#down the cobblestone bridge

[iovesia]

𐚁֙࿐ MEET THE WICKS.

keanu mlist.⠀ 𑇓 ⊹ ᳝ ࣪ ⠀boyfriend's dad!john wick⠀𝑥⠀f!reader.

synopsis. fucking your boyfriend's dad was surely one way to leave a good first impression.

contents. cheating all around. everyone sucks here. ooc!john. large age gap (20s/40s). non-john wick universe au. outdoor sex. size difference. tummy bulge. 4.4k words.

⋆ 𓂃 ﾟ .⠀josie's little note: hello hello ! a happy new years to you guys, and here's a gift! i haven't been terribly active lately, i know— so hopefully this makes up for it ♡ haven't written a proper fic in ages so i kinda of hate this ://

“MY PARENTS ARE GONNA LOVE YOU.” 

You side eye your boyfriend at his reassuring smile, his hand on the wheel as the two of you drive further up the mountain to his parent’s home. You finally worked up the courage to meet your boyfriend, Michael’s parents. Having procrastinated this moment for almost two years, Michael finally wore you down to saying yes.

The rows of thick, dark trees trapped the two of you on this thin road up the mountains. Pearly white snowflakes float gently down on your window, your chilled breath creating a small fog as you reach to turn the heat up in the vehicle.

“Your parents are gonna think you fell and hit your head,” you roll your eyes. 

“Oh c’mon!” Michael tuts, letting out a little huff. His eyes focused heavily on the road ahead, turning the wheel as the car took a left. “You’re way too hard on yourself.”

Truth be told you could’ve gone your whole life without meeting his parents. The prestiges Wicks. Michael was not the son of any run of the mill family, but rather the son of two CEOs of the largest cybersecurity companies in the world, while all your achievements were golden-sticker-on-a-piece-of-homework level at best.

“Says the kid of billionaires,” you say dismissively.

“Millionaires,” he corrects cheekily, earning a playful punch to the arm. “Baby, you gotta relax.. I love you, so by default my parents will love you too— or at least be nice enough to pretend.”

“Not funny, Michael,” your little whines turn into a soft laugh as your boyfriend chuckles. The two of you continue the drive up to Michael’s parents home. You two engage in nonchalant conversation that was periodically interrupted by a series of texts. Occasionally glancing over to Michael’s phone, you see the name “Maggie” popping up.

The hairs on your neck stand up, and your palms sweat onto the leather seat, but Michael’s soft smile reassures you .. a little.

Hours go by before he finally pulls up to the home and your jaw drops. Your eyes meet the sight of the gorgeous villa, decked with greystone walls with a light wooden trim. A small cobblestone bridge that goes over the infinity pool, leading to the large front door with crystal clear windows. This isolated winter wonderland of a villa (that Michael downplayed heavily— the ever humble man he is) was to be your home for Christmas. 

“Michael! This place is—”

“Smaller than the one in Italy, but my mother wanted something cozy.”

Your eye twitches a little at how dismissively he talks about this house. His nonchalant demeanour as he parks his car in the driveway of a home you’d never even be able to afford a fraction of. You simply nod, then unbuckle your seatbelt.

Ping.

You glance down at Michael’s hand, which quickly flips the phone face down. 

“Pretty popular, huh?” You joke half-heartedly, trying to probe a reaction. Michael smiles at you, shrugging his shoulders. Noticing his shoulders tense up, you try to ignore the pit in your stomach. The two of you get out of the car and unload your suitcases.

Each step across the small bridge and to the front door felt in slow motion, your heartbeat thumping your ears.

“You’re gonna be fine, baby,” Michael reassures, before ringing the doorbell.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Click.

The heavy slategray door glides open slowly, and your fake smile plasters on at the sight of Michaels’ parents. Helen Wick, a graceful woman in her late 30’s. Her flat ironed brunette hair hugged her soft face, and her smile accentuated the faint laugh lines.

On the other hand, her husband John, the older of the pair, stood stoically. His black hair, and black eyes matched with his simple black slacks and button up protruded his muscles. His dark aura almost sucked the light out the area as he stood tall next to his happy wife. Helen’s hazel eyes meet yours as she hides her surprise with a plastic grin.

“Oh Mikey… she’s beautiful!” Helen exclaims, her voice a little pitched. 

Michael nudges your shoulder as Helen wraps her arms around you, giving you a stiff hug. You could smell the expensive Chanel No 5 from her neck, and the Michael Kors blouse was silk and soft against your hands as you hugged her back. Mr. Wick, remaining unimpressed as ever, simply watched the interaction unfold.

This was gonna be a long Christmas.

Dinner was painfully awkward. The scratching of gold silverware on the rare china plates filled the air. Inside their villa was just as impressive as the out. The warm lights of the christmas decor and the glorious christmas tree illuminated the luxurious dining room. You rest your elbow on their mahogany table, calmly taking a bite of your roasted turkey.

“Elbows, dear,” Helen hums from across from you, her tone almost motherly. Glancing down at your elbow, you flush embarrassed as you lean back against your chair. Michael sips his wine next to you, sighing at his mother’s uptight behaviour. 

John seems to be the quietest of them all, although you can feel his intense stare from across the table. The older man intimidates you to no-end, and some part of you is desperate to earn some form of approval from him. You always liked a challenge.

“So..” Helen breaks the silence again, clearing her throat. The light shines on her expensive bracelets and rings that adorn her hand as she sets her fork and knife down. “Tell us how you met our Michael.”

Michael and you share a glance, and he subtly urges you to speak. You smile softly, sipping your liquid courage before speaking. “We met at the diner I work at. Michael was always a regular, and refused to let anyone but me serve him,” You giggle at the memory, and Michael blushes.

“You’re a waitress?” John chimes in. You swallow at how low and husk his voice was, and you finally meet his dark orbs piercing into you. Like a little ant under a magnifying glass; his simple question felt like a heavy exam, and you were determined to pass.

“Yes.. It’s called Daisy’s Diner on Victory Boulevard” You furrow your brows, a little confused. “Didn’t Michael tell you..?”

“He led us to believe you owned a diner.. Not working in one..” John hums, seemingly returning to his unaffected attitude. Your lips are slightly parted in surprise, and heat rushes to your cheeks as you side eye Michael. He avoids your gaze, focusing down at his plate. 

“You told them I owned a food chain?” You huff, annoyance dripping in your voice. The dinner lasted for what seemed forever before the sun finally set and each couple retreated to their respective bedrooms. “Michael, what the hell?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Michael rolls his eyes, fluffing up one of the pillows. He rubs his eyes tiredly, and you can tell he’s getting agitated. “It’s fine— they didn’t mind.”

“Oh really?” You scoff, putting your silk pyjamas shorts on. “He led us to believe you owned a diner.. Not working in one..” you mock John’s voice, making your own deep and nasally. 

“My dad does not sound like a nasally Christopher Walken, but okay,” Michael snorts at your impersonation. You toss a pillow at him, hitting his chest.

“Not the point, Michael! You were supposed to be on my side, you just fed me to the wolves!”

“Grow up— you had an awkward conversation with my parents, it wasn’t the end of the world!”

“The whole point of this weekend was to get them to like me! You just sat there cutting your turkey into a million pieces!” The air in the room was thick with tension, the two of your moods souring as your voices raise. You wished your boyfriend had a spine, and he wished you didn’t have one. Letting out another huff, you grab your toiletries purse and head to leave the bedroom to go brush your teeth.

The brightly lit home was now dark and empty, aside from the moonlight shining in through the bright windows. You glance out, and see the snow top mountains faded behind a thick fog as you walk down the hall; feet padding softly on the cold wood.

When you finished in the bathroom, you were hardly paying attention as you opened the door, eyes half shut. Your face instantly pummels into something hard, making your eyes blink rapidly. A quiet hmph can be heard above you, and your eyes dart up to meet John’s. He stood there blankly, wearing nothing but his briefs.

Your face flushed with utter humiliation and you turned your head away. “Sorry— um— I didn’t see you—”

“Wrong bathroom.”

“Huh?” You raise a brow.

“You’re in my wife and I’s bathroom,” He repeats slowly, his tone slightly condescending. His chest rises as he takes a breath, and you can help but watch each muscle that twitches; feeling your throat go dry. You get lost in analysing the tattoos on his arms and shoulders that were so well hidden by his button up. 

“Oh..” you clear your throat, snapping out of it. “Sorry.. Michael told me this was the guest one..”

“Michael tells you a lot of things that are not true it seems,” John hums, a curious look on his face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

No reply.

John simply shrugs, and shifts to the side, allowing you to pass him and you can’t help but take a peek at his toned back. For an older man, he seemed to take care of his body well. His defined muscles, covered in ink of religious tattoos and Latin proverbs, intrigued you to find out more. 

“It’s rude to stare,” his deep voice is in a low whisper as he shuts the bathroom door behind him, not even glancing back at you. Embarrassed and fascinated, you hurry back to yours and Michael’s room where you find him already asleep, his mouth open wide as he snores. His typically irritating habits of snoring loudly and taking up space seemed to be the least of your concerns as your mind is flooded with images of his father.

His father’s voice.. His father’s tattoos.. His father’s v-line that disappeared under his briefs.. 

You were too distracted to even notice Maggie had texted again.

The following days leading up to Christmas were suffocating to say the least. Unless Helen was there to kindly offer comedic relief or keep John occupied— it was as though you were constantly invigilated. Any anecdotes you told, the way you skied when the four of you went, how much or how little PDA you showed Michael: it was one big test, and you were failing, hard. 

You had no clue why you were desperate to please Michael’s father. Helen was easy enough to win over.. Perhaps it’s just the masochist in you, but his condescending words began to make you bashful, rather than embarrassed.

Michael’s been aware of your strange behaviour but can’t seem to put his finger on it. Worst part was you knew why he was suspicious— he was projecting. It seemed this trip to get you closer with his parents, ended up straining your own. 

“She’s a co-worker— fuck— I can’t keep explaining this to you!” Michael snaps defensively.

“Lower your voice— your parents are right there!” You hiss. The two of you stand outside on the back patio of the villa. Flames from the fireplace crackle, leaving an orange hue on both your faces. The sound of soft wind and smell of dinner oozing from the inside almost created a romantic atmosphere.

Had it not been for Maggie.

“What kind of co-worker texts you on PTO?” You whisper shout. Michael groans, rubbing his eyes as he turns away from you. “She’s been texting you everyday since this trip and it’s not the first time.”

“I’m busy— I work a lot. It’s probably about a project,” your boyfriend replies, almost being unconvincing on purpose. “You’re so goddamn nosy.”

“Nosy? I’m here meeting your parents and you’re probably sexting some random girl right now.”

“She’s not some random fucking girl.”

Your face drops. Your brows furrow together, the anger fading into a gentle hurt. The silence is deafening, and there’s zero remorse in Michael’s eyes for what he’s saying. A stunning realisation sets in that this Maggie is no longer just a notification you notice on his screen— but an actual person who Michael might harbour actual feelings for.

“Michael?” You ask quietly. "Who is she?"

Michael runs his hand through his hair, lips pursed as a sharp sigh escapes. His head hands low, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Agitation fills his figure to the brim, and another pregnant pause occurs. You pinch your thumbnail into your palm, anxiously waiting for his next word.

It never comes.

Michael just mutters to himself as he walks off the patio back inside, sliding the glass door shut loudly. You stand there in the cold, desolate quiet. A thousand thoughts running through your head, but your body stood still— unmoving. What felt like minutes, was hours as the lights inside the villa eventually turned off.

You sat on one of the lounge chairs in a small ball, knees to your chest and your stare fixated on the flames flickering. The ember fire warms your body, but can’t reach your frozen heart. For a strange reason.. Your eyes were dry, your lips weren’t trembling. Rather than a wave of sadness or betrayal— there’s a black hole, numbing you from the inside out. 

“(Y/N)?”

Turning your head to the side, you hear the glass door slide open and a tall silhouette emerges from the darkened villa. The moonlight glowed on his face, his black t-shirt and pyjamas sweats only accentuating his pale figure. 

“Hello.. Mr. Wick,” You clear your throat, pulling your knees closer to your chest. His faint footsteps become louder as he walks over to you, his looming shadow dimming the fireplace for a second before sitting next to you.

Here he was. The man who shamelessly steered clear of you like water and oil. The man who squinted his eyes at every word you said. The man who was now sitting right next to you in the dead of night.. His legs manspreading a little too close for comfort.

Your leg twitches a little, either from pure anxiety or the Vermont air breezing past your almost bare skin. Perhaps a thin Henley shirt and jeans were not the best choice of clothing, you scold yourself. 

Occasionally you glance over at the older man, who simply sits hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees with his fingers interlocked with each other. The gold of his wedding ring glowed like a red warning sign. You were surrounding an intimate fireplace inches away from a married man— your boyfriend’s married father. 

“So um—”

“You alright?”

He cuts your sentence off as usual.. But there was a sincerity in his question, albeit his blank expression. Your face softens with genuine surprise, and you scratch your arm, adjusting your sitting position. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie.

“Fine with the way Michael talks to you?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. The lines of appropriate conversation topics began to blur, and you worry that trash-talking your boyfriend to his father was definitely crossing something.

“I apologise for his behaviour.” This dude’s a fucking paradox.

“What?”

“Helen and I never raised Michael to raise his voice at a woman, let alone curse at you. And for that I apologise,” John repeats blankly. His amiable words were dampened by his impassive body language and tone. 

Was he serious? Was it sarcasm? Was it a test for your reaction?

“Thank you” was your safe option, and he nods at your reply, still not even looking your way. Your leg continues twitching anxiously— and this he notices.

“Cold?” John asks.

“What?”

“Your leg.”

Like an obedient pet, you stop your twitching immediately. You hug yourself a bit, leaning back against the lounge couch, trying to create some distance. John mimics your movements, letting out a soft sigh as he does so. As he rolls his shoulders back— a soft crack hissing— his left arm lifts and reaches back, wrapping around your shoulders.

Eyes widened. Heart beating. Throat dry.

This was definitely crossing the line.

“Mr. Wick—” 

“John.”

Chewing your bottom lip anxiously, you shift in your seat again, but his arm remains firm around your shoulders, gently pulling you against his side.

“John..” the name feels foreign on your tongue. “What are you doing?”

“You can do better than Michael.”

His words almost make you chuckle— if it wasn’t for your chest tightening. Your brows snap together as you look at him, full of confusion. The entire week you spent trying to impress, and show you were good enough for Michael son— only to be met with such.. Praise? Could you even call it that?

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well..” you pause, repeating the phrase in your head over and over. “You spent this past week completely tearing me down, and mocking me.. Where’s all this coming from now?” Tenacity laced in your voice, and for the first time, John’s pink lips pull into a small smile.

“So just because I’m not explicitly praising your every movement means I’m tearing you down? Are you truly that desperate for me to approve of you?” John licks his teeth, a rare chuckle leaving his mouth. Heat rushes to your face at his taunt. 

“I don’t need your approval..” you weakly defend. John tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes surveying you before leaning back. You’re almost disappointed at his retrieval of his arm, letting your warm skin cool down. 

“You have it.”

If you jaw wasn’t dropped already, it was on the floor by now. 

“You’re nice girl, and you're humble. A diner is hard, honest work. I wasn’t born the boss— everyone has to start somewhere, and I respect that.”

“So why act so.. disappointed?” You stammer, eyes blinking rapidly. 

“I was disappointed my son had the balls to lie to me,” John clears his throat. “Lied about where you work, when you met.. He was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, of course he doesn’t respect you.”

He doesn’t respect you.

“... He loves me,” you whisper, almost in denial. But deep down in your frozen heart, you knew the truth. All the arguments, the dismissive tone, the hiding were physical proof right in front of your nose.

“That’s not the same thing,” John hums. “He’s cursing you out at his parent’s home— my home— I can only imagine what else he must be doing.”

You don’t know the half of it, is what you wanted to say. But for the sake of not burning bridges, you kept your lips shut. Suddenly, the pad’s of John's finger brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was electric. Warm. Intoxicating. Merely a bristle of his touch made your chest tighten.

"Michael was right about one thing.. You are beautiful.”

Before you could come to your senses, your soft lips were enraptured with eyes. He swallows your little squeal of surprise, and your back meets the arm of the couch. A ringing echoes in your ear, like a bomb going off. Your boyfriend’s father.. had just made a move on you.

And you like it.

His tongue slips past your lips, meeting yours. You feel his warm big hand cupping at your hip, the other slipping under your thigh to lay you down better on the couch. His taller frame was much bigger now that it hovered over you, keeping you firmly pinned. 

“J-John— stop— we can’t!” You manage to pull your face to the side, your lips leaving his. “Your wife— and my boyfriend— your son are right upstairs! Their rooms are right—”

“So you better be quiet then.”

His firm tone sends shivers down your spine, and you were once again suffocated with his lips. The sound of your jeans unbuttoning hits your ears and you realise there’s no turning back. Your mind flashes with moments of this week where you ogled his body. 

No longer were your dreams of his tough hands, his manly shoulders or deep voice just a distant fantasy.. but now a reality. You let out a sharp gasp, when you feel pressure on your nub. His sneaky fingers managed their way under your thin panties. His painstakingly slow circles had you squirming like a puppy.

John chuckles at your needy little whines, looking down at your face and watching as it twists into growing pleasure. Ignoring the cold mountain wind, the two of you are quick to shred your pants, drinking in the absolute tabooness of the situation.

Your nails dig into couch pillows, your leg resting over his shoulder. John hisses softly, his large tip barely kissing your entrance. Your eyes trail away from his gorgeous face up to the open window on the second floor. The lights were off, and a small pit of guilt filled your stomach. But soon to be filled with something else, when John suddenly leans in, letting his tip slide past your folds.

“Fuck—” You bite your lip hard. A baritone chuckle echoes through the empty patio and he continues to slowly slide in, stretching your tiny hole out to the brim. The wind promptly knocked out your lungs as your eyes almost rolled back. 

“Look at you.. taking it all in like a good little girl,” John taunts but it only makes you throb, clenching tight around him. You blink rapidly trying to focus, but his mocking coos only fluster you more. “Oh.. someone’s enjoying this.. You like when I praise you, don’t you?”

His hips begin at a gradual pace, and you slap your hand over your mouth, desperately trying to swallow your moans and whimpers. John’s longish black hair was covering most of his face, as he leaned down. Your knee was almost to your face, and you whine at the burn in your legs.

“Y-Yes— I do—” You admit bashfully. Thrust by thrush, his hips rut faster and faster against your small frame. The sound of his heavy balls hitting the curve of your ass were so sinful and sticky, and you feared Helen or Michael hearing you two. 

“So desperate to make a good impression..” John’s hand rests above your pussy, completely fixated on the small bump his large cock is causing. His tip kisses your cervix as he fills your spongy walls, a thin white ring forming at the base. “...that you’re slutting yourself out to a man twice your age.”

His mean tone and jeering words make your eyes water with humiliation, but your moans sing a different tune. John lets out a groan as your cunt flutters around him, shifting his grip to your waist, and his fingers pinching painfully.

“Such a filthy little girl..” he coos in your ear. You squeal girlishly against your hand, biting down on your finger. John drinks in the teary look in your doe eyes, the way they almost roll back in pleasure. Your soft lips around your finger, as you clamp down hard when he begins to toy with your breast. “With such pretty tits— and such soft skin.”

John’s head dips down, his lips wrap around one of your nipples and you let out a loud cry. He’s quick to bite when you slip up and start making too much noise. The feel of his tongue swirling your bud, and his cock plunging in and out of you was too much, and the knot in your belly tightened.

“Ohmygod— fuck—” You whisper and pant as quietly as you can. John laughs against your skin, his hands like magic as they hit every button that makes you squeal. 

“Baby needed a real man to make her feel good, hm?” John asks rhetorically and you nod hurriedly through tears, as you lie a babbling mess under his powerful stature. He continues fucking you relentlessly, each thrust beginning to bruise your poor pussy. 

“D-Don’t stop— please— ohgod—” You stammer and sob.

John leans back up, but keeps your thigh pressed to your chest with his hand. Running another hand through his black locks, and wiping the sweat off his hairline, he groans harshly. The bulge in your stomach popping up and down kept the blood rushing to his cock.

“Gonna cum inside— make you all nice and full,” He pants. “You want that, hm?”

“Yes— yes please— please—” You don’t even care how pathetic you sound. How needy you sounded. Like all sound of mind flew out the window the moment you came here. The moment he even wrapped his arm around you. 

His abs contort and his thrusts began to get sloppier. He gripped your soft hips like a vessel, like he owned you. John grins devilishly at your pretty little cries and pleas, enjoying how much you craved him.

“God you make the prettiest noises— all for me, hm? Just for me,” John hisses, snapping his hips faster against you as his fingers work skillfully on your bundle of nerves, sending waves through your trembling legs. 

You let out an embarrassingly loud squeal, wallens tightening around his thick girth when you feel climax approaching. He shoots ropes of his warm seed inside you, filling you to the brim.

The air is filled with the sound of your weak moans and his quiet pants. Your bodies drenched in sweat, and the Vermont wind is painfully cold now as the passion fades. The thirst of desperation was now quenched with guilt and horror as you realised what you’ve done.

John returns to his blank expression, pulling out of you with a sloppy sound. You wince when his fingers wipe your sensitive folds, collecting his cum on his fingers as he pushes it back inside you. “These pillows are expensive.”

You lie there in shock at how nonchalantly he behaves: like he didn’t just ravage his son’s girlfriend on the couch, leaving her covered in lovebites and full of warm cum. You watch as he tucks himself back into his sweats, and heads back inside the villa.

Soon enough you follow suit, and dress yourself to come back inside. The house was dark and empty, presumably everyone was asleep at this point. You tiptoe to your room with Michael, and thankfully he lies snoring away— unaware what you just committed.

You change into fresh panties and pyjamas, feeling John’s sticky cum on your thighs as it leaks out of you. The betrayal and sin leaks from your skin as you climb into bed, and guilt drips from your pores when Michael wraps his arm around you. 

Guilt that you wish it was John’s arm instead.

Fin.

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[theostrophywife]

the crush theory.

pairing: lorenzo berkshire x reader.

song inspiration: london boy by taylor swift.

author’s note: this is just a cute indulgent coffee shop! au with my sweetheart enzo. majorly inspired by all the boyfriend vibes louis has been serving with miss olivia lately. let’s not even talk about the ass grab with his big hands and rings…🫣

Enzo Berkshire never quite managed to master the language of love. 

Despite being a polyglot and a linguistics major, romance remained a complete mystery to him. It wasn't like he could craft a conjugation chart to help him not make a fool of himself in front of the girl of his dreams. When it came to matters of the heart, Enzo often found himself at a loss for words. Perhaps that was the reason why he never mustered up the courage to speak to you. 

Until that one fateful fall morning. 

The kiss of autumn arrived on campus a few weeks into the semester, freeing the city from the grips of the summer heat and bringing with it the changing of leaves and the distinct scent of cinnamon and apples. Enzo shoved his hands into the pockets of his burnt orange corduroy trousers and savored the sound of the jewel toned leaves crunching underneath his loafers. As the wind picked up, he wrapped his chunky knit cardigan tighter around himself to shield against the chilly breeze. 

The ivy covered brick buildings and cobblestone streets faded into the background as he walked past the quad. Deja Brew, the little hole in the wall cafe that Enzo frequented, greeted him like an old friend. The coffee shop was located on the outskirts of campus and was only a short walk from his dorm, which made it the ideal place to conduct his tutoring sessions. Not only was it convenient, but the cozy and quiet ambience provided the perfect setting for Enzo to teach his fellow struggling students. 

As time went on, the choice of location became less about convenience and more about catching a glimpse of you—the surly barista that worked the morning shift. For the past few months, Enzo developed a rather embarrassing crush on you. There was something about your scowl and no bullshit attitude that drew him to you like a moth to a flame. Though in his case, Enzo was perfectly content to hover a safe distance from the proverbial light of your fancy French cigarette lest he get burned. 

Upon first glance, anyone would have been intimidated by you. With your faded band tees, ripped jeans, and scuffed leather boots, Enzo was well aware that a girl like you would never be interested in a bloke who's wardrobe consisted of sweaters with elbow patches, floral print button downs, and neatly pressed pleated trousers. Needless to say, you were way too cool for him. 

Enzo was resigned to merely admiring you from afar, but fate seemed to have other ideas. The bell above the door tinkled softly as he made his way into Deja Brew only to stop dead in his tracks when he spotted you at the register. Usually, you were behind the bar manning the espresso machine during the early morning rush, but not today.

Today, you were front and center. 

Part of him considered walking out the door, but given the fact that the shop was nearly empty, a hasty exit would definitely not go unnoticed. Enzo had no choice but to suck it up and approach the register with resignation. The minute he opened his mouth, he was sure he’d muck things up. 

Enzo swallowed thickly and pushed his round framed glasses further up the bridge of his nose; a nervous habit he developed when he was younger. The erratic beat of his heart echoed in Enzo’s ears as his gaze flickered up to your face, expecting to be greeted with a frown. To his surprise, your lips curved into a small smile once you spotted him. 

“Lemon balm tea with two pumps of peach syrup and a dollop of honey, right?” 

Enzo blinked at the melodious sound of your voice, nearly missing the fact that you’d recited his exact order, which shouldn’t have been surprising given the fact that you’ve been making it for him for months. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little warm inside as you looked at him expectantly. He stared in stunned silence for a moment. 

You furrowed your brow in doubt. “Did I get that wrong?” 

“No, no, it’s right. It’s great. It’s perfect—“ Enzo cleared his throat, mentally kicking himself for rambling. “I’m just surprised that you remembered it.” 

“Of course I remember it, you’re one of my regulars. I’d be a pretty shit barista if I forgot your order.” You cocked your head, tapping your lips thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, do you want your croissant warmed up, Lorenzo?” 

“You know my name?” 

Enzo hadn’t meant to sound so starstruck, but hearing his name come out of your mouth made his heart skip a beat.

“And your social security number too,” you deadpanned. Enzo’s eyes widened, which made you chuckle. “I’m just having a laugh. I promise I won’t commit identity theft against you. Unless you piss me off.” 

You accompanied the statement with a cheeky wink, which only made Enzo even more nervous. 

"Don't look so nervous, peach. I swear I don't bite."

“Right. Sure. Of course,” he stammered. “The tea and the croissant sounds good, Y/N.” The realization that you’ve never told him your name came a beat too late. “It’s on your chest. The name tag, I mean. I wasn’t just staring at your chest. Though I’m sure it’s very nice. Bloody hell, I’ll stop talking now.” 

Enzo cringed at himself, but eased when you laughed. “You’re a strange bloke, Lorenzo.” You said as you began making his drink. “But I’ve got to admit, it’s oddly charming.” 

He chuckled, trying to hide the flush coloring his cheeks. “That seems to be my sweet spot.” 

"As sweet as peaches," you retorted as you added two pumps of peach syrup into his tea. "You'll have to excuse the fruit references. Before I knew your name, I referred to you solely as the peach guy."

"Is that good or bad?"

Enzo hiked his backpack over his shoulder and meandered down the end of the counter where you were topping off his tea with a dollop of honey. You swirled it into a heart pattern before sliding the warm cup into a sleeve. 

"Well, I've never met anyone who's preferred drink could constitute as a dessert, so it's certainly something. You're an enigma, Lorenzo," you said thoughtfully. "Though I think I like peach better. You don't really strike me as a Lorenzo."

“You can call me Enzo. I prefer it over my full name. It sounds so stuffy.” 

“We certainly can’t have that,” you said with a smirk. “Enzo. I like it. It’s rather becoming. Not stuffy at all.” He chuckled as you handed him a brown bag. "I might still call you peach from time to time. Force of habit. You understand, right?"

"Of course," Enzo replied. "El loro viejo no aprende a hablar."

"You kiss your mum with that mouth, peach?"

Enzo flushed. "It's Spanish for the old parrot does not learn to talk. Basically their equivalent of you can't teach an old dog new tricks." He shifted his weight onto his other foot. "What I'm trying to say is, I don't mind if you call me peach or Enzo or whatever else you'd like."

"You're giving me way too much freedom, Enzo. I intend on taking full advantage." You winked as you slid his drink over to him. “Enjoy your croissant. I put a little something extra in there for you.” 

Enzo peered into the bag and saw an extra pastry wrapped in black cellophane next to his croissant. The brownie didn’t look like any of the ones behind the counter, which meant that it was probably homemade. Strange, he wouldn’t have pegged you for a baker. 

“Oh, you really don’t have to—” 

“Nonsense,” you countered, waving off his protests. “Really, you’d be doing me a favor. It’s an experimental recipe of mine, which makes you my guinea pig. As payment, I expect a full report on the brownie tomorrow morning. Don’t hold back either, peach. I want a brutally honest review.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Enzo said in reassurance. “In any case, your guinea pig will take ample notes.” 

“That would be much appreciated,” you said with a serious nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Enzo-not-Lorenzo.”

Enzo couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.” 

Enzo rubbed his temples, willing the headache forming behind his eyes to vanish. Unfortunately for him, his last tutoring session with Flint seemed to have left a permanent mark. While Enzo usually enjoyed teaching French, Marcus was proving to be a rather difficult case. Not only was Flint unwilling to do the work, the knobhead also spent the entire session leering at you instead of studying the conjugation chart that Enzo poured his blood, sweat, and tears on. 

“Merlin, I have no idea how you deal with rich, smarmy arseholes all day.” 

Enzo looked up to find you seated across the table, sliding a sandwich, a fruit cup, and a bag of crisps towards him without missing a beat. He hadn’t even realized it was already an hour past lunch until his stomach grumbled at the sight of food.

“One could argue that I’m also a rich, smarmy arsehole,” Enzo countered, picking up a grape and popping it into his mouth with a slight smile. “Yet you seem to have no problems dealing with me.” 

“Yes, well, everyone knows I’m just using you for your body. Specifically, your taste buds.” Enzo shook his head in amusement before taking a bite out of the sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly, his favorite. “Besides, how else am I supposed to learn new insults in different languages if I hadn’t met you? Speaking of which, I believe I’m completely justified in saying that Flint is a total gehirnverweigerer.”

“Marcus isn’t so bad. He just needs a bit of a push,” Enzo replied rather unconvincingly. 

“If by a push you mean my boot against his arse, then I wholeheartedly agree.” 

“The French have this saying, petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid. In English, it roughly translates to: little by little, the bird builds its nest.” 

“Except Flint isn’t a bird, he’s a twat,” you deadpanned. “The bloke was too busy staring at my arse to even pick up a lick of French. To think, you even made this cute little chart and everything. You have the patience of a saint, Enz.” 

“One of us has to,” Enzo replied as he tore open the bag of wotsits. “Given your proclivity to violence.” 

“Don’t make me take your crisps away, Lorenzo.” 

Shielding his wotsits from your vengeful wrath, Enzo flashed you a saccharine smile. For good measure, he even batted his pretty honey eyes at you. The audacity. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite person in the whole entire world?” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Berkshire. Now finish your lunch or else I’ll be very cross with you.” 

Enzo smiled to himself, wondering at the fact you were complete strangers until a few weeks ago. Ever since you gifted him with the best brownie he’s ever tasted in his entire life, he became your designated taste tester. Every morning, Enzo would start his day off with his usual lemon tea and whatever new pastry recipe you had chosen to tackle that week. Between the scones and muffins, Enzo learned that you intended on opening your own bakery after uni. Hence, his very important role of reviewing your recipes. 

Granted, Enzo didn’t know how much of a help he actually was given the fact that he thought everything you made was amazing. Still, the novelty of finding a fresh pastry in his bag with a handwritten note from you never failed to brighten his morning. Especially since you signed each one with a crimson kiss print that made him blush every time he laid his eyes upon it. It was safe to say his crush had only gotten worse the more he got to know you. 

