you aren't confused for long when he suddenly and roughly crashes his lips against yours passionately, as if he’s been waiting for this, dreaming of this, and who's to say he hasn't?

You can't help but smile into the kiss, and he does as well. You pull away slightly, both of you trying to catch your breath, but even so, Izuku is looking at you puzzled and disappointed. Before he can ask why you pulled away, you lean back in and cover his whole face in tiny kisses, eliciting little giggles out of Izuku that make you kiss him even more just to hear the warmth of his laugh.

“I love you,” you mumble inbetween pecks on his face.

Izuku pulls away from your kisses, causing you to stop momentarily and pout, before he's leaning back in and kissing you all over your face.

“I love you.”

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chvoswxtch · 11 months

Note

to the halloween queen, i hope this october is treating you well!! i was wondering if i could request a gut wrenching, angsty fic with billy based on paramore’s sanity?

if i call out your name, you don’t come/

no one home, but the void is loud/

echoes around my empty house/

sentences are slowing down

in all honesty, i don’t have many specifics in mind. i was thinking of an established relationship slowly but surely growing apart. to the point they eat dinner in silence, the distance between them whilst sleeping in the same bed grows more and more…in other words, i am asking you to break my heart!

i go by she/her pronouns and they can be used!

<3 thank you, take care, and ily <3

oh my darling sweet nonnie, you definitely came to the right place. I hope october has been kind to you, bc i'm about to break your heart as requested. i'll be here with tissues afterwards 🖤

warning: swearing, slight mention of alcohol, heavy angst word count: 1.4k

sanity.

no one home, but the void is loud / echoes around my empty house

The white noise of bustling traffic was muffled by the dull roar of an icy midnight breeze slowly fading in the background. Through the grand floor to ceiling windows of the penthouse, you could see brilliant lights twinkling in a kaleidoscope of colors, vehicles zipping by in a flash in various directions, and masses of people navigating the city by heart. Outside, New York City was clamoring proudly with life.

But in the emptiness of the penthouse, it was so silent and still that the sound of fresh snow hitting the glass was as loud as thunder cracking across the sky.

In a place that more than three million people called home, you had never felt more alone. Standing in front of the expansive windows with the chill radiating through the glass nipping at your nose and cheeks, you felt completely numb and simultaneously like an open wound at the same time. It didn’t always feel this cold.

Last year at this exact same time, this place still felt like home. You could still feel the heat from the flames dancing in the fireplace licking at your skin while the golden glow of the fire created a warm and comforting ambiance in the living room. You could still taste the richness of hot cocoa caressing your tongue, and still hear the sound of Billy’s heartbeat playing in your ear while your head rested on his chest as the two of you admired the tree you had put up together from the couch. Billy had insisted on going all out since he had never really celebrated the holidays before due to growing up in the system.

In a moment of sincere vulnerability while you were teaching him your special recipe for chocolate chip cookies, Billy had revealed to you that you were the first person he’d ever had to make the holidays feel special. It had been such a big deal to him to make sure everything was perfect, and it made your heart swell like a balloon in your rib cage seeing the childlike happiness on his face as the two of you celebrated together.

That special time now felt like a lifetime ago.

Now, there was only the scent of stale ash in the fireplace, and the absence of Billy’s holiday spirit lingering along the mantle and in the corner of the living room.

You weren’t sure exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the line, something changed. Billy no longer stopped by your work because he was “in the neighborhood” and just wanted to see you. Conversations became shorter and shorter at dinner until it reached the point of the two of you eating in deafening silence, and then ultimately you found yourself eating alone. Billy no longer wrapped himself around you in bed like a security blanket, and instead you found an ocean between you that kept growing wider and wider until you were stranded in the middle of it alone struggling to keep your head above water. He began to travel more, spent longer hours at the office, and lately would go days without speaking to you at all.

There was no more playful banter and flirtatious teasing in crowded spaces. It had been five months since you and Billy had gone on an actual date, and he had barely touched you in three. On the rare occasion that he made it home at a decent hour, he ignored your passionate advances and locked himself away in his home office. You and Billy used to not be able to keep your hands off one another, and now you couldn’t even get him to give you a simple peck on the cheek. You couldn’t even remember the last time that he had told you he loved you.

