#failed-pacifier

[radiance1]

Danny has been reincarnated.

Which was an odd thing to realize, it wasn't even a slow one he just... snapped into it one day. One moment he was staring at a wall out of boredom the next, well, he was staring for an entirely different reason.

It was a task for his now young -he thinks around three years old?- mind to work its way through the memories, but it wasn't like he had much else to do honestly. So, what does he know?

His name is Danny, like, his actual name and not just a moniker. He was once a halfa and he already knows he's going to be missing invisibility and intangibility. He, well, died. For like, a second time which actually makes sense because reincarnation-

Anyways.

He was a clone of two people from this thing called the Justice League which, weird name but probably some government or activist group. Wonder Woman and Superman. Which were pretty weird names to name your kids but eh.

He doesn't really remember much besides that from this life, or the one from before but he's an adult! He'll figure things out once he gets out of this containment tube thing.

Did he mention he was in a test tube? He's a tube baby now. He thinks? Or maybe it's more like he's being contained.

Whatever.

So he breaks out. Thank you apparent superstrength that he has no idea why he has but he's not going to complain! He then wandered around all of the other test tubes, able to remember just enough of English to see that yea, they're dead.

He probably was too, before he had memories zapped into him. Or a vegetable.

He then finds this really big container, checks it out, then opens it because the clone inside isn't dead!

'Project Match' it said. He'll just call him Match.

Was he thanked for helping him? Nope. You would think that he would be thanked or at least somewhat respected for saving this guy but nope!

He was, quite literally, held up by his leg and dangled in the air. Who dangles a three-year-old?! Well, he was technically and adult but still! The next few things were a blur but after pulling off the old Fenton charm he found him and Match outside as he tried to stop him from attacking random people.

Luckily the charms and privilege of the youngest (he's assuming he's the youngest, because he's physically three) was more than enough to get through to him. Sure, the guy couldn't form words, really aggressive for literally no reason, really weird but also absolutely cool looking eyes. But he worked around the first issue by developing their own personal language from like grunts and stuff, the second he once again used his youngest privilege to boss him around and the third a pair of sunglasses easily fixed.

He just had to steer Match clear of those random S crest mark thingies. Which was a weird thing to hate but hey, he's not there to judge.

[transkingcobra]

When the dice are trying to give your character arguably more interesting trauma but you still wanna keep the current story so you gotta plot armor some bitches

[randomartsideblog]

I miss Hotaru Yura

[deathofacupid]

ceo!sukuna x bubbly!barista!reader, i fear it's my new obsession. banner credits to @/uzmacchiato. both inspired by, and dedicated to @salsakiyoomi! hope you like it, pretty <33

ceo!sukuna, a man whose resting face could curdle milk, hates physical touch. like, he'd rather wrestle a rabid badger than endure a friendly pat on the back.

his employees? mere rodents scurrying around his corporate cheese grater, their sole purpose to make his existence slightly less agonizing.

of course, they mostly failed at that. they were less "competent assistants" and more "walking disasters with access to staplers." his day was basically a high-stakes game of "clean up the employee-induced apocalypse," and he was running out of patience, and more importantly, employees.

ex-employees, he'd mentally correct, adding them to his ever-growing blacklist. he'd personally ensure they'd be lucky to get a job at a clown college.

and yet, despite this raging misanthropy and deep-seated aversion to human contact, he ends up craving your arms. the irony was thicker than his expense reports.

"'kuna?" you ask, peering up from your couch fort. "how was your day?"

a grumble is his reply. you've deciphered his grumbles into a complex language, and this one translates to "hell on earth."

you open your arms, and he promptly transforms into a sentient, grumpy weighted blanket, flopping onto you with the grace of a falling grand piano.

you wheeze, but you're used to it. he’s basically a cat, except instead of knocking things off tables, he knocks the air out of your lungs.

"don't even get me started," he mutters, his voice muffled by your chest. he sounds like a toddler who just lost his favorite pacifier. "do you know how many people i had to terminate today?"