As you settled behind the counter to help with the afternoon rush, Enzo attempted to get some work done before classes started for the day. With finals fast approaching, he was caught up on making sure he had everything in order. It wasn’t until Enzo heard a familiar voice when he finally tore his gaze away from his laptop screen. 

Enzo froze as he watched one of his best mates saunter up to the counter. Even from his seat by the window, he could tell that Mattheo was flirting with you. In hindsight, his friend seemed exactly like the type of guy you would go for. The broody bad boy who probably listened to all the obscure bands that you often talked to him about. As Mattheo directed his smoldering gaze at you, Enzo thought he might be violently ill. 

Squinting across the coffee shop, Enzo angrily shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers in an attempt to keep himself from strangling his curly headed friend. 

In a tone that was at least an octave deeper than his regular voice, Mattheo drawled a question at you. “What’s good here?” 

You stared at him pointedly before waving a hand towards the menu. “There’s coffee, there’s pastries. It’s really not rocket science.”

The deadpan delivery combined with the utterly unenthused expression on your face nearly made Enzo snort out loud. It might’ve been an arsehole move to rejoice at Mattheo’s fumble, but he found it immensely satisfying that you seemed to be immune to the infamous Riddle charm. 

“A bit feisty today aren’t we, love? I just wanted to see what the pretty lady behind the counter recommends.” 

Enzo watched in amusement as you slipped on your signature scowl, the one that made him fall for you in the first place. “The pretty lady recommends that you stop holding up the line so she can get to the other customers who actually know what they want.” 

Hiding his smirk, Enzo feigned surprise as a dejected Mattheo plopped down across from him. “Merlin, that was brutal. Is the barista always this mean? I complimented her pins and she stared at me like I’d grown an extra head.” 

“Y/N isn’t really a people person,” Enzo supplied. 

“No shit, Berkshire.” Mattheo tapped his fingers on the counter. “Let’s just get to class before I embarrass myself any further.”

“That’s probably for the best,” replied Enzo. 

Ignoring Mattheo’s glare, Enzo packed up his laptop and put his tray away. He followed his mate through the throng of people, which had thinned out once more. They were a few steps away from the door when you called out his name. With a raised brow, you held out a pink box. Enzo smiled sheepishly in return. He couldn’t believe he’d almost forgotten the dessert of the day. 

“One lemon berry scone. Less tart, per your critique last week.” He took the box from your hands, blushing furiously when your fingers brushed against his. “Have a good class, peach.” 

“Thanks, Y/N. I’ll have your full report ready tomorrow.” 

“You better.” Enzo nearly dropped the box when you winked at him. “Later, Berkshire.” 

Smiling to himself, Enzo came face to face with a gaping Mattheo. “For Salazar’s sake, it’s like I don’t even exist.” He muttered before breaking out into a grin. “No wonder my moves had no effect. Mate, she obviously fancies you.” 

Enzo’s cheeks immediately heated as he pushed out into the quad. “What? No. Y/N and I are just really good friends.” 

“Now I understand why you come here so often,” Mattheo remarked. “If the mean hot barista plied me with baked goods and called me peach, I’d be coming here every day.” 

“It's an inside joke about my drink order..." Enzo tried to explain. "The point is, Y/N isn’t mean. She’s actually really nice.” 

“Yeah, because she likes you.” 

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Does too.” Mattheo countered. “Why else would she bake you a scone?” 

“She wants to own a bakery someday. Obviously, that means she needs someone to test her recipes out on,” Enzo explained. “It’s how we became friends.” 

“Right,” Mattheo said with a shit eating grin. “Friends.” 

Enzo rolled his eyes. “Can we just please get to class?” 

“Whatever you say, peach.” 

“I have a theory,” Mattheo announced. 

Enzo sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Not this again, mate.” 

The rest of their friends perked up, abandoning their laptop screens and textbooks in favor of the newest piece of gossip. The little corner of the library that their group had claimed was fairly quiet, which was supposed to be optimal for revising, but Mattheo couldn’t seem to let his conspiracy theory go. He'd been badgering Enzo about it for a week.

“Berkshire here refuses to believe me, but I have it on good authority that Y/N has a crush on him. 

“Y/N,” Theo started, “You mean his mean barista friend? She’s proper fit.” 

“Don’t call her fit,” Enzo replied rather defensively. 

“A little touchy there, Berkshire.” Regulus said with a chuckle. “Is that jealousy I sense?” 

“For the millionth time, Y/N and I are just friends.” 

“Is that the same friend that makes all those tasty pastries for you?” Draco asked with a raised brow. “I’ve seen the cute little notes she leaves for you posted all around your dorm. With the adorable kiss prints and hearts. Seems to me like Mattheo’s right. Y/N’s sweet on you, cousin.” 

“Do me a favour and stop being a snooping twat, cousin.” Enzo retorted with a frown. “Y/N’s just being nice. It’s what friends do.”

“None of my mates have ever gone out of their way to bake me a bloody thing,” Blaise declared in feigned offense as he wrapped an arm around Pansy. 

“Yes, well, none of your mates even know where the oven is located, let alone how to operate it,” replied his girlfriend. Pansy smiled at Enzo. “Besides, I think their friendship is sweet.” 

“Thanks, Pans.” 

“So you don’t fancy Y/N?” Theo asked. Enzo opened his mouth then closed it. He was well aware that his friend was baiting him, but he refused to fall into Theo’s trap. 

“Like I said, we’re friends.” 

“In that case, you wouldn’t mind if I asked for her number, right?” 

As a matter of fact, Enzo did fucking mind. He minded very much. Too much, probably. But he couldn’t very well say that out loud. Instead, he masked his scowl and returned his attention to revising. 

“Knock yourself out, mate.” 

Theo smirked. “Alright then, let’s go.” 

“Go where?” Enzo asked disinterestedly, flipping through his study sheet for Latin. 

“To Deja Brew,” Theo replied smugly. “We all need a study break, anyways.” 

“You want to go there? Right now?” With each question, Enzo’s death grip tightened on his notes. “To ask for Y/N’s number?” 

“That shouldn’t be a problem, right? In fact, maybe you could introduce us.” 

Enzo would rather walk on hot coals. “I think I'll pass. I've already seen her turn Mattheo down and that was brutal enough as it is. I don’t need an encore.”

“Riddle’s probably not her type.” 

Mattheo frowned, crossing his arms. “I’m everyone’s type.” 

Theo chuckled. “Apparently not hers. Perhaps she’d prefer a handsome Italian, no?” 

Mattheo rolled his eyes. “In your dreams, Nott.” 

“Now I’m intrigued,” exclaimed Blaise. “I’d never miss an opportunity to witness Theodore get humbled. Are you sure you’re ready for a woman like Y/N, Nott?” 

“Please,” Theo scoffed. “I was born ready.” 

Against his will, Enzo found himself at Deja Brew ten minutes later. In his usual corner by the window, he brooded like a petulant child. This was a horrible, terrible, and idiotic idea. All he wanted to do was revise and now his study session had been hijacked just so he could watch Theo flirt with the girl he fancied. 

“You know, you can put a stop to this any time you’d like,” Mattheo said in a sing-songy voice. “Just admit that my theory is right. Y/N has a crush on you and I’m willing to bet that the feeling is mutual. Isn’t it, Berkshire?” 

Enzo crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. Instead of giving into Mattheo’s childish pursuits, he opened his laptop and pretended to be immersed with Russian translations. 

“Have it your way, Enzo.” Regulus declared, nodding towards the register. “Nott’s about to give us a show.” 

As irritated as he was with his friends, Enzo couldn’t tear his gaze away. Theo marched up to the counter with swagger and confidence, slipping on his signature smirk. You looked up from your phone screen, giving the tall and lanky boy a sweeping gaze. The unenthused expression on your face screamed that you weren’t at all impressed.

“Y/N, is it?” Theo drawled, squinting at the nametag pinned to your apron. “A pretty name for a pretty lady.” 

“Thanks,” you deadpanned. “My parents gave it to me. Now what can I get started for you?” 

“Aren’t you going to ask me for my name?” 

“I know who you are,” you replied dismissively. “One of Enzo’s friends, right? I heard about your little stunt in the fountain. You know, December’s not really a smart time to go skinny dipping.” Theo flushed as your eyes trailed down to his crotch. “Certain parts shrivel in the cold, Nott.” 

“I assure you, my parts were perfectly intact.” 

“That’s not what Katie Bell said,” you countered, tapping your lips thoughtfully. “I believe I heard something about shrinkage.” Theo opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. “I’ll tell you what, Theodore. Why don’t I fix you up a cappuccino? It’ll help keep you and your parts warm and cozy.” 

Enzo bit his lip to keep himself from bursting into laughter. The rest of his friends snickered as they watched a dejected Theo return to the table. 

Regulus snorted as he sat back down in defeat. “Merlin, that was hard to watch. Absolutely brutal, really.” 

Theo glared at Regulus in response. “I’d like to see you do better, Black.” 

Regulus winked. “Watch and learn, boys.” 

The older boy had about as much luck as Theo. Though the attempts had put him in a foul mood at first, Enzo was absolutely elated as he watched you turn down his friends. Regulus received an eye roll while Draco reeled from the head to toe once-over that humbled the absolute hell out of him. 

“It’s useless,” his cousin mumbled. “She hates everyone.” 

“Or maybe Y/N just doesn’t appreciate random blokes chatting her up while she’s trying to do her job,” Pansy said with an eye roll. 

“Oh bloody hell, here she comes.” Regulus muttered under his breath. “I don’t think my ego can take another hit.” 

The boys cowered as you came closer, but you didn’t pay them any mind. Instead, you set a fresh mug of tea and a lemon scone down in front of Enzo. 

“Last one, I promise. It’s finally perfect this time.” 

“You said that the last three times,” Enzo said with a chuckle. “They were all brilliant, by the way. Not that you listen to my well crafted reviews.” 

“You say that about everything I make, Enz. Honestly, a girl bakes you a couple of treats and suddenly I’m the best thing since sliced bread.” 

“I’m just being honest,” he replied with a shrug. “You couldn’t bake a single bad pastry if you tried.” 

“I’d like to try a pastry,” Mattheo interjected. 

You tore your attention away from Enzo. The smile that you reserved for him transformed into a scowl, your entire body language turning stern. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?” 

“Riddle,” Mattheo supplied. “Mattheo Riddle.” 

“Right,” you said slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “My pastries aren’t for sale. You’re more than welcome to try the day-old brownie behind the counter though. If you can manage to chew through it.” 

Mattheo sputtered, but you paid no mind to his aghast expression. Enzo fought the urge to kiss you right then and there. 

“Closing again tonight?” he asked, ignoring the blatant stares from the rest of his friends. 

“Unfortunately. Diggory bailed again. Probably too busy snogging Cho to come in for his shift,” you said with an eye roll. 

“Leave those lovebirds alone,” Enzo quipped back. “They’re in their honeymoon phase.” 

“I can’t for the life of me understand how they aren’t sick of each other by now.” 

“That’s because you’re a mean old grump.” You glared at him, which only made Enzo smile. “Luckily for you, that doesn’t deter me. I’ll come keep you company if you want. I promise to be way more entertaining than Cedric.” 

“It’s not a hard task to accomplish, but I’ll take you up on it nonetheless.” 

“I thought you might say that,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll meet you back here after my last class. Pad Thai tonight?” 

You nodded and grinned back. “This is why you’re my favorite, peach.” 

The boys gaped as you ruffled his hair in parting. They waited until you were out of earshot before launching into a tirade. 

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“Just friends my arse.”

“I can’t believe she actually smiled at you!” 

“It’s strange how treating Y/N like an actual human being instead of pestering her while she’s trying to work yields such positive results,” Pansy retorted. “I think you all need to start following Enzo’s example. Clearly he’s had more success than you lot.” 

Blaise patted Enzo on the back. “Mate, you might be the most oblivious bloke in all of Britain, but you’d have to be an absolute knobhead not to see what’s right in front of you.” 

He hummed in response, glancing up at the exact same time that your gaze met his from across the room. You winked, making him blush furiously. Merlin, you were pretty. It was honestly unfair. Maybe Zabini was onto something.

When it came to you, even Enzo had to agree that he was a total and absolute knobhead.

Later that night, Enzo helped you clear the plates and mugs as the last customers trickled out of Deja Brew. The soft sounds of your perfectly curated playlist trickled over the speakers as you flipped the sign to closed. He watched with a small smile as you hopped up onto the counter and beckoned him over. The fairy lights twinkled above the ceiling, illuminating your smile as Enzo took his place next to you. 

The sight of you grinning up at him tugged at his heartstrings. There were coffee stains on your jeans and apron, your thick hair was falling out of its braid, and a cold bowl of Pad Thai awaited in your lap and yet he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. 

“Aren’t you glad Cedric bailed?” Enzo teased, knocking his shoulder with yours. “Now you get to enjoy cold noodles with your favorite person.” 

You chuckled, nudging him back. “I suppose this is nicer than listening to Diggory ramble on about Quidditch. It’s always bludger this, bludger that. I honestly considered bludgeoning him myself.” 

“To be fair, the man could merely breathe and you’d still find a way to be annoyed by it.” 

“No one needs to inhale that much oxygen.”

“I rest my case, you mean old grump.” 

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You know, if anyone else called me that I’d poke their eye out with a fork.” Enzo chuckled as you stabbed into your bowl of noodles. “Besides, I have every right to be grumpy. It’s been a long day. Thanks to your incessant little friends.” 

“I’m sorry about the guys,” he said earnestly. “I tried to talk them out of flirting with you, but they’ve got this crazy theory.” 

“Oh?” You asked, raising a brow. “What’s the theory, then?” 

Enzo flushed, avoiding your gaze. “They uh…” He cleared his throat and stared at his shoes. “They think you fancy me.” 

“Hmm,” you hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re not idiots after all. Your friends are right. I do fancy you.” 

White noise rushed through his ears. Enzo’s mouth fell open as he met your gaze. Surely, he hadn’t heard you correctly. 

“You alright there, peach?” 

“You…” Enzo trailed off, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You like me?” 

You chuckled. “I have for a bit. Thanks for finally noticing.” 

“How?” Enzo muttered. “What?” He cocked his head, trying to search for the proper words. “Why?” 

At the moment, it appeared that one syllable words were the full extent of his vocabulary. All those languages in his head and yet he couldn’t form a single coherent sentence. 

“Enz, I know your drink order by heart,” you explained softly. “I make you cupcakes and muffins. I write you notes every day. I thought I made myself pretty obvious.” 

“Gods,” he breathed, silently reprimanding himself. “I really am the most oblivious bloke in Britain.” Enzo licked his lips, turning over to look at you. “I just thought you were being nice.” 

“Lorenzo, when have I ever been nice to anyone?” 

“I am a bloody idiot.” 

“You never made a move, so I just thought you didn’t see me that way. Which is fine, by the way. I don’t mind being friends.” 

Enzo turned so fast he nearly smacked into the register. “Are you kidding? I’ve had a crush on you for months. You’re the best part of my day. Waking up and knowing that I get to see you every morning is the only thing that gets me out of bed.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You’re out of my league. You’re smart and funny and not to mention way too cool. Honestly, I thought you’d go for someone like Mattheo or Theo or literally anyone else but me. Someone a little more…” he trailed off, waving a hand over you. 

“Scary?” 

“No! Well, yes. Someone more confident and intimidating.” 

“Bad boys aren’t really my type.”

He scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion. “They’re not?” 

“No,” you said, setting down your food and turning over to face him. “My type is a nerdy linguistics major who teaches me how to curse in six different languages and who makes cute little conjugation charts and orders drinks that should quite frankly classify as a dessert.” 

Enzo’s smile grew wider. "I like you too, you know. A lot. Like, embarrassingly so. With your grumpy little scowl and all black wardrobe and dry humor. I like all of it."

You beamed as Enzo leaned closer, tracing your lips like he was trying to commit the curves of your smile to his memory. His heart pounded in his chest as your eyes flickered up to meet his.

"Then kiss me like you mean it, Enzo."

Despite your confidence, the air left your lungs as soon as Enzo cradled your face in his hands. The twinkling lights made his brown eyes shimmer like pools of honey in the dark. The tension stretched between you as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours ever so gently. They briefly closed around yours—tasting, testing, taunting. Then the dam broke free.

Enzo pressed you closer and kissed you like his life depended on it. You smiled against his lips, melting into his touch as he tilted your head back for more. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as Enzo sighed into your mouth, his lips molding perfectly against yours. The once shy and experimental kisses turned needy and passionate, making you feel slightly lightheaded. Enzo savored your soft sighs, kissing you over and over again to elicit more.

It wasn't until you felt like the air had been depleted from your lungs when he finally relented. He pressed his forehead against yours, noses brushing as you both grinned at each other. It felt right to be this close. It felt like you were made to do this all along. Enzo brushed his thumb over your cheek, looking dazed as he pulled back to look at you. 

“It’s about time, Berkshire.” 

“Hey,” Enzo grumbled, pecking at your lips. “You can’t blame me. I couldn’t even look at you without blushing and making a fool of myself. You’re so intimidating.” 

“Not so scary now, am I?” 

“Oh no, I’m still terrified of you. But I’ve also seen you cry during the Notebook, so I know that deep down inside, you’re just a big softie.” 

You started to protest, but Enzo just leaned in and kissed you again. With his lips pressed against yours, you couldn’t even remember what you were about to say. As he pulled you into his lap, you heard cheers coming from outside. Behind the glass window, his friends were cheering and wolf-whistling rather obnoxiously on the street. 

Enzo responded by flicking them off and kissing you even harder, pressing your bodies together as you giggled. He hauled you to your feet, his arms circling around your waist as he dipped you for a better angle. Your back hit the counter as you raised to your tiptoes, winding your arms around his neck and mussing up his hair as you arched for more. The hollering only grew more incessant when Enzo grabbed your ass and squeezed. The groan that escaped from his mouth made you dizzy with desire.

If one kiss could elicit such a response out of you, it was almost scary to think what else Enzo had in his arsenal. A cheeky little smile curved against his lips as though he knew exactly what you were thinking. You basked under the warmth of his gaze, feeling flushed and flustered. That pretty face had you entirely fooled. Enzo was far from innocent.

“Gods, I really fucking fancy you.”

With a smile, you kissed the tip of his nose. “I really fucking fancy you too, peach.” 

Despite the many languages in Enzo's arsenal, no phrase or saying could convey how he felt better than his lips against yours. Maybe he hadn't quite mastered the language of love, but he had a feeling that you'd be more than willing to teach him.

[thewulf]

Bound by Shadows || Azriel

Summary: Request - I'm hoping you could write a fanfic where reader, Feyre's twin, who actually killed the wolf but let Feyre take the credit... and before she realizes what she's done Feyre is gone. She struggles with guilt and isolation in Velaris after the sisters transformation by the Cauldron.... Read Rest Here

A/N: OKAY I LOVE THIS. It got away from me a bit. I didn't realize how fun this world would be to dive into. Let me know your thoughts as always :)

Pairing: Azriel Shadowsinger x Female Reader (Feyre Archeron Twin Sister)

Word Count: 8.2k +

TW: General ACOTAR TW

Under the starlit skies of Velaris the City of Starlight pulses with a life of its own. Its vibrant lights reflecting off the river with laughter and music filling the air, breathing life into every cobblestone and corner. But for you the city’s brilliance only deepens the shadows that cling to your soul. Shadows that no light seems capable of dispelling.

You walked alone. Your steps aimless being driven by the restless guilt that gnaws incessantly at your conscience. Every whisper of the wind seems to accuse you, every glance from a passerby seems to pierce through the facade you barely maintain. The weight of the secret you harbor presses down on you with every step… the wolf, the woods, the dreadful slice of the arrow that was meant to protect Feyre not harm her. But Feyre stepped forward and shouldered the blame. She was taken from you in an instant and forced to face the horrors of the faerie lands. It was all to shield you her twin she thought of being too gentle, too fragile for the brutal truths of that world.

The transformation wrought by the Cauldron has only magnified everything. Every emotion, every fear, every shard of guilt. It was supposed to be a rebirth but for you it feels more like a slow descent into a nightmare from which you cannot awaken. The power that now courses through your veins feels like chains. A constant reminder of the price paid to the mother. Of the freedom you don’t believe you deserve.

As you wander through the bustling streets the sounds of celebration around you clash violently with the turmoil within. Families and lovers share warm, joyous moments. Their laughter echoing in the crisp night air while you drift among them. You were simply a specter unseen, untouched by the light of their joy. Your heart aches with a loneliness so profound it threatens to consume you whole. To reduce your existence to a mere shadow of regret and sorrow.

You find yourself on one of the many ornate bridges spanning the Sidra. A place you often found some sort of solace in. You leaned over the balustrade to gaze into the dark waters below. The reflection of the city’s lights dances across the surface, a stark contrast to the darkness that seems to stretch endlessly beneath. It is here in the quiet far enough away from the eyes of those who know you, those who worry over you, that your facade finally cracks.

Tears that were unbidden and unwelcome, spill over, tracing cold paths down your cheeks. You are tired. So incredibly tired of pretending. Of hiding the depth of your pain. You wish to scream so loud. To let out the anguish that fills you, but your voice is as lost as your soul feels in the face of your endless guilt. Instead, you just stare down at the dark waters with silent sobs wracking your body. It was better this way. You couldn’t let Feyre see you like this. She was finally so happy. So happy with her mate. Her Rhysand. You couldn’t threaten that happiness. You owed her so much more than that. You quite literally owed her your life. So, you would suck it up in solace. Cry it out on your own.

In the solitude of the night, you allowed yourself to feel your overwhelming emotions. To acknowledge the pain and the darkness. Little did you know you are not as alone as you believe. From the shadows an Illyrian figure watches you. His own heart heavy with unspoken secrets. Azriel was the spymaster of night court for a reason. He picked up on you disappearing for hours at a time when the others didn’t. He picked up on the fake smiles you threw everyone’s way. He seemed to pick up on it while the others didn’t… other than Feyre who seemed to watch you just as much as he did. He decided he would watch over you. For Feyre, his brothers mate. And for you. The woman who couldn’t seem to get used to being Fae as easily as your sisters did. The human turned Fae that consumed more of his thoughts than he cared to admit.

But for now, he waited behind his shadows. A silent guardian in the night recognizing that some battles must be faced alone before they can be shared.

You returned from the bustling markets of Velaris with arms laden with the myriad items Feyre requested. As you approach the townhouse the warm light from within spills out onto the cobblestones. It was a stark contrast to the dusk settling over the city. You pause at the door steeling yourself with a deep breath before stepping inside. Your smile as you hand the bags to Feyre doesn't quite reach your eyes. But she's too caught up in the moment to notice.

"Thank you so much," she says with a relief evident as she starts to unpack the food you’d volunteered to pick up for her. She pauses before she got too carried away giving you that look, the one you've come to know so well. The one that silently implores you to stay. To be a part of her world. "Will you stay for dinner? Everyone's coming over. Even Amren agreed to come. It would mean so much to me."

Her eyes are pleading and you know you can't refuse. Not when she's given up so much for you. With a nod you agree even as your stomach tightens at the thought of facing everyone. It was easy to fake your inner turmoil when it was only her or Rhys. But when it was the entirety of the Inner Circle it was harder to hide away. Inevitably someone would get you hooked in on a conversation. You haven't sat down with them since… well, since before the Cauldron. Since before everything changed. And that was almost an entire year ago now. You knew this request would come sooner or later. Though you were hoping for later you were going to suck it up for Feyre.

As the evening wears on the townhouse fills with laughter and conversation with everyone gathering in the familiar camaraderie that once felt like home to you. But now you feel like an outsider watching from the shadows even as you sit among them. At the dinner table you're terribly quiet. You were merely pushing food around your plate listening to the ebb and flow of conversations you can't force yourself to seem to join.

Feyre decided to sit beside you in hopes of calming your nerves. She notices. She notices the way your eyes were downturned. The way you occasionally nodded your head or smiled briefly pretending to be listening. The way you didn’t pick your fork up once. Her joy fades a little each time she glances your way. You didn’t notice the way her expression turned from mirth to concern. She squeezed your hand under the table in a silent message of solidarity and love. But even her touch can't pull you from the fog that's settled over you. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was your punishment? To live in a hazed state for thousands of years? Oh, how you wished to be a tiny little human again with the promise of dead after a hundred years or so.

Rhysand sat at the head of the table catches Feyre’s subtle, worried glances towards her twin. She meets his eyes with a silent conversation passing between them. She didn’t know what to do anymore. She needed help. He nods slightly. His expression was solemn, understanding the depth of her worry. His gaze then shifts to you filled with a quiet resolve. He knew you were struggling but didn’t pick up on just how much you were. You’d done a masterful job until tonight hiding it away.

Rhysand had felt the ripple of concern from Feyre long before she voiced it. Her distress over your withdrawal echoing within him. She watched you with a sister's keen eye and her silent worry bled into their shared bond. A testament to her deep care for you.

Azriel, Feyre is troubled by Y/N's state. As am I. Rhysand's thought reached out to his brother that was sitting next to you. There was a thread of urgency woven through the mental call. She's pulling away and Feyre feels it deeply. Keep an eye on her please? Help her if you can.

Azriel's presence in Rhysand's mind was immediate and calm. He was steady force amid the silent storm of concern. I'm already on it, Rhys. I’ve sensed it too, he assured. His mental voice as composed as the shadows he commanded. You don't need to worry. I’ve been watching over her not out of obligation, but because... because she matters to me. I’ll make sure she’s safe and supported.

Azriel’s vigilance came not from an order but from a place of quiet solidarity. His attunement to the nuances of emotion and the unspoken had already drawn him to your side. Rhysand’s request merely echoed the actions he’d already undertaken. His actions were born from a blend of duty and a deep, personal concern that Azriel rarely let show. In the face of Feyre's distress and now Rhysand’s request, he became a silent sentinel for you. He needed to ensure that you were not only protected but also truly seen and understood.

Dinner continues around you as you withdrew into yourself. The laughter a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you. You're barely aware of Azriel's presence on your other side until you feel him beside you. His chair slightly closer than usual. His voice is soft, almost lost in the surrounding noise, as he leans in. "You don't have to be anything you're not, not here," he murmurs only for you to hear. "It’s okay to just be. To just breathe." His words meant to comfort felt like a lifeline in the sea of your tumultuous thoughts. You didn’t look at him for you were worried tears might spill over. But you nodded in acknowledgement letting him know that you heard him.

The evening slowly winds down and as the others linger over drinks and stories Azriel stays by your side. His presence a steady promise of understanding and patience. He doesn't push you to talk nor does he expect smiles. Instead, he offers the silent support you didn't know you needed, becoming a guardian not just of your safety, but of your peace.

Feyre watches this exchange with a glimmer of hope lighting up her worried features. Perhaps with Azriel's help you might find your way back to them. To yourself. Tonight, though, is just a small step in your journey back to yourself.

As everyone departs for the night you linger in the living room feigning interest in tidying up the small mess left behind. Feyre watches you for a moment with that same concern etching her features. But she decided against speaking, sensing your need for space.

Once the house is quiet you decide to step out for a walk under the night sky of Velaris. It had become your favorite routine. A routine that kept you grounded. A quick walk to your favorite spot on the Sidra. The city's soft lights reflect gently on the river casting dancing patterns on the water. It's beautiful yet the sight does little to ease the tightness in your chest.

You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't notice Azriel's approach until he's almost beside you. His presence is calming and somehow it doesn't startle you. Perhaps because in your heart you know he understands the need for quiet. His own demeanor is often just as reserved.

"Good evening," he says. His voice a low rumble. "Care for some company or would you prefer solitude tonight?"

You consider his offer for a moment. Company might not be so bad even though this was usually just a place for you. But it was Azriel. Someone who respects the silence as much as you do. "Company sounds nice, thank you," you reply with your voice softer than you intended.

Azriel nods falling into step beside you. As you walk his shadows play at your feet. It was a subtle yet comforting gesture. At one point one of his shadows curls around your hand. This small, almost imperceptible touch from his shadows offers a silent, comforting presence that envelops you in a sense of security. Neither of you speaks as you walk along the riverbank. The only sounds was the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the distant hum of the city. The silence between you is more than comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding that words can sometimes be too cumbersome.

After a while though Azriel speaks up. He wasn’t looking at you but staring out at the water. "It's easy to feel lost in this city… even with its lights and crowds. Sometimes it feels like being surrounded by shadows even in the brightest part of the day."

You glance at him, surprised by the reflection of your own feelings in his words. "Yes, it does," you agree. You were feeling a weight lift slightly knowing that someone else understands.

He nods slightly at your words, "The shadows aren't all there is though. There are places, moments like these, that can offer some respite. And not all shadows are bad." He smiles looking down at the ones that clung to your feet.

His words make you look at him anew. You weren’t just seeing the spymaster or the warrior but someone who also seeks to find balance between the light and the dark. It makes you wonder if perhaps in this shared moment you might find a way to navigate your own shadows. They might not all be bad you had to agree with him.

You don't say much more as you walk back to the townhouse, but the silent agreement hangs between you, comforting and promising. Maybe, just maybe, you're not as alone as you thought.

The dawn is still a whisper of light across Velaris as you sit quietly by the Sidra. The gentle murmur of the river a soothing background to your thoughts that never seemed to shut the hell up. Lost in the reflections of the dancing water you hardly notice Azriel’s approach until he’s beside you. His presence as quiet as the morning. It was becoming a routine for him to join you on the river it seemed. Not that you minded. He might be the one person you’d happily accept to intrude on your solitude.

“You’re up early,” he remarks softly not wanting to startle you. His tone as gentle as the river’s flow.

You look up with a soft smile on your face. His familiar, reassuring presence is a comfort. “Just needed some air,” you reply with a yawn. Your voice carrying the weight of another sleepless night.

Azriel nods, understanding. He looks out over the water for a moment sharing the silence with you. Then, turning back to you, he suggests, “Come with me. I think I have something that might help clear your head. Help you to focus a bit.”

You’re hesitant. The idea of doing anything but sitting quietly feels daunting. But there’s something about his offer. The promise of relief, however temporary, that nudges you to your feet.

“It’s just training,” he adds. seeing your uncertainty. “Physical activity can be a good way to let out some of the emotions that are harder to express in words. We’ll take it slow. You set the pace.”

Trusting Azriel’s judgment, knowing he wouldn’t push you into something without reason, you stand and follow him towards the training grounds. The city is quietly waking around you and the walk is silent but comfortable. His presence a steady reassurance by your side. Something you were slowly growing to cherish.

As you reach the secluded training area the first rays of sunlight begin to warm the cool morning air. Azriel gives you a small, encouraging smile. “Let’s start simple. No pressure. Just you learning to trust your strength again.”

The training starts at an easy pace. Azriel guiding you through basic maneuvers. His patience was evident. But as your body begins to warm up with the activity and your focus sharpens on the movements. There was that sense of release you never knew could come. It was unfamiliar yet welcome that starts to take hold on you.

As the morning sun climbs higher the training session progresses under Azriel's watchful eye. You find yourself gradually syncing with the rhythm of the physical exertion. Each movement flushing out the restless energy that has been building up inside you. Azriel's guidance is firm yet encouraging and you start to feel a rare sense of accomplishment as you slowly master each new maneuver he throws at you.

But as the session intensifies Azriel begins to push you harder, increasing the pace and complexity of the drills. His softness changed into some else. You knew he was only pushing you to help but it was starting to become a little too much. You’d only been Fae for a year to his centuries. "Come on, Y/N, focus. You can handle this," he urges. Throwing a series of rapid, controlled strikes that you're meant to block and counter.

For a moment you rise to the challenge your movements sharp and sure. Yet the physical strain is relentless. All too soon it starts to mirror the inner struggled you've been trying to manage. The boundaries between physical exertion and emotional pain blur… each block and dodge feeling more like a fight against your inner demons rather than a simple training exercise.