For the past few months, there was a heavy sense of grief weighing on your heart like liquid cement almost as if Billy had died. He would appear suddenly, and then vanish right before your eyes even quicker like an apparition. He barely acknowledged your presence when you called out to him, as if you were the ghost lingering around. The last time you had reached for his hand, it was cold and stiff like that of a corpse. You fought defiantly against the stage of acceptance and refused to admit to yourself that your relationship was decaying in the grave. Instead you remained stubbornly stuck in a purgatory of mourning for the Billy you had fallen in love with, feeling haunted by your own foolish hope and his lingering presence in your heart.

Denial plagued you for months as you frantically tried everything to resuscitate the pulse in your relationship. You changed your hair a few times and put more effort into your outfits and appearance, which consistently went unnoticed by Billy. You planned romantic dates and elaborate getaway trips that he instantly declined. The past three times you had attempted to surprise him at the office for lunch, you couldn’t even get past his receptionist.

Most nights you spent alone, drowning in your own agony, screaming and sobbing at the stars for answers because Billy wasn’t there to provide them. In moments of over indulgence from the built in bar, you nearly gave into your desperation and participated in the reckless thoughts intrusively entering your head that you were absolutely sure would capture Billy’s attention. But then the epiphany that you felt like you had to put yourself in a dangerous situation just for him to notice you again would shatter your soul into a thousand jagged pieces.

Had you done something to make Billy become so distant? Was he going through something he felt he couldn’t talk to you about? Did he love you at all anymore? Was there someone else?

That last question made you violently nauseous. The not knowing what was happening with Billy drove you absolutely fucking mad, and you tried every method you could think of to stop the hemorrhaging to salvage what the two of you had.

But eventually, the weight of the blood staining your hands was impossible to ignore, and the tone of a flatline rang loudly in your ears. The heaviness you felt was a clear sign that there was no longer life left in what you and Billy had created together, and the warm thrum of a pulse would never be found again.

You didn’t bother to tell Billy that you were leaving. The eulogy had already been engraved on the headstone months ago, you just couldn’t bring yourself to read it. Taking one last glance around the penthouse that had been your shared home, all you could think about was the day you first moved in. Everything had looked so bright, felt so warm and inviting, and Billy had been ecstatic to share a home with you. He had told you that you were what made the place feel like home, and in a moment of candor entrusted you with the sentiment of how happy it made him to finally have someone to come home to.

But now as you stood in the middle of the living room in the dark, it just felt cold and empty. Billy had been gone for two weeks on a business trip and was supposed to return home tomorrow, but this time you wouldn’t be there waiting by the door to welcome him back. After finally finding the strength to face the heartbreaking truth of your reality, you had spent the past twenty-four hours removing every trace of your existence. There was only one last thing to erase.

The devastating loss had left your heart maimed, and the memories of Billy’s touch afflicted phantom bruises onto your skin. It was time to tend to your own wounds and mend the parts of you that had been broken by him. After one final look around, you placed the handcrafted engagement ring on the kitchen island like a rose on a coffin as a silent goodbye and quietly disappeared into the depths of midnight.

tags: @nolita-fairytale @thyme-in-a-bubble @mars-rants-a-lot @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @topperthornton

#billy russo #billy russo x you #billy russo x reader #billy russo fic #billy russo request

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peterparkersnose · 2 years

Text

Christmas Vibes

pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: nostalgia, age gap, horrible attempt to capture joel’s accent (fuck), just christmas fluff :)

a/n this kicks off my joel stories in preperation for tlou show on hbo max starting jan 15! enjoy and have a happy holidays. please tell me you understand the vibe aspect (triangle, purple, thursday, the number 4, blueberry pie) bc if not i am just really undiagnosed.

summary Joel tries to make Christmas special for Y/N once again

masterlist

join the tag list

read time: 4 mins 59 seconds

“It’s snowing,” you sighed, looking at your reflection in your window. The street lamp lights outside were plagued with the falling snow.

“Never liked winter,” Joel shuttered, taking off his jeans. You heard his belt clank as it hit the hamper. “Really? Not even Christmas?” you asked, playing with a strand of your hair with your gaze still locked outside.