"fired, you mean? sukuna, you mean fired, right?" you’re picturing a corporate bloodbath, and it’s not a pretty image. he waves a dismissive hand, which, due to his position on top of you, almost knocks your phone out of your hand.

"yeah, yeah. whatever. they were basically performance art pieces of incompetence."

"okay, but, like, how many?"

"enough." he then changes the subject. "what about you, flower? how was the café?"

your mood instantly does a 180. "oh! it was great! nice and slow. but this one guy came in, all grumpy about his coffee. said he could make it better."

"he did?" sukuna raises an eyebrow, a feat considering he's basically face-planting into your chest. "what happened?"

"told him to go do it, then," you say, grinning. "and then kicked him out."

"that's my girl," he says, a rare flicker of approval in his eyes. "did you throw his coffee at him first?"

"i considered it, but i didn't want to waste good coffee."

he's impressed, that much he'll admit. he shifts, crushing you further. "sukuna!"

"i've been away from my girl all day," he grumbles, nuzzling into your neck. "let me have this."

for a man who supposedly treated physical contact like it was kryptonite, he sure seemed to enjoy clinging to you. maybe he just needed a you-shaped stress ball, you think. and maybe, just maybe, he was secretly a giant softie, hidden under layers of corporate armor and general grumpiness.

or maybe he just liked your couch. either way, you were trapped, and honestly, you weren't complaining. too much.

general taglist: @jeonwiixard. (i didn't forget this time 👩‍❤️‍👩)

[diaper-dyke]

Okay but imagine me forcing you into diapers and strapping you into a baby bouncer with a rattle and a little remote-controlled vibrator underneath your diaper's liner. I keep you there all day, working on grown-up things that you're just too dumb to understand.

Every hour, I take a quick break to feed you a big bottle of milk, before resuming my adult activities. Since you're just a baby who can't control when you pee yourself, you're making peepees in your diaper in no time at all. As a reward, I turn on the little buzzy toy inside your diaper.

I keep it on a low setting at first, and I turn it off whenever you're close. After all, that diaper can get fuller, and you haven't earned cummies yet. I continue to feed you your bottles, and as you fill your diaper more and more, I turn the setting up more and more.

Eventually, I'm satisfied with how much you've filled your diaper. I turn the buzzy toy to its highest setting, allowing you to cum. Your little whimpers and cries are music to my ears, but it's time for the pacifier gag to go in, since Mommy has to go on a call soon. It's a good thing that you'll be occupied with what's going on in that diaper.

Oh, you're so helpless, aren't you baby? There's no thoughts in that little baby brain. All you're able to do is bounce while you make peepees and cummies inside your diaper, over and over and over again. And don't think that I don't see you leaking. I bet you love that all the more, being able to bounce in your own mess both between your legs and beneath your feet while making cummies.

I don't think you'd be coming out of there anytime soon, unless it's for a change. I think you belong there, and I'll make sure you stay there. Don't worry, little one. Mommy will take care of you and all your needs. All you'll need to worry about is bouncing and keeping those diapers nice and full for Mommy. But judging by your performance today, I'd say you'll have no trouble doing that.

I bet you'd enjoy that. I bet you're squeezing your legs together just reading this. Or trying and failing to do so because your diaper is too thick~ Now, come here, baby, and we can make it happen. After all, Mommy knows best! ♡

[dunmesh]

okay i don't have anything smart to add i just genuinely love that these seemingly trivial jokes are actually an important part of his character. we see it throughout the entire manga, how he pushes aside his own frustration and discomfort to accommodate everyone else's and avoid needless confrontation- another example off the top of my head would be the barometz chapter in which he slowly gets frustrated with izutsumi but still tries his best to talk some sense into her calmly and soundly.

and in contrast, there are very few times he expresses his anger and hurt towards others, and it usually takes a lot for him to finally lose his patience and control.

i mean, even with kabru he tried to be polite despite the circumstances until the guy said the one thing that triggers an immense sense of shame, hurt and rage in laios. and you know, the manga does say it quite clearly early on. when we are introduced to namari and then to shuro, laios acts all friendly and shows his respect and trust in them despite how things ended between them, and everyone else gets frustrated with him for acting so strange- why are you the one who tries so hard to pacify the rest when you should be the angriest?