Suddenly, one of Azriel's strikes comes a little too close, a little too fast. It isn't meant to hit you and it doesn't but the rush of air as it passes by your face triggers something within you. Panic seizes your chest and the walls you've been holding up begin to crumble. Your movements falter. Your hands drop to your sides rapidly as your breath catches in your throat.

You step back abruptly with short, ragged breaths. Azriel stops immediately, concern replacing the intensity in his eyes. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks all too softly this time. He watched with concern as you struggled to compose yourself.

You nod rapidly trying to blink back the tears that want to rush out. “I’m fine. Just tired.” You murmur. It didn’t even sound believable to you. You turned you back to him so he wouldn’t see the distraught look on your face.

He steps forward with a sadness etched deeply on his features. "It's more than just tiredness, isn't it?" he asks gently as he reached out but stopped short, giving you space yet showing his readiness to support.

You shake your head again trying to compose yourself. Willing yourself to rebuild the barriers crumbling around you. "I'm fine, really, just got a little carried away," you offer weakly with your back still turned, fearing that facing him might reveal too much.

But Azriel doesn’t retreat. Instead, his shadows do what he physically refrains from—they reach out for you. You feel a cool, soothing sensation as one shadow gently curls around your arm, not binding but comforting. It was like a silent message of empathy and support. The unexpected kindness, the soft touch of darkness that doesn’t demand or judge, only seeks to comfort. But it undoes you completely.

Your defenses shatter at the tender contact. Tears finally spilling over as you turn back to face him. The floodgates opened by the gentle brush of his shadow. "I'm not fine," you admit, your voice choked with emotion. "It's all just... it's too much sometimes. I feel like I'm drowning in what I had to do. In what Feyre had to endure because of me. All because of me."

Azriel listens with his gaze never wavering. His eyes were filled with compassion and a profound understanding. His shadow retracts slightly giving you a moment, respecting your space while keeping the silent promise of his presence.

He nods his head willing you to continue. "Let it out, Y/N. You don't have to carry this alone," he says quietly finding the courage to step closer now. He opened his arms to you in an offer of comfort that you no longer have the strength to refuse.

As you step into his embrace, allowing yourself to be held, the warmth of his body contrasts with the cool touch of his shadows creating a cocoon of safety around you. "I was the one who killed the wolf that started this whole mess," you confess through sobs. Your words muffled against his chest. "Feyre took the blame to protect me... because she thought I couldn't handle the consequences."

“It’s okay,” he whispers. His voice close to your ear. “You were never meant to carry this alone.” He pauses. His hand gently lifting your chin so you can look at him. “Feyre’s path was her own. Fate had a hand in it. She was meant to meet Rhysand through Tamlin. To find her way to the Night Court. It couldn’t have been you, Y/N. Your path is different and it’s still unfolding.”

You shake your head feeling the weight of it all. “But-“

Azriel’s hold tightens reassuringly. His wings stretched around you before he stops you. “She did what she believed was right, out of love. And now you need to allow yourself to be loved and supported, too. Let your family be here for you. Let me be here for you.” he pleads, his tone imbued with a promise. In the safety of Azriel’s wings with the gentle embrace of his shadows, you feel a lightness you haven’t felt in a long time.

Beneath the shelter of his wings Azriel holds you close feeling the profound shift within as your eyes meet. In that moment a golden thread previously unseen but always present tightens, binding your soul to his. The mating bond ignites with a radiant force, undeniable and transformative.

This newfound connection stirs a deep protectiveness in Azriel, an urge to cherish and guard you that feels both ancient and freshly awakened. Love pulses through this bond unspoken yet palpable aligning his heartbeat with yours. He experiences a profound sense of belonging, understanding now that every moment with you, every shared concern, was leading to this revelation.

With the emergence of the bond, Azriel, who often cloaked himself in mystery, finds in you a clarity that illuminates his existence. This bond does not overwhelm; instead, it completes him, brightening his path forward. The world around him expands promising a journey not walked alone but side by side, in step with each breath.

Yet, the magnitude of this discovery brings a mix of elation and a daunting sense of responsibility. You are vulnerable, your soul laid bare before him, and he is cautious not to burden you further. Internally, Azriel grapples with the desire to declare the bond versus the need to provide you with stability and support without the shock of this revelation.

He resolves to keep this monumental discovery to himself for now, focusing on being your steadfast support. His shadows as a subtle extension of his will, curl gently around you both. They offered a protection and comfort without overwhelming you with the truth.

Azriel knows he must seek Rhysand’s counsel to navigate the complexities of this bond with sensitivity and respect for your emotions. As he holds you he silently vows to take this journey at a pace that honors both your readiness and the bond’s potential. Wrapped in his embrace, Azriel stands as your guardian bonded by fate yet guided by a deep respect for the journey your heart needs to undertake.

"You've been strong today," Azriel whispers into your hair as he senses your grip tighten. "Let's head back home. You need rest." His voice is as soothing as the twilight and his offer is tender, without any urgency that might hint at the truth simmering beneath his calm exterior.

The walk back from the training grounds is quiet, filled with a companionable silence that speaks of shared struggles and mutual care. As Azriel guides you to Feyre's studio, where she immerses herself in swathes of color and light, his touch lingers reassuringly on your arm. It's an affirmation of his presence, his support, his unspoken pledge to be there for you, come what may.

You offer him a soft smile. One that acknowledges the solace his presence brings even though you were still oblivious to the tectonic shift in his inner landscape. Azriel returns your smile with a quiet intensity, a vow that when the time comes for the bond to reveal itself to you he'll be there, just as he is now—steadfast, protective, and utterly devoted.

A subtle shift in Azriel’s demeanor as he prepares to leave catches Feyre's sharp eye. There's a fleeting tension, a trace of something potent and profound flickering in the depths of his usually inscrutable eyes. It's a glimpse of vulnerability. An undercurrent of panic that he's quick to disguise but not before Feyre takes note. Something significant has unsettled the shadowsinger and it likely had to do with you.

With a nod that holds more gravity than usual Azriel turns to go. His steps are measured but the urgency in his exit is apparent to anyone who knows him well. Once he steps beyond the view of the townhouse his wings unfurl, a dark silhouette against the Velaris skyline. He takes to the air with a speed driven by the need for counsel. For understanding the newly realized bond weighing on him with a mix of awe and anxiety.

He lands at the House of Wind with an intensity that is uncharacteristic for him. His feet touching down on the stone with a thud. There's no time for hesitation as he makes his way to where he knows he'll find Rhysand, perhaps Cassian too. The door to the study bursts open under his force and he stands there as a figure riddled with the shock of his own heart's awakening.

Inside the study, Rhysand and Cassian pause mid-conversation as the unexpected clamor announces Azriel's approach. Concern flickers over their faces. A stark, thunderous arrival is not Azriel's way.

"Are you alright, Az?" Cassian is the first to react. His voice tinged with concern as he notes Azriel's agitated state.

Azriel pauses before catching his breath. His demeanor one of a man grappling with overwhelming news. "It's the mating bond," he manages to say with his voice tight of emotion. "With Y/N—it just... it just snapped into place."

Rhysand rises from his chair. His expression shifting to one of understanding as he processes Azriel's words. The air in the room thickens with the significance of his declaration and there's a moment of collective stillness as they all absorb the meaning.

Cassian’s previous levity fades into a solemn gravity, reflecting the seriousness of Azriel's revelation. "That’s... big news, Az. How are you feeling about this?" he asks as he stepped closer in caution.

Rhysand, maintaining his composure, offers a supportive nod. "This is a momentous time, Azriel. We’re here for you, whatever you need," he assures him embodying the role of the leader who understands the profound implications of such a bond.

Azriel exhales deeply the reality of the situation settling in. "It's overwhelming," he concedes. A frown creasing his brow. "I mean, I hoped, maybe even wished for it. But now that it’s here, it feels... heavy." He looks up. His expression serious. "She’s still healing. I need to be careful. Need to make sure this doesn’t overwhelm her."

Rhysand gives a supportive nod. "Just keep being there for her, Az. You’ve always managed to support her without pushing. This doesn’t change your approach just your understanding of the connection."

Cassian smirks, pushing off from the table and clapping Azriel on the back with a bit more force than necessary. "Look at you all serious and broody—more than usual, I mean. Come on, Az, you know you're probably the only one who can handle this with the perfect blend of mystery. Besides," he adds with a wry grin, "have you seen the way she looks at you when you're not looking? That’s not just gratitude my friend. It’s like she’s hit the jackpot and she doesn’t even know it yet."

Azriel can’t help but crack a small smile despite the turmoil inside. "Thanks, Cass. I just don’t want to mess this up."

"Don’t worry so much, brother," Cassian chuckles, his tone light but earnest. "You’re doing fine. Plus, if you start floating around like a lovestruck bat, I’ll be here to pull you back down."

Rhysand laughs softly before shaking his head at the general. "He’s right, though. Take it step by step, Azriel. Let her come to terms with her own feelings. When she’s ready it’ll be right for both of you."

Feeling somewhat lighter Azriel nods appreciatively at his brothers. "Step by step," he repeats, firming his resolve. With a final nod he steps back into the night bolstered by the mix of Cassian’s humor and Rhysand’s leadership. He was ready to face the future with a heart full of hope and a mind cautious of the delicate balance he needs to maintain.

Back in the townhouse Feyre greets you with that mischievous grin that heralds some sisterly teasing. She sets her paintbrush down before wiping her hands on a cloth as her eyes sparkle with playful curiosity. "So, what did you do to him?" she teases with a smirk on her face.

You frown genuinely puzzled by her question. "What? Nothing, I... we were just training, then he said he had to go." Your voice trails off mirroring your confusion over Azriel's sudden change in demeanor.

Feyre chuckles, shaking her head as she picks up her brush again. "That man is always so mysterious. But don't worry it's probably just Azriel things. Or maybe, just maybe, you're the perfect distraction for our dear spymaster."

"What are you on about?" you ask while feeling a mix of amusement and bewilderment at her jest.

"Oh, please!" Feyre laughs, her brush dancing over the canvas. "He looks at you like every moment you spend together is something precious. Like you're a rare painting he can't quite believe he's stumbled upon."

"You're imagining things," you dismiss her. Shaking your head with a smile. "Azriel is just being kind. He's like that with everyone."

Feyre gives you a knowing look. Her smirk broadening. "Sure, he’s kind to everyone, but with you it’s different. He doesn’t look at anyone else quite like he looks at you. Like you’ve cast a spell on him and he’s trying to figure out how to live with the enchantment."

Her words make you pause. The playful insinuation tugging at the edges of your thoughts. Despite your dismissal Feyre’s observation lingers. A teasing possibility that maybe there's a hint of truth in her playful assertions. The room fills with your laughter, a sound that masks the flutter of curiosity her words have sparked.

Unbeknownst to you while you puzzle over Azriel's sudden departure, Feyre's mind is swiftly connecting with Rhysand's. A silent inquiry flits through their bond: Something's up with Azriel, he seemed... off. Did I miss something?

Rhysand's mental response comes with a chuckle that Feyre can almost hear: He’s fine, love. Just had a bit of a revelation. He’ll share when he's ready.

A spark of mischief lights up Feyre’s eyes as understanding dawns on her. Her lips curve into a sly, knowing grin. But she carefully masks any hint of her newfound knowledge from you. "You know, I think we deserve some fun today. Just us twins. You’ve been pushing hard with all that training and brooding," she suggests. Her voice bubbling with an excitement that piques your curiosity.

"Really? What did you have in mind?" you ask. Your earlier confusion over Azriel's behavior giving way to intrigue at Feyre's sudden enthusiasm.

"Oh, just a day for us to unwind and maybe get into a little mischief," Feyre replies, winking. "We can leave the mysteries of shadowy spymasters behind and focus on spoiling ourselves."

You laugh while nodding in agreement, relieved to set aside the morning's puzzles. "That sounds perfect, actually."

As the day unfolds with Feyre leading the way with her occasional secretive smiles and the warmth of her company envelop you, making you feel cherished and a part of something larger than just sisterly bonding. Every now and then she throws you a look filled with unspoken laughter as if she's in on a joke that’s yet to be told adding an intriguing layer to your day out.

"Enjoy today," Feyre says at one point. Her grin infectious. "Because who knows? Tomorrow you might find yourself swept off your feet in ways you never expected." Her words are light, but they dance with implication, leaving you wondering about the possibilities that tomorrow might bring.

As the days unfold since your training session you begin to notice an unusual shift in Azriel's behavior when he's around you. Always the quiet, stoic presence, he now seems to carry an air of nervousness that is both surprising and endearing. It's as if he's forgotten how to be around you. His typically smooth demeanor replaced with an awkwardness that sends a ripple of amusement throughout your days.

During your daily routines, whether you're practicing combat skills or just strolling through the lush gardens of the Night Court, Azriel is consistently by your side. Yet, his typical quiet confidence seems to falter. Today when he hands you a training sword his fingers not only linger but also tremble slightly against yours. The contact is brief but the moment his skin brushes against yours a visible blush creeps up his neck coloring his cheeks in a rare show of discomposure.

"Sorry," he stutters. Quickly retracting his hand as if scorched by the brief contact. He averts his gaze making sure to look anywhere but at you. His discomfort palpable in the tight set of his shoulders.

You can't help but tilt your head eyeing him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Azriel, are you alright?" you ask with a hint of a smile on your lips. Your voice is soft though hoping to ease some of his evident tension. The gardens around you bloom vibrantly. A stark contrast to Azriel’s suddenly flustered state.

He clears his throat attempting to regain some of his usual composure. "Yes, I'm... fine," he manages. His voice a notch higher than usual. He meets your gaze again holding it for a moment longer than he intends. The intensity of his stare both confusing and thrilling.

Just then as if to spite Azriel, Cassian strolls by and upon noticing Azriel's flushed face and your puzzled expression he can't help but let out a snicker. "Lost your cool, Shadowsinger?" he teases, winking at you before continuing on his way with a chuckle. "You’re usually smoother than this, brother!"

Azriel shoots Cassian a brief glare but there's a resigned humor in his eyes that suggests he knows just how out of character he must seem. As Cassian’s laughter fades into the distance Azriel finally turns back to you attempting a sheepish smile.

"It seems I'm a bit out of sorts today," he admits. His voice finally steadying. "Nothing to worry about, really."

Watching Azriel grapple with this uncharacteristic awkwardness only endears him more to you. There’s a sweetness in his struggle. A reminder that beneath the composed façade of the Night Court’s spymaster lies a depth of emotion rarely seen but profoundly felt.

On a tranquil afternoon in the Night Court, you find yourself relaxing in one of the quieter gardens alongside Feyre, Rhys, and Azriel. The air is filled with gentle laughter and the soft rustling of leaves. Cassian and Nesta are notably absent, presumably because Cassian has taken it upon himself to "help" Nesta with some errands—a pursuit that everyone knows often ends in playful bickering and affectionate banter.

Elain has also opted for a day out with Lucien exploring new botanical gardens on the outskirts of the city. Her passion for plants and Lucien's support in her endeavors showcases the growing bond between them.

The conversation flows easily until Rhys, with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, steers it towards Azriel’s recent scouting mission. "Azriel here stumbled upon something quite intriguing recently, didn’t you?" he teases while watching Azriel closely.

Caught off-guard Azriel’s response is delayed, his eyes widening slightly as if Rhys had tread into forbidden territory. "It was nothing out of the ordinary," he finally mutters. Though his voice holds a trace of unease.

Feyre jumps into the fray. Her tone laced with playful curiosity. "Oh, but I heard it was quite the discovery. Rare and fascinating… something that might deeply engage a man’s interest."

You laugh completely oblivious to the underlying meaning and look at Azriel with raised eyebrows. "What was it, Az? Some kind of hidden gem or a lost artifact?"

There’s a brief moment where Azriel’s composure falters under your direct gaze, his eyes meeting yours before quickly glancing away. He recovers quickly, however, a slight flush on his cheeks. "Yes, something like that," he agrees, his voice steadying. "A discovery that could indeed change one’s perspective for a lifetime."

Rhys doesn't miss a beat adding with a light chuckle, "Let’s hope it’s not kept secret too long. Such treasures are better when shared, right?"

Feyre nods enthusiastically. Her eyes dancing with amusement. "Especially when they bring people closer together, right, Az?"

Azriel meets Feyre’s gaze. His expression settling into a subtle smile that hints at his deep thoughts. “Indeed,” he replies quietly, the single word rich with unspoken meaning, affirming the sentiment with his usual succinct eloquence.

As the conversation moves on the jokes and laughter continue, your heart warmed by the newfound perspective you found with them. Azriel watches you with a gentle, albeit slightly wistful smile. He noticed how much more you're around, how your laughter fills the air more often, and how your vibrant personality begins to shine through once more. His heart fills with a mixture of relief and deep affection, seeing the signs of your healing. In these moments he cherishes the progress you've made feeling hopeful about the future. He was ready to support you every step of the way as the true nature of his discovery waits to be shared with you.

As the weeks blend into months, the connection between you and Azriel deepens. It was nurtured by shared moments and his unwavering support. On a crisp evening as the sun begins its descent painting the sky with strokes of pink and gold, Azriel brings you to a secluded hilltop that overlooks Velaris. This spot was known only to him and offers a panoramic view of the city as it starts to twinkle with the first lights of evening, the natural grassy surface underfoot soft and inviting.

Standing close by his presence was both comforting and solid, Azriel shares a story, his voice low and warm, recounting a humorous mishap from his early days as a spymaster. The tale is endearing, revealing a less guarded side of him and laughter bubbles up freely from your throat.

As your laughter transitions into a soft chuckle, you turn to face him. The last rays of the sunset bathe Azriel in a warm, golden light that illuminates his features, casting a glow that outlines him like an ethereal halo. His eyes that were filled with affection and a hint of amusement, meet yours. In that instant something profound shifts within you.

It feels as if a key has turned, unlocking something wondrous and overwhelming. The mating bond, which has been delicately weaving its way through each of your interactions, now clicks into place with perfect clarity. The sensation is electrifying yet profoundly comforting. Resonating through your very being.

Your breath catches and your heart races—not just from the shock of the realization but from the undeniable rightness that surges through you. Azriel, noticing the subtle transformation in your expression halts his story. A flicker of concern crossing his face.

"Are you okay?" he asks with his voice tinged with worry. The humor from his story now replaced by attentive care.

A mix of joy and amazement washes over you as you feel a comforting swirl of his shadows around your feet. Like curious creatures affirming this new connection. "Azriel, I think... I think the mating bond just…," you trailed off unsure how to continue. Your voice was filled with awe. The realization brings a new depth to your smile as you meet his gaze which is now shimmering with a mixture of relief and happiness.

"That's what I've been feeling," Azriel breathes out, a tender smile spreading across his face as he steps closer. He reaches out gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "I've been waiting, hoping you would feel it too when the time was right."

Taking his hand, you feel a warmth that goes beyond physical touch. A connection that seeps into the depths of your soul. "I’m glad it’s you," you say quietly, sincerely, the words flowing easily.

Azriel’s other hand comes up to gently cup your cheek. His touch feather light. "And I’m honored it’s you," he responds. His gaze locked with yours. The world around you—the city lights, the soft whisper of the evening breeze—fades into a gentle backdrop to the profound connection you share.

In this moment with Azriel’s shadows dancing around, playful, and protective, you feel a sense of completeness. A promise of endless possibilities. Together, bonded not just by fate but by a mutual understanding you know that whatever the future holds you'll get to navigate it side by side.

As the realization of the mating bond settles between you, Azriel's shadows seem to take on a life of their own. They swirled around you both with a newfound enthusiasm. The delicate tendrils of darkness weave around your legs and occasionally brush against your hands as if testing and reinforcing the connection that has just been acknowledged.

Azriel watches with a tender amusement as his shadows interact with you, their movements more animated than usual. "They seem to have taken quite a liking to you," he comments. His voice warm with affection and a hint of pride. "They're not usually this... attentive."

As the shadows continue their gentle dance around you, one particularly daring tendril snakes up your arm, its touch lighter than a feather. You can't help but laugh. The sound echoing softly in the quiet of the evening. With a delighted grin you reach out to trace the path of the shadow with your fingertips, marveling at the cool, tingling sensation it leaves on your skin.

Azriel continues watching with an affectionate roll of his eyes accompanying his half-smirk. "You're going to spoil them," he teases. His tone light but full of warmth.

Encouraged by your positive reaction another shadow playfully darts forward and mimics the motion of a gentle kiss on your cheek. You giggle with joy, your hand touching the spot in mock surprise and then you're both laughing. A shared moment of joy and wonder at the peculiar yet endearing behavior of the shadows.

Azriel shakes his head, but his eyes shine with amusement. "Now you've done it. They're going to expect this king of attention all the time," he jokes as the shadows around him swirled in what you swear could be shadowy laughter.

"You know, I think I'm okay with that," you respond still smiling as you watch the shadows retreat slightly, as if bashful from the attention. "They're quite charming. Just like someone else I know." You glance up at Azriel with a playful smirk. Enjoying the light flush that colors his cheeks at the compliment.

The shadows, seemingly pleased with their role in this light-hearted exchange, settle more calmly around you both like a contented sigh after a bout of laughter. The protective circle they form feels like a gentle embrace not just from Azriel but from all parts of him.

As the laughter fades Azriel's expression turns tender, his gaze softening as he searches your face looking for any sign of unease. "But seriously," he says with his voice low and earnest, "are you really okay?" His concern is palpable. The bond between you making every emotion, every nuance of feeling that much more intense and meaningful.

You meet his gaze feeling a surge of warmth from his sincere concern. Smiling gently, you nod, the tranquility of the moment filling you with a profound sense of peace. "I really am okay. For the first time in a long time," you admit. Your voice steady and sure. The confession feels like a significant acknowledgment of the journey you've been on and the role Azriel, and his shadows, have played in it.

Azriel's smile in response is radiant. A look of relief and happiness that brightens his entire demeanor. "That's all I’ve ever wanted to hear," he murmurs. His voice soft with emotion. He stands closer, his hand gently squeezing yours. "Come on, love," he whispers with a twinkle in his eyes. "Let's fly home."

With a graceful motion Azriel unfurls his expansive wings, the dark feathers shimmering under the starlight. The sight never fails to take your breath away. He wraps an arm securely around your waist, his touch reassuring. "Ready?" he asks. His voice a low rumble filled with excitement and anticipation.

With a nod you cling to him, feeling the rush of air as he leaps into the sky. Velaris unfolds below you. It was a gorgeous tapestry of lights and shadows. The wind was cool and exhilarating against your face. Flying with Azriel, held close against his chest, the city sprawling beneath you is an experience that feels as if it straddles the line between dream and reality.

The flight is swift and smooth. The quiet only broken by the rushing wind and the steady beat of Azriel's powerful wings. The world seems to shrink away, leaving only the two of you soaring through the night sky. As the House of Wind comes into view Azriel’s descent is gentle, a reminder of his skill and care for you.

You land softly on the balcony, the cool night breeze playing around you, still wrapped in the warmth of his embrace. Just as you touch down the laughter and lively banter of the Inner Circle reach your ears from inside.

As you and Azriel step through the grand doors of the House of Wind the lively atmosphere of the Inner Circle greets you. Cassian's booming voice fills the foyer as he spots you descending from the balcony. "Finally decided to join us, huh? Or were you two plotting to take over Velaris with your love-struck scheming?" he teases, winking not so conspicuously.

Rhysand joins in with a sly grin. His eyes twinkling with mischief. "I think they were busy weaving shadows and starlight. Look how they landed, like a pair of night-blooming flowers." His voice was laden with humor and draws a round of chuckles from around the room.

Feyre, Nesta, and Elain watch from the side, their expressions varying degrees of amusement and affection. Feyre's eyes meet yours and she gives you an approving nod. Her smile suggesting she understands more than she lets on. Nesta’s smirk is more enigmatic but supportive while Elain’s gentle gaze is filled with romantic delight at the scene unfolding before her.

Amid the teasing Azriel keeps you close, his arm remaining protectively around your waist. The warmth of his embrace reassures you. His presence a calming force against the good-natured ribbing. "Ignore them," he murmurs softly against your ear, just loud enough for you to hear over the laughter. His voice is rich with affection and a hint of playfulness that only you are privy to.

"You make it sound so easy," you whisper back, unable to suppress a smile feeling buoyed by the love filling the room.

As the evening progresses the light banter continues, with everyone occasionally casting teasing glances your way, making playful comments about the inseparable duo you and Azriel have become. Despite the jests there’s an underlying current of genuine happiness for you both. A celebration of the deepening bond that everyone seems to recognize and respect.

The night unfolds with shared stories, laughter, and an occasional clinking of glasses in toasts, not just to the night but to new beginnings and magical connections. As you stand by Azriel’s side, surrounded by friends who are more like family. You feel a profound sense of belonging and happiness. Here in the heart of the Night Court, under the watchful eyes of the stars and the soft glow of the city, you are home—not just in place, but in heart, bound by love, laughter, and the eternal dance of shadows and light.

Permanent Taglist (Message me or comment below if you want to be added!) : @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @kenn-spencerswifey @guacam011y @illisea @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff @avada-kedavra-bitch-187

[stormhearty]

Pairings: Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Triggers: pregnancy trope, longing, mention of death, thoughts of suicide, blood, baby’s death, open-ended ending

Summary: Hiraeth definition: “homesickness, longing, nostalgia and a wistful desire for something irretrievably lost.” It had been several years since your passing, one that he cursed the Mother and the Gods for. Now he wanders the world, endless and lost, waiting for the day you would whisper in his ears to come home — home to you.

Note: From this request! Thank you @soulsansang (I cannot tag you for the life of me), for sending this request! I fought every urge to connect this to my Seer!Reader fics. The idea of hiraeth fit perfectly with a mourning Azriel; however, I needed something else. Needed an Azriel who was mourning not because of his actions, but due to unforeseen circumstances that fate seemed to have placed him in. I’m sorry for the “pregnancy trope”, I didn’t think I would be writing this one like this. If you do not like that trope, I completely understand and I respect you not reading this. But I do hope you enjoy, and I hope it fills the angst and sadness that you had requested!

“Azriel~!”

He looked over his shoulder, his name echoing in his ears, as he stepped out of his apartment and into the pouring rain. Dull hazel eyes stared at the gray skies as the rain poured down, relentless and unforgiving.

It had been days since this rain had started, and it seemed as if it would never stop. It was torrent, heavy with the mix of strong that howled through the empty alleyways. Valeris was almost like an abandoned city — its inhabitants were locked indoors due to the storm that shook its walls.

Azriel’s form shuddered, the wetness seeping into his clothes. He barely wore something that would keep him warm in such icy weather — a simple black jacket, a long-sleeved tee hidden underneath, and black jeans. His leather shoes were soaked in the rain as he stepped into another puddle, not caring that the wetness soaked into his feet.

He walked through the deserted city, only a few who braved the torrential storm were running through the streets. Those out looked at the Spymaster with confusion and worry, but none voiced them out loud — he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

He had one destination — and he would make it there — despite the storm.

Stepping across the Sindra River, the cobblestone bridge was overrun by the river below. Waters crashed upon slowly decaying rocks, splashing over the sides and onto the bridge. Traversing it might seem impossible for any normal Fae, but for Azriel, it was easy.

He stepped onto the bridge, not minding how the cold waters of the river splashed onto him. He paused, at the arch of the bridge, leaning over the stoney rail to look at those rapid waters that raced down the riverbend. They crashed and crescented over rocks, splashing against everything and anything that stood in its way — and the downpour only amplified the river’s maelstrom.

Azriel looked into the waters below him, barely making out his reflection in them. He blinked out the water that tricked into his eyes, and when he looked back down into his reflection — instead he found a familiar figure — hair blowing in the raging wind, eyes looking up at him, hand reached out as if to tempt him into those frigid cold waters below him.

It was tempting, to say the least, the call to be submerged into the depths of the river, to feel the icy liquid deep into his skin — and make the river his grave.

He couldn't help it — the image was like a siren with its sailors, tempting them to their end. Leaning across the cobblestone rail, he leaned down — down into the depths of the water. Azriel had every mindset, every want to drown in that very river.

However, he felt his body pause, as if a tiny hand tugged on his shoulder — a child’s laugh echoing in his ears.

His body snapped up, his head whipping over his shoulder, frantically looking around, only to stop. Eyes noticed a fallen blue-violet on the drenched cobblestone. Azriel felt his body go rigid at the flower, remembering what it had meant. He turned around and knelt, shaky hands reaching down to pick up the soaked flower. He felt his eyes prickle with tears as he turned it in his hand, before bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss on the petals, standing up and pocketing it.

Dull hues stared at the river below him, noticing his reflection once more — and not the mirage that tempted him to death. A frown tugged on the edge of his blue-tinged lips before making his way across the bridge once more, the call of death barely whispering in his ears.

He turned, his feet bringing him off paved grounds into a mud-soaked one. The mud squished underneath his feet. He weaved through familiar trees, and as he delved further into the forest the canopy above him blocked the gray skies above, the pitter-patter of rain on soil lessening. There, underneath the canopy, Azriel shook his wings out — the rain that had drenched his wings flying off in droplets. He raised a hand, running through soak locks, pushing them back away from his face. He fixed his jacket, dusting off the moisture from its soaked fabric before he continued walking.

Hazel hues saw the familiar clearing, watching as the downpour continued to drench the soil in its never-ending attack. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hues staring up at the sky once more. He silently cursed the Mother and the Gods above for this rain — all he wanted was to see the clear skies for once.

Azriel stepped into the clearing, the rain drenching his clothes once more — not that he minded anyway.

He stepped into the middle of the clearing where a lone headstone stood. A simple one, nothing to extravagant. Azriel felt his heart race in his chest as he got closer to the headstone.

Azriel kneeled in front of the headstone, a tearful gaze as he read the words that were etched onto the stone: Here lies (Y/N), the wonderful wife of Azriel. Mother of their unborn child. May the Mother and Gods bring her safe passage to the Havens.

It had been two years since he had to bury your body, along with your unborn child.

The Mother was cruel to him.

You and Azriel had been married for over three centuries — his life was full of color, full of happiness and full of love. You were everything to Azriel. He would miss you when he went to missions, kiss you silly when he got home from said missions; he would spend lazy time with you, your head on his lap or vice versa — just spending time with each other. And for those three centuries, both of you had tried for a child, but because Fae menstrual cycles were so sporadic, it had been difficult.

But two years ago, your miracle baby happened.

“Azriel!”

Azriel turned around after shutting the door to your apartment, only to catch your body that flung towards his way.

“Hey love,” he greeted you, a chuckle escaping his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, looking down and noticing how your head tucked into his chest. He could feel your excitement vibrate through your body and he couldn't help but wonder what had gotten you so happy.

But at that moment, he just leaned down and pressed a kiss on the crown of your head, watching your head tilt up to look at him, your eyes shining.

“What is it?” he hummed out with a raised brow.

He watched as you bit your lower lip, fighting the smile that tugged at the edge of your lips.

“You know how I have been feeling unwell the past few weeks…” you had started off.

Azriel hummed out, shifting you in his arms so that you were at his side, his arm wrapped around your waist before leading you into the kitchen. He maneuvered you around, grasping your waist and lifting you with ease onto the countertop next to the stove.

“Azriel!!” You shrieked in surprise, your hands grasping his shoulders to stretch yourself.

He smirks up at you, settling himself between your legs, “Now what were you saying, love?”

He watched you huff softly before continuing your story, “Well I went to Madja earlier today and I told her of my symptoms—-”

“Nausea, headaches, bloating…” he listed off.

Azriel knew your symptoms, it had worried him to the max. Both of you didn't know what had happened — he was worried about some sort of poisoning… he thought of the worst-case scenarios. And you had to be the one to calm him down from those spiraling thoughts.