“Sarah always loved it. I liked seeing her happy so I tolerated it.” Joel sighed. You could see the reflection of his flannel pajama pants in the window. You were touched that he mentioned Sarah. He rarely did. Even if you slept in the same room with that eerie photo of the two of them together staring at you, you never dared pushing the subject.

“What did she like?” you asked, testing the waters. “Hmm,” Joel thought. “When she was real young she loved Santa. Her grandpa would come around every year dressed up as ‘em. I’ll never forget her face every year when he would come.”

You nodded, not sure what to say. “I miss Christmas.” you sighed, sitting down next to Joel in the bed. “How many did you get? Before…”

“12.” you sighed. “My mom would always go out and cut us down a tree. I sometimes think about the smell of a real tree. It’s much different when the tree is in the woods versus your living room. I miss it. Every time it gets cold like this, my memories come back and it makes me hate this damned broken world even more.” you sighed, laying down on your back and staring at the ceiling.

“We always had fake trees,” Joel commented, flicking off the lamp. He was unsure on how to respond to you, so he tried to take your mind off the bitterness of the memories.

“You give fake tree vibes.” you told Joel, reaching for his hand in the sheets. “How can one give fake tree vibes?” “You just do.” “Explain?” he asked, grabbing your hand tightly “There’s no explanation. Just like how Maria gives off former yoga teacher vibes,”

He stopped and thought for a moment. “Well I’ll be damned, she really do.” “Told ya.” “Go to sleep,” he sighed. “She most definitely had a pixie cut when the world wasn’t shit,” you added.

“Where does your mind come up with these things?” Joel chuckled. “Ellie and I had a very intense conversation about it on patrol a few days ago. Just like how Tommy gives off cinnamon raisin bread vibes.”

“Stop that,” Joel insisted, shuffling in bed. “It’s too accurate. Freakin’ me out.”

“Maybe she has a dragonfly tattoo too. Somewhere special where only Tommy knows. Very yoga teacher-ish.”

“Go to bed Y/N.” Joel huffed, slamming his eyes shut.

Joel didn’t even know why he was doing this. He didn’t even like Christmas when the world was still normal.

But he liked you sure of a hell lot more than he hated Christmas.

His back ached as he dragged the tree through the gates of Jackson. He had picked out the greenest tree he could find and cut it down. The horse would have been useless with a close to 120 pound tree (he estimated).

“Need some help?” Tommy chuckled, arms crossed amused watching his brother lug in a tree. “S’pose I could,” he hissed at him, dragging the stem of the tree against the dirt ground. “All this for a woman?” Tommy asked, lifting the muddy end of the tree. “Your tellin’ me you wouldn’t do this for Maria?” “Maria wouldn’t want it,” “Well if she did?”

Tommy paused for a second to think. “Hell no,”

The tree barely fit in the door to your house. Joel cringed at all the needles he was going to have to pick up after this.

“Got her in?” Tommy asked, entering the house with the end of the tree still in his grips.

Tommy saw the makeshift tree holder and set the tree in the metal hole. Joel propped it up, holding the tree up for Tommy to bolt the tree to the metal plate.

The two of them now out of breathe took a step back to see the enormous tree.

“I think you may have underestimated the size of your house, big brother.” Tommy said, patting Joel on the back.

Joel’s eyes were glued to the top of the tree pressed against the ceiling and jutting outward.

His arms were crossed with one hand rubbing his brow. “She’s gonna hate it,” he muttered. “I think it’s rather cute. Quirky if you ask me. She likes that shit, don’t she?” Tommy re assured his brother.

“Should I cut it?” Joel asked. “Nah. You went out and did the dirty work. If she doesn’t appreciate it, she doesn’t deserve it. I always got a lighter if you need it.” he suggested.

Joel swept the needles up from the ground in preparation of your return. You had spent the day distracted by Ellie. The kids were having a winter festival down in the square and you two were volunteering.

Joel most definitely owed Ellie one after this.

He found the red and green blankets from storage and placed them on the couch. Holiday decorations were rare to find (minus halloween) and he was trying his best.

He was in the middle of fluffing the pillows when he heard the old door creek open.

A sudden gasp came from you as your hand clasped over your mouth. “What is this?” you asked, a smile widening on your face.

“I know it ain’t perfect, I didn’t measure right but it’s…”

“Joel, it’s perfect.” you insisted, wrapping your hands around the man who was cowering in embarrassment. “It’s too tall, the tree ain’t right.”