and they don't understand him. they don't know him well enough to be able to understand, but we as readers get to see during the manga that they aren't wrong to question him- he does, in fact, feel all those ugly emotions. and it's when the winged lion finally confronts him that we see to what extent these feelings he buried so deep go, and suddenly all those funny little moments where he sometimes pretends to be mr nice guy speak volumes about his character. honestly, ryoko kui is a master at using jokes in order to define important character traits and this one doesn't fail to amaze me.

and laios's hatred and rage and deep scars he can't get over aren't shown explicitly during most of these moments i mentioned before, but now you realize there are 26 years of emotional baggage to all of them and they sting. he is angry but he can't say shit, what difference would it make? it won't make his friends choose him instead of themselves when he needed them most, and it won't help his party get any farther. of course, this logic doesn't apply to them- they are absolutely allowed to get angry and it's fine to get mad at him, he can take that.

so after finishing the series it's so clear that he tries his best to avoid clashing with others not just due to the current circumstances and him needing to be a reliable leader but also because he knows that people don't even like him when he tries to show his good sides and hide all the rest, so who the hell would tolerate his rage and despair? who would stay after realizing that he is so deeply flawed he doesn't even like his own being?

but he does get mad. he can't help it, and sometimes it gets out of control and now everyone knows. and it's funny, isn't it? that most of those moments ended up bringing him closer to others. shuro admitting he is envy of him and actually becoming the friend laios thought he was all along, fighting for his sake and waiting for him to come back- believing in him even after he turned into a monster and searching for him the way he couldn't bring himself to do for falin when he learned of what became of her- or kabru being pushed to just let it all out because he couldn't bluff his way out of this one and get to laios any other way, so now they are even. they are both horribly honest with each other and they both choose to stay. a weird way of getting to know each other, but it is what it is.

it's simply... the more laios let himself just be, the deeper his relationships grew. and there's intimacy in being your ugly, weak and furious self around someone and them not leaving you. feeling safe enough to let it be known you are hurt and angry. and he knows that now, too.

[xoxochb]

soft girl dad rafe 😭😭😭 he tries to be “tough” on her but fails when if she keeps dropping her pacifier and makes him grab it

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“I’m not picking it up again.”

the baby begins to whine. you frown.

“pick it up for her, rafe, it won’t kill you.”

“but she’s doing it on purpose.”

you shrug and look down at your little girl sitting atop your lap. rafe was correct in assuming she was doing it on purpose— every time he would reach to take the pacifier, she would begin to giggle like she’d never seen anything better.

“just do it.”

he picks up the pacifier and the baby takes it happily, putting it back in her mouth and beginning to suck for a solid five seconds before she takes it out with a ‘pop!’ and throws it back on the rug.

rafe sighs as it hits the floor. he turns his gaze to you, a look of desperation. you smile.

“I’m not picking it up anymore.”

you frown teasingly. the baby begins to whine again and point to the pacifier on the floor, demanding that her father pick it up again.

if not for the baby’s heartbreaking pout he would not have done as she asked. but he did, handing it back to her for the fourth time today. this time, rafe places a kiss to her forehead.

happily, she begins to babble, dropping her pacifier onto her lap so she can grab her father’s face in a silent way to ask he kiss her again.

he does without complaint. but when rafe pulls back again, she throws the pacifier on the floor.

you raise your eyebrows at him. he had said ‘last time’ but everything in you doubts he actually meant it.

rafe shakes his head. “if I keep picking it up, she’ll think I’m gonna do it every time she drops it.”

“but she’s your little girl, don’t you love her?”

you hold up the infant in a displaying manner to get a point across.

unsurprisingly, with a glance to his baby girl, he reaches down and retrieves the pacifier once again.

[rollingeevee]

What did the minions first think of darling for both beast and ancient cookies

SORRY FOR THE ABSENCE! Been feeling not super amazing health wise so I took a small unannounced hiatus (sorry about that) and am still a lil iffy so will probs be slow for at least a couple more weeks ^^;

Now onto the answer!