You hummed and nodded your head, “Well… it looks like you didn't have to be so worried about that poisoning scenario, my love…” you whispered as you leaned down to press your forehead against his.

He felt your hands slide down his shoulders, down his arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Azriel always loved how you touched him — there was no hesitancy in the way you held him, touched him — whether it he sexual or intimate. You had always initiated touching him and now, he can't live without your hands or body near his own.

He felt your hands grip his own, sliding then to your lower abdomen, pressing his hands against the soft skin.

“… I’m pregnant, Azzie…”

Your words were a whisper and Azriel felt his eyes widen at the words that had left your lips. He stared up at you and watched as your eyes sparkle light the night sky at your confession.

Hazel hues looked up at you before sliding down your body to where your hand lay over his own. A wide smile tugged on his lips before he slipped his hands away from your own, cupping your cheeks and kissing you.

He poured everything into that kiss — all his love for you and this unborn child.

When his lungs screamed for air, he was content with pressing kisses on your skin while you giggled, feeling your hands run through his hair.

“We’ll be having a child…” he whispered in disbelief.

He heard you let out a hum, feeling your head nod, “Yes we are… after centuries… our beautiful child…”

Every word that you whispered was full of happiness, adoration, and excitement. He knew, from hearing you speak, that you'd be a wonderful mother… one that would dote on that child.

He was elated — after centuries of both of you trying, watching your family build their own little families — Azriel was worried that both of you would never be blessed with a child. Yet now, the Mother seemed to rain her fortune on the both of you.

But deep within him, worry festered like mold, slowly growing. He worried about the complications — he heard about it with Rhysand and Feyre, Nesta and Cassian. And he worried for you — and all he could pray to the Mother that you would be spared from it.

“What color should the baby’s room be?”

Azriel hummed and raised a brow, turning his head to gaze at you. He fought back a smile — he had found you so adorable. You had waddled, your belly large protruding your tiny stature. Your hand tucked in the crook of his elbow protectively.

Azriel had ensured you were in good hands during your pregnancy; and that he would always prioritize your health and safety. He would never let you go out without him, either himself or his shadows. He always had a hand on you — whether it be around your waist or, like now, your hand tucked into his elbow.

Your features glowed despite the exhaustion he knew you felt — you had looked so beautiful during your whole pregnancy and Azriel worshiped you like the Goddess you were to him.

He watched as your gaze went up to him, your head tilting slightly at the look he gave you. Azriel shook his head, “You know I'd be biased if you asked me, love…” he answered.

Azriel would choose blue, even if it was a girl or a boy, his siphon colors would be that room’s color.

He watched as you rolled your eyes, and felt your hand pat his forearm, “Why am I not surprised that, out of all the colors, you’d choose your siphon?”

The two of you walked into the paint shop, the doorbell ringing above you. You were greeted by a Fae, one who was shocked and nervous to meet the Spymaster and his wife.

Azriel patted your hand and slipped your hand from his elbow, “Go ahead my loves… I'll be here…” He watched you smile before following the Fae to the color room, and he watched with adoration.

“You can't leave me, (Y/N)…” he sobbed, grasping your flaccid hand in his, pressing a kiss on cold skin.

The room was deathly still, his sobs echoing in the loud shared room.

You had gone into labor hours ago, and that labor… was difficult on your weak body. The babe, as Madja had warned you and Azriel all those months ago, had taken a toll on your body. You had been sick and bedridden for most of the pregnancy — Madja had stressed for you to terminate the pregnancy — it was either you or the baby.

Azriel had fought for you to terminate the pregnancy; begged and cried you to.

He could live without the unborn child but without you?

Never.

He watched you cry, begged him to let you keep the babe — he listened to your bargains, and promises; he listened to you cry in the night whispering to the baby all the while rubbing your stomach.

He watched everything… but he couldn't lose you.

But you had been stubborn, wanting to keep the pregnancy — pushing it to term — despite the consequences of it.

And so when you went into labor, the amount of blood you lost… was too much for Madja to replenish with her powers. The baby that was born was already too blue to try to bring back alive. Azriel was by your side the whole labor, watching you push your body to the brink — all for the child.

He felt your pulse slow underneath his fingertips, his hazel eyes frantically trying to find yours as he watched them roll backwards.

“No…No!” he yelled, dropping your hand onto the mattress and cupping your cheeks, “My love… (Y/N)…” he whispered, leaning in to press his forehead against yours, trying to pull you from the call of death.

Azriel watched you smile up at him, your eyes focusing on him, crescenting as you looked up at him, “…Azzie…” you whispered.

He fought back tears as he nodded his head, “Hey, my love, yes, I’m here… I’m here…”

“I’m sorry…”

It was as if you knew… this would be the outcome of your decision.

“No… Don’t be sorry… Please don’t… Just… Please don’t leave me… You can’t leave me…”

He watched as your eyes roll again and he brought your face closer to his own, watching them focus on him again, “…I don’t want to… But, I’m so tired Az…”

Azriel felt a heart wrenching sob escape his throat. His thumb caressed your pulse point, feeling it slow more. He looked up at his High Lord and the Healer and both of them looked at him with a somber look.

A shake from his High Lord gave his answer.

The tears finally fell, as he looked back at you — and you back up at him. He watched your brows furrow in confusion as you stared at him.

All he did was shake his head, leaning down to press one final kiss on your lips.

“Sleep… My love… if you’re tired. I’ll wait for you to wake up…”

He felt you take one last breath, a smile tugging on your lips as you whispered, “I love you, Az…”

Azriel felt your body go limp in the bed, your head roll back and your pulse stop completely. He watched your eyes dull, that smile still on your features.

His body shook, and tears never ended as he pulled your body into his arms, cradling your head as he let out a cry, pressing his face into the crook of your neck — the final time he’d ever feel you against him.

Azriel never thought heart break would be so painful.

He stared at the tombstone, pulling out of his thoughts and memories to reach down and caress the marble stone.

“… Hi my love…” he greeted you, like usual, “It’s raining again… It seems that Valeris is in a typhoon of rain recently…”

Azriel sat himself down on the muddy ground, not caring if the mud and rain soaked through his clothes again.

He had sat there, talking to you about his day, what had happened recently with the family, what was going on with Valeris and Prythian in general. He talked for hours until he felt his voice go sore and his body shake due to the cold from the rain, but he didn’t leave… not until the skies turned dark.

Azriel laid himself down on the patch of dirt in front of your grave, laying on his back as he stared up at the sky. It seemed the rain ceased and the beautiful starry skies of Valeris peaked through the rain clouds.

He watched the stars twinkle, before a shooting star blazed through the sky before another one — much smaller — followed it.

“…Was that you, (Y/N)?” he whispered, thinking that those two fallen stars were you and the child, reaching out to him from the Havens above.

Azriel had been searching for signs, for the past two years of any sign of you in the Havens. Looking for signs that you were calling for him — looking for him. All he wanted to know was that you were out there.

And that shooting star was it.

He smiled and closed his eyes, “I’m coming back home to you…”

[daechwitatamic]

The Price || MYG

banner by @/itaeewon

The Price

Rating: NSWF - minors do not have my consent to interact Genre: Snow White and the Huntsman!au, angst, smut, unhappy ending WC: 8k

Summary: The Queen is responsible for everything you call yours: your home, your job, your freedom. You live without laying claim to anything else, lest the Queen leverage more in exchange for her grace. But the Queen has just named her latest price: the life of the young blacksmith, Min Yoongi.

Warnings: language, drinking, there’s a plague and it’s a problem, reader’s parents died (see the previous warning lol) and there are scenes of her grieving process, reader is a hunter so there’s mentions of animal carcasses and hides, lots of mentions of reader’s big fancy knife, a murder attempt, kissing, nip stim, groping, fingering, clit stim, penetrative sex (protection not mentioned either way), reader on top, angst, unhappy/ambiguous ending

A/N: Part of the Make Me Your Villain collab! Please give the other authors a lot of love!!! Huge huge huge thank you to @/here2bbtstrash for beta-ing!

//

Mirror, mirror - look and see. Who might take this throne from me? Mirror, mirror - who's the threat? Show me which boy's blood to let.

There are pros and cons to living outside the village. The pros are that you’re mostly left alone - you live by your own laws, most of the time. It’s better this way; you come and go as you please, you don’t worry about latest fashions or gossip, you aren’t under the thumb of any societal niceties or norms. You concern yourself more with what the forest tells you. Bad weather, humans who don’t belong, sickness on the horizon - the forest knows it all, and you know how to listen.

You knew about the plague - in a vague, something isn’t right here kind of way - days before the first villager fell sick. You didn’t see anything bigger than a possum for three days - you knew something was in the air. It was the baker first, then his wife. Now it’s made its way into the castle, the guards and servants falling like flies. 

Another pro - you won’t pick up illness from the baker if you make your own bread in your tiny cabin in the woods. 

The main con - the only con, really - is that when you make your weekly trek to the castle to present the King and Queen with your scores (deer, mostly, but usually a few fowl too) it takes so damn long to get there.

It would be faster on foot, much faster, but you have to load your kills onto a cart and take the dirt road, which winds and twists and takes its time. Today your cart is loaded: venison, fowl, a few rabbits, even a fox. That had been a good score. The Queen likes furs - she’ll pay you well for it.

But the trip into town once a week is a fair price for your freedom, you think.

A few vendors through the heart of town wave hello as you pass. You lift your hand in response but don’t stop. You’ll shop after, when your cart is empty and your purse is full. For now, you stay on the main road until it changes over from tamped-down dirt to cobblestone to, eventually, flat stone that leads to the bridge over the castle’s moat. 

The usual guard, the one who knows your face and always waves you through, isn’t there. You wonder if the plague reached him, if he’ll recover or if they’ll send his body to the sea like all the others. 

You show identification, the card nearly illegible due to how many times it’s been folded and stuffed into your shoe for safekeeping, and this new guard waves you on. 

As usual, you stop in the courtyard just inside the first set of walls. You hop down and start undoing the straps of the fabric you have over the top of the cart. Two guards join you, and they begin moving your scores down from the cart. Each is weighed and given a quick once-over as a scribe stands to the side recording it all.

“Make sure you mention how nice that hide is,” you tell him, pointing at the fox. “I got that one special, for her.”

The scribe rolls his eyes a little, but you see him peer at the fox and scribble something on his little parchment. When they’re done, your cart empty, the scribe rolls his paper up and leads you up the steps towards the main doors to the castle. You flip one of the guards a silver coin and follow the scribe. As you head up the steps, you hear the sound of your horse’s feet moving across the stone, the cart creaking and groaning behind him, as the guard you paid takes him to be cared for. 

Inside, you follow the thick, red carpet into the throne room. You’re surprised to see only the Queen present, but you school your face and drop into a bow anyway, your forehead brushing the soft carpeting. 

When you rise, you see the scribe has handed her the parchment, and she reads over the report of your goods. You wait, knowing better than to speak until she has. 

“A good week,” she observes. 

“Yes, your Grace,” you say, eyes on the carpet. “I was pleased as well.”

“Are you well?” she asks as she signals for her Chief of Coin, who scurries close to the throne and lowers his head to hear her whispers. 

“Quite well,” you say automatically, though you’re not sure what exactly she’s asking. Does she mean your health? Your home? 

The Chief of Coin makes his way to you and you pull your practically-empty purse from your back pocket. 

“You have need of nothing?” she asks. 

This would be your opportunity to ask after anything major - repairs on your home, medicine, anything you couldn’t get during your walk back through town.

“No, your Grace,” you say. “I had need of a new blade, but the local smith took my request.”

The local smith and your new blade are one of your stops on your way home. 

“I’ve heard from the citadel,” she tells you, and you pull your eyes away from the Chief of Coin to look at her. “They say your brother is doing well. He’s applying himself to his studies.”

When you’d lost your parents, you’d begged to keep your brother yourself, desperate to keep him away from the citadel’s orphanage. You were of age, could handle yourself. You could handle him, too, you’d argued. 

The King had considered this. Your family was well-known in the village, and your father had hunted for the crown for many years. Your brother was only about five years out from finishing his schooling. 

You were investments, you and your brother.

In the end, the deal had been struck - the crown would see to the rest of his education under the condition that when he finished he’d work for the crown, pay back his debt, begin to build his own name. 

And, in the meantime, you’d take over the hunting. You could keep your family’s little cabin out in the woods, away from town. Your brother wouldn’t be apprenticed off to a stranger.

It was an easy deal to agree to. 

“We’re grateful for the opportunity,” you say to the Queen. “If the report said anything less, I’d travel there to knock sense into him, myself. He’s at that age. You know.”

You try to bite back a cringe. The Queen might not know. She’d never been able to bear a child for the King. 

She smiles at this, thinly.  “Very well,” she says, and you take back your now-heavy purse from the Chief of Coin. “Then I shall see you next week. I wish you continued health in the upcoming days.”

You nod your head. “I wish the crown health and longevity,” you say. Head bowed, you miss the way her eyes tighten.

–

You pick up the goods you need - eggs, flour, and the like - on your way through town. You eye the tavern, tempted to stop for a pint. Alas, you are embarrassingly excited to get your new blade, so instead you carry on down the road towards the smithy. 

After tying up your horse - though he’s a lazy thing and probably wouldn’t wonder anyway, not with the cart hitched up - you head inside, following the sounds of a hammer striking metal. 

You wait until there’s a break in the noise and then shout a hey back towards the open door to let the team know they have a customer. 

There’s the sound of a heavy instrument being dropped to the ground, and you catch yourself smoothing your hair back. Stop it, you scold yourself, scowling. 

That’s the face that greets the youngest of the smithing team, Min Yoongi, as he steps into the shop, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light.

“Ah,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “Is it Thursday already?”

“Is my blade ready?” you ask, ignoring both his self-satisfied grin and his question. “Park Jihoon said I could get it today.”

At his boss’s name, Yoongi’s smirk fades until he’s all business again. He turns to the wall, where special orders are tacked. He searches until he finds yours. 

“It’s ready,” he grunts, reading the slip of parchment. “Wait here.”

He disappears into the back again, returning with a hefty-looking blade, sheathed in a leather case. 

He places it on the counter between you, pulls the blade from its case and turns it over so you can see each side.

You frown. “I didn’t order engraving on the case,” you say, jutting your chin towards the delicate design at the top. It curls in and around itself, all the way around. “I’d better not have to pay extra for that.”

“Ah, but he worked so hard on it!” Park Jihoon says cheerfully, appearing out of the back and clapping Yoongi on the shoulder. You keep your eyes on the knife; Yoongi looks steadfastly at the wall with the orders, a pink flush working up his neck. 

“It’s not extra,” he mutters. 

“I’m heading to Bridgeport,” the senior blacksmith tells Yoongi. “I’ll be back before sundown. You’ll be okay here?”

“Of course I will,” Yoongi says, disgruntled. Jihoon nods goodbye at you both and moves through the door, leaving you in silence. 

“What’s the price?” you ask, placing your purse on the counter and digging for coins. He turns the paper over so you can see what his boss wrote, and you slide him the payment. You work on attaching the blade’s sheath to your belt, ignoring how Yoongi watches you through heavy-hooded eyes. 

You know that look. You are ignoring that look.��

“Lovely,” you say, once you’re situated and ready to go. You swipe up your purse and toss it once, catching it deftly. “Have fun pounding on metal, or whatever.”

His grin is razor-sharp. “I’d be happy to pound something else, if you want.”

The laugh rips out of you, unbidden and unwanted. “Disgusting,” you tell him, but the laughter takes the bite out of the words. “My God, you ought to throw yourself down the well for that.”

He lifts a brow, his smile turning less dangerous and more open.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “None of that today, thanks. I’ll be off.”

“Come on,” he cajoles, coming around the counter to follow you to the door. “You know you want some. It’ll be such a long ride back here when you change your mind later.”

“Keep dreaming, blacksmith,” you tell him, lips pursing in amusement.

He lays a hand over his heart like he’s wounded. “Blacksmith? You remembered my name just fine last week when you were -.”

“Well, I seem to have forgotten it again!” you blurt before he can finish the thought, pulling the door open. Over your shoulder you call, “Good day!” 

His laughter rings out onto the street, following you home.

Regretfully, you have to admit that out of everyone who lives in this village, built out from the castle’s western gate, you know the most about Min Yoongi.

You knew him in passing, of course - before. When you’d ride through this same village on this same cart, your little brother squeezed between you and your father. When you’d stand silently, peeking around your father’s side, while he took payment from the King for his scores. When you’d greet the peddlers and the shop-keepers politely before climbing back on the cart and riding all the way back home. 

Yoongi was just an apprentice then. You hadn’t paid him any mind. He was quiet, a bit scruffy, stayed close to Park Jihoon. He was no more interesting to you than the apprentice for the bakery, the tannery, the copywrite. Wasn’t even the best looking out of the bunch, honestly. 

He was just there, unassuming. He was there when you’d pass through town on the cart full of your father’s scores, there whenever your family had business with the blacksmith, there when the holidays rolled through and your mother dragged you into town in a dress you hated and shoes that pinched.

There the day your parents’ bodies, along with six others, were loaded onto a barge headed for the sea. There the day your brother joined four more young people from the village as they climbed into a deep blue carriage headed for the citadel. 

Yoongi’s dark eyes, cool and undemanding, had been on you as you stood fully alone for the first time in your life. 

You hadn’t paid him any attention then, either. You couldn’t pay mind to anything then except dragging yourself through dark day after dark day until, finally, the clouds seemed to part and your new life seemed bearable. And bearable turned into decent. And decent turned into enjoyable. 

The seasons turned. The hurts faded. 

And you began to pay mind to Min Yoongi.

You began to learn things about him, then - after. 

In your time around town, you learned first that he was good at his work - his blades were made well, easily as well as his master’s blades. You learned that he scowled and grunted but hardly ever meant it. You learned that he had a good reputation around the village - was known for helping his neighbors without being asked, known for being polite and keeping to himself. You learned that he had no family either, that the master blacksmith who’d taken him as an apprentice had more or less raised him, too.

Alone with him, you learned that his smile could be razor sharp, one side lifting and eyes glinting in a way that made your pulse sing. You learned that when he meant it, his eyes squeezed shut and his gums showed. His shoulders shook when he laughed. He made the funniest faces when someone said anything he didn’t agree with or didn’t understand. He’d grown strong, his craft shaping his arms and roughening his hands.

You learned that he took whiskey neat at the tavern when he was done working for the day. You learned that he had a smart mouth behind his quiet demeanor, and opinions about everything. You learned what he was willing and able to do with that mouth when he pressed you against the rough wood of the tavern’s side alley, and then later, back in his rooms behind the smithy. 

You learned that he fucked rough but loved soft.

And that was where it had to stop.

Because it couldn’t be - but this you knew the whole time. 

When he pressed his mouth to yours sweetly, stretching to reach you, brushed one lovely finger down your cheek and whispered, I want you, you knew this: it couldn’t be. 

There was no life for you in the village. There was no life for you as someone’s wife. There was no future for you as someone’s homemaker. 

Even if he could somehow give you partnership and love without taking away the wildness of your lifestyle - there was no love ready to bloom and grow behind your iron ribs. You had nothing you could give him back. You knew only survival. Only killing and coin. Only the forest and its secrets.

“You can’t have me,” you’d whispered back. “I am not to be had.”

You were surprised when he didn’t fight it. He hadn’t pushed back. He hadn’t held it against you, hadn’t been wounded. He’d accepted exactly what you were willing to give him and asked for nothing more. 

You know this, above all else: he’s sweet, and conscientious, and good. Yoongi is good.

You - forest-dweller, hunter, orphan, unmannered, uneducated - don’t deserve him. You aren’t enough for how good he is.

The royal physician’s face says it all. 

The Queen purses her lips, her eyes on her husband’s prone form. He meets her gaze weakly, too far gone to mask any of it. 

“How long?” she asks, the words clipped. 

The physician spreads his hands before him. “Impossible to say, your Majesty. Days, maybe. Weeks, if he can be strong.”

She scoffs. “Days it shall be, then.” She dismisses him with the wave of a hand. 

No one is surprised, she thinks. The plague would breach their walls eventually. Only the strong survive - of course it would be her husband who would succumb first, and quickly. He’d never been strong, not like her. 

After all, she was the one who tried all these years. She looked and acted the part of a partner. She was faithful. She focused on the crown, on the realm. 

Not like him.

He coughs as he shifts on the bed, and she looks at him again. Weak, she thinks again. She can only feel disgust for him, for everything he never gave her. 

“You’ll finally get what you always wanted,” he croaks. 

She turns to look out the window. The day is grey, dreary. 

“It seems I shall,” she agrees. Then she turns and walks closer to her husband’s sickbed - deathbed, perhaps. She drops delicately into the chair at his side and takes his clammy hand in hers. 

It might look as if she doted on him. It might look as if she mourned.

“What became of him?” she asks, voice even and unbending. “The boy.”

Her husband’s eyes crinkle with amusement, and the chuckle that rumbles from his chest is accompanied by pained coughing. 

“You truly are something, my Queen,” he says, shaking his head. “The boy doesn’t even know.”

He will say nothing else.

The Queen is delivered two things at once, not a week later.

The first, a gilded mirror, promised to possess magical ability.

The second, the expected news of her husband’s passing.

The realm begins its period of mourning, flags lowering, shutters closing. The Queen begins her incantations, alone in the southernmost tower of the keep.

The frame is made of ornately twisted gold, so heavy it takes two of her men to hang it for her. When they pull the dust cover off, she steps back to appraise it. 

“Pretty,” she observes, watching her own reflection in the glass - unmagical, unextraordinary. 

The swirling, green-hued mist doesn’t appear before her reflection until her men are dismissed, the door closing and leaving her alone. 

Your Majesty, the mirror intones, the voice coming from the depth of the mist. Your wish is my command.

The Queen pauses, considering. The throne, the throne - hers, finally, only hers. 

Unless.

The King’s last words to her ring through her head - the boy doesn’t even know. 

She raises her chin and chants, 

“Mirror, mirror, look and see…

Who could take this throne from me?

Mirror, mirror, who’s the threat?

Show me which boy’s blood to let.”

The mist, green and growing, takes over the glass. The Queen’s fists clench tightly at her sides. 

The mist clears. The Queen lets out a laugh, short and bitter. 

The blacksmith’s boy smiles shyly in the glass, one hand coming up as if to hide his face. 

The blacksmith’s boy. The king’s bastard. Her only threat, the only other claim to her throne.

Your next trip into town isn’t with a cart full of venison and fowl. Instead it rings more true to the holidays of old, with your mother in charge. You wear black and a scowl, just as you did then.

The funeral services for the King threaten to last the full day, maybe into the night. You wish you could abstain, but if ever there was an event you were obligated to attend - this would be it. 

You’re not sure what the King’s death means for you - for your brother. Will the Queen uphold the bargain? Does she still want your brother’s counsel, someday, when he’s of age? Without the King’s affection for your father, will she continue to allow you to live freely as part of the arrangement? 

You sit alone in the church pew; rather, you’re surrounded on either side by strangers. You know Yoongi’s in the crowd somewhere - you can feel his eyes burning holes in the back of your head. You don’t turn to look for him. What good would it do?

It’s well after dark when the town begins to file out into the night. Your stomach growls, and you ponder if you should stop for a hot meal at the tavern before making the trek back through the woods or if you can hold out until you’re safely back at home.

You’re stopped on your way out the door by a guard reaching across you, blocking your path.

“Her Majesty requests your audience,” he says gruffly, and you feel the hairs on your neck stand at attention. Your audience? 

It can’t be good. You’re sure of it. 

You don’t meet her in the throne room as you have in the past. Instead, the guard leads you to a small chamber off the chapel, a nondescript little room with no decor, only a table with a candelabra lit in the center. 

She’s seated, and it’s so cramped in the room that it’s hard to properly bow, but you do your best. 

“Is my brother well?” you blurt out as soon as the guard has closed the door behind you. It was the first, biggest concern you had - you couldn’t hold it in. Had something happened in the citadel? 

She inclines her head, shrouded in darkness. “I asked you here because I need something done. You seem, somehow, to be my best option.”

You duck your head, flooded with relief. “I’m at your service, as always.”

And you are. You owe the crown everything - the home you were allowed to keep, your brother’s education, your income. Your freedom, as conditional as it is. 

The Queen seems to think before she speaks, and when she does each word is short and deliberate.

“There’s someone I need gone,” she says, her voice giving away no emotion. No sign of grief from the widow, no sign of trepidation from the new ruler, no sign of regret from the human asking you to take a life. “A threat to my throne. I’ll pay five times our normal scale. And I’ll pay you for your discretion, as well, on an ongoing basis.”

You respond with silence. You can’t process quickly enough - you don’t know what to tell her.

The only thing you can tell her is yes. She holds your whole world in her hands. 

But if you tell her yes, then you have to do it. Can you kill a person, can you pretend it’s no different from cutting a rabbit’s throat? 

Could you tell her yes and then leave? Vanish into the forest? What would become of your brother, if you did? Would he be responsible for your sins?

Five times your normal price could do a lot for you. You could send finer clothes to your brother, help pay for his books, maybe even a little spending money. You could fix up the cabin - patch the roof where it leaks, reinforce the cellar the way you’ve thought about for years. 

And payment for your silence - ongoing? For how long, forever?

None of it matters. You can’t say no to the Queen.

“Yes, your Majesty,” you hear yourself say. Your stomach is a block of ice, turning over and over with the tide. “I am yours to command.”

You know it. She knows it.

“The blacksmith’s boy,” she says coolly, and you aren’t even surprised. It’s like part of you knew, somehow. Part of you has been waiting for this ending all along. Isn’t this exactly why you’d never let him get too close? There was never a happy ending in the stars - not for you.

She accepts your silence as acquiescence and adds, “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” you repeat, voice coming out too wispy. 

She meets your gaze, still cold. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you say, the only correct answer. But your mind is scrambling far away, getting ahead - what weapons do you have on hand, how will you do this -

“You didn’t strike me as softhearted,” she says, full of disdain.

“I’m not,” you defend. It’s just that it’s Yoongi. Yoongi, who sees your sharp edges and smiles because he knows firsthand how much sharp edges are worth. How - how - how can you? How can you pretend it’s just a hunt, just a necessity, when you know how his mouth tastes, how he looks at you like you’re something?

Her even look turns darker, a shade closer to a frown. “I know you have the stomach and skill to kill. And I know you dally with him. He’ll follow you - take him to the woods and be done with it.”

You haven’t been as discrete as you thought you had. You wonder who else in town knows about whom you dally with.

Not that it will matter, after tonight. Not if you follow orders.

Not when you follow orders.

“Yes, your Majesty,” you say, head bowed. 

There’s no other correct answer. Your freedom had always had a price.

–

There’s some poetic irony, you think, in killing Min Yoongi with the blade he made just for you. 

Your mind is stuck on this, circling it, unable to let go, as you approach the smithy.

The lights are out - there’ll be no late-night projects, not during the official mourning for the King. You hope Park Jihoon, whose quarters are above the smithy, just across the yard from Yoongi’s tiny cabin, sleeps deeply. 

You know Yoongi keeps a key in the eaves above his front window; you’ve seen him retrieve it no less than a half-dozen times - usually he’s reaching for it, his shirt rising and showing a slip of belly that you can’t help but run your hands across as he laughs and tells you to be patient.

You reach it on your own, tonight. You let yourself in as silently as possible, closing the door behind you, placing the key gently on his tiny, wooden table. His bed is in the far corner of the room, and although the fire in the hearth has gone out, you can see the lump of blankets through the darkness that show you his form.

You approach quietly, as you would approach a potential score, letting yourself slip into the mindset of surviving the forest. 

You hesitate when you stand over him. He sleeps on his back, the light from the streetlamps outside casting flickering yellow over his delicate features. His eyelids flutter. Next to his head, his fingers twitch. 

If you strike true, this could be over in an instant.

His eyes slide open, and a hazy smile drifts over his face. “Am I having a very good dream?” he murmurs. His eyes trail down your form and freeze on the knife in your hand. The smile fades, and his eyes meet yours again, a question in them. “Or perhaps a very bad one?”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. Then, you move at the same time - you lunging and plunging the blade into the spot where his heart lay, and him rolling sideways and hitting the floor with a thud.

You yank your blade free from where it pierced Yoongi’s empty mattress and wheel to follow him as he scrambles upright and towards the door. 

You should’ve locked it. You shouldn’t have apologized, your voice and your regret giving him the split second to bolt.

You follow him at a sprint, panting hard, as the fool runs barefoot through the smithy’s yard, heading for the forest. 

Your forest. 

It’s overcast tonight, threatening rain. No moon or stars to guide you, you follow Yoongi as he zigs and zags blindly through the trees. You have the advantage. You know where you are, even in the dark. 

It’s primal, as you forge deeper and deeper through the underbrush, just sinew and silence as you run. Wind whistles around you as you focus on breathing, focus on following the crunch of Yoongi’s wild path. The earth seems to rise up to meet each footfall with a jolting slap. The darkness seems to spur you on like it knows you need this, pressing you onward, telling you, hurry, hurry.

If you can herd him towards the east, you can cut him off at the ravine - he won’t be able to do it barefoot, not without stumbling, not without cutting those bare feet on the sharp rocks. You pick up the pace, emboldened by the plan, knees and elbows pumping as you close in.

Without warning, Yoongi stops short and wheels around on you, feet skidding a little on the loose needles that coat the forest floor. It’s so unexpected that the inertia carries you to him before you can tell your legs to quit. Before you can slow, before you can turn, he grabs you by the arms and slams you backwards into the thick trunk of an oak tree, hard enough to knock the wind out of you with an audible gasp.

You’re surprised enough that the knife drops from your fingers, and he wastes no time gripping you even tighter and throwing you to the ground, instantly dropping his body over yours and holding you down as best he can as you struggle. The blade lies just out of reach, taunting you, and you reach up and stretch as hard as you can to wiggle your fingers closer, but Yoongi roughly jerks your arm away.

You’re gasping for breath as you struggle beneath his weight, trying to keep your vision clear. This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to have to chase him, have to fight him. You aren’t used to this - the deer don’t fight back.

“Why?” he pants heavily, his whole body heaving with each inhale and exhale. Sweat runs down his neck from the curled, damp edges of his hair. His eyes are wild, confused above you.

“Do you know who your father is?” you respond in answer, and the question surprises him so much that he leans back, like he’s trying to get a better look at you. 

It’s all you need. You use your feet and your core strength to stretch just past where you couldn’t reach with his full weight on you, and your fingers close around the blade’s handle. In a flash, you have the sharp side pressing to the pulse point on Yoongi’s neck, hard enough that you know he can feel the sting, your other hand curling in his shirt and holding him still. His eyes widen and he freezes, straining to hold himself up and away from you.

“If you move I’ll do it, and it won’t be quick,” you hiss, teeth gritted so hard you’re sure they’ll crack. Your heart slams in your chest, adrenaline sending tingles clear down to your toes. You’re dizzy with fear. You aren’t sure what’s scarier - actually doing what you’re meant to, or having to report that you didn’t.

You’re both stuck there - a tableau, an oil painting, frozen for eternity, never moving on from this moment. A million possibilities stretch on as Yoongi’s pulse beats visibly against the knife he’d sharpened for you just days ago. 

You feel like you’re floating outside your body; you can’t feel any of it - not the knife’s handle against your palm, not Yoongi’s hips still pinning yours, not the sticks and stones beneath your spine, not the sticky humidity of a night on the precipice of storm. Not your own thrumming, frightened heartbeat.

You know you can’t do it - not this way. Not like this, not with his eyes on yours, steady, as if he’s not staring down his death. Not like this, looking into his face and remembering the first time you were under him this way, remembering every time after that. Your hand trembles as you will yourself not to pull the blade away. 