“Shh,” you shushed him, wrapping an arm around his rib cage. “I love it,” you muffled into his chest.

“Oh!” you said, suddenly realizing what you had done that day.

You and Ellie had made strings of snowflakes all day with the kids.

The white paper cut outs strung perfectly around the tree.

“Careful there,” Joel said, balancing you as you stood on your tippy toes to reach the top. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready for-”

Joel hoisted you up by your waist erupting a squeal from you. “Joel!” you laughed, squirming in his reach.

“String…‘em,” he demanded with his raspy voice, struggling holding you in his grip. As you strung the paper around the branches, needles dropped down. Specifically on Joel.

“What are you doing?” you asked after hearing the noise of Joel spitting. “Them damn needles- in my face.” he grunted, finally letting you down.

A tiny laugh came from you as you faced him once again. “What’s so funny?” he asked. You carefully plucked the stray needles out of his bushy eyebrows, making sure they didn’t fall in his eyes. “All better now,” you smiled, kissing him on the cheek.

“I’m surprised your not covered in sap,” you commented, sitting down on your comfy couch in Joel’s arms. You handed him his cup of coffee. “Showered ‘for you got home,”

“What if I wanted you covered in sap?” you asked, staring up at the tree. “What?” Joel asked, confused. “So I could have washed it off of ya.”

Joel sucked his teeth. “It’s a damn shame,” he sighed, taking a sip of his coffee.

“And you brought this in all by yourself?” you asked, grabbing Joel’s bicep. “Mhm,” he lied, taking Tommy’s credit. “My strong man,” you said, folding closer into his body.

“Thank you, Joel.” you sighed, remembering the previous night. “It’s just like old times.” “Well, I’m glad you like it,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

“It gives off Christmas vibes,” Joel said, very proud of himself. “Yes Joel, sure. It gives Christmas vibes.” You chuckled, enamored at his attempt to understand your humor.

“Just like how Ellie gives off the vibe that she can only wear red socks on a Friday.”

“Stop that shit already,”

“And how when the world wasn’t like this, Tommy probably had shit credit.”

“He did,” Joel laughed. “Stop it now, your still freaking me out.”

“You brought it up!”

“Yeah, because it was funny when I did it.”

“Yes Joel. Hilarious.”

tag list: @dani5216 @uwiuwi @alohastyles-x @samanthacookieone @maddieinnit0 @alexxavicry

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helplesslypurple77 · 1 year

Text

Day 5 Atsushi/Dazai w/ forced Proximity(stuck in a closet)

Notes: shut up ik that i already used a closet in the Fyodor one, but in this one the closet is more heavily featured, so there. Slowly but surely “Kinktober” has turned into “AtsushiFuckTober”. Maybe I should do that next year too.

Atsushi was grateful to Dazai, he owed the man his comfortable life, and that was a debt he would never be able to pay.

“Um Mr. Nakajima, please come this way.” A soft, feminine voice at his side, and Dazai was missing again.

He idolized the man of course, and recently, new feelings had been popping up, but for the love of god, he wished the man would quit trying to throw himself into every single body of water they came across. Be it a sink, or a bathtub, as soon as he spotted it, Osamu Dazai would make a break for the water, shouting gleefully about suicide, and Atsushi was rapidly loosing the little amounts of patience he had left.

It didn't help that their companion, a pretty woman by the name of Akari, who had graciously volunteered to lead them to their destination, had to also deal with the fallout. She smiled patiently, even as Atsushi dragged Dazai away from a fucking bathtub, for the hundreth time this evening.

He didnt know what was happening, and why Dazai had suddenly doubled his suicide efforts, and in the middle of a mission of gods sake, but as he dragged Dazai away from the barrely filled bathtub and down the carpeted hall, he bemouned his circumstances.

“I apologize, Miss Akari. He usually isn't this bad.” Miss Akari had to be an angel in disguise, because she just laughed a little, and gripped his arm leading him down the hallway. Dazai trailed behind them, rattling off suicide facts.

“At~su~shiiii~” Atsushi wonders if Dazai has been eating poisonous mushrooms again. “What, Dazai?”

Dazai giggles as they make their way down the chandelier lit hallway. “Did you know that on average, 1 person dies by suicide every 11 minutes in the US?”