For the minions we have so far (Cloud Haetae, Nutmeg Tiger, Candy Apple, Black Sapphire), I can say this

Cloud Haetae Cookie:

• I have a feeling they instantly became attached!

• Their master seems really fond of you, so that means they should adore you, right?

• Adoption time? Adoption time- aidhcj

• They are at your beck and call, more than happy to serve you in any way they can! Except for escape, of course. That would upset their master.

• They love being around you in general. Mystic Flour is not very outwardly affectionate, but you make up for that and give them plenty of attention.

Nutmeg Tiger Cookie

• I don’t see her liking you at first, perhaps seeing you as unworthy of The Great Destroyer. What ploy did you use to make him so infatuated with you?

• Burning Spice is quick to shut down any hostility she may have towards you. The only reason he didn’t crumble her right then and there was because you begged him not to.

• She felt a lil indebted to you afterwards, and given how quickly fierce and angered Burning Spice became over a small glare your way, she knew you were here to stay

• She tried to make it up to The Great Destroyer and you by offering to train you and help you become stronger, something you accepted and that Burning Spice approved of

• Tho she’s a lil gung ho when it comes to fighting and serving the Great Destroyer, her company is the closest thing you can consider to normal in your new life as the recipient of Burning Spice’s bite

Candy Apple Cookie

• Oh boy she hated you at first. Technically still does

• She adores Shadow Milk and has always desired his attention, and here you are with just stealing it away without any effort?! UGH!

• Shadow Milk is quick to notice her attitude,, but leaves it be. A test to see if she’s smart enough to obey his desires and leave you alone.

• A test she fails.

• She had never been punished as severely as when she tried to bring harm to you. She was lucky Shadow Milk didn’t crumble her. Her only saving grace was how much you seemed to like her and tried to get along with her. One of the few tethers keeping you compliant for the moment.

• This did not get rid of her jealousy, but it did pacify her. She tolerates you at most.

Black Sapphire Cookie

• Black Sapphire is a follower of Shadow Milk above all else. If Shadow Milk says you are to remain in the Spire, that is where you are to be. If Shadow Milk wants you attached at his hip, Black Sapphire will do his best to ensure you remain there.

• He’s not necessarily fond of you per se- not any more than he needs to be at least.

• Shadow Milk trusts Black Sapphire around you much more than he does Candy Apple, and allows Black Sapphire to get physically close to you and attend to you when he himself cannot, but he’s a fickle contradiction. He allows the close proximity but gets grumbly about it later. You can’t win with this guy ughhhhh

• Anything his Lord Shadow Milk wants, he gets. Shall he attend to you while Shadow Milk is busy? Of course! Oh- he needs to leave- ok-

• Unlike Candy Apple, Black Sapphire is fully aware of what you are, including your importance to his master. He’s been around longer, knows what that mark on you means, what that possessive attitude entails. I feel when Black Sapphire was younger, he might have been bratty with one of or perhaps Shadow Milk’s very first bitten, something he quickly learned was a no no, much like Candy Apple.

• And as much as Candy Apple annoys him, she’s still his sister, and he does his brotherly duties to make sure she doesn’t do anything too stupid and get herself killed by their master

[mariasont]

ALLERGIES AND OTHER LIES - A.H

trying to downplay your illness at work becomes increasingly complicated, thanks to morgan's teasing and hotch's concern.

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: illness (mild cold symptoms), implied age gap dynamics, dbf!hotch, chronic people pleasing, mentions of parental disapproval, overworking, power imbalance (mild, but like... still), caretaking, mentions of anxiety/imposter syndrome wc: 1.8k request: here!

In your household, illness had been less about care and more about damage control, specifically, making sure your father never noticed the slightest sniffle or shiver.

Showing weakness of any kind had been about as welcome as bringing home a bad grade (below A) or an unsuitable boyfriend (anyone whose parents weren’t well known in your parents’ circle of friends).

Your mother had a mantra of chin up, honey. So, in turn, you spent most of your childhood mastering silent coughs and hiding tissues like contraband. You become an expert, too, in using makeup as camouflage, plastering concealer beneath tired eyes and an irritated nose.