But he knows. Yoongi’s always called your every bluff, has always been perfectly capable of shooting you a knowing half-smile and pushing right past your blustering, always able to find the person on the other side of the facade - the person who’s scared,confused, alone. 

“No you won’t,” he murmurs, low, and there’s nothing accusing or mocking in it. He’s simply telling you what he knows. 

Slowly, carefully, he lowers his face closer to yours, so deliberately that the knife slides harmlessly along his skin until he’s clear of it. He presses his lips to yours, uncertain at first, then with more insistence when you don’t push him away. 

The fear and adrenaline crash through you in time with a not-so-distant crack of thunder, blinding you, rendering you thoughtless and animalistic. You drop the knife with a thud, barely aware that you’re doing it, your hand coming instead to tangle in his loose hair, clutching it tightly at the base of his neck and pressing his head closer to yours, kissing him deeper, needing to absolutely drown in his kiss. 

He grunts at your enthusiasm, nipping at your bottom lip before diving into you again, licking deep into your mouth and pressing his hips down into yours in rhythm with the kiss. You move with him desperately, the quiet of the woods scattered by your combined gasping breaths, tiny sounds of pleasure slipping through the cracks in your armor, the wet sounds of your mouths coming apart and meeting again hungrily. Despite the earth solid beneath you, you feel like you’re spinning. You clutch him tightly, one hand in his hair and the other arm coming around his shoulders, tethering him to you. 

He’s the only thing keeping you here, in the present, not skittering off to somewhere safe inside your head.

You let him hold you there, pressed between him and the unyielding ground below you, channel all the rushing adrenaline into how you meet his fiery kisses, pressing your mouth hard back against his like it’s a battle, into how you roll your hips against his, thrilling at feeling him hard and ready for you. But for all the intensity, for the dizziness sweeping over you, neither of you rushes - you kiss for so long that your lips tingle, your core throbs, the night grows blacker, the thunder tiptoes closer. 

You swipe your tongue over his familiar lips, whining in your throat when he opens for you again, welcomes you in, rocks against you and closes his eyes against the sting as you unconsciously tighten your fingers in his hair. 

Then he breaks the kiss, pulls himself free of your grasp, nudges his nose to the underside of your jaw until you lean your head back, breathing hard, giving him room to attach teeth and lips to the skin of your neck. 

He gathers a bit of skin and worries it between his teeth, muttering, “You won’t kill me. No one else can make you come undone like I do.”

The sound that tears out of you is half laugh and half desperate groan. “Prove it, then,” you goad, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and pulling the edge towards you. He releases the spot on your neck long enough to let you pull the material over his head. Then he sits back on his knees between your legs and looks you over, one hand absently sliding down the front of his trousers, pressing relief into his waiting cock.

“Yours,” he says, tone steely. You find your own hem with shaking fingers. Distantly, there’s a flash of lightning, illuminating the canopy of tree branches above you before plunging you into darkness again. You pull your top over your head and drop it next to his, leaning back on your elbows.

All thoughts of what you’re supposed to do here have left you; there’s only hands-shaking adrenaline and instinct driving you to give in to your desires and pursue what you want - Yoongi, Yoongi, more of Yoongi.

“Trousers, too,” Yoongi tells you, voice quiet. His fingers are on the string of his own trousers, but his eyes are on your exposed chest. Hungry. 

You do as he says, untying your bottoms and pushing them away with your feet and waiting for his next move. The night isn’t cold, but you shiver. The forest, your forest, feels like a sanctuary, like it’s wrapping around the two of you and keeping you safe from everything outside. Like if you stayed in here, together, you might be safe from her after all.

But you know that’s a lie. 

You push the thought away by coming up on your knees and approaching Yoongi, who’s still kneeling, too. You press your chest to him with a shudder as you reach to kiss him again. He gives a quiet, happy noise low in his throat and you answer with a hum as you lick into him again.

You slip a hand between your bodies and find him heavy and leaking. He presses into your touch with a nearly-silent keen that you manage to catch, and you trace your fingertips up his length, playing in the wetness you find waiting for you at the tip, then pulling that wetness down to the base again. You repeat the motion, touch featherlight, and listen to Yoongi’s breathing hitch and catch and sigh as he closes his eyes and enjoys it. He’s silky against your fingertips, skin like satin even here.

Yoongi trails kisses down your jaw, making a clear path towards your neck, and he skims a hand up your side and past your ribs, cupping one breast and rubbing his thumb roughly over your hardening nipple. You gasp, fingers twitching against his length, which spurs him on. He runs his knuckles lightly over the bud, then takes it gently between his thumb and forefinger, giving it an experimental roll. Your gasped ah turns into a liquid moan and he does it again, harder. You keen, a note of complaint in it, as he repeats the movement that is somehow both too much and not enough. 

You wrap your hand fully around him, done teasing him with barely-there strokes, and roll your wrist once, twice, three times, his low grumbling reply music to your ears. He’s still mouthing at your neck and he switches hands, igniting sparks as he gently pinches the other nipple instead. Then he reaches and bumps your wrist out of his way as he cups your sex and spears you on his middle finger. 

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you whine, rocking into his hand, trying to take the digit just a little deeper. 

He must hear the desperation in your tone or sense it in the way you clench around his single finger, because he takes mercy on you and presses a second finger in beside the first. You sigh, still rocking against his hand, as he fucks into the spot in your front wall that makes your eyes drift closed and your toes curl up. You abandon his cock, bringing your hands to his shoulders, hanging on to keep yourself upright. When he presses his thumb against your clit you groan, loud and long, no one to hear you, and let your head fall back.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, plunging his fingers in and out of your wet heat. You can hear it each time he pushes them back in, the sound ringing in the silent woods, the only competition the approaching rolls of gentle thunder.

He works you up until you’re panting, your forehead dropping to rest against his collarbone, your hips in constant motion as you seek more. Your arms are looped around his neck, though you don’t remember starting to hold him, and your fingers find the ends of his long hair, tugging lightly in time with his motions. Occasionally his thumb circles your clit, causing your hips to jerk, but the angle stops him from keeping it constant. He pulls his hand away, and you take a bracing breath, coming back to your senses as the sensations fade. 

He drops back from his knees, one arm behind his head as he lays back. He locks his eyes on yours as he strokes himself, his teeth toying with his bottom lip. 

“Come on, then,” he prompts, his hand languid and lazy on his cock. Your body buzzes as you climb over him and sink down, letting him fill you, stretch you, break you into pieces. You ride him hard, one hand splayed on his flushed chest for balance, as around you the wind picks up, the leaves on the trees fluttering.

Yoongi’s eyes screw closed and his head tips back, even as his hands continue to guide your hips through each rise and fall.

You slow, savoring the drag against your walls, savoring his pretty skin beneath your fingers, savoring the grunts and hitched breaths he’s trying to hold back.

You could have loved Yoongi. In another life, where you had chips to bargain with. In a life where you fit into place within the village, where wild wasn’t as necessary to you as air. Even if the Queen had never called for Yoongi’s head - this life never meant for you to love him.

This is what you think about as you lightly rake your nails down his chest, watching him squirm beneath you. You think about all the times he’d been on the edge of saying it.

You think about all the times the feeling had risen up in you, as warm as a patch of sunlit floor, and you’d had to blow it away like an errant dandelion seed.

Maybe you do love him. You just can’t forget - not for a second - how little it matters.

The knife sits where you’d dropped it before undressing, just past Yoongi’s head.

You could probably reach it now.

Yoongi seems to sense the change in your motions and cracks an eye open, his fingers on your hips loosening.

His gaze follows yours. A flash of lightning makes the metal shine for a split second, and then you’re surrounded by the sudden patter of falling rain.

“Guess we better hurry,” Yoongi mutters, reaching up to grip the back of your neck and pulling you down so your chest is flush with his.

All thoughts leave your mind as he hammers into you from below - the knife is forgotten. Your feelings are forgotten. The rain, starting to muddy up the ground around you, forgotten.

You cum around him in silence, jaw clenched, fingers digging into his biceps. The groan he lets out as you squeeze around him in waves is drowned out by a growl of thunder that feels like it’s right above you, all around you.

Yoongi pumps into you with abandon, suddenly losing the rhythm he’d created. He gives two more shuddery thrusts and then lets his arms flop to the ground with a contented sigh.

For a second, you both lay there, sweat-slick and panting. Another lightning splits the sky, and the rain comes harder. He slides out of you and you wiggle until you’re laying just next to him instead of on top of him.

You can’t stop looking at him. He seems determined not to look at you.

The rain washes everything away - the smell of sex, your sweat, your affection, your sadness, your pride.

“My father,” he murmurs beneath you, and you go deathly still. “Yes, I knew.”

You swallow, brush rainwater from your brow. “So does the Queen,” you say back. An explanation, and an answer to the why he’d leveled at you an hour ago.

He nods slowly, expression clearing with understanding.

You feel no absolution for it.

Finally, he leans his head back again, his bangs flopping heavily now that they’re saturated with rainwater, and eyes the knife.

You sit up. He brings his eyes to you and watches silently - as if he accepts whatever move you make. As if, should you reach for the metal, he wouldn’t fight you this time.

“Go.” The word tumbles roughly onto the inch of mud between you. You don’t remember making the decision to say it.

He sits up, elbows and shoulders caked with mud. But all he does is watch you, wait for you to change your mind.

“Go,” you repeat, meaning it. Now that you’ve said it once, now that the decision was made, you know it’s the right one. “I’ll tell her it’s done.”

You could never kill him. You both knew it all along.

He dresses wordlessly, and you do the same, pulling your top back over your head and tying up your trouser string. When you look up, he’s standing in the rain, watching you.

You stoop and grab the knife he’d made you. You grip it tightly in your hand, refuse to meet his eyes.

He’s not challenging you, not questioning you - and that, in itself, feels like a slap.

“You can’t come back,” you say, as evenly as you can muster. When he just looks at you, infuriatingly silent, you add, “You can’t. Okay? If she - she can never know.”

“I know,” he says, and then he gives you a long, searching look. He’s drenched now, and your hands itch to push his set hair away from his face, to use your thumbs to chase raindrops - you think - away from his lashline.

Then, choked, he offers, “You could -”

“Don’t,” you bite out, stopping him before he can make you any kind of offer. You can’t. You can’t go with him. You can’t disappear into the night. Your brother is counting on you. You won’t let him pay for your sins.

Yoongi shakes his head. He takes another step closer. Your fingers tighten on the knife’s handle.

“Y/N, I -”

You raise the knife above your head in a flash, eyes going wide in fury.

“Fucking go!” you bark.

He holds up his hands, takes a few steps backwards, giving up his quest to make this harder than it needs to be. Lightning illuminates him and above your head, the blade shines for a split second before everything is cast into inky darkness again.

When your eyes adjust to the darkness, trees around you forming a shape again, he’s gone.

You don’t follow him, and you don’t return to your cabin. You sink to your knees in the mud, dropping the knife onto the ground, and sob into your hands, the noise swallowed by the flurry of rain and the intermittent cracks of thunder.

—

You sleep. You hunt. When the time comes, you bring your scores to the Queen atop your wagon.

She doesn’t ask you about Yoongi. You don’t offer her anything, just thank her for her grace routinely when she orders your purse to be filled.

You don’t stop at the tavern on the way back home. You don’t stop at any of the shops - not this time. You don’t trust yourself to act right if Yoongi’s disappearance gets brought up. You don’t trust that no one will do the math that he vanished four nights ago, and now you’re a hollowed shell who can’t form words.

The townspeople have seen you grieve before. They’d know what they were seeing.

The next trip is easier, and the one after that even more. The Queen never thanks you, not that you expected it, but you start finding an extra purse of coins in your wagon each time you return to it after bringing in your kills.

The price for your silence. The price for what she thinks you’ve done.

It hurts the most when your wagon passes the smithy, but you keep your eyes on the cobblestones and your hands on the reins and eventually the hurt fades along with the village as you get farther and farther away.

The seasons turn. The hurts fade. You send extra money to your brother. You sleep. You hunt.

Eventually, you stop waking up from nightmares that feature the glint of metal. You stop waking up trying desperately to cling to your dreams as fruitlessly as clinging to smoke, left with only damp places on your pillow and the memory of a low, throaty chuckle ringing in your ears.

Eventually, you can ride past the smithy without the pang in your chest. You can stop for a pint without watching the shadows for the appearance of a gummy smile. You can laugh when the bartender cracks a joke, can sound like yourself when you ask the baker’s daughter how she’s been faring.

It is after one of these trips, deep into color-saturated autumn, that you return to your cabin with wagon empty and purses full.

Something isn’t right. You freeze, casting your eyes around the forest, but it holds its secrets tight.

On the ground in front of your door, illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight, is a brand new, shining blade.

thank you so much for reading!!! i really really like this one and i hope you do too!! <3

[anna-scribbles]

thirteen update 💕💍🍽️🩸

chapter 5: february

summary:

“These things do not concern you,” Papa told him flatly. “I will run my household however I see fit. Your concerns are with your schoolwork and your modeling.” Blood pumped heavy and fast through Adrien’s heart. That wasn’t—fair. Concern was about all he was capable of these days. “And what about Maman?” Adrien asked, exhausted, reckless. “May I be concerned about Maman?” Something shifted on Papa’s face, all his emotions smothered in stone.

excerpt:

The best day of Adrien’s life was eight months and six days ago. No contest.

It was a crisp kind of cold that day, the Paris sky blooming a bright and brilliant blue overhead. The sun pierced right through the brisk February air, a shock of spearmint and adrenaline in his veins. He couldn’t stop widening his eyes, couldn’t stop smiling. The city was so alive. Strains of love songs poured out of open cafe doors and onto tourists, their hands full of red roses and lovers’ hands. The cobblestones sang with the patters of paired footsteps all down the street. It was the city of love always, but today especially. Today Adrien was made of the stuff, just bursting with it.

And, like every other day in the running for the best of his life, Marinette was there.

“You’d better not pull anything,” she warned, tightening her grip on his hand as they passed by a tourist couple looking very… engrossed with each other in the middle of the street. “And—and if you do, you have to tell me. Right now.”

Marinette’s brow was lightly furrowed, the bridge of her nose just barely scrunched up. Her hair was pulled half-back with a pink ribbon, matching the shade of the skirt she wore beneath her velvety black peacoat. Her Mary Janes clipped anxiously down the road and Adrien’s heart danced and swelled and spun in his chest.

“Pull something? Me?” Adrien stepped aside so their arms were outstretched, and then pulled at Marinette’s fingers, sending her tumbling back into his arms. She looked up at him, trying to frown, smiling. He grinned. “I would never.”

“I’m serious.” Marinette untangled herself from his arms and interlocked her fingers again with his. Her hand was the warmest thing in the world. She looked at him sternly, wagging a finger in his face. “I need to know so I can—prepare. Especially if it’s something crazy. No funny business.”

“Marinette,” he moaned, draping a wounded hand over his heart. One corner of his mouth quirked into a smile, eyes darting to meet her gaze. “You think I’m funny?”

She groaned. “I think you‘re—I think you’re ridiculous, and sappy, and romantic, and I think it’s Valentine’s Day in Paris”—this part she shouted, which drew a few stares—“and I think you’re about to take me on an insanely adorable date, and I think Alya took me to get my nails done last week—!”

“You’re so thoughtful,” Adrien remarked, swinging their hands back and forth. “And observant. What a beautiful mind you have, my lady.”

“You have to tell me,” Marinette insisted. She stopped them on the street and frowned at him, pink flushing the apples of her cheeks. “Is it—are you—?”

“Hm?” Adrien murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. Marinette’s cheeks went ablaze.

“I—you—you know what I mean!” she spluttered. “Are you gonna…you know!”

He tilted his head to the side. “Am I…?”

read on ao3

[lalacliffthorne]

💜 starshine pt. IV 💜

Rhysand x Reader

part I part II part III part IV part V part VI

summary: a promise is fulfilled.

notes: back to our regularly scheduled program of fluff deluxe - with maybe a teeny-tiny sprinkle of angst. come on, I can't just make it that easy.

______________________________________________________________

Crossing the street, I pushed my bag higher up my shoulder, a cool but soft breeze brushing through my hair as I closed my eyes for a second.

Something warm vibrated under my ribs, something that seemed to stem from the city I was wandering through itself, and when I opened my eyes again, my heart rose in a vibrant flutter when I caught a glimpse at the sun sinking towards the mountains, its warm golden light submerging the buildings and gardens into an otherworldly glow.

Velaris. The City of Starlight.

The Court of Dreams.

When Rhys had first told me about it, all those years ago, I had almost not believed him. It had sounded - far too good to be true.

But now, as I made my way through the narrow streets, laughter and voices winding through the air from restaurants and bars, families passing me, I suddenly understood the light that appeared in his eyes whenever he talked about the city.

It was beautiful.

The buildings were big and winding, with towers and bay windows and balconies, the cobblestone streets between ranging from wide ones leading to big squares to narrow, connected alleys. There were wisterias winding around the houses, in full bloom just like the trees, their petals being sweeped through the streets by the soft breeze, lacing the air with a sweet scent.

A few children were chasing a whirlwind of blossoms, giggling, and I could feel something in my chest swell.

My eyes flared golden for a moment, and the petals rose in a rush, moving through the air like water flowing and sweeping around the children, their laughter growing as petals brushed over their cheeks like gentle tickles.

I smiled brightly and exhaled a soft laugh before turning back ahead, my breath hitching as I slipped out of the street and found the river in front of me. Bridges with intricate carvings arched over the water that reflected the light of the first golden lanterns and the sky, a few stars already visible, twinkling in the pale blue that spanned all the way to the surrounding mountains.

It had taken me longer than expected to fulfill my promise. After taking care of those still Under the Mountain and the faeries there, I had brought those captured home. By then, many faeries had started leaving the places they'd sought shelter at.

But the chaos that had become the courts had not spared their homes. Many of the wild woods, the meadows and riverlands had been destroyed or had withered without the fairie´s care.

And so I had spent almost two months making my way from Spring up all the way to the North, rebuilding the fairie's homes a lot easier with the assistance of my magic. It had mended something in my chest, cracks that had formed there over the past fifty years, cracks caused by the harm that had been caused to those I felt I was made to protect. And not a day had gone by where I hadn't felt the gentle rake of claws down the walls of my mind, like the male they belonged was trying to assure himself I was still there.

I knew Rhys was probably up to his ears in work, things that had piled up over the last fifty years; mending his own court back together. But still.

I knew him.

Knew how wonderfully, awfully self-sacrificing he was, and how he had the admirable and not at all healthy tendency to always put everyone else first.

The stubborn male hadn't sought me out once. And it had made something rise and ache in my chest, more with every passing week, until over the last few, I had rushed, moved as quickly as possible, barely halting to accept the faerie's words of thanks.

It felt like something pulled me north, something that became stronger the closer I got.

☆

The sun was almost touching the snow-covered mountain peaks when I finally found the adress Rhys had left me. It was located at the end of a long street, a bit off the city center, sheltered by blooming trees and hedges, just like the other properties.

Carefully opening the gate covered in sweet smelling vines, I felt my heart skip softly against my ribs.

Before me rose a big house made from sandstone, with huge windows, carved details and a domed roof, blossoming plants climbing the walls. There were bushes in bloom planted in front, and as I slowly made my way towards the steps at the side of the house, leading to big wooden doors, I caught a glimpse at the garden beyond.

My breath hitched, and I slowed until I stood still.

Flowers bloomed, wild and free, faeries whizzing through the high grass, giggling and chasing each other over a pond with floating lilies, reflecting the mountains lining the horizon and the sky above, beginning to turn pink.

Something rose in my chest, swelling and thrumming as a soft, slightly shaking laugh built in my throat, and I quickly wiped a hand over my nose.

Staring at the garden for another second, my heart fluttering wildly against my ribs, I blinked before looking up the houses façade. Then I turned, climbing the steps to the door where I hesitated for a second before I raised my hand to knock gently.

After waiting for a minute and knocking again, I felt my brows furrow, and my heart skipped softly when Rhys' voice echoed through my memories.

Don't worry. The wards will let you in any time, day or night.

I could still hear the cheeky smile in his voice, and something rose in my chest.

Raising my hand again, I paused for a moment before carefully placing it onto the wood of the door.

My heart skipped when I felt a shift under my fingers. A soft breeze brushed through my hair and brought with it the small of chilled nights and wild flowers, and my lips rose into an incredulous smile when the door opened with a creak.

Carefully stepping over the threshold, I felt something begin to flutter gently against my ribs as I slowly made my way past the staircase leading up and felt my lips part softly.

My gaze flickered over the one wide room that was the first floor, open and flooded by the golden light of the sinking sun coming from the big windows that opened like doors into the garden. There were shelves filled with books to the front, comfortable looking couches and soft carpets, and a big oak table over in the open kitchen with an array of chairs. The air smelled warm, of blooming flowers and a trace of Rhys that lingered, like he'd been here some time in the past few days.

Something rose under my ribs, quick and fluttering wildly as I carefully let my fingers graze over the back of a leather armchair, breathing in the scent of the flowers on the dining table – and then the air shifted behind me, and I quickly looked over my shoulder, my heart rising in my chest and breath stilling.

Rhys had appeared next to the stairs, looking a little out of breath, his hair windswept like he had rushed as his wide eyes flickered up the stairs.

My gaze quickly darted over him, and something tightened harshly in my chest as I practically drank him in, because Gods, I had missed him. Far more than I had realised, something that seeing him again Under the Mountain had not changed; in fact, it seemed to have made it worse, because as my gaze dragged over the familiar width of his shoulders, his inky black hair and that stupidly beautiful face, something in my chest began to ache.

Rhys' eyes darted away from the stairs as he turned quickly, and his body went completely still when his gaze found mine.

Something swelled under my ribs, rising as it pulsed warmth, and I swallowed before sending him a smile, soft and just a little cheeky. “Hello.”

Rhys stared at me like I had knocked one of the books from the shelves behind me over his head. His violet eyes were wide, his throat working as he swallowed lightly, and suddenly, the ache in my chest grew unbearable.

Dropping my bag, I darted towards him, and Rhys stepped forward, catching me as I crashed into him.

His familiar scent washed over me like a tidal wave as his arms tightened around my waist, lifting me slightly until only my toes touched the floor as he pressed me into his chest, and I dug my fingers into the back of his shoulders, my arms wound tight around his neck as I buried my face in his shirt. His scent filled my nose, the warmth of his skin causing my own to heat, and something rose under my ribs, fluttering into my throat when I could feel the light shudder going through Rhys' body.

His arms tightened around me like I wasn't already pulled flush into his body, then he dropped his head to bury his nose at my shoulder, a slightly shaking breath leaving him.

“You're here,”, he mumbled, his deep voice hoarse, and I slid my arms down from his neck to wind them tightly around his middle, curling into his chest because it felt like the only way to still get closer.

“I promised, right?”, I mumbled into his shirt, my own voice sounding a bit weak, and Rhys slid his arms up from my waist to wrap them around my shoulders, dragging me further into his body as he dropped his nose into my hair.

My heart clenched when I felt a tightness form in my chest, one that wasn't mine but belonged to the male in front of me, who felt tired, and worn, and a little heavy, but like him, and the feeling in my chest swelled.

Breathing out, I felt my shoulders sink. Winding my arms tighter around Rhys and nuzzling my face into his chest, I mumbled: “I hope not everyone can walk in here like that, because then we'd really have to talk about your security measures.”

Rhys huffed into my hair, his lips moving up against my forehead when he mumbled back: “What do you take me for, an idiot?”

I felt my own lips rise, and Rhys seemed to realise it too, because he added a grumbled: “You know what, don't answer that.”

A giggle bubbled in my throat, and I could feel Rhys' muscles shift under my hands, slowly relaxing as he wrapped me up tighter in his arms.

“You're not an idiot,”, I whispered softly, pressing my nose into his shirt, and my heart skipped when I could feel Rhys begin to smile brightly into my hair.

“I've been telling you that for more than a century, darling.”

His voice sent a soft tingle down my spine, low and rumbling warmly, and I grumbled: “I take it back.”

“Nuh-uh,”, Rhys murmured, and I could feel his smile widening.

Closing my eyes, I carefully sent a wave of warmth his way, to lessen a bit of that heaviness clinging to him, and Rhys' grip shifted as his shoulders sagged.

We would have probably kept standing there for another while, because tiredness suddenly washed over me, the exhaustion of the past two months finally catching up with me, and Rhys didn't seem like he was planning on letting go either, his grip softening as he held me, body unwavering even when I slowly let my whole weight sink against him, burying deeper into his chest.

But then something shifted at the back of my mind, soft and curious, and I hesitated before pulling back.

“Rhys?”

The male looked down at me, violet eyes tracking over my face, and I slowly slipped out of his grip a little, feeling my brows furrow gently as I stared up at him.

“Who's house is this?”

Rhys' hands on my hips flexed a little, almost like nerves as he slowly slid them off. Then he blinked and smiled, soft and lopsided and almost a little sheepish as he dipped his head to the side.

“Yours.”

I blinked. My arms slipped from his waist as I stared up at him, feeling my lips part, and suddenly, the ache in my chest was back, only it was different now, pressing onto my lungs and causing my breath to hitch.

“What?”, I whispered softly.

One corner of Rhys' lips curved, his eyes moving over my face as he shrugged lightly.

“I always hoped you'd come here one day. And I didn't want you to feel like you were just visiting.” He blinked, and it almost looked like he was hesitating for a second before he mumbled, voice hoarse: “I wanted you to have a home here.”

Staring up at him, I felt the ache rise. Looking over my shoulder, my eyes brushed over the beautiful living room, the garden visible through the big doors –

Something thrummed harshly against my ribs, and turning around, I sniffled and moved forward, slipping my arms around Rhys' neck and hugging him so forcefully, he huffed a little in surprise.

“Thank you,”, I whispered, my heart rising as my bottom lip trembled a little and a tear ran over my cheek as I quickly squeezed my eyes shut.

Rhys breathed out and wrapped his arms around me, dropping his chin onto my shoulder, and his deep voice rumbled through my body when he mumbled back, sounding a little raspy: “Purely selfish reasons.”

Giggling softly, I pressed my nose against his shoulder. Then I pulled back to stare up at him, breathing a soft, incredulous snort.

"Only you casually buy someone a house."

Rhys grinned. "Always aiming to impress." Raising his hand, he gently brushed his thumb over my cheek, wiping away a tear as he stared at me, one corner of his lips curving. Then he blinked.

“Come on.” Leaning down, he picked up my bag before straightening and sending me a slow grin that caused his cheeks to crease and my heart to do a backflip. “You're staying with me tonight.”

“And where would that be?” Feeling my lips curve, I turned around to follow Rhys towards the windows leading onto the terrace.

Rhys pushed open the doors, and something skipped lightly against my chest when he threw a look over his shoulder, his violet eyes twinkling lightly when he raised a brow.

“The House of Wind.”

The soft air brushed over my skin when I stepped onto the terrace, breathing in the scent of blooming trees as I slowly took the two steps leading down onto the grass. Then Rhys turned around, and my breath hitched when the air behind him rippled, shimmering as his wings melted out of the darkness. I had seen them before, but they still made something tumble softly in my stomach, the way they opened in a stretch, flared wide for a moment before relaxing and folding lightly against his back. Then I blinked.

“Oh, hell no.”

“No other way.” Rhys shrugged, eyes twinkling.

“I am not flying with you.” I glared at him.

“Darling, the only way to the House of Wind is by air travel.” Rhys' lips curved in amusement when he raised a brow. “So unless you've learned how to grow wings, you'll have to fly with me.”

“No.” Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I shook my head. “Won't happen.”

Rhys casually slipped his hands into his pockets, eyes bright when he tipped his head to the side.

“You know, it sounds a little like you don't trust me.“

“That's low.” I glowered at him, and Rhys breathed a chuckle, something skipping against my ribs at the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned at me.

“Just telling you what it looks like, sweetheart.”

I grumbled.

The most annoying thing was – I did trust him. And he knew it.

What he didn't know was that I had trusted him for so long, and still, it scared me just how much.

Rhys seemed to see how he cut through my resistance, because he smiled, that godsdamned beautiful smile, and raised his brows.

Glowering at him for another second, I gave up my defensive stance and huffed. “I still don't see why I can't stay down here.”

Rhys chuckled and stepped towards me, carefully slipping my bag over my head and sending me a smile as he tightened the strap across my chest until it was sitting securely on my back, his eyes twinkling like the stars.

“Because I am far too selfish to let you stay anywhere I am not.”

Something got stuck in my throat as I looked up at him, and he sent me a wink that had me pull myself out of my stupor, deadpanning at him.

Rhys laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down my spine, my body fighting to angle towards him.

“Alright, starshine.” He grinned down at me, eyes glittering with mischief. “Hop on.”

I huffed.

“Wha-“ Interrupting myself with a soft squeal, I quickly grabbed onto to Rhys when he picked me up. My legs locked around his waist like reflex, arms clinging to his shoulders, and my eyes widened a little.

“What are you –“

Rhys' laugh made his chest vibrate, his arm under my thighs hoisting me up slightly to adjust his grip, and my heart skipped so high, I knew he'd caught it when he grinned at me.

We were on eye level for once, noses almost brushing and his body impossibly close, and I had to keep myself from holding my breath.

“Really?” My voice was a little breathier than usual, but huffy, and Rhys' eyes twinkled.

“Hold tight.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.” I tried not to swallow, and Rhys' lips curved upwards as his eyes dragged over my face.

“You have no idea.”

My breath hitched when I stared at him and the spark in his eyes.

My voice sounded a little shaky but moderately threatening when I mumbled: “If you drop me –“

Rhys smiled brightly. “Don't worry, love. I rarely drop anyone.”

I flicked his ear, and the grin I got in return made my heart stagger.

Rhys chuckled and raised his brows. “I am insulted you think I wouldn't try to catch you.”

My breath hitched, my mouth opening.

“Try to catch me; you –“

Rhys' wings opened as he took a step backwards, and with one strong beat, he launched into the air, leaving my stomach and my squeal down on the ground when we shot into the sky.

Wind whipped my hair as I squeezed my eyes shut tightly on instinct. My fingers dug into Rhys' shoulders, my legs tightening around his waist and arms clinging to his neck in a way that could not have been comfortable, but he just held me steadily as his wings carried us higher and higher. I didn't dare look down, instead hastily turning my head to bury my face in the crook of his neck, and I could feel Rhys' chuckle rumble deep in his chest, the arm slipped around my waist tightening.

“You know, if you were to look down to your left right now –“

The teasing tilt of Rhys' deep voice right at my ear made me dig my nails into his shoulders, and his warm laugh caused my stomach to dip for an entirely different reason than the way he leaned to the right as he dove into an elegant curve, wings stretched wide as they took us higher and higher with powerful movements.

When, after what felt like an eternity, Rhys' feet finally touched solid ground, my muscles had cramped into place. I refused to raise my head from where my nose was pressed into Rhys' neck, keeping my eyes shut tightly. Just in case.

It most definitely did not have anything to do with the fact his scent had filled my lungs or how warm he felt. Warm and solid and safe.

Rhys chuckled lightly, his grip loosening until only his right arm was resting under my thighs, supporting my weight effortlessly, and I could feel air graze my skin as his wings disappeared into the shadows. Then his warm breath brushed over my ear, causing my heart to miss a beat when his nose gently nudged my temple.

“You can open your eyes now, starshine.”

Ignoring the teasing tilt in his voice, I furrowed my brows, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Are you sure?” My lips brushed over Rhys' neck with my sceptic grumble, and it almost felt like he shivered a little under the touch.

Rhys just huffed in amusement, and I cracked open an eye, peaking over his shoulder.

My heart stilled, and my breath hitched as my lips parted softly.

Slowly, I raised my head.