“Dazai, we live in Japan.” Dazai ignores him, opening his arms dramatically, his bandages catching the light. “Oh how I long for the sweet embrace of death, how I crave the kiss of the underworld king, summoning me to my final embrace…”

Its weird actually, given how pretty Miss Akari was, Atsushi would have expected at least one invitation for double suicide, or at least a bad pickup line, but nothing, the whole night. It was strange, but Atsushi is just glad he doesn't have to apologize to Miss Akari for anything other than minor inconveniences. Dazai is talking again, but Atsushi tunes him out, instead focusing on the beautiful scenery surrounding them. They walk down a long hallway, lined with gold framed portraits of families. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and the floor is carpeted in red velvet. The entire place screams money. Atsushi supposes that makes sense, their target is a very rich man after all.

Miss Akari is still clutching his arm, her gloved hands shaking slightly. She's very pretty, with long black hair and big, doe eyes with long lashes, dressed prettily in a pink dress with white gloves. And, given how she's just Dazai’s type, Atsushi seriously would have expected an invitation for double suicide.

‘Your skin is lily white, your eyes captivatingly beautiful, your long dark hair reminds me of the night sky, you would make me a happy man if you joined me on a double suicide.’ or something like that.

And then Atsushi would have to apologize to the poor woman, and she would probably run away screaming, and their mission would be ruined—

“Mr. Nakajima?” Atsushi startled, and sent her a small smile of apology. She continued, her voice as soft as a spring breeze. “I was just wondering about you. I hear you work for the Armed Detective Agency?” It's odd that she's asking about him, but Atsushi guesses she's just curious. He smiles, ignoring Dazai yet again. “Yes, as well as the bandaged idiot behind me.” She laughs, the sound like bells. Atsushi wonders yet again about the strange absence of double suicide invitations. “That must be hard work. You really are amazing!” She pressed close to him, her body pressed against his side, her hands still clutching his arm. She must be scared. Atsushi tries his best to send her a reassuring smile.

“It's not too hard, I'm lucky that I get to work with such amazing people.” She lets out a little giggle, her eyelashes fluttering as she looks up at him. “So, what's your ability? I'm sure it's amazing.” Atsushi laughs a little, she really is a kind person. “It's called Beast Beneath the Moonlight. I can transform into a giant white tiger.” She giggles again, clutching his arm. “Wow you're so strong, I feel so reassured now that i'm next to you.”

Atsushi is glad she feels safe, but then the suspicious lack of loud Dazai noises gets to him and he turns, and of course, Dazai is gone. He turns again, Miss Akari still on his arm. “I'm sorry, I have to find my colleague. Could you wait here for a minute?” She nods, her eyelashes fluttering again and Atsushi sends her a grateful smile. “Thanks, you're an angel.” When he leaves, he sees her leaning against the wall, her hands over her cheeks, smiling.

When he finds Dazai around the corner, once again trying to drown himself in a bathtub, Atsushi lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Dazai, that bathtub has no water in it.”

“Alas, i am simply imagining what it would feel like, the sweet embrace of the water—”

When Atsushi drags him back, Miss Akari is still waiting, like the patient person she is. Atsushi smiles at her as she takes his arm again, clutching it tightly as they walk through the gilded corridors, looking for their target. The faint sounds of music and laughter echo from upstairs, the occasional clink of glassware and silverware barely heard under the cacophony of noise downstairs. It's a dinner party, a family reuniting for a will reading and Atsushi can hear the arguments all the way up here. Miss Akari, a daughter of the dead woman, had requested they come, because she suspected someone would break in and attempt to kill the family, while they were all in one place. The family was an old money family with dealings with the port mafia, and Atsushi had asked why they didn't help but Akari had informed him that they didn't do that sort of thing. It made sense, he supposed.

Right now, they're supposed to be patrolling the upper hallways while the family ate, because Miss Akari was sure the person wouldn't strike until after dinner, when the family gathered for the will reading. She had informed them that she would rather not let the others know, because in her words; ‘there was sure to be a riot!’. And so, they were sneaking around the upper floors of a rich person's house(scratch that, it was basically a castle, Atsushi had never seen so much wealth in his life.) Dodging the occasional stray family member had been easy, but they were becoming more and more frequent as the night went on, the partygoers tiring of the endless arguments and retreating upstairs to the many different entertainment rooms.