These were the skills you employed again today, transforming your reflection to something more presentable.

Or at least, you hoped.

One might reasonably expect your workplace, filled with empathetic experts who practically radiate concern and affection for you, to be the ideal environment to relax those defenses. Clearly, reason is not a reliable source.

Old habits die hard, or something like that.

You clear your throat again, trying to make it quieter this time as if to be a peace offering for your body, hoping it might abandon its melodrama and remember that once upon a blue moon, you had shared priorities.

Shared priorities like appearing professional, impressing Hotch, not dying of embarrassment in the middle of the office. At least, ideally not before Hotch realizes he’s secretly in love with you, but beggars can’t be choosers.

And to your credit, you know you’re perfectly functional. You're completely capable of performing basic duties. It's only a paperwork day, and all you need to accomplish is sitting upright for the next six hours without collapsing.

Piece of cake, really.

This holds true despite your head's best efforts to contract this narrative, floating dizzily atop your shoulders like an overinflated balloon, packed with cottony static.

It’s as if someone (you suspect Satan himself at this point, no lesser evil would be quite so cruel) is intent on squeezing, testing just how much strain your overstretched rubber can endure before ultimately popping.

But to deem this a real illness would be the sort of overstatement that would’ve set your mother’s lips into a tight, disapproving line.

No, this is just the polite-stranger-on-the-street level of cold, the type you acknowledge with that polite, no-teeth, slightly awkward smile (the one dads exchange at hardware stores), giving it just enough recognition so it doesn’t engage you further.

Though, this strategy of pointedly ignoring your symptoms seems to be failing, if your rapidly dwindling tissue supply is any indication. Most people would say it is. Spencer, for instance. Rossi. Emily. JJ. Morgan.

Especially Morgan.

You wonder whether anyone would care, or even notice, if you slipped out to restock. It’s tempting to steal someone else’s box outright. Desperate times, desperate measures, etc.

Your hand rises to settle against your cheek, fingers pressing and reshaping fever-warmed skin in a hopeful bid to pacify the throbbing discomfort that has nestled firmly behind your eyes.

“You doing okay over there?” JJ asks, fingers flying over her tablet screen without sparing you more than half a distracted glance. “Sounds like you’re fighting a losing battle over there.”

You force out a laugh, but it comes out strangled, undermining your performance before it even has a chance to succeed. Pathetic.

“Allergies,” you insist weakly.

This finally earns her full attention and a look she probably usually reserves for Henry and Michael.

“If you say so.”

You're still mentally fumbling for a better excuse when Hotch steps through the entrance of the bullpen.

Immediately, your spine goes rigid, snapping into proper alignment designed to fool him into believing you're the very picture of health. It's a level of optimistic delusion typically reserved for thinking you'll actually wake up early to run. Or for ill-advised crushes. (Not that the latter has any relevance to you whatsoever, of course.)

Feigning disinterest, you slide the sad, flattened tissue box toward the outermost corner of your desk, secretly hoping it might vanish into some blind spot and escape his notoriously observant gaze.

Unfortunately, Morgan doesn’t have blind spots. You can feel his curiosity practically burning through you without needing visual confirmation. 

And when you finally cave and glance over, sure enough, he’s exactly as you feared — reclining with that self-assured smirk of this.

You shoot back an imploring, wordless appeal you hope is conveyed properly in the desperate look on your face — Derek if you have any compassion left in your soul, don’t embarrass me in full view of the human epitome of perfection who, by some cosmic injustice, also happens to sign my paychecks.

“Hey, Hotch, you might want to keep a safe distance. Somebody over here sounds ready to keel over.”

You stiffen in an instant, a flush saturating your skin in a wave of flaring skin. So, it's decided then, Morgan is either immune to the nuances of telepathy or human decency. Maybe both.

His comment lands with brutal accuracy to its intended target, Hotch's all-seeing attention, exactly where they're guaranteed to do the most harm.

Against all better judgment, you look toward your boss.