Terraces stretched away from the mountain and the façade of a palace carved out of the very stone, shimmering in the moonlight. Blooming trees and gardens flanked the stone balustrades, lanterns and fires dipping everything in a golden light.

And far, far in the vale below us, the Sidra glittered in the moonlight, and around it, Velaris stretched into the distance, a maze of cobblestone streets, blooming trees and sandstone buildings, lit in a warm golden light that reflected in the river while mountains rose in the distance, guarding the city from all around as they rose high into the night sky.

A night sky filled with more stars than I had seen in my whole life. Glittering, twinkling in dozens of galaxies stretching to the horizon, hues of lilac and pink gleaming in the pitch black darkness.

It was so beautiful, it caused my chest to ache.

I hadn't realised my throat had closed up until I swallowed harshly, something skipping violently against my ribs when I whispered: “Oh.”

Rhys shifted, and I turned my head, my heart getting stuck in my throat when I found his eyes already on my face. There was a light in them, like they were reflecting the galaxies above as they pierced into mine, one corner of his lips curved upwards just enough for a crease to appear in his cheek and my breath to falter.

Suddenly, I realised I was still clinging to him, bodies still pressed together, so close that our noses were almost touching. Yet Rhys didn't make any move to let go.

Lightly swallowing again, anything to fight the sudden urge to lean forward, I unlocked my legs from around his waist, and Rhys loosened his grip enough to carefully place me on the ground. When my feet hit the stone floor, my knees almost buckled, and Rhys caught me by the waist, his eyes dancing with amusement when he leaned down his head a little, grinning at me.

“Am I making you weak?”

I had enough sense to hit his biceps instead of just gaping at him.

Rhys chuckled and straightened.

“Come on.” His hand slipped to the small of my back, and his chest bumped into my shoulder as he began to gently push me towards a pair of big doors leading into the House of Wind. “I'll show you to your room.”

Following Rhys through the halls, I felt my heart skip lightly. It felt a little strange, like the mountain was humming softly, not quite a presence like the one of the male next to me, but still –

“You'll stay right down the hall from me.” Rhys threw me a look, his eyes twinkling. “In case you get lonely.”

I huffed, trying to ignore the strange tingle down my spine, and Rhys chuckled, creases forming in his cheeks.

“Where is everyone?” I slipped my bag onto my shoulder.

“Azriel and Cassian are staying in the city right now. You'll meet them and Mor tomorrow.”

I sent him a cheeky grin. “Still scared they're going to steal me away?”

Rhys slowed as we reached a door, and his eyes moved over my face, then he blinked, one corner of his lips rising softly. “More than ever before.”

Looking up at him, I felt my brows furrow gently, something turning a little in my chest. But then he pushed open the door, and as I stepped over the threshold, my eyes got caught on the ceiling and the star constellations depicted in golden paint on inky black, and my breath hitched.

“Oh.”

☆

I woke up from the mountain trembling.

It was far past midnight. The sky was deep black, the stars twinkling, and I had fallen asleep with a soft skip in my chest, the bed in the guest room soft like a cloud, my eyes on the constellations painted onto the ceiling. But now, my breath was heaving, a pressure on my chest that wasn't coming from me, like a weight pressing me down, and my eyes widened as horror took over me.

Rhys.

Scrambling to my feet, I almost stumbled when the tremble of the mountain stopped, the windowpanes no longer clinking. My heart skipped into my throat, and I slid over towards the door, ripping it open – and barely catching the tall figure tumbling through it.

“What –“ My eyes widened as my heart tightenend harshly, and I nearly lost my breath at the wave of emotions crashing over me as warm, sweaty skin pressed against mine. Then Rhys' soft, broken voice sounded next to my ear.

“I'm sorry.”

My throat closed, pulled tighter and tighter as I felt his fingers digging into my waist and the way his chest heaved with his shuddering breaths, and pulling back, I slipped my hands up to cup the sides of his face, staring at him and feeling something press onto my chest at the sight of dried teartracks on his cheeks and his eyes, iris blown and utterly terrified.

Trying to swallow, I whispered, my voice cracking slightly: “Come on.”

Pushing the door open with my shoulder, I slipped under his arm and wrapped my own around his waist, and something closed around my heart like an iron fist when I felt Rhys lean heavily against me, his nose brushing over my hair as I started to guide him towards the bed. He sank onto the mattress, and I slipped into between his legs, my hands carefully cupping his face as I tracked his heart rate, off and racing, felt a slight tremble run through his body. Then his hands slid around my waist and pulled me forward, and something pulsed harshly, painfully in my chest when Rhys wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my shirt. I could feel something wet seep through the fabric and barely fought back the burn in my eyes, a heavy weight on my throat when I slid my arms over Rhys' shoulders and buried my nose in his soft hair.

Rhys held onto me until I felt his heartbeat calm a little. Then his grip around my waist tightened, and he pulled back, arms slow to slide away from me, hands coming to rest at the back of my thighs.

“I'm sorry for waking you up,”, he mumbled, and his rough voice caused something to break a little in my chest. "It's why the others are staying in the city, but - I couldn't stand the thought of you being here but not with me."

My breath hitched, heart skipping high.

Slowly sitting down on the mattress, I pulled my legs up. Something skipped harshly against my ribs as I watched Rhys, his hunched frame, so unlike him, head dropped, hair dishevelled as he ran his hands over his face.

“What happened?”, I whispered, barely audible and a little uneven.

Rhys turned his head, and something skipped hard against my ribs when his eyes found mine, pained and raw. Then he mumbled, hollow and hoarse: “She killed you.”

My heart beat once before stilling.

“I always dream about it. Her killing you.” Rhys blinked, staring into nothingness. Then he turned, slowly pulling myself up until he was sitting fully on the mattress, back against the headboard. There were dark circles under his eyes, skin sallow. I hadn't even fully realised he wasn't wearing a shirt until I saw the scar on his collarbone that I knew hadn't been there.

Before.

Rhys swallowed, staring at my knee. Then he mumbled: “Even though I'm back here, I feel like some part of me is still trapped down there.” A muscle in his jaw shifted, pain flashing through his eyes. “With her. I can still feel her, whenever I close my eyes. When I sleep, I dream about – what she did. It makes me –“

His face twisted into something that made my breath still. Then he blinked and raised his eyes, and they found mine, tired and a little broken when he mumbled: “I never wanted you to have to witness that. What she did, what she made me do – wasn't just for her pleasure.” His voice crumbled a little when he mumbled: “It was just another way of torture.”

My fingers trembled, but I kept staring at him, feeling my breath shake. My eyes were burning, and there was a pressure on my chest, a weight that made my body ache as I couldn't tear my eyes away from him, the male in front of me who had always been sure and charming and overly confident boarding on annoyingly arrogant and who now looked tired and a little empty, like something deep inside him had been shattered.

All because of her.

I didn't realise I had started to shake, my whole body so tense, my fingers dug into my knees until Rhysand´s soft, slightly cautios voice made me tear away my eyes from the scar on his collarbone.

“Starshine?”

My eyes darted up to meet his, and Rhys looked at me with his head tipped to the side.

“You're glowing.”

I blinked before hastily drawing away my eyes, swallowing against the pressure in my throat as I found a golden light pulsing around me.

Quickly, I furrowed my brows, drawing back the magic, even though it still raged soundlessly in my chest, then I raised my head again, and my heart tightened when I met Rhys' eyes that were already on my face.

Trying to fight the ache in my chest, I whispered, my voice hoarse: “I should have ripped her to shreds.”

Rhys breathed a laugh, and something tumbled in my chest at the way his eyes crinkled slightly, some of the familiar curve of his lips returning onto his face when he looked up at me. That slightly broken look was still there, and even though he was smiling softly, I could feel his pain.

Before I could stop myself, I dove forward, tackling him in a hug so forceful, it knocked the wind out of him; his arms catching me in reflex the only thing preventing me from slipping right off the other side of his lap.

I could feel Rhys freeze for nothing more than a second. Then a slow breath left him. His shoulders sagged and his arms circled around me, pulling me into his chest so tightly, I lost my breath, his grip almost squashing my ribs, and something stilled in my chest when he turned his head to bury his face in the crook of my neck.

I tried to swallow against the weight in my chest, pressing my nose against his shoulder and closing my eyes tightly.

“I wish I could take it away.” My voice was nothing more than a whisper, but I knew Rhys had heard me, because he shook his head without pulling back, his face still pressed into my neck, and something fluttered against my throat when he mumbled, voice so rough, it vibrated over my skin: “You've already done much more than I could ever give back.”

“Rhys –“

“You saved me.” Even though his deep voice was steady, it sounded raspy, and a little breathless when he added in a soft murmur: “You have been saving me since the day I met you.”

My heart did one small skip. Then it stilled.

Staring at the wall, I tried to fight the pressure in my throat as something warm rolled over my cheek, and I fisted my hands, quickly burying my nose at his shoulder and squeezing my eyes shut tightly.

There was an ache in my chest I couldn't explain.

Rhys propped his chin onto my shoulder, his hand gently running over my back, and I sniffled and huffed, my voice grumbly and a little shaky when I mumbled: “Shouldn't I be comforting you?”

Rhys breathed a chuckle, and the sound filled something in my chest I hadn´t realised had been empty.

“I think it's fine if we comfort each other.” I could hear the way his lips had curved and breathed out, threading my fingers through the hair at the back of his head as I pressed my nose against his shoulder.

A low hum left Rhys that had his chest vibrating and something jump in my stomach, and when I pulled back lightly, his eyes had closed as he leaned back into my touch. There was something so unguarded about this face, hurt and tension and restlessness still visible in the way his brows were crunched a little, but the shadows of Under the Mountain seemed to fade slowly as a light rumble built in his chest, voice rough when he mumbled: “I think I need headscratches.”

My heart skipped, and I felt my lips curve into a slow, soft but cheeky smile.

“Are my ears deceiving me or is the mighty High Lord of the Night Court actually asking me for headscratches…“

Rhys' grip around my waist tightened when he huffed and cracked open an eye, but one corner of his lips quirked when he glared at me.

“Yes, so think about your answer, because the High Lord is going to remember if you decide to deny them to him.”

I breathed a laugh, grinning widely at him.

“One, you're not my High Lord, in case you forgot about that; High Lords aren't really a thing for me, which leads me to two; are you trying to use your title on me, because you know I am not impressed by something like that –“

“Well, you could be impressed by other things -“ The rest of his words went under in a deep, soft chuckle when I lightly tugged at his hair, just enough to make a grin spread over Rhys´ face.

Feeling my heart skip, I loosened my grip, and Rhys' eyes rolled back a little when my nails raked gently over his scalp. Something twitched in my stomach at the way he groaned softly, head tipping back into my touch, the movement exposing the curve of his throat.

I swallowed softly, watching as little by little, my fingers massaged away the tension clinging to the male in front of me. His shoulders slowly slumped, hands around my waist relaxing before gently pulling me closer in what felt like subconcious, and I was suddenly glad his eyes had fluttered shut, attention clearly somewhere else, because I couldn't keep myself from holding my breath.

Stupidly pretty.

When I finally slid my fingers out of his hair, Rhys looked close to falling asleep on the spot. His eyes were drooping as he fought to open them fully, gaze seeming a little dazed as he blinked a few times, and I felt my lips curve when I gently poked my finger into his chest.

“Happy?”

Rhys' eyes found mine, and something skipped high into my throat when they pierced into mine, tired and warm and still twinkling softly. Then one corner of his lips rose a little.

“Profoundly.”

Staring at him, I felt something surge in my chest, warm and rising, and my lips curved cheekily as I raised my brows, whispering a little roughly: “Good.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, and I knew that I should have broken eye contact, should have looked away, because the way my heart was beating against my ribs, firm and steady, was strange and scary - but I didn't.

Not when Rhys was watching me like this, tired, lips curved up far enough for his cheek to crease.

I blinked, then I tipped my head to the side a little, mumbling softly to not disturb the quiet: “Are you going to try and get some sleep?”

Rhys stared at me, something behind that tired sparkle in his eyes when he mumbled back, voice almost a little rough: “Are you going to get me back if she finds me again?”

My heart slipped into my throat, and I barely suppressed the urge to swallow, instead sending him a soft, crooked smile, mumbling quietly: “I´ll fight her over and over again if I have to.”

Rhys stared at me, and blinking, I carefully slipped off his lap, tugging up the blanket and sliding under it. Rhys followed, heavily turning onto his side, and I let my head sink into my pillow, my eyes tracking over his face. Then, before I could stop myself, I slid closer, and I almost thought I could feel Rhys' breath hitch when I wrapped my arm around his waist and buried into his chest.

“I hope for your sake that you don't snore,”, I mumbled softly into his warm skin, and something that felt a little like a shudder went through Rhys' body. Then his arms slipped around my shoulder and squeezed, pulling me into his chest until even the last bit of me was pressed into his body.

My heart got stuck in my throat when I felt him bury his nose in my hair, then Rhys mumbled, his voice almost a little hoarse: “Why? Would you kick me?”

My heart skipped gently, and I felt my lips curve into a slow, cheeky smile as I whispered back: "Don't think I'd spare you, High Lord."

I could feel Rhys' lips rise, then he breathed out softly, and slowly, very slowly, his heartbeat calmed, only occasionally hitching gently. Exhaling lightly, I closed my eyes and felt something pulse gently in my chest.

"Night,", I mumbled softly, and Rhys' hand slipped up, fingers tangling into my hair, his thumb gently brushing over the back of my neck and causing a tingle to run over my skin when he mumbled back: "Good Night, starshine."

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @stayinglow-exploringworlds @tcris2020 @lizziesfirstwife @brandywineeeee @t0uch-starved-h0e @sharknutz @valencia-rou @twsssmlmaa

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 13 all chapters

-Later that evening he picks you up near your hostel in a gorgeous wooden water taxi. You’d gotten more than a few odd looks from the scruffy backpackers hanging out in the courtyard, as you’d exited in your chic new dress and heels. You wonder if you look utterly ridiculous, until you see the way John looks at you. There is a heat in his dark eyes that could burn the city down, and you flush all over, knowing the evening hasn’t even begun and you’ve already soaked through your new silk panties.

He waves away the driver, lifting you down by your waist into the boat. It surprises you, and you cling to him, though you never feel for a second that he might drop you. The strength in his arms is unyielding as an oak.

He’s changed into a black suit for the evening, and he’s so fucking handsome you could die. When you’re settled in the bench seat in the back of the boat he lifts his arm for you in invitation, and you nestle in. The night air is a little chilly once the boat gets going, but you are pressed to the long lean length of John’s side, and he keeps you warm. He drives you a little crazy, drawing slow circles with his fingertips on your bare arm.

You go to dinner, and it’s everything you’d hoped and feared. The light is low, the food is delectable, the wine is good, and Mr. Wick is the very picture of dark temptation in the candlelight. He is charming, and sweet, and he touches your fingertips lightly with his from across the table. You always knew he had a wry sense of humor, but loosened up with an aperitivo, he is downright funny, and you find yourself laughing at his comments with purest joy.

You brought that leather-bound notebook from Florence in your new little handbag. When you present it to John he cradles it in his big hands like you have gifted him with something made of pure gold, his dark eyes shining like high-polished mahogany. He looks at you with a tenderness that makes your knees weak, and you are glad you are already sitting down.  

“I know it’s not much…” You feel a little sheepish suddenly, thinking about what he spent on you earlier that day.

“I love it,” he assures you adamantly, and tucks it into his inside pocket, where it will rest over his heart. “Thank you.” He reaches for your hands across the table again, and as if you weren’t gone enough already, you feel yourself steadily, inexorably, falling in love with this man.

Afterwards you go for a walk. He smiles down at you, amused when you stumble on a raised cobblestone, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

“I think you are a bit drunk, Miss y/n,” he teases you.  

You like wine, but you don’t drink it often. You’d had half a bottle with dinner, plus a negroni aperitivo, and a digestivo of grappa after dessert… Yes. Yes you are, and maybe it will hurt in the morning, but right now it feels wonderful.  

“And whose fault is that?” you fire back with an insouciant smile, winning real laughter. The rare sound warms you to the bottom of your soul.

“Guilty.” He’d ordered the drinks, after all.

There is a mischievous sparkle in his jet-black eyes, and you think maybe he’s a bit drunk too. Or maybe it’s just this fucking country, that’s so goddamn romantic. You’re not sure why that annoys you in that moment.

You pause on a bridge, and he reaches up to lightly touch your hair, sweeping it behind your ear, tracing the curve of your neck. It’s almost like he’s petting you, and you cannot help but close your eyes.

Is this man finally going to kiss you?

A small, feral sound escapes you with the thought, and you are too tipsy to be embarrassed about it. It makes him smile knowingly, and now you think he might actually have an inkling of what he’s been doing to you.

You do not know it, but over your shoulder, John sees a suspicious shadow move in an enclave in the distance. He does not like the look of it at all.

“I should probably get you back to your hostel.”

You stick your lips out in a pout, mildly infuriated and currently lacking any healthy inhibitions.

“Are you really going to make me tell you how much I want you, Mr. Wick?” What an effective truth serum a good chianti makes. Your hands find his tie, pulling him closer towards you. He lets you, of course, until your bodies are nearly pressed in a line.

It’s almost enough, but not quite. Never quite, it seems.

He lowers his forehead to rest on the top of your head, and you sense that he is coiled tight as a spring, practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself back. You can feel it in his hands on your sides, as though he can’t decide if he should pull you closer, or push you away.

 “Do you?” he asks, his voice gone low.

“As if you don’t already know,” you grouse petulantly. There is a part of you deep down that knows, as you look up at him, that you are pulling the tail of a tiger. You just don’t possess the self-control at the moment to stop.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s hard to read you,” he confesses in a rare moment of vulnerability, which you find utterly absurd.

“Hard to read me? Mr. Tall Dark and Broody? Mr. Hot and Cold? Mr. I’ll Take You Out On My Bike For The Ride of Your Life on Your Birthday Then Barely Speak To You?”

Again, he laughs, though this time there is an edge to it. He frames your face in his big hands, and you know he could crush you if he wanted, but you still cannot suppress a sigh. You crave the strength in those hands on you with every fibre of your being.

You’d let him pull you apart, so long as he promises to put you back together again.

“Sweet girl…my love is a curse. I don't want to hurt you—but I don’t think I’m strong enough to let you go.”

It almost sounds like a warning.

You pause at that, listening to your heartbeat pounding in your ears. There is a hint of darkness in that sentiment that would have scared you a little, had you been in your right mind. As it is…you are too far gone, and you are desperate to have it all out at last.

“Are you talking about your wife?” you dare ask, your voice hushed as though she could overhear you. Maybe she can. Maybe her spectre would have the mercy to let this man who still walks among the living go. “John…she got sick, and that is not your fault. You can't blame yourself for that.” 

He just shakes his head slowly against you, his long fingers sliding into your hair, tightening at the base of your skull.

“You don't understand.” 

He has you firmly in his grasp, and it sends the most delicious thrill down your spine, right to your loins. You can’t help but squirm against him, closing that distance at last. The line of heat between your bodies pressed is maddening, and you marvel that you can think at all.

“I'm trying to.” 

“I know.” There’s something in his tone that cracks your heart in two, and you find you are afraid. You’re afraid that he still might backpedal on you after all, after all this, and you’re not sure your heart will survive it.

“Please don’t let me go?”

He tilts your head back, in full control of you. You do not fight him, too entranced by his mouth hovering over yours.  

“Remember that you asked.”

You don’t get the chance to formulate a response, because at last his mouth presses to yours, and you forget everything but the feeling of his soft lips and the tantalizing intrusion of his tongue. You would have surged to meet him, but he holds you immobile in his strong hands, taking you just the way he wants you. Yet you are a greedy thing, and your fingers seek the flat planes of his chest, running over the muscled contours beneath his jacket, up the column of his neck to grab fistfuls of his soft hair, the way you’ve craved practically since the first time you laid eyes on him.  

You fancy you almost hear it snap, when at last you manage to break this man’s iron-clad self-control.

Or perhaps it is you, your fragile body, that makes an audible pop when he grabs you up in those strong arms, his fingers digging into your waist as he practically lifts you from the ground in the desperation his ardor. You meet the fury of his kiss with a matching passion, with lips and teeth and tongue, so caught up in the whirlwind that you entirely forget where you are, that you’re in public, that you’re probably not alone. The focus of your world narrows to the single pinpoint that is him, and maybe it’s been that way for you for a while now.

It’s over all too soon, when he tears himself away, breathing heavily in the bend of your neck. You make a small sound of protest, needy for more of his delectable mouth, and he nips your shoulder, maybe hard enough to bruise. You jump with surprise, but you don’t exactly mind the feeling of his teeth in your skin, as though you are something sweet he wishes to devour.

In that moment you reckon you would let him eat you whole, and lick the bones clean.

You are aware of it this time, when he lifts his head to look beyond you, his hawkish gaze sweeping the shadows beyond. It seems like he’s worried about something. But you are wrapped up in his arms, tucked perfectly against his larger body like you are puzzle pieces finally found—you feel as though nothing could possibly touch you.  

“I should get you back,” he says, his voice pure gravel.

“I don’t want—”

“Don't fight me, y/n.”

He uses a tone of voice you've never heard from him before. It is hard as granite, utterly forbidding, and your blood turns to ice in your veins. Feeling this change in you, he sighs and kisses your forehead in apology. “Come on.”

Slightly comforted, you let him lead you with your hand in his, though you still feel more than a little unbalanced, and not because of the height of your heels on the uneven paving stones, or the tremor in your limbs from that hurricane of a kiss.   

This man…

You are not sure what unsettles you more. The whiplash of his mood, or the fact that you’re not sure you wouldn’t follow him to the depths of Hell anyway, so long as he held out his hand to you.

[marsxcutie]

Fixation│Jonathan Crane x Reader

Part two here <3

Fixation Masterlist

A/N: This is a TEST, PLEASEE interact if you're interested in this story line and I will gladly continue. This is my first fanfic so I'm just publishing this first part to see if there's any positive feedback! Suggestions are welcomed!

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader

Synopsis: (Y/N) is Arkham's new lead psychologist in the developing acute pediatric unit. Dr. Crane soon becomes fixated on the pretty young doctor. Is she just as fixated on him?

Warnings: no warnings in this part, planning on it becoming a little dark if that's what the people want hehe

Dr. Crane's eyes scanned over the email, his brow furrowing in confusion. Arkham decided to build another wing for an acute pediatric unit? Who in their right mind allowed this? Yes, there was a desperate need for children's psychiatric services, especially in Gotham, but to put children in the same building as psychopaths and murderers? Even Dr. Crane had the common sense to see how bad of an idea this was. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, this was not a change that he had been anticipating. He shut his computer off, deciding to be done for the day. He had much more pressing matters that needed his attention.

Your eyes scanned over the email, eyebrows raised at the seemingly amazing opportunity presenting itself to you. You had just checked your emails to see a new message from a job recruiter.

"Hello (Y/N),

Arkham Asylum is opening up an acute pediatric unit and is currently accepting applications for various positions. I got ahold of your resume and found it very impressive. Please take a look at the open positions and let me know if you were interested in applying for any of them.

Hope to hear from you soon.

James"

Attached to the email was a link, that took you to all the open positions and their job descriptions. Scanning over all of them briefly, one in particular caught your attention:

LEAD PEDIATRIC PSYCHOLOGIST

TWO WEEKS LATER

The sound of your kitten heels clacking on the pavement stopped suddenly as you were met with the front of the large ominous gate. You looked up at the building beyond the gate, a knot beginning to form in your stomach, this place looked a lot scarier than you had remembered. You let out a breath that you seemed to be holding and looked around for a buzzer or something that could someone of your presence. You jumped at the loud creaking noise that came from the gate as it swung open slowly.

"(Y/N)! Nice to see you made it in one piece."

A man stepped out from the opening of the gate, extending his hand. "I'm Rick, Arkham's executive director. I'll be showing you around and getting you settled, we're happy to have you here." His voice was gruff but his eyes were quite kind. You took his hand in yours, giving him a warm smile, "Nice to meet you Rick. I'm happy to be here." He gave you a smile and turned, gesturing you to follow him.

You followed him, taking in your surroundings as you walked. The grey overcast made the large vast building look like something out of an old horror film, the tall weeds poking out in the cracks in the cobblestone really added to the creepy scene laid out before you.

Rick led you inside, giving you a quick tour of the building. "I'll show you to your office now and let you get started with your training." Rick led you up a flight of stairs and down a hallway stopping at an office door. "So uh, since we haven't exactly finished building the pediatric wing, your office will temporarily be over here." You nodded, "That's fine by me."

He brought out a key from his pocket, turning the lock and opening the door for you. You stepped into your new space, it was a good sized space, with a large white desk, a couch, and some bookcases.

"Feel free to make yourself at home. I will let Dr. Crane know you're here, he will be doing most of your training with you. His office is actually right next to yours so should be pretty convenient for the two of you." Rick gave you a smile and nod and closed the door behind him.

You let out a small sigh, looking around the room, even though this was only your office for a short while it was still a good way to envision all your ideas for a cute and cozy space for you and your patients.

A loud knock on the door broke you out of thought, your head turning to the now open door. Your mouth unintentionally dropped open a bit at the sight of who you assumed was Dr. Crane. You were honestly expecting an old man not someone like Dr. Crane. His dark hair framed his handsome face perfectly and his intense eyes were the most perfect shade of blue. Your eyes flickered to his lips and you'd be surprised if he didn't notice the blush that covered your cheeks.

"You're (Y/N) I presume?" He smiled softly at you, extending his hand to you. "Y-yes, nice to meet you, Dr. Crane." You took his hand in yours, feeling silly at the flutter in your chest. "Call me Jonathan."

[ink-n-shadowfiction]

Gone Bad | Simon "Ghost" Riley

pairing: mafia!Simon "Ghost" Riley x police officer's daughter!reader

word count: 770

warning: alternative universe, mentions of police, tw! for creepy guy, allusion to dark!ghost (only if you squint)

note: new au, new ideas (don't hesitate to send me requests &lt;;3)

⤷ ever since you were a little kid, your dad was a member of the police force in manchester. you were a daddy’s girl through and through. hell, you wanted to be just like him when you were little—catching bad guys and keeping people safe. 

⤷ but something shifted when you were a teenager—and suddenly, the daddy’s good little girl was gone. you were sneaking out, partying with friends, skipping school to go smoke cigarettes underneath the crumbling cobblestone bridge by your secondary school. 

⤷ it only got worse once you graduated and enrolled in university. this time, though, you weren’t under your father’s thumb anymore. you were in your flat, with your own roommates, doing whatever you wanted to do. that’s how you found yourself in some dingy new pub that opened up in the city. 

⤷ you had dipped outside of the pub for a quick cigarette, stepping into a dimly lit alleyway and leaning against the cobbled wall to puff away at the tobacco stick. it was almost peaceful—that was until a group of drunken men stumbled by and one of them took a liking to you. 

⤷ “aye, pretty thing. y’look lonely standing there all by yourself. mind if i join you? take a little puff of that cig?”

⤷ you tried to come up with some sort of excuse, eyes frantically searching for a way out—but the alleyway you were in was a dead end. the lit cigarette fell from your trembling hand, rolling across the wet asphalt. you thought you were goner until you heard an exit door from the pub behind you screech open, a hard voice rumbling like a thunder storm. 

⤷ “what the fuck’s goin’ on out here? you botherin’ this girl, eh? at my fuckin’ pub? get the fuck out of here before i bury you underneath the concrete you're standin' on.”

⤷ you caught your breath as the man harassing you scrambled off quickly, turning your head to see who the gravelly voice belonged to. he was a looming figure, dressed in a steam-pressed three piece suit and tie along with shiny leather oxfords. his fingers were covered in tattoos and rings, his neck adorning two thick silver chains. His face, however, was obscured by a black mask with a slick skull face attached to the front. he looked menacing. the gun holstered to his hip didn’t help. 

⤷ “you didn’t have to—”

⤷ “don’t sit there and tell me you would’ve handled it. that fucker would’ve torn you to bits if i hadn’t stepped in, lovie. too prideful to say thank you?”

⤷ having lived in manchester all your life, having listened to your father’s rants about the organized crime running rampant in the streets, you knew exactly who the man in front of you that night was: ghost, the faceless leader of the organized crime syndicate which ran manchester under an iron fist. you should’ve expected him to be here—this was his pub, after all. 

⤷ you couldn't speak, but that was alright. ghost didn't mind—he was used to people keeping queit about him. that's why he felt so comfortable leaning against the wall of the alleyway, balancing a cigarette between his lips and igniting the paper.

⤷ "next time you're at my pub, make sure you stay with a friend. pretty little things like you have a tendency to get snatched up right quick out here. can't guarantee i'll be here to save you next time, lovie."

⤷ but after that night, ghost seemed to always be there to save the day. your car breaks down on the side of the road during rush hour traffic? ghost's suv just so happens to pull up behind you. you get a little too drunk out at his pub one night? ghost has one of his men drive you and your friends home. you know deep down that it's way past just coincidences now—but that added to the thrill of it, to the taboo nature of it all.

⤷ other than that, ghost might as well have been a figment of your imagination. he never gave you a phone number, never told you an address, never really stuck around much after helping you out time after time. he was almost unreal until he came out from the shadows. it took almost an entire year before ghost finally asked you to get drinks with him.

⤷ "c'mon—you gotta say yes. y'know how rare it is for me to ask a girl for drinks? usually, the girls come crawlin' to me. not you, though. that's what i like about you, lovie."

[greyyson-but-no]

five small moments | tommyinnit

let me know if you want me to do another one of these. they're really fun [not chronological order but can be from the same relationship]. tommyinnit x fem!reader

1 - tickling them from behind before hugging them [318]

you stood at the kitchen counter, stirring the tea with mossy cobblestone by bears in trees echoing from the speaker in the office. today it was only you and tom in the office, having the whole place to yourself as tommy streamed from his individual room and you edited on the shared computer for a new video that was supposed to come out tomorrow.

being so into the music (since it was tommy's playlist), you didn't hear tommy exit his office to sneak up behind you. a shriek came from you as his hands swiftly moved to your waist and tickled against the exposed skin. your heart rate increased slightly as a laugh came from you, tommy burying his face into your neck, pressing a tickling kiss to the skin there as well.

"tommy!" you laughed, listening as he laughed as well, squeezing your waist as the tickling came to a stop.

he moved his arms around your waist, pulling you against his front, a chin on your shoulder. the hoodie he was wearing engulfed you, and suddenly you were the calmest you'd been in ages. suddenly the song turned to ultimately by khai dreams and tommy was slowly starting to move to a sway, along with the soft beat of his favourite artist.

"tommy..." you asked slowly, head rested back against his shoulder, at the perfect height. "what are you doing?"

your boyfriend chuckled softly, enjoying the confusion. "nothing in particular. enjoy my time, that's all."

"you're cute." you giggled at him, turning around in his arms to pull him into a tighter hug, head against his chest. his arms move from around your waist to your shoulders as he holds you tighter than before. nowhere else did you feel as safe, nowhere else made you feel like you didn't need to be anywhere else. with tommy, you knew you were the safest you possibly could be.

2 - knuckles brushing against each others and getting shy [367]

the london vlog had been in the works for a few weeks now, but since ranboo could only just get to the uk in the past week, it could only have been filmed now. london was busy as hell, as usual, but that was good because it meant there were lots of distractions to keep the video on its toes.

tubbo and ranboo were walking ahead of you and tommy as the four of you walked down southbank. somehow, you and tommy had gotten distracted by the skateboarders under the bridge and so tubbo and ranboo were a few meters ahead. it didn't take them long to notice, but ranboo immideately noticed how close the two of you were standing together.

soon enough, the camera was directed at the two of you. "what do you think they're talking about?" tubbo asked, zooming in with the camera.