“Atsushi?” Miss Akari is speaking again, pulling him out of his brain and back to reality. She leans up, whispering in his ear. She smells faintly of rose petals. “I think someone in my family might be responsible for moms death.” Atsushi feels this isn't something she should tell just anyone, even if she feels they are trustworthy, but he nods along with her anyway.

“You think so?”

☘ ☘ ☘

Miss Akari is the most suspiciously suspicious person Dazai has ever met. I mean it's obvious. Why else would she be hanging off Atsushi like that, stealing Dazai’s rightfully deserved attention. The wench. She was obviously an enemy spy or something like that, hellbent on pulling Atsushi to the dark side! Dazai scowled as they walked down the hall. They were obviously leaving him out like this, whispering and flirting like that, and right in front of his salad(I'm sorry). How dare that Harlot, steal his Atsushi from him.

Dazai scoffed. She wasn't even that pretty. Ok, maybe he was being a tad dramatic. Miss Akari was actually very pretty. She had long straight black hair and dark black eyes, and she was clothed prettily in a nice sunday dress and small kitten heels. And honestly a long time ago she would have been Dazai’s type, but recently he had found himself into people less like Miss Akari, and more like Atsushi. Or rather, he had discovered he was in love with Atsushi.

It was embarrassing and dumb and humiliating and entirely too hard to deny, and if he was being truthful, he was just jealous of that wench. Jealous that Atsushi would let her hang all over him like that. Probably smashing her plentiful bosom and ladylike charms all against him and stealing him from right under Dazai’s nose. And it was highly unlikely she was an enemy spy, she was just an admittedly kind and pretty young woman who was interested in Atsushi, and Dazai hated her for it. There were times, times when his darker days came back to haunt him, times when he got unhealthy ideas like keeping Atsushi locked away, for if he was locked away only Dazai could have the privilege to gaze upon his form. But most of all he wanted Atsushi to be happy, and no one would be happy caged like a decorative bird.

And so, he simply stood back and allowed that Harlot to hang all over Atsushi. But of course, not without the occasional ploy to steal his attention back. But alas, it had seemed Atsushi had tired of his antics, and Dazai had been threatened, in no uncertain terms, to be left behind with the old ladies. And so, he had to be content with watching. For once he was thankful for Atsushi’s dense personality, because although it had screwed him over, it had also screwed everyone else who had approached him too.

Dazai’s love for his subordinate had snuck up on him like a tiger hunting its prey, and then jumped him from behind and completely overwhelmed him. It was even beginning to overtake his desire for a double suicide, wich was a terifying thought. It had been a slow, but steady process but subconsciously he knew he was doomed from the moment he met Atsushi. When he had first opened his eyes, soaking wet on the riverbank, he was sure he had succeeded in his suicidal endevors. For why else would there be an angel hovering above him, highlighted by the setting sun.

Their relationship had been a series of devastating blows delivered under the sunset. For it had been sunset when they had first met, and Dazai had found out that Atsushi was not, in fact, an angel, but a poor orphan boy. He was sure Oda was laughing at him from behind the grave, when he took him in, purely with hidden selfish reasons. Reasons he himself didn't even see when he did it.

The second sunset, on the way back from Ranpo’s case with Atsushi. He had refused to admit he got himself caught in the net to be in Atsushi’s proximity. He had justified it with ‘i just want to watch his progress, and kunikida wont let me,’ but it was obvious to an older and wiser Dazai that he just wanted to be around him. It was embarrassing, but all Dazai could feel was the heat of his body, the close proximity, only a few measly inches between their shoulders. He had longed, subconsciously as he prattle on, to pull the boy close, maybe wind an arm around his thin shoulders.

The third sunset, the one that graced them as they sat on that parkbench, on the day Atsushi figured out the orphanage headmaster had died. And although Dazai had appeared calm and rational, like he always pretended, the mere mention of the man's death had filled him with glee. The extent of the abuse he had subjected Atsushi two filled him with an indescribable amount of rage, that he had always chalked up to protectiveness as a friend. It was apparent that it was not, that the extent of the protectiveness he felt was far and beyond. That was the second sunset, and perhaps maybe the tipping point.