His expression is reliably neutral — an impenetrable facade he’s perfected over countless interrogations and internal crises. But you, in your infinite and perhaps slightly unhealthy fascination, have long since memorized the subtle dialects of his face. The language spoken by small lines that now deepening along his forehead.

Those shadowed creases betray worry, mild irritation, or an even more troubling amalgamation of both. 

You shoot Morgan a pointed glare, but the strength of your conviction fizzles out fast, morphing unwillingly into something you’re sure resembles a wounded pout.

Predictably, his grin expands, and before you can conjure a sufficiently damning curse to smite him into oblivion, Hotch materializes beside your work space.

His eyes skim over your desk — the messy heap of tissues, the scattered remnants of cough drop wrappers, and the cluster of half empty tea cups.

“Something wrong?”

“Me?” 

“Yes, you,” Hotch clarifies patiently. More than you deserve.

“Oh, right — no, I’m completely fine,” you babble quickly, fingers scrambling in vain to conceal the damning evidence. “I’m — this is nothing, really.”

His eyes narrow.

“How about you tell me the truth this time?”

“Seriously. I feel totally —” Your defense promptly collapses as you pivot hastily, barely managing to muffle a sneeze into the crook of your elbow. You sniffle sheepishly, eyes watering, and turn back to him. “— great,” you croak. “Fantastic, even.”

He offers his handkerchief without comment, and you accept it, fingertips hovering just shy of his, keeping distance the way you’d steer clear of a freshly painted wall (tempting, but dangerous). Because, frankly, you don’t trust your fever-addled nerves to cope gracefully with even a microscopic brush of his skin.

You look down at the cloth, starched and clean, just another perfect aspect of him. One more checkmark on an ever-expanding list.

He must have routines for everything — shirts arranged by hue and texture, socks rolled into disciplined bundles. In your mind's eye, you also see a perfectly aligned row of identical handkerchiefs stacked neatly in the top drawer.

You doubt he ever lets himself sprawl out on the sofa with takeout containers littered across the coffee table.

But then again, it’s equally hard to picture him performing mundane domestic things like folding fitted sheets. Maybe he hires someone specifically for that.

Maybe (and here your heart skips a beat), just maybe he could be persuaded to leave those sheets rumpled occasionally. 

Possibly even by someone as hopeless as yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but it’s too late. The images are planted firmly, sending out stubborn roots to your already overstimulated imagination. 

“I’ll wash it,” you mumble hastily, realizing you've been staring wordlessly at him for an inappropriate amount of time. “Sorry. I mean, thank you. And I’ll wash it.”

“I’ve got more.” He watches you for another second. “Do you need to go home?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m good. Really.”

You’re not exactly sure why the words come out so defensive, like admitting you actually might need rest would irrevocably confirm some inadequacy you’ve tried to conceal.

Realistically, you understand he’s simply offering grace, giving you an escape hatch if your pride allows you to take it. You know that. Emotionally, however, your heart has a habit of misinterpreting tenderness, of hearing concern and translating it into criticism.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” He turns, steps back just enough to gesture with a tilt of his head. “Come with me.”

You blink slowly, mind briefly stalling in a fog of congestion and confusion, unsure of what exactly you're agreeing to.

But then you're following him. No questions asked. No explanation needed, destination a secondary detail at best, because you're familiar with the fact that your behavior, apparently, tends to regress to that of a loyal golden retriever when he's around (which doesn't paint you in a particularly flattering light).

He walks. You heel. Once again, pathetic.

It’s only when his hand touches the doorknob to his office, that realization crystallizes into a cold dread.

This, then, is a conversation. And not the easy, casual kind either. It’s one of those conversations, the sort he delivers in velvet tones that mask disappointment beneath layers of practiced compassion. Objectively ten times worse than yelling.

Not that you've personally ever been subjected to Hotch's raised voice. You've watched it happen sparingly, set aside for suspects — and to the one unfortunate officer whose conversational style with you could charitably be called outdated.

For a reckless second, you find yourself imagining what it might feel like to bear the brunt of such restrained anger. Your thighs clench involuntarily.

You make a vow to steer clear of that mental avenue from now on.