"i dunno, but they're both being rather cute about it, huh." ranboo declared.

it was then that your hand dropped from the railing, falling to your side and so close to tommy's hand that both ranboo and tubbo noticed, one of them reaching over to zoom the camera even more onto your hands brushing up against each others.

"just hold her hand, dude!" ranboo whispers, loud enough so that the camera can hear it. and then there were the actual skin touching. an obvious shy attempt of tommy's to hold your hand but the action was taken over by nerves as he pulled away and shoved his hands into his pockets. "c'mon!" ranboo cried, tubbo raising a hand in disbelief.

"i've been telling him to ask her out for months now." tubbo explained. "they're both idiots, though."

"they're both idiots whether its to do with the fact that they like each other not, toby." ranboo laughed, shoving tubbo slightly. "come on, lets walk on, they'll catch up eventually."

both you and tommy felt the disappointment in yourself that you didn't make the move that day. tommy was sure to get a teasing by both tubbo and ranboo during the sleepover thatg occured that same night. maybe he would ask you out the next day. since you were seeing each other anyway.

3 - one small kiss before a passionate one [484]

tommy held your hand at your front door, the moon high in the sky above the two of you as he smiled down at you. nothing in that moment could have taken the grin off your face. the first date with him went so much better than you expecting, a goofy session of bowling in town ending up in the park and getting locked in. he had hefted you over the fence to get out, both landing on your sides and not being able to get up from stomach-pain inducing laughter.

"thank you tommy." you smiled, watching as a chuckled sligjtly under his breath. "i had a really fun time tonight."

you felt his hand squeeze yours slightly. "even when we got stuck in the park."

"even when we got stuck into the park, yes." you nodded.

suddenly a comfortable silence took over, the rush of traffic at the end of the road and a slight breezing being the only sound. it wasn't bad, and you were even about to invite tommy inside. maybe to watch a movie or something, but he spoke first. it was a question that you certainly hadn't been expecting - but in no way does that mean you didn't want it.

"can i kiss you?" and maybe the nod you answered with was a little too eager.

tommy was still hesitant, though, reaching a hand slowly up to rest against the skin of your cheek, thumb caressing the skin slightly. it took you to nod again for him to lean down finally and press his lips against yours. it was everything you expected and more, but over too soon. nerves got the better of him and he pulled away, making it a simple little peck. not enough.

"sorry." he mumbles, a hand lifted away from your cheek and going around the back of his head to scratch the back of his neck.

your eyes softened, noticing how shy he became all of a sudden. it wasn't the tommy you really knew, but it was sweet and even endearing. you knew that he would appreicate the move you wanted to take, so you took it immediately. a hand reaching up to his wrist, using it to pull him down against your lips again. a longer, more eager kiss that represented how much you liked him. how much you wanted to ask him inside because somehow this boy had gotten you more smitten than with anyone else.

and when you pulled back, you didn't miss the excited look in his eyes that said he really did appraicte the move you made. that, and the small gasp he let out as he stood up straight. "woah."

"you're welcome." you laughed, grabbing his hand again. "i really don't want to say goodbye. did you wanna come inside and watch a movie?"

tommy smiled again, nodding. "only if there's popcorn."

"you under estimate me, tom."

4 - playing with each others hair [291]

the lion king was playing on the tv in front of you. the soft pillow that was your boyfriend was laying beneath you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his face buried in your hair. ignoring the obstacle of the blanket that was laid over the two of you, you swiftly spun yourself around so that you were kaying stomach to stomach with tommy, being able to see the grin on his face when he saw yours.

"hi." he smiled.

you didn't say anything, just pressing a kiss against his forehead and resting your head alongisde his, nose against his hair. he moves so that there's one hand around your waist and the other moves up to your hair, twirling a strand of his around his fingers.

his hair didn't smell the same, though. instead of his usual shampoo smell he always had, there were a softer, more familiar smell to it that you recognised. you pulled away from him and frowned at him. "did you use my shampoo?"

"maybe..." he grinned slyly. "i ran out of mine, that's all."

you giggled at his words, a hand now in his hair, brushing the fluffiness around and twirling it inbetween your fingers. "no i don't mind at all. it's made it really soft."

tommy mumbled something, smiling up at you and pressing a surprising peck against your nose. "maybe i should use it more often, then."

"well, i certainly won't be complaining." you laughed, letting your hand fall from his hair and onto his chest, cushioned by his favourite hoodie. you let your head also fall onto his chest, feeling his arms squeeze you tightly as you closed your eyes and let yourself be comfortable around him. oh, how you loved him.

5 - small comforts while the other is crying [545]

your eyes were hot with tears that fell down onto your cheeks and then to the floor, some landing on your shoes as you ran up the stairs that led to his apartment. you didn't know why you had come here it seemed like he was the only that could comfort you enough to get you out of a mood like this.

the knock on his door was weak. weak enough that you were worried he wasn't going to hear it, but then you hear him call 'i'm coming!' from inside and all most of your nerves were gone. and just a second later, the door swung open, revealing tommy in jeans and that same hoodie you loved, his arms dropping from the edge of the door and the grin on his face dropping as he saw the look on your face and the tears in your eyes.

"love." he murmurs. "come here, oh my god."

you practically fell into him, the softed of his hoodie instantly becoming home and the sense of inevitable doom slowly whitling away into nothing. just a figment of your imagination. there were a small close of his door before he took your hand in his as he took you into the living room. he told you to ignore the show that was playing on the tv but you cold help but check to see whether you had seen it. you had.

he settled you on the sofa, taking you immeditely into his arms again, his cheek resting against your hair, unconsciously rocking you back and forth. worried started to overtake him, though, as thoughts of what could have caused this breakdown on you entered his mind. if it was something, he would make sure you never had to do it again; if it was someone, he would make sure whoever it was apologised and you got revenge.

but you were more important. "do you wanna talk about it? what happened, lovely?"

"uhh." your voice was shakey as you pulled away from him, using your sleeve to wipe the tears from your cheeks. "i can't-" you paused, gathering your thoughts. "i can't remember. i just suddenly felt so alone, there was no one around and i just felt so lonely so i thought i would come to see you and on the way i thought you wouldn't want me to interupt your day off so i turned back but then i started crying and now i'm here and i don't know why and i'm so sorry, oh god, you probably don't want me here-"

tommy laughed as he pressed his hand up against your mouth, stopping your fast train of thoughts in an instant. "you're rambling, love."

"sorry." you mumbled from under his mouth. he took it away frmo your face and took your hand in his again.

"you've got nothing to be sorry for." he explained, "i told you when i moved here that you could pop around any time you wanted and i wouldn't care less. you mean the world to me, and i couldn't stand you being lonely, ever. please, i'd rather you be here and not feel isolated than suffer at home."

you smiled, sniffing and leaning your head onto his shoulder. "yeah. thank you."

"always." he smiled, and your worries came to an end.

[the-yellow-birdy]

I come at this hour, only for you

AN: IM BACK, okay so your girl can't stop and she's incredibly indecisive, so forget the post from yesterday (except the recommendation of the other tumblr) and know that I have returned. Truly hope you will enjoy this L.O.L - Yellow bird

// 18+ audience only! - Heavy dom/sub dynamics - Dom!LarissaWeems x Sub!FemReader - BDSM - Power dynamics/Power play - consensual manipulation - Lesbian yearning - All characters are above the age of 18\\

Click clack, click clack.

The sound of your spool heels hitting the cobblestone floors, was penetrating your ears as you sauntered down the empty firelit halls. It aligned untempered with the beating of your heart, which was already on its way up your throat, trapping your breath, preventing you from deeply inhaling the cool air around you. The pencil skirt you wore, made it fairly difficult to walk at a fast pace, but it was probably for the best. Your hands were clamped with sweat and the white blouse you wore was already getting damp from your warm body and doing a small marathon right now would make your sweaty nervousness visible to anyone. To her. Merciless her.

The skirt could be seen as a bit inappropriate and you were starting to wonder if maybe you shouldn’t have worn it.

Or maybe you should.

What if she says something? Would she look? 

What if you want her to look.

Definitely not. You definitely don’t want her to look, she shouldn’t look. Surely she won’t look. Perhaps she will have stopped with these foolish games. Maybe she will like it and not say anything. 

Or maybe she won’t.

You were nearing her office taking a couple of deep breaths as you swiped your bangs out of your face, smoothing down your neat ponytail.

You’re gonna be fine. Just, calm down.

 It wasn’t unusual for you to be interrupted in the late evenings by Nevermores headmistress. Whenever your screen lit up as you sat comfortably in your bed about to succumb to sleep, you knew there was no protesting. Well maybe if you weren't so pliable there would be, but you being you, there was no displeasing Larissa Weems. 

But it was at night that things got…

Strange

—

One night she had called upon you as you were closing your eyes to the tv-screen in front of you, requesting your presents. It wasn’t the first time, and the appeal of staying in your bed was grand, but you had of course complied as the reliable secretary you were.

You always did.

She didn’t tell you why it was urgent, yet you expected some immediate reports or mails to be written and sent the following morning, calling you now simply as a favor to your busy schedule, giving you some time to write them. But you were far from right.

She had requested for you to make her tea.

Tea? At this hour?

You thought. But of course your thoughts and thinking didn’t have a lot of time in the company of the woman. So with a single tilt of her head you did as you were told standing in the middle of the beautifully crafted office, and made tea.

The act in itself was harmless and quite pure, actually. It wasn’t like you were already asleep when she texted you and was being completely unfair. You could still get home at a decent hour to get some sleep if you hurried.

“Take off your heels, and come pour me the tea.”, she had said, quietly reading a document in her hand, her reading glasses at the bridge of her nose. Only looking over to see if you had sat them neatly aside by the wall. You didn’t, she thought and looked back down at the paper.

You of course wondered about the demand of your heels, but again, not much time to contemplate when Larissa was awaiting you.

She had you stand by her side the entire night. Having you repeatedly pour her tea when her cup became empty. She had only allowed you to leave, when the tea got cold and you had to make a new brew. Not even a bathroom break was given.

You had definitely seen the benefit she gave you of leaving the heels behind. 

Oh, how kind she truly was to you.

As the night came to an end and the early hours of dawn were showing, small birds chirped outside the office window, your eyes had closed, pot in hand, and you were swaying in the morning lights as if in a trance.

A gentle hand on your hip had your eyes flew open, coming out of the hypnotizing calmness. You couldn't see them, yet you knew there were large gray bags under your eyes.

“Well done, dear.”, she had said, drawing lacy circles on your hip bone. You had no idea why you felt like crying when she smiled at you, but you held the tears back.

She had given you the day off to rest, yet expected you back the next morning with the new student reports.

—

Headmistress - Larissa Weems

You looked at the gold plate engraved into the big oakwood door. The expensive shiny gold against the plain dark wood was a contrast that could only be adored, as you knocked twice on the door.

“Ms. Weems, it’s me Y/n”, You almost didn’t hear her timid reply of you being allowed to enter over the thumping of your heavy heart beats.

Just calm down. Nothing is gonna happen. You can always stop it. She would never if you don’t want to. 

But what if you did?

You entered her office, seeing her tapping away at her computer in the distance. Not offering you a single glance as you made your way towards her desk.

You stood in front of her for a couple of minutes, waiting patiently for a sign, a breath, a nod, a clearing of her throat, anything. When she finally looked up at you, finishing her sentence with the final period, she said nothing as her eyes slid down over your exposed collarbones. They traveled further and further over your curves and creases. The subtle outlining of your visible breasts given the bra you had chosen, the skirt of which was far too short for a respectable woman such as yourself, and finally the almost see-through white button-up shirt tucked into it.

She said nothing. Only after seconds lasting what seemed like eternity, did she take her eyes away from you and down to her desk once more. The hairs on the back of your neck had settled again, yet the tingling feeling of a sugar rush in your veins remained.

She always gave you attention during the day. Walking past you desk with a smile and the occasional 

morning dear 

Or words of affirmation when your job had been executed without flaw.

What would become of me without you and your splendid work my darling? 

You lived for it, a single praise from the woman, could plant a stupid smile on your face the rest of the day. You truly were pathetic. You knew you did a good job and what you were capable of, so why did you crave her approval so deeply?

But when nights came around such as this one, she changed. 

She took a stack of papers on the edge of the mahogany table and stretched her arm towards you. Her tea, placed right next to it. She was now looking you in the eyes, ripping off your clothes and exposing your bare self to her, with just a look. Your cheeks burned and you knew she could see it.

“I would like you to go through these letters from the parents. And I'd be very pleased if you only hand them to me, assuming anything serious was to show.”, She had a shine to her eyes. The beautiful laugh lines around her mouth and eyes prominent in the glow of the fireplace. She was absolutely breathtaking. Terrifying. Fearless. Charming.  Warm, oh so warm. Cold. Beautiful.

Dominant

Mesmerized, you glared a second too long at her elegant hairdo, snapping your eyes to her face.

“Uhm, yes Ms. Weems. I-Is that everything?”confusion was visible on your face, she loved it. Is this it? No more games? No more long nights, no more stares or touching. No more awaiting atmospheres of what's to come, what she wants or does next, that erupts butterflies within your whole body?

“Yes. That would be everything, Ms. L/n”, She gave you only the tint of a smile as she redirected her attention to her screen once more after you took the papers, leaving you utterly dumbfounded.

“Yes Ms. Weems, goodnight”, she gave you a small goodnight as you made your way to the door. Eyebrows wrinkled and the feeling of fireworks in your veins dilapidating.

Was this it? no more?

The endless taunting, lessons, reprimandings and taut praises gone? It was as if your heart felt lighter, almost too light. As if something was fading and dissolving from it.

Your heartbeat fell into its normal, monotone rhythm. Maybe it was good. It surely was. All you had to do was leave and do your work. Simply take ahold of the door handle and…

A thud.

“Oh my, I’m quite the klutz. Would you mind helping me for a minute, my darling?”, her voice was calm, unnervingly calm as you listened to the woman behind you. It was sweet, bittersweet as she spoke the words in her thick accent. The hairs on the back of your neck had risen once more. Your heart, leaving its once peaceful rhythm.

You turned around. The principle was staring daggers at you, without having moved an inch from her spot. Eyes fixed on the price as her hand held onto the edge of the desk, head tilted slightly as she looked at you with a faux hopeful expression of your service. 

The now empty teacup laid on the expensive Agra rug. A dark patch of the liquid had formed on it as a result of the small accident.

“Come here.”, she straightened her head and morphed her expression back to one of seriousness. 

Click clack, click clack.

You came to stand in front of her again.

“Would you be a dear and clean the mess. I am terribly fond of this rug and I would hate to see it ruined by a simple cup of tea.”, she wetted her bottom lip, tongue sliding over the plumb flesh, leaving you with vivid imaginations and a horrible need to cover yourself in her expensive lipstick. She didn’t give you a smirk or even a hint of a smile, but the smugness, the eye contact and the feigning helplessness was drowning your mind.

“Yes.”

“Oh aren’t you too sweet.”

You timidly smiled at her, face lighting up in rosy colors at the exaggerated praise.

She blinked a couple of times, the kind features she displayed, coming to an end.

What do you do? Wait? Leave? Speak?

“On your knees, Y/n.”, It wasn’t mean nor a request, rather a polite demand. 

What? Knees? You won’t! There's no way you heard her right! Of course you heard her right, she’s insane. You’re insane. You shouldn't even be here at this hour, cleaning her mess, let alone on your knees as she feasted her eyes on you. You shouldn’t. Should you? 

Your mind was blinded by fog and uncertainty. But in the end you knew that when one eyebrow lifted slightly, eyes narrowed at your soul, there was no reason to resist. Like butter on a burning pan, your destiny was to melt.

Hypnotized, you got on your knees, putting the papers beside you. Your gaze not faltering from hers, seemingly kneeling in front of the dark spot, but in reality you were kneeling before an entirely different darkness.

Larissa’s breath raked, she had waited so long. She had too. There was no springing this on anyone. It had to be developed, a process of trust leading up to this exact moment, letting her know that her patience had paid off. You truly were hers. Look at you, such despair you showed, thinking she was gonna give you no more recognition. You were absolutely perfect, especially in this exact view with your skirt bunching so far up it covered nothing of your creamy thighs, and you didn't even notice.

“What are you waiting for, hm?”, She raised an eyebrow at you.

You blinked, “I have no cloth, Ms. Weems.”

She looked at your doe eyes, her body was about to give in. About to help you find a cloth, rip it off of you, providing you with the guidance you clearly needed in your state of haze. Tell you just how to do it, how to clean, how to sit, how to breathe, eat, look, dress, please.

Her eyes moved from your face to the white button-up. She could see the top of your pleasing breasts. How long until you’d beg her to simply brush a gloved hand across them, she thought.

She looked up at you once more, slowly trailing her eyes down onto the white fabric.

You looked at her with doubt, could it really be true. You needed to be sure. But deep down, you knew what she was asking. Demanding. 

I have no intentions of giving in to your puppy eyes, sweet girl.

You slowly grabbed the top button and freed it from its restraint. You looked down to see what you were doing, wanting it done properly and agile. You felt ashamed, bare, fragile, but at the same time the feeling of being free was the one dominating, making all the doubt disappear.

yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, such a good girl

“Look at me.” Her voice dropped and she had shifted on her office chair, so that she sat right in front of you. Head to chest. Her hands had folded over her soft stomach, an elbow on the edge of the desk and elegant, pale, long legs crossed.

Blue orbs observed you, as you gradually revealed yourself more and more to your employer, the headmistress.

It’s wrong. You have to stop. 

When all the buttons had been freed you paused, she gave you a tiny nod of her head, the only sign you needed. You slowly took off your shirt and placed it in your lap, your eyes faltering slightly of a new found shame bubbling in the back of your mind. You must be looking incredibly silly.

Oh dear. You were doing it again.

Your lack of obedience didn’t pass the principle. What to do with you? She brought the tip of her stiletto to your face. She placed it under your chin, lifting it and making you look at her a second time.

Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou

Your mind went blank with only her as your epicenter. No idea of what to do, you simply looked up, mouth agape, baffled by her impotent behavior leading to the uncivilized act.

She looked so serene from this angle. Stoic. You were looking at her smooth calves, not able to look higher, the fabric of her skirt in the way. Dainty stockings protecting her skin from the cold, you, had to endure. Her elegant ankles, framed by elegant black heels. Flawless.

She was an angel. A devil disguised was probably the right answer. You never knew hell could taste, look, feel so sweet. And how could you deny it, when it was breathing you in right above you, like an addict. An addict fighting the urge to consume their drug, the thing bringing them simple, addictive ecstasy. Her eyes almost dazed and shoulders moving with her shallow breath.

Won’t be long now, my sweet

“Go on, darling.”, the touch of her smooth plastic heels left the skin of your neck.

There was only a millisecond of halting in your movements before you started soaking up the dark spot with your blouse. The white pious color, changing to one of light brown. You have to admit it was one of your more favorable shirts, but you didn’t object to any of it. You knew it would lead to nowhere.

The chilling air of the office, had goosebumps erupt on your arms and back, yet the glow of the fireplace gave you warmth in the coolness and made it almost refreshing.

Why did she like this? Watching you clean her floor. Naked. Sacrificing your favorite shirt, just for the sake of her rug. She must be ill. Really ill. But who are you to talk? After all, you are the one feeding it to her, giving in. moremoremoremore

You tried not to think about it, but a heat within your lower stomach was no longer a single burning match, it felt like flames were burning you up on the inside as you felt her gaze on you and nothing and no one could help, except the woman in front of you.

I know.

Larissa looked over your body. She had of course never seen this much of you, yet it wasn’t a lot she had seen of you before. How come you don’t show more of that beautifully freckled skin, maybe a bit more cleavage and collarbone. The only thing she really was able to vividly imagine at night, was your neck and how it bobbed with nervousness everytime you were in her presence. 

She didn’t worry too much about it at the moment. There would be time for changes later, but right now all that mattered was you.

youyouyou

Her fingers itched and tapped over each other in excitement. She couldn’t wait any longer. Maybe she could indulge, just this once. She was so desperate to caress and claim your skin. Oh how she desired you from the very first times she had spent with you. So full of life and curiosity that could surely kill the cat, which it did. Your passion for what you did, your hobbies, your future, others. Her. It sent her into a place of admiration no one ever had before, and now here you were. Right beneath her, half naked and the best part of it all, was that you loved it, just as much as she.

A firm hand reached for your chin. Disturbed from your ministries your head was turned. You were enraptured by her touch and your eyes closed with a whine from your throat. Her fingers pressed onto your cheeks, squeezing. You let go of the wet fabric and opened your eyes - crystallized lilly’s of the nile -

though it didn't seem to help much, as your vision was showing a thick fog, while everything seemed to move at lightspeed.

Click clack, click clack. Breathe, just breathe.

"Crawl."

________________________________

Can't find the taglist, my bad

[thecampjuicebox]

To have and to hold Pt. 3 (End)

Pairing: Tav(f) x Gale x Astarion

POV: 2nd person (Reader is Tav)

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Marriage (throuple), smut, fluff, fingering, oral (f receiving), potential game spoilers (mostly just character names)

This is the end of "To have and to hold" as a story, I really hope you all enjoy! It's going to be a long one so I can do this ending justice. Let me know if you want more stuff like this in the future!

Gale paces back and forth nervously, little beads of sweat pooling above his eyebrows. He guides his hands over the front of his pale blue robes, the smooth fabric flattening beneath his trembling fingers. Tonight's the night. And you're late. Astarion rests comfortably against the wall of the temple, fiddling with the end of his coat, soft silver hair jostling ever so slightly in the autumn breeze. He traces the silver filigree around the bottom seem and admires how it sparkles in the light of the full moon. The newly rebuilt Selune temple stands tall at the end of a long cobblestone bridge, the outer edges of the bridge decorated with grand displays of flowers, tall metal arches adorned with moonstone turning the bridge into an extravagant tunnel. It's truly breathtaking, and it still does nothing to calm the wizard's anxiety. Everyone is already waiting inside, bards at the ready. Gale continues to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, mumbling little "Where is SHE"s and "I'm going to kill her"s to himself, earning an amused chuckle from Astarion.

"Calm your nerves, Wizard. She'll be here soon enough."

"Gods, she'd be late to her own funeral."

Quick footsteps thunder towards the two men and Gale whips around at the noise. Karlach barrels towards them, waving her arms. to shoo them into the building.

"Both of you! Inside! Now! She's coming!"

Gale throws his arms up in frustration, grabbing Astarion by the elbow and they rush into the temple. Wyll and Halsin are already waiting at the altar, hands folded neatly in front of them. Gale peeks around the corner to assess the size of the crowd, air catching in his throat when he sees just how many people showed up for the ceremony. The late, and not at all shocking, news of the addition of Astarion to the ceremony didn't seem to dissuade any of the guests. He breathes a sigh of relief and motions to Volo to start the music, Volo excitedly swinging his arms about at the bards. Lutes, lyres, and flutes all play in a beautiful harmony, Alfira singing softly to welcome Gale down the isle first, Astarion following not far behind. They both take their places on each side of the altar, the white haired cleric of Selune, Isobel, exchanging kind smiles with each of them.

You stand outside, large bouquet in your hands, the soft green ivies and hanging bell flowers nestled amongst the Selune's Tears and Crocus flowers trickling towards the ground, contrasting against the pale blue silk of your dress. Your last second dress change was Shadowheart's idea and you couldn't thank her more. Silver filigree and moon symbols adorn the bodice of the dress, silver velvet cloak swaying behind you in the night time breeze. You shiver lightly, wiggling your fingers beneath the heavy foliage of your bouquet. Shadowheart asses you carefully, poking and prodding at the neat plaits of dark hair that encircle your head. You giggle and hold still for her. She carefully places a small moon hair pin in the back of the braids, fixing its position a few times before settling on a spot she agrees with. She smiles to herself, gently stroking your back for a moment before stepping away and mumbling a quiet "Perfect." Karlach takes a small handkerchief from her back pocket and wipes under her eyes, hot tears threatening to stain her cheeks. You poke out your bottom lip and fight back tears of your own, gently reaching up to stroke Karlach's cheek, soothing her.

"I'm just so happy for you, Soldier. You're really doing it. And you look so beautiful."

"Oh! I almost forgot!"

Your head cocks to the side at Shadowhearts sudden exclamation, watching as she pulls a thin silver necklace from a pouch beneath her skirts, unclasping it and bringing it around your neck. A small silver moon pendant with a teardrop cut moonstone dangle rests against your pale skin, sitting snuggly between your collar bones. You gently run your fingers over the cool metal and smile, closing your eyes to savor this moment. It's actually happening. You're about to marry the loves of your life. You truly couldn't be happier now. All of your fear falls to the wayside, doubt being swept away by the autumn wind.

"Onward."

Karlach huffs quietly and moves to the handle of the left door to the temple, Shadowheart following suit to the right. You nod at them both and they swing the doors open, stepping inside before you. You hear the music swell, Alfira singing sweet melodies as Shadowheart and Karlach walk arm in arm down the isle towards the altar. They both settle to the right of the cleric on Astarion's side. Halsin waves to them excitedly, quickly straightening back up when Volo's voice thunders through the temple.

"Esteemed guests, I now present to you, the bride."

You inhale sharply, feeling as though you should hold your breath and you walk forward, breeching the temple doors. The crowd stands. Candles light the isle as you walk, the entire room of friends and family from each side settling their gaze on you. The music softens to an ethereal tune and Alfira simply hums, carefully strumming at her lute. The sights and sounds are enough to bring Gale to tears and he quickly swipes his thumbs under his eyes, Astarion chuckling at him once more until his gaze finally falls upon your frame. He scans your figure and gulps, mumbling a soft "Gods..". His breath catches in his throat, immediately choking him up. The two keep their eyes fixed on you as you walk, your cloak and the small train of your silk dress trailing being you. No goddess could compare to the way you look right now. You smile and blink tears away from your brown eyes, lashes coated in little droplets. Little gasps and coos flutter through the crowd and you approach the altar, Shadowheart reaching out to take your bouquet from you. You carefully hand it off to her and smile, your bottom lip catching between your teeth. She gives you a reassuring nod and you blink slowly. Isobel steps forward, raising both of her hands to instruct the crowd to sit and they obey, little sounds of feet shuffles echoing through the temple room before all falls silent.

"Welcome friends, family, lovers. Tonight we gather under the light of the Moon Maiden Selune to unite these families. Tav, Gale, Astarion, please join hands and kneel before me."

The three of you join hands, Gale capturing your left and Astarion capturing your right. You all kneel on the step of the altar carefully, Astarion and Gale helping to adjust your dress so you don't crumple it beneath your knees. You give each of them a sweet smile before turning your attention back to the cleric. The witnesses at the altar all lower their heads, eyes falling shut as they listen. The cleric sings in an unfamiliar language, raising her hands to the open ceiling of the temple, the full moon shining down on you and all of the guests. You sigh quietly and give Gale and Astarion's hands a gentle squeeze. They return the squeeze and your eyes flutter closed, a sense of calm washing over you while you listen to Isobel’s hymns. Her voice fades out, the room falling silent once more. A cool breeze sweeps through the temple, rustling your hair and cloak, making you shiver. The cleric stares up at the sky, eyes glowing with the bright light of the moon.

"She is with us.. Moon Maiden, hear me. Grant your love and protection over these souls as they unite under your light. Embrace them in your warmth, oh mother. Lead them through darkness, through sickness, through blight. Fill their hearts with your patience. Show them the way. So it shall be."

The crowd quietly mumbles in response "So it shall be". Isobel turns to a small table on the altar, two silver chalices shimmering in the moonlight placed with purpose in the middle of it. Your fingers tremble with excitement in your lovers' hands. The cleric raises the chalice carefully to the open sky, mumbling in the unfamiliar language again before instructing you to stand. You release Gale and Astarion's hands and approach Isobel.

"Moon milk, for protection, abundance, and fertility. Drink, my child. Accept the Moon Maiden into your heart and into your womb. Allow her to guide you. So it shall be."

You accept the chalice from her strong hands, raising it to the sky and mumbling "So it shall be" before taking a small sip of the milk, the cool liquid coating your throat and you sigh. She encourages you to finish the chalice with a small wave of the hand. You oblige, tilting your head back and swallowing the last of the sweet drink. You hand her the chalice carefully and she places a hand on your abdomen, mumbling quietly to herself. Astarion raises an eyebrow. Gale swats at his hand and the vampire grunts quietly. The cleric eyes the two men before tracing the symbol of a moon into your forehead, finally releasing you to join your lovers once more. She then motions for the two men to join her and she raises the second chalice into the air, mumbling a new prayer to the open sky.

"Wine, for protection, abundance, and patience. Drink, my child. Accept the Moon Maiden into your heart. Allow her to guide you. So it shall be."

She hands the chalice to Astarion first. He eyeballs the liquid inside. White wine. Certainly not his favorite. He closes his eyes and raises the chalice to the sky. "So it shall be." Taking a small sip, his body trembles at the taste, the unfamiliar burn making him cough lightly. Halsin chuckles and Wyll nudges his shoulder to shut him up. Shadowheart shoots eyes like daggers in their direction and they turn their attention back to the display on the alter, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Astarion hands the cleric the chalice and she then hands it to Gale, the ritual being repeated exactly the same way. The cleric clasps her hands together and smiles at the three of you, motioning for you to join hands one more and you obey.

"Family, friends, witnesses. By the power of the Moon Maiden Selune, I now declare these three to be wed. You may now share a kiss."

Astarion wastes no time pulling you to him, his lips crashing to yours and the crowd of guests cheers. Volo quickly motions for the group of bards to play "Bard Dance", Alfira strumming happily on her lute, spinning in little circles and dancing about with the others. Gale keeps hold on your hand, impatiently waiting for Astarion to stop the theatrics before he pulls you over to him. He embraces you gently, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss, much less desperate than Astarions. You sigh against his lips and the vampire scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, a small smirk hanging on his wet lips. Shadowheart, Wyll, Halsin, and Karlach all rush down to the three of you, embracing you in a tight group hug. You giggle, smashed between all of the warm bodies and Astarion groans out loud.

"Gods, you're all too much!"

...

The long and exhausting night of festivities comes to a close, family and friends bidding your their final farewells as they seek the inns for sleep. Halsin throws a drunken Shadowheart over his stocky shoulder and she beats against his muscular back in protest, small hiccups leaving her before she finally gives in and goes limp in his grasp. Karlach stumbles into Wyll, laughing loudly, her bright flames burning a deep shade of purple and she wiggles an eyebrow in his direction. Wyll sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger. You giggle to yourself, your own wine buzz sending tingles up and down your spine. You eye your new husbands, both seemingly tired of the shenanigans that they've watched all night. The trek to your tower is short, filled with giggles and little kisses, reminiscing about the nights' events.

Astarion scoops your small frame up bridal style once you reach the front door, chucking at the small yelp he earns from you and he carries you past the threshold of the quaint wizard tower, Gale following close behind with your cloak in hand. He watches you both with love drunk eyes, carefully closing the front door behind the group and he tosses your cloak onto the bench below him. Astarion places you on your feet and you smooth your dress down carefully, reaching back to remove the moon hair pin that Shadowheart had given to you. With a swift tug, the pin releases your hair, the thick dark braids on top of your head falling with it and the plaits unravel themselves. You shake your head to further release your hair, the locks falling in perfect waves down your shoulders and back now. You reach your hands up to soothingly scratch at your scalp, sighing in pure pleasure at the relief taking down your hair has given you. Gale moves behind you now, hands resting on your hips, rubbing soothing circle into them as he leans down and buries his face into the side of your neck. He inhales your scent, the perfume you chose for your wedding night standing out to him distinctly. Rose water and orchid, a flowery scent he wasn't used to smelling on you. He sighs against your skin, peppering the area with the softest little kisses. Astarion steps toward the two of you, pressing his torso to yours, his hands resting on top of Gales at your hips. He pecks a kiss to your forehead, leaving a trail of kisses to the opposite side of your neck from Gale and he takes inventory of the knew smell as well. You shudder at the sudden overwhelming amount of sensations, your entire body breaking out in goosebumps. Gales fingers move to your back, fiddling with the corset lacing holding your dress on your body.