But the third sunset, the sunset on the ship after the defeat of the guild, was the breaking point. As he had nonshalontly raised a glass, and as Atsushi had smiled at him, his eyes mirroring the color of the sunset, his heart had stopped. And then it had resumed, beating triple time against his chest, threatening to leap out completely. He had been overwhelmed by how beautiful the boy across from him was and how desperately Dazai wanted to embrace him, to hold his thin frame close and press kisses to his lips and he had just stopped functioning for a moment.

And that was when he knew, that he was well and truly gone, that he was unequivocally, irreversibly, deeply and truly in love. And then, he had kind of accepted his fate. It was obvious that the affection Atsushi held for him was purely platonic, and even if he had other feelings the boy himself was unaware of them, at least for now. And truly, the boy was terribly, annoying, incredibly dense. Even outright flirting was just brushed off with a laugh and an eye roll, and any physical affection(aside from outright just kissing him) was just attributed to platonic feelings, and Dazai had been about three second from pulling all his hair out and jumping out a second story window, so he essentially gave up. Not completely, he just bided his time and would have to make do with fantasies and daydreams, until the day he decided to take a leap of faith.

But, this harlot was testing his last nerve. She was far too conventionally attractive and although Atsushi didn't seem to notice how hard she was flirting, Dazai was sure that at some point she would give up on subtlety and just ask him out. And then Atsuhsi would blush adorably and accept and then they would start going out and it would be all suffocatingly cute and cuddly and then one day they would get married and Atsushi would of course ask Dazai to be the best man and Dazai’s heart would break into tiny little pieces but he would do it because he would do anything for Atsushi and then they would have little kids who looked like Atsushi and Dazai would grow old alone and sad and have to watch their happily ever after—

“…zai. Dazai. Earth to Dazai!” Dazai pulls himself out of his depressing fantasies and back to reality with a jolt. Atsushi is standing in front of him, noticeably missing the evil harlot Miss Akari, his hands on his hips. Dazai almost skips to meet him, grabbing his arm as they make their way down the hallway. “So, where did Miss Akari go?”

“She had to entertain her guests, remember?” Atsushi regrettably pulls away from Dazai, crossing his arm and coming to a stop. “Really Dazai, she's a really nice woman. You should pay attention to her.” Dazai really will throw himself out a second story window. Watch him, he’ll actually do it, just watch. “Do you like her or something?” He sounds like a middle school boy. Embarrassing. Atsushi smiles. “Yes actually.” Dazai’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach. The boy continues to drive knives into his poor heart. “She’s a very kind woman. And she’s very pretty too. I was sure you would have invited her to do a double suicide with you by now.”

If it were, perhaps, a few months earlier, Dazai definitely would have. But now he’s down bad for his subordinate, who apparently ‘loves’ Miss Akari. He forces a smile, almost choking on actual tears. Embarrassing. “So, when's the wedding?” Atsushi just looks confused. “Wedding?” Dazai might actually cry. “Yeah, Wedding. She’s obviously into you and if you love her back you might as well just get married then.” Atsushi blushes pretty, his pale cheeks turning a dark pink. Dazai wishes he were the cause of that. “What are you talking about! I don't like her like that, I thought you meant if i thought she was nice.” Dazai’s tears are suddenly gone, done choking up his throat and clogging his stomach. “And she’s not into me anyway. People usually aren't ‘into me’.”

‘Me!’ Dazai wants to scream. ‘I'm into you and you are worth it and I want to kiss you please let me kiss you please—’ but he holds it in. He doesn't, however, hold in his gleeful smile. Atsushi gives him a baleful glare. “You could have been nicer to her, and did you really have to try to throw yourself into any bathtub–, no, anything that holds water?” Mood restored, Dazai swings his arms by his side. “Really Atsushi. You’ll never understand the joys of suicide.”

And the rest of the evening is going just wonderfully, it's all just wonderful and sunshine and rainbows really until suddenly Atsushi is grabbing his collar and he's being yanked backward and shoved not so nicely into a closet. Really, he's about to complain, but Atsushi makes an adorable little shushing noise and crowds inside as well, and Dazai hears the sound of footsteps and conversation. And he remembers the only part of the conversation he had listened to, where Miss Akari had told them she didn't want the rest of the family to know she had invited agents. And really, he should be concentrating on what the people walking by the small closet they're in are talking about but the only thing he can concentrate on is Atsushi’s proximity.