“I know I probably seem irresponsible,” you rush out, even as he pushes the door open. “I wasn’t trying to be. It’s just been a long week, and I didn’t think — well, I thought, but clearly not enough, and I wasn’t trying to hide anything —”

You freeze, words hanging unfinished in the air, eyes fixed as he lowers himself to one knee and opens a cabinet. He pulls out a tightly folded blanket accompanied by a pillow still wrapped in crinkling plastic.

“If you’re not going home,” he says, not unkind, just definitive, “then you’re going to sleep.”

“But I —”

“Morgan will cover your responsibilities.”

“That’s not —”

“— fair to him?” he finishes your exact thought, his back already turned as he adjusts the blinds, shutting out distractions along with daylight. “Maybe not. But he’ll be fine. I’m not convinced you will.”

You draw in a breath, ready to say something (though what exactly you're not sure) to prove you’re not completely powerless here, but his eyes cut past you to the couch. And that’s it. The conversation ends before it begins.

You drop to the cushions, limbs too tired to pretend at defiance, and he, unbothered, resumes gathering his files and paperwork.

“I’ll be in the conference room,” he says. “You’re staying here and resting. Two hours minimum. If I see you at your desk before then, I’ll walk you out myself.”

“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm’s there, but it limps, undersold by a renewed stabbing at your temple.

He’s almost through the door before he hesitates, looking back. “Come get me if you need anything.”

It’s softer than the rest. You tuck that away carefully, right alongside the headache.

You made it precisely an hour and forty-seven minutes. You rounded up. You told yourself it was close enough to two to count. You did the math. He undoubtedly would too.

So later, passing Hotch in the hallway, you braced yourself, but he said nothing. Just offered another one of those indecipherable looks that could equally be subtle approval, polite disappointment, or simply proof he had a running tally in his head confirming you cracked right on schedule.

You assume it’s that last one.

When you get back to your desk, there’s a bright yellow sticky note patiently waiting for you.

Hotch didn’t sign it, but he didn’t have to. The handwriting is barely legible, a clear indicator. Doctors everywhere would be proud.

You’ve learned to decode his scrawl purely out of survival, especially when it comes to finding your name hidden somewhere in the mess he leaves on paperwork. It usually takes two tries, a careful squint, and occasionally rotating the page at odd angles before you can definitely confirm that yes, that enigmatic scribble is indeed meant to be you.

You smile to yourself, slipping the words into your drawer, stashing it away like a lucky charm or a secret love letter, safely hidden from prying eyes.

There’s something comforting in the thought that maybe, if you follow Hotch’s instructions well enough, he’ll write another one. Lucky you.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[aetherraeys]

all the way

(visual learner pt1, pt2 )

poly!marauders x afab!reader ⊹ 10.9k

cw ⟢ smut, mdni +18, swearing, inexperienced!reader, lots of praise, teasing, oral (f&m rec) piv, insecurity about inexperience, shy!reader, fingering, lots of pet names

summary: you cant seem escape the pestering burn in the back of your mind that's itching for something, for more, to experience it all; or the isecurities that come along with it.

a/n: this took me too long to start bcs ive been dealing with migraines but its here at last!! a bit vulgar oh WELL not proofread x

A little discovery goes a long way.

Or at least you thought it would, since you essentially broke the seal between you and your very adoring boyfriends, there as been a lot of exporation, learning—mastering even. But it seems you’ve hit an unexpected blockade.

One that fixing seemed to be more complex than you’d imagined.

Now, there was nothing wrong by any means. According to Remus, you were becoming rather skillful with your lips, in a way that would make Sirius proud. And you were most definetely gaining insight into things; likes, dislikes, habits—kinks.

All sorts of interesting things; like how, out of all of them, James is particulary handsy, as if he cannot physically get enough of you—like he’s making up for lost time. Drinking in any and all skin on skin, somehow always touching you in one way or another.

Frequently stirring awake to feel his arm wrapped around your middle, lips pressing gentle kisses to your jaw, his voice hoarse and whispered when you crack open your eye with a small hum.