"Why don't we.. Get this off."

He tugs at one of the laces, loosening the ties. The dress drapes on your frame and Astarion reaches his hands up to slide the silk fabric down your shoulders, bodice moving down your torso to expose your breasts, nipples already hardening at the temperature change. You hiss at the cold air now assaulting your chest and back, both men making quick work of sliding your dress the rest of the way down your shivering body. Two pairs of lips latch to your skin, Astarion's sucking little bruises on the flesh of your breast while Gale works the side of your neck, tongue lapping at the skin there sweetly. You lean back into Gale, pulling Astarion closer to you, your mouth falling open. The vampire's right hand comes up to grasp at your breast, kneading the sensitive flesh as he kisses and licks on the other, tongue occasionally flicking over your painfully erect nipple. You buck your hips backwards, ass meeting Gale's growing bulge. You groan in excitement, completely unsure of what to do with your hands. Reaching forward needily, you gasp at the front of Astarions coat, fumbling with the silver metal buttons.

"Hm, a needy little thing, isn't she Gale?"

Astarion's honeyed tone makes your knees buckle. Gale nods in agreement, fingers toying with the plush skin of your thighs now.

"I think we should take this upstairs."

Gale lifts you into his arms and begins to ascend the stairs, leaving your wedding dress in the middle of the floor. You lace your arms around his neck, gazing up into his hungry eyes. He looks forward, determined to make it to the bedroom quickly. Astarion follows close behind, sliding his coat off and tossing it behind him, fingers working on the buttons of his silk shirt next. He smirks at you over Gale's shoulder and you eye him carefully, bottom lip trapped between chattering teeth. You let out an audible gasp when Gale suddenly tosses you onto the bed. You sink into the soft pillows and blankets, the smooth fabrics against your naked skin feeling absolutely delicious. Astarion steps behind Gale, helping him remove his coat and shirt, the two men standing in only their leathers now. You peer up at them, arousal burning between your thighs. Astarion steps in front of Gale and traces his fingers around the mark of the orb, earning a shuddering moan from Gale's lips. In a swift motion, Astarion captures Gale's lips with his, his hand sliding up and into the back of his hair. The two men press tightly together, hips grinding into one another feverishly. You groan at the sight. Gods, they're beautiful. Gale pulls away reluctantly and chews his bottom lip, eyes fixed on Astarion's before moving to you, your naked body causing him to salivate. He moves to the bed, reaching down to run his fingers over the soft silk of your underwear. He was surprised you'd worn any at all.

"Off with them."

His tone is commanding and unfamiliar, but you obey him, thumbs sliding into the corners of the fabric. You drag them down your thighs and kick them off. Astarion raises an eyebrow in amusement at the wizard's new found courage, hands resting on his hips.

"I'm impressed, Gale. What else can you do?"

Gale scoffs. Astarion takes a seat next to you on the bed, moving up and behind you so your head can rest in his lap and he strokes your soft hair away from your face. Grinning up at him, you pucker your lips playfully and he chuckles. Gale settles at the end of the bed, fingers tracing lazy shapes into your thighs, a quiet yawn stretching his mouth open.

"Careful, wizard. You'll catch flies."

"Gods I'm so happy I married you, Astarion."

You giggle at their banter and pure joy engulfs you in warmth. This moment is perfect. You are happy. Never did you think you'd be wed to both Gale and Astarion, a fantasy most ladies in Faerun wouldn't dare mutter in public. You feel so lucky. Your thoughts are halted suddenly as Gale slides his fingers up your inner thigh, pressing your legs apart and into the bed beneath you. You gasp loudly at the force of his grip. He smirks up at you from between your legs, brown eyes glowing in the lanternlight. Watching hip lick his lips at the sight of you makes your body weak and you slump back against Astarion, his toned arms pulling you up and into his lap gently, hands pushing your thighs apart for Gale once more. You chew on the skin of your bottom lip, picking little pieces off and drawing blood. Tiny droplets dot your lips and Astarion catches on to the scent immediately, lids lowering. He inhales deeply through his nose. "Mm.. A treat." Your lips flatten into a smirk. Gale sits up on his knees, reaching his fingers out to trace the top of your mound. You hiss and shudder. Astarion nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing heavily against the sensitive skin there, tongue flicking out to trace the barely healed pierce marks from his last feeding. You obediently tilt your head to the side to expose more of your neck to him. With a quiet groan, he sinks his teeth into your tender flesh and begins to suck, earning a steady stream of crimson. You grasp onto the soft sheets beneath you, pain like shards of glass making you tense until the familiar numbness sets in. You go limp. Gale watches closely, taking advantage of your boneless state to swipe his fingers through your slick folds. You react quickly, hips bucking forward at the new sensation. Astarion pulls away to lick the remnants of your blood from his lips. He grins.

Your legs tremble with excitement and you wiggle your hips, silently begging to be touched again. Gale grants you temporary relief with another swipe, this time lower. He collects your slick on the tip of his finger and spreads it around your clit, rubbing agonizingly slow circles. You mewl in response to the gentle friction, rolling your hips upwards to push against his fingers. He backs off, shaking his head at you and you whine.

"Patience, my love."

"Yes, patience, pet."

Astarion smirks and licks a long stripe up the side of your neck, sliding a hand up into the back of your hair and giving your head a forceful tug back. You yelp in pain, gritting your teeth. The low growl that rumbles in Astarion's chest makes your hips buck upwards and Gale chuckles, fingers meeting your core once more. He circles his fingers around the outside of your clit, dipping down to collect more of the slick that's pooling beneath you now, a puddle forming on the sheets.

"Hm.. So messy. Just for us, Astarion."

Gale groans, sliding a finger into your aching cunt and you cry out into the night air, Astarion leaning in close to your ear to coach you through the sensations. He whispers softly, making your cheeks and chest flush deep red.

"That's it.. So good. So good."

You spread your legs wider for Gale, writhing in Astarion's tight grip. He hushes you, fingers tightening around your tangled locks. He pushes your head forward, forcing you to watch as Gale inserts another finger, pumping in and out slowly, not giving you any time to adjust to being filled by his thick digits. Gale grinds his hips into the mattress and moans at the small amounts of friction his leathers provide. Astarion watches intensely, eyes flicking from you, to Gale, and back again, his own erection straining painfully against his leathers. He reaches a free hand down and palms at his bulge. Gale curves his fingers upwards inside of you, your walls fluttering at the change of position and you melt into Astarion's lap now, moans silencing to strained gasps. Your mouth hangs open. Gods, he's torturing you. The pale vampling behind you releases his grip on your hair, smoothing the tousled locks back into place, his eyes fixed on Gale's hand now, digits pumping furiously in and out of your cunt. That knot tightens in your belly, threatening to snap at any moment. You grind your hips up against Gale's palm and whine his name loudly, hands now resting on Astarion's thighs and you use them as leverage to push yourself up further towards Gale.

Astarion leans back on his hands, perfectly content with watching the show. It's no secret that Astarion finds so much pleasure in watching you be pleasured. Whether it be by him, yourself, or someone else. The sight and sounds alone are enough to completely unravel him. You learned this during your encounter in the Underdark and you think about it often. The way he's comfortable just sitting back and watching Gale touch you. Gale has learned the same habit in the couple of weeks the three of you have lived together before the wedding. A few nights were spent with Astarion between your legs and Gale just watching. Enjoying. Savoring the moment. You always offered to reciprocate, and they both often refuse. This moment is no different.

"G-Gale, I'm so close.."

Gale leans in quickly, the flat of his tongue pressing firmly to your clit, rubbing back and forth against the swollen nub while his fingers continue to pump into your cunt, arousal coating his hand. Your hips find a steady rhythm and you grind upwards, pleasure bubbling, bubbling, bubbling, BURSTING inside of your gut. You gasp loudly, clinging to Astarion's legs on either side of you, riding the tidal wave of your orgasm as Gale continues to lick at you furiously. His fingers slow their motion and he carefully slides them out, your jaw falling open again at the sudden emptiness. Your walls flutter around nothing, swollen clit pulsating. You bring your knees to your chest, curling up into Astarion's abdomen, wanting nothing more than to be simply absorbed by him. He chuckles at the closeness and lies down on his side, tugging your back to his torso. He snakes his arms sleepily around you, Gale following suit to snuggle up to the front of you. Both men hold you and each other tightly, exchanging sleepy kisses and rubbing noses with one another. Your eyes meet Gale's and you mumble softly.

"Is there anything.. I can do? For you?"

Gale shakes his head, hand lifting to cup your still flushed cheeks and he strokes your high cheekbone with his rough thumb.

"Nothing at all."

He smiles down at you and you offer the same question to Astarion. He ponders for a moment, unsure of how to answer. He's never been asked what he wants. Not in situations like this, anyway. He contemplates his options. He could obviously ask you to pleasure him. Get on your knees and let him rut into your mouth, let him use your holes like any other woman that's ever lusted after him. He shakes his head and grins, pressing a loving kiss to the top of your head.

"You've given me the one thing that no one else ever has, my love."

You quirk an eyebrow in confusion, turning your head to face him. Gale yawns, crawling out of bed to quickly check all of the curtains in the room, pressing any two together that he thinks might let in a little too much sunlight in the morning. He smiles to himself once each window is sufficiently covered and climbs back into bed, pulling a blanket up over the three of you. You watch Astarion for a moment before quietly asking.

"And what is that?"

He sighs happily, nuzzling his face into your warm neck, pressing you impossibly close to him. A quiet yawn escapes him and his lids flutter closed.

"A choice."

[fleuraimer]

…. perhaps a harry x reader blurb to spare 🤲 i will take anything u want to give me. fluff or smut or both or neither ❤️❤️❤️❤️ u rock and my name is also evelyn so i feel bonded to u

u've absolutely made my day with this evelyn :((( i hope you like what i've concocted bestie, she's kinda all over the fucking place, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy <33

wc: 2k

cw: not much, super fluffy, mildly (perhaps majorly) suggestive. not suitable for ramadan!! not proofread. lmk if i missed anything pls!!

Spring is here.

Fucking finally.

All the seasons were lovely to Y/N, each offered something the others didn’t—couldn’t. But spring was different. Special.

Like him.

Like Harry.

Perhaps that’s why her love for it blossomed like the tulips lining her bedroom window; there was something about seeing her usually soft boyfriend get ten times softer as leaves started to sprinkle branches, blades of grass flashed a vibrant green once more, and the sun kissed the earth that got to her tender heart.

It was especially difficult to not melt when he’d planned a small outing for them, centered around the perfectly warm weather. Instead of waiting until nightfall and driving to some stuffy restaurant (although their dinner dates were never anything less than exquisite), they walked hand-in-hand down the boulevard in broad daylight, gentle wisps of wind the only thing surrounding them, as well as the quiet conversation of other passersby.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. They were perfectly content to relish in the mere presence of one another—soak in the rays of sun, and warmth. Love.

Thumbs gave mindless, delicate strokes against the back of palms, rucking up rings, kissing knuckles in apology, and putting them back in place, just to repeat it all over again. The knitted fabric of Harry’s cardigan is soft when it brushes against Y/N’s bare arm (she decided that it was absolutely perfect weather to slip on her favorite flowy sundress, cinched at the waist and flared at the hips, printed with obnoxiously serene-looking flowers and hummingbirds, with a square neckline that farmed the intricate necklace Harry bought her for their second anniversary quite stunningly), but his hand in hers was softer. Better.

Said hand tugs on hers, urging her away from the beaten path and into the ravine of tall, never-ending trees—willows and oaks; sycamores, birches, and maples, too. She resists, no less. Looks down at the cobblestone beneath her soles, and the cute kitten heels that (in her humble opinion) tie her whole spring-era look together.

She pouts.

And then a head of chocolate obscures her view of the pristine, white triangle toes. A hand placed both respectfully and salaciously on her ankle, coaxing her foot to slip from its confines, makes her breath catch in her suddenly dry throat.

Her kind eyes glaze over, ever so slightly.

“Y’don’t have’t—”

“I want to, Bellissima.”

Her shoe slips from her foot with a soft clatter on the ground when he manages to pry her sole from the earth, but it barely registers in her brain. In fact, everything else seems to fade away into the lovely spring that encompasses them when Harry guides his hand further up, along her fleshy calf, and leans in to place a chaste, staggering kiss to the bridge of her foot.

She wobbles, but they both know it’s not because she’s been left to balance on one foot.

Harry smiles, faint—the crater in his stubbled cheek is nearly invisible—and nudges his nose along the smooth skin of her leg.

He works diligently (as diligently as one can when removing a shoe) to rid Y/N of her footwear, relieving her of any worry or pain.

He looks pleasantly boyish when he looks up at her, smiles all cheeky, and winks for good measure. Kneeling on cobblestone in a worn pair of jeans, suede, dirty Adidas, and a vintage band tee that smells of stale coffee, Chanel No. 5 (one of many preferred perfumes of Y/N), and sex no matter how many times they run it through the wash; the green of his seafoam eyes twinkling in the sunlight, sunnies pushing his hair back, and yet one rogue curl still bends and twirls with the wind, falling in a perfectly aesthetic spiral when it settles…

Soft. Boyfriend. Hers.

Her Harry.

He stands to his full height, and they’re much closer than she’d thought they would be, but she’s certainly not complaining. Where before she stood at (about) Harry’s collarbone, now her head barely reaches the underside of his pecs. Her neck strains to keep eye contact as he slips his free hand back into her awaiting palm, the latter of which occupied with their stuffed picnic basket, and now her precious kitten heels.

“Need me to carry you?” He asks, ready to suffer at least a week’s worth of back pain if it meant he’d keep that love-struck, glowy, adorable (subby, stupid, filthy) look on his girl’s face.

Y/N’s eyes widen subtly, though enough for Harry to notice, and he can’t help but have to stifle a chuckle at her bashful demeanor.

“No, thank you,” she squeaks, and now she’s the one tugging his hand, urging them into the abyss of greenery, away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

The grass feels soft, ticklish, between her powder pink painted toes; she feels her lips stretch into a small grin because of it. They walk idly until they find a soft patch of vividly green grass directly under a tree, kissed fleetingly by the rays of sunlight peaking through the gaps of branches and leaves.

Harry lets his hand fall from Y/N’s (and can’t help but feel slightly colder because of it) to unpack their picnic basket. He grabs the signature red gingham picnic blanket from its place in the basket, releasing its folded form with a flourish. The material floats gracefully through the air until settling on the grass, near gingerly with the way it stops at just the very tips of the blades.

He kicks his chin toward the blanket in invitation as he settles on top of it himself, beginning to remove the contents inside their basket. Sandwiches, fruits, veggies; assorted cheeses and meats, cake, and, arguable most important, wine. He wastes no time in popping the cork from the rouge, pouring a generous amount into each of the pinot noir glasses he’d carefully tucked in the picnic basket.

Y/N kneels onto the blanket, walking on her knees until Harry is within reach, and his incessantly grabby hands are (surprise, surprise!!) grabbing her. He hands her her wine glass and sets his off to the side for the time being, sliding his bear palms up the full of her thighs, the swell of her bum, small of her back…

She shivers as they pet down again, nails biting at her hips to grip and pull her into his lap.

“Too far,” he grumbles, nuzzling in the space where her neck and collarbone meet. He peppers soft kisses along the strong bone, inhaling the natural, overwhelming scent of her. His girl.

Y/N goes easily, sipping slowly at her red wine while her free hand comes up to his hair, fingers threading through the fluffy tendrils. She snatches his sunnies away when they block her half-hearted scalp massage, muttering delicate apologies when the bend of them gets stuck in his hair and he hisses at the sting.

“Sorry, Baby,” she winces herself, chucking the damned glasses onto the blanket when she’s gotten them loose, kissing along the crown of his head to soothe any ache.

She sips more, tart grape hitting her tongue, sugary plum sliding down her throat, strawberry slicking her lips. She’s borderline greedy with the way she downs it, but they’ve got nowhere to be. Only here. Just here. Now.

She twists in Harry’s laps to grab one of the homemade BLTs, offering the half she won’t stuff her fat gob with to Harry, which he politely accepts. They munch quietly, sharing soft smiles and love-sick kisses in between bites. Conversation is sparse, but not bad. Never bad. If anything, the weight of their words is heavier because they’re so few and far between.

They both like it that way, anyhow.

When their feast has dwindled down to nothing but a few fruits and cakes, Harry fishes his phone from his pocket, and reaches in the picnic basket to grab his trusty pair of wired headphones. Hooking them up to his phone, he looks expectantly to Y/N. She raises her brow, never one to move unprompted.

Harry smirks, “Come, Bellissima.”

Her heart flitters, her stomach flutters, and her eyes round out (Harry tries not to think about how fucking easy—). She crawls back to him, in a way that is unnecessarily intimate and innocent, and simultaneously astoundingly nasty, but he tucks the image into the deep, deep, dark recess of his mind so he doesn’t get arrested for public indecency. Saves it for later (call it his spankbank).

He tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear before handing her and earbud, and lying down on his side. She follows, the two inserting the device into their ears at the same time. Her head instantly floods with staggered strings and piano, static, and then bass. Saxophone and acoustic guitar being delicately plucked, followed by a heady, gentle voice, similar to Bowie (but never as iconic).

“About You,” she whispers to him, her lips quirking.

Harry nods. Smiles, “The 1975.”

As the music progresses—the subtle vibrato of Matty Healy’s croon, the crescendo of each instrument and sound blending together to create one beautiful, extravagant, mind-bending symphony—Y/N swears she can see all five oceans in his eyes. The clear, breathtaking reefs, the lines that separates it from the rest of the water, dividing the calm from the chaos, the serene from the danger. She sees the deep, the unknown she wishes the dive further into, explore and discover, treasure for nothing but her own heart. And the seafoam that crashes up against the shore, the way it bubbles with joy and glistens in the light of the sun at the horizon, ever so fleeting as it washes back down the grains of sand.

She sees it all.

“S’pretty,” she mumbles, scooting closer as much as she can.

Harry wraps the arm not tucked under his head around her waist, pulling her closer. His eyes flit dazedly between her two.

She may see the ocean, but he sees the sky. The constellations, laid out for him beautifully, his for the taking. His.

He nods, “S’pretty.” Bumps his nose childishly against hers, smiles softly, triumphantly, when it scrunches up. His eyebrows pull together in the center, and he huffs a breath through his nose, “S’fucking gorgeous, Stellina.”

His mouth is on her before she can ask for a translation (there’s only some many Italian pet names a girl can recall) tongue prodding at the seem of her lips until they give way and he can slide the wet muscle against her own. She tastes of their shared wine and vanilla buttercream, and he tastes of fresh peaches, mozzarella, and tangy balsamic vinegar. And yet, somehow, it mixes together to create something new, something better, arguably. He fits her bottom lip between his two, nipping and sucking at the plump flesh, pulling breathy whimpers and faint moans from his lover. His grunts and groans in response are no less self-deprecating (they were both, admittedly, getting extremely hot over a couple of third date level kisses).

Neither paid it much mind, however. Especially not when Harry flips around so he’s lying on his back and she’s pressed firmly against his torso, belly’s melding, chests grazing. Y/N can’t stifle her soft gasp at the heavy weight of Harry against her inner thigh, but she can’t reprimand him, for she is no better—there’s a puddle in the gusset of her panties.

“Harry,” she whines, lashes fluttering when his hands find the swell of her bum and squeeze through the flimsy fabric of her sundress.

“G'na take y'home now, Bellissima,” he husks against her open mouth, tongue flicking at the swollen mess. “Fuck you the way y'deserve for being such a good girl today—” She bristles, rocking into him and crying out softly because of it. “—and if y'keep it up, we’ll go to tha’ cute little flee market y'keep tellin’ me about, yeah?”

She’s being bribed with his (impeccable; divine; otherworldly) cock and her love for all things vintage.

“Can we go to the botanical garden, too?”

Harry snorts, issues a teasing spank to her bum that makes her squeal, but smiles, nevertheless. “Sure, Baby, whatever y'want.”

(Impeccable; divine; otherworldly) Cock, a flee market, and a botanical garden?

She’s in heaven. In happiness. In full bloom.

She fucking adores spring.

[cryptidtyping]

I want to go back

Summary: It's not easy coming face-to-face with your own dead body. You wish the demons you live with would even pretend to care. Lesson 16 spoilers

Content Warnings: Suicide attempt.

This is angst, all hurt, little/no comfort.

As the brothers rejoiced at the reappearance of the youngest, Belphegor (the same brother you went out of your way to help, the same brother you endured Lucifers threats and suspicion for, the same brother who took your trust and broke it and threw it in your face, the same brother who had just killed you), you felt… empty.

Over the past few months, as you watched movies with Mammon, or played games with Levi, or ate at Hell’s kitchen with Beel, or did skincare with Asmo, or read with Satan, the hollow little crack where your soul would be had filled up. With joy, with content, maybe even with love… there was nothing, all of it evaporating into dust.

You watched Mammon needle Belphegor, hiding his smile as he did, and you felt cold. Did your first demon not remember holding your corpse, only moments ago? Crying for you, yelling at the same brother he laughed with now?

You’d never be able to forget looking at your own dead body, how limp it was, the vivid bruises encircling your throat like a necklace. How it had simply faded away before your eyes. (you remembered clawing at unrepentant, unmoving hands and gasping for breath and fighting and fighting because you thought happiness resided with this literally damned family)

Looking at the happy family, you felt a chasm opening between you and them.

How silly you feel, now, thinking you could ever be a part of their family.

They’ve already forgotten you existed.

Empty. You felt so empty.

Why hadn’t you just stayed dead?

….

The front door clicks shut, but they don’t notice.

‘I want to go back.’

How often had you ended up at this same bridge during your stay in the Devildom, the one that overlooked the city with the palace a striking silhouette against the sky? Too often, perhaps, when you needed space and quiet.

‘I want to go back.’

You’d stepped over the guardrail, toes dangling over the abyss. Your hands were firmly gripping the bars, head tilted down to stare at the serpentine river far, far, far below.

‘I want to go back.’

Tears slipped down your nose.

You wanted to hate Belphegor, and you do, but you couldn’t help but also be grateful. Never before had you known the peace, the quiet, the warmth, that he’d helped you discover on the other side.

‘I want to go back.’

Head tilting back, you stare at the twinkling stars in the sky. Suicide was a sin, so you’d probably be right back here, but…

Maybe God would take pity on your poor soul, and you’d get to go to Heaven.

‘I want to go back.’

No one was coming to stop you. A sob rips itself from your throat.

Your fingers begin to relax, and you let go.

…

But someone was holding onto you.

Your savior hauled you back over the guardrail, your body splaying across rough cobblestone and scraping any unlucky bit of exposed flesh. The hand around your wrist had disappeared, and the unknown person did not remain a mystery much longer.

“____, what happened?” Simeon asked gently, softly, hands fluttering around you nervously but never landing for fear of triggering your haphephobia. He was knelt before you, smelling of baked sweets and honey and mint, and he was looking at you.

He saw you.

(Finally, finally someone saw you and your pain and and-)

You throw yourself into his arms and sob.

Death had nothing on the peace and warmth you found when the angels arms hesitantly wrap around you.

[daydreaming-en-pointe]

˗ˏˋ street food date ´ˎ˗

(isn’t that just the most creative title :D)

requested by very a lovely person who wishes to remain anonymous <3

Pairing: Pavitr Prabhakar (Spider-Man India) x Fem!Pakistani!Reader

Type: Oneshot - Fluff

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: terms of endearment, mentions of food & eating, usage of Hindi (translations provided), I don’t speak Urdu so it’s google-translated 😭

A/N: Reader speaks Urdu and Pavi (canonically) speaks Hindi. Since both languages are pretty similar in terms of speaking, at least from what I’ve observed, let’s assume that they can understand each other fairly easily :)

I absolutely LOVED writing this omg it was such a cute request! Sorry it took me so long so do this, I was so busy that I completely forgot abt all my reqs for a while 😅

Btw this was barely proofread so if there are mistakes no there aren’t <3

“Meri jaan, you’re spilling it.”

You turned at the familiar voice, just barely managing to balance a paper plate in your hands with an absurd amount of dahi papadi chaat piled onto it.

“You’re late,” You noted, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling like a lovestruck idiot as Pavitr approached you, flashing that dazzling, slightly crooked grin that had your heart stumbling and falling over your mind trying to make sense of it all. You dropped your gaze to the floor, trying your best to cross your arms without dropping the food on the plate.

“I know. And I’m sorry, I really am. But you know that juggling my… duties and timings are hard,” He dipped his head slightly to make you look at him, brushing a small piece of papdi off your kurta. God, he was so annoying sometimes. His eyes were so soft and irresistible and he knew it.

“Come on, look at me,” He said teasingly, stepping forward slightly and grinning as you glanced up at him, then immediately frowned at your lack of willpower when it came to him. “There she is.”

You felt a smile break through so you set down the paper plate on a nearby ledge, leaning forward to wrap him in a hug and bury your face in his clothes. “Arre, you’re insufferable,” You mumbled, to which he let out a small chuckle and effortlessly picked you up to spin you around despite your little yelp of surprise.

“Oh, yeah, definitely. I’m sure that’s why you came out here on a date with me to have street food, right? Let’s go, meri dhoop. No use of you being all sad right now, naa? Look, there’s even pani puri a few stalls down.”

You almost got whiplash from how fast you turned your head to look, your eyes widening in excitement as all previous thoughts were forgotten. “You should’ve mentioned that earlier!”

Pavitr laughed, the easy chuckle - as cliché as it sounded - practically music to your ears as you grabbed his hand and took off, leading him to the pani puri vendor. “I knew that’d cheer you up.”

One shared paper plate of (admittedly quite messy) pani puri and a whole skewer of seekh kebab later, you leaned against a ledge overlooking the Mumbattan bridge right next to a whole row of new vendors. Pavitr wrapped an arm a little too tightly around your shoulders, nervously measuring the distance you would fall if you tripped.

“Pavi, relax, I won’t fall,” You gave him a reassuring smile, and he breathed out slowly before giving you a slightly strained smile in return. “Yeah, sorry. Spider-Man stuff. Lots of, uh… bad things happen. Usually near large drops.”

Your eyes flicked to his hand, gripping the railing so hard his knuckles were starting to lose circulation. Sensing his discomfort, you moved away from the railing back into the middle of the cobblestones.

“I’m going to braid your hair,” You declared suddenly to ease the tension in the air, examining the smooth waves that framed his face, pushed back slightly with his blue headband. His eyes widened in horror at your statement. “Wait, what? No! I said I was sorry for coming late! I’ll do my absolute best to come on time, I promise!”

“I’m not that rough,” You protested, scrunching your eyebrows as he cupped his warm hands over your cheeks. “Of course not, meri jaan. You’re so gentle, my hair definitely doesn’t feel like it’s being sent to an early grave.”

“Aap drama baghair kisi wajah ke bana rahay hain.” (You are making drama for no reason) You frowned at him and he chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“Kabhi nahin! Mei achcha vajeh se drama karta hoon. …Uff, thik hai, tum mere baalon ko tod sakte hain. Lekin… pehle ise kha leh.” (Never! I do drama for good reasons. ..Okay, fine, you can tear my hair out. But first… eat this.)

He held up a plate of vada pav, his smile growing as your eyes lit up again, the familiar scent bringing back memories of sitting in your grandparents’ house and watching them cook, masala-infused aromas wafting through the kitchen from the large utensils.

“What did I do to deserve you?” You wondered aloud as you started stuffing your face with the nostalgic dish. Your tone was lighthearted and playful, but it had a few traces of the underlying truth. You were so, so lucky to have him, and you knew it.

You could see it every time he dramatically presented you with some knickknack or the other that he picked up along the way, handing it to you with a bashful ‘it made me think of you.’ You could see it every time he adjusted your dupatta, every time you caught him staring at you with round, loving, awestruck eyes as if you were the very centre of the cosmos itself.

And when he smiled at everyone it was usually genuine, sure, but you had a special kind of smile reserved for your eyes alone. One that made the small dimples at the corners of his mouth even more noticeable, one that made him scrunch his nose subconsciously with how wide he was smiling.

The kind of smile he was using right now. And oh, good grief, you were so far gone for him. He was so effortlessly gorgeous it actually hurt - wavy hair swept to one side behind his headband, brown eyes turning gold in the sun, the light dappling his face and flicking tiny spots of shadow onto his skin.

“Tum bohat khobsorat ho,” (You’re so beautiful) You whispered, completely spellbound. Pavitr blinked in surprise, his smile turning slightly shy. “Arrey, tum mujhe bahut zyaada phlait karte ho.” (You flatter me too much)

“No, really!” You insisted, tapping the tip of his nose with your pinky and laughing when he scrunched it instinctively. “You’re very pretty, you know that? Mera khobsorat ladka. Pretty, pretty boy.” (My beautiful boy)

“Aap adhik sundar hai.” (You’re more beautiful) Without warning, he gently grabbed your torso and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. You looped your arms around to meet behind his shoulder blades, resting your chin in the crook of his neck.

You were scared to move, to disturb the silent peacefulness of it all, but you wanted to tell him something that would hopefully put his worries to rest.

“You know I won’t leave you, right? I won’t be your… what is it, canon event? Whatever that is.”

At the words ‘canon event’, Pavitr flinched as if he had been burned, his eyes wide and searching as he looked at you. “What? Where did that come from? And how-”

“Okay, listen, so it’s kinda my fault,” You began, choosing your words so as to not agitate him any further. “But you know how you said I could read your journal, because basically every embarrassing thing you’ve written is you being lovesick for me?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it!” He covered his face with his hands in embarrassment, messing up his hair in the process.

“Anyway, uh… you left it open on your drawer and I maybe kind of accidentally looked through the last entry. But only because I was worried. You’d been acting stressed out the whole day, remember? I’m sorry!”

“I don’t… hmm, actually, that’s pretty sweet that you were worried. I appreciate it.” He lifted his head to meet your eyes, almost smiling before his face crumpled again. “Hang on, what else did you see? Oh, god, did you see the whole page of poems I wrote? No, wait, hear me out! In my defence, I was absolutely whipped for you. I still am, but-”

“Pavi?”

“Yeah?”

“Ai, meri mohabbat. Chup ho jao. Mujhe lagta hai ke yeh dilkash hai,” (My love. Shush. I think it’s adorable) You reassured him, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose before moving in to press a soft kiss to his lips, an attempt at putting his worries and ramblings to rest.

That shut him up pretty well.

Please know that I am not Pakistani! I tried my best to write this, but if there is anything I’ve gotten wrong, please let me know and I’ll be happy to change it. <3

Meri jaan - my life

Meri dhoop - My sunshine/my sun

A kurta is a loose, collarless type of shirt worn by people in South Asia. It usually extends up to or just past the knee.

A dupatta is a length of material worn arranged in two folds over the chest and thrown back around the shoulders, typically with a salwar kameez or a kurta, by women from South Asia.

Papdi chaat (or papri chaat) is crispy fried-dough wafers served with typical chaat ingredients such as chickpeas, boiled potatoes, yogurt sauce, and tamarind and coriander chutneys; it may also contain pomegranate seeds. Dahi papdi chaat is the same thing, but more yoghurt is used (dahi means yoghurt/curd).

Pani puri is a popular Indian snack consisting of fried puff-pastry balls filled with spiced mashed potato (the puri), spiced water, and tamarind juice (the pani).

Seekh kebab is a type of kebab made with Indian spices, spiced, minced or ground meat, usually lamb or chicken, formed into cylinders on skewers and grilled.

Tags: @hobiebrownismygod @l0starl @therealloopylupin2099