It's a small closet, made for sheets and towels, and the lack of space forced Atsushi to press in tight, his back shoving Dazai against the wall. Dazai’s senses are asaulted by the clean scent of green tea and cheap soap and the heat radiating from Atsushi’s back and Dazai is simultaniasly cursing and praising whatever fucked up god got him into this position because his pretty subordinate is pressed against him and all his fantasies are coming back to haunt him.

Atsushi is shorter than him, about two or three inches, and his frame is smaller. Dazai’s body almost cages him in, even with his arms pinned to his sides in what little space they have, and it's frighteningly arousing. Dazai’s nose is shoved in his hair, Atsushi’s back lines up with his chest and most damning of all, his but presses directly on Dazai’s dick. People are walking by the room, and Dazai knows it definitely isn't the time to get hard, so he puts all impure thoughts to the back of his mind for now.

Really, he should take advantage of this opportunity, and he does. He wraps his arms around Atsushi’s frame pulling him closer even still, and allowing himself to hug the boy their warmth blending together. And it feels wonderful and comforting and like all is right in the world, until Atsushi squirms, grinding his ass back directly on Dazai’s clothed dick. Dazai’s hands drop like a hot stone, shooting to his side as he tries to separate himself from Atsushi, to no avail. Because now all those times he had arrived after a fight to see Atsushi laying face down on the ground, his cute little ass on display for Dazai(and the world). And he didn't know why the boy insisted on landing in this position every chance he got, but it was truly a strange(sexy) position. For every time he did that all Dazai could think about was that position in a different context, maybe something with one hundred percent less clothes and it was all coming back to haunt him.

For some reason the people outside the closet have insisted on talking like three feet away from the closet doors, and not moving and now Dazai knew his dick was at least semi hard and he was never going to recover from this one—

“Dazai?” Atsushi has turned around to whisper, and now it's almost worse because their faces are a two measly inches away from each other, breaths tangling together and Atsushi’s eyes are breathtakingly beautiful. “Dazai, do you have something in your pocket, its poking against me.” Oh now this is just lovely. He's taking to long to respond and Atsushi’s going to get suspicious. “Yes actually. A gun.” Atsushi rolls his eyes. “It's not a gun, that's not what a gun feels like.” Fuck. “Jesus Dazai, what is it? Is it something your not supposed to have?” He’s still whispering, but now he looks slightly panicked. “Did you bring a random knife or prescription pills on missions again? You know Kunikida’s going to kill you.” This conversation should be killing him hard on but it's still there, and harder than ever. Dazai hates himself.

His lack of response seems to be worrying Atsushi because now, to his horror, Dazai feels his hand trying to get in between their bodies. He grabs it, trying to hold him away from his overeager dick. Atsushi frowns, whisper yelling at him. “Dazai, lemme see it!”

“Don't worry about it, Atsushi!” This, obviously, does not deter him.

“Now I'm even more worried!”

As much as he would like Atsushi’s hands all over his dick, he really would prefer different circumstances and so he thoughtlessly grabs the boy's wrist, pinning them above his head. It's almost worse this way. Their faces are close together, breaths intermingling again, and to Dazai’s satisfaction, he sees the blush spreading across Atsushi’s cheeks. It's visible even in the dark closet as the boy evades his eyes, blush furious across his pale skin. Dazai can't resist the urge to tease him.

“My Atsushi, what’s got you so flustered?” The boy glares, all while that cute little blush is still plastered across his face. “Shut up Dazai.” And so, Dazai seels his lips with a kiss.

...

End Notes: I always headcanoned that Atsushi is oblivious to flirting because of his low self esteem lol. A pretty girl could be hanging off his arm, telling him how amazing he is and stuff and he would go ‘haha lol she's so kind.’ or ‘haha lol she must be scared.’ also i'm tired of writing full smut so here you go, half smut

Taglist: @mulit05ho3st4n

#bungou stray dogs #dazatsu #bsd smut #bungo gay dogs #stray dogs smut #mariannacrxss #helplesslypurple77Kinktober #kinktober 2023 #kinktober

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