“g’morning,”

The sun had barely taken it’s place in the sky, and your early bird boyfriend has picked you as his victim today, though, you can hardly be angry when he’s so warm against you, smiling into your skin as he kisses his way up to your lips. Fingertips grasping at the flesh of your waist as he pulls you closer—using his free hand to brush the straggling hair out of your face as he pulls away.

Admiring your semi-awake face, pout slowing becoming more evident on your lips when you catch sight of the clock—head falling into his chest with a quiet grumble.

He can’t help but huff a chuckle as his hand trails down your spine, slipping under the fabric of Sirius’ shirt, lips once again finding the curve of your jaw. “m’sorry, pretty. I know it’s early,”

James really is devious, because he knows exactly how to pacify you—and it doesn’t take much, a few peppered kisses and some sweet words and he found that you’d become adorably agreeable. He’d been awake for a while, fighting—persuading himself that he shouldn’t be so selfish and should let you sleep, but he couldn’t help it. Not when you were cuddled against him so sweetly.

You didn’t have much fight in you either, still sleepy as you melted into his touch, and after a few more kisses—suddenly being awake didn’t seem so bad. Mewls muffled by James’ lips when his hands slides down your back to the curve of your thigh, hitching your leg to rest on his hip.

The light rustle of fabric drew you away from each other, panting with flushed lips as James peeked over your shoulder—making sure you hadn’t disturbed Sirius and Remus. Tangled together in an unclear mass of sleeping limbs under the sheets.

When his gaze flickered back to you, he wasted no time reconnecting your lips, kissing you deeper—tongue swiping against the seam of your lips, swallowing each small noise. You really were trying to be quiet, mindful of your sleeping partners just an arms length away—but it was getting harder and harder to keep your focus on stay quiet. Especially when James’ hand was trailing under the waistband of your shorts and his honeyed tone filled your ears.

“just wanted a bit of you before i left, love,”

His lips against your skin becoming more insistent, smirking into it at the sound of your shuddering breath. Pulling away to get a glimpse of your expression—teeth pressed into your bottom, failing to dull your escaping whine, brows pinching further with each sink of his fingers into you core.

Curling and curving into your walls and it had you squirming into his hold.

A sharp gasp leaving your lips when James nipped at the thin skin below your ear, freezing for a moment at the small sound of shuffling sheets behind you. But to your misfortune, James just continues to push into you at a faster pace—murmuring against you just before his lips capture yours, “Shhhh, stay quiet f’me pretty girl,”

Squeezing your eyes shut as you clenched around his digits—your hands gripping the hair at the nape of his neck, bucking into his palm as your high washed over you. And James just hummed lowly into the kiss, muttering as he trailed his lips down your neck, “fuck, so perfect—thank you,”

You were still shuddering as he slipped his hands out of your shorts, chest rising in uneven patterns as James brought his slick coated fingers to his lips, a smirk twitching at the corners. His other hand was running up and down you spine while your breath leveled.

But before you could fully recalibrate your brain, he was pressing a firm kiss to your lips and whispering about something about being back later. Quietly slipping out of the sheets, and padding towards the bathroom, before your protests had the opportunity to leave your tongue.

He was gone.

And even if your tried, you couldn’t to miss the clear tent of his boxers.

Another wave of sleep tempted you, you couldn’t help but wonder—a small creeping thought making its way to the forefront of your mind. Subdueing all faint hints of potential slumber with its invasive nature.

Again was all you could think.

It was becoming an increasing common occurance. They always indulged, took care of—doted on you. Not that you were complaining.

But before you could even think about approaching the subject of you returning anything, they were gone.

Granted, it was all uncharted grounds, but it was starting to feel like you were the only one paying attention to the elephant in the room. There was a seperation, almost like it was you and them.

And you hear them sometimes in the house, James and Sirius showering together—their moans and mewls ringing above the sound of cascading water and bouncing off the porcelain walls. You’ve seen it even, stumbling across a door left ajar and seeing Sirius on his knees infront of Remus—hand tangled into his locks, small gasps filling the room.

There was a balance, a give and take—and with you?

Well, it felt like you were just taking.

And though you were well aware of the fact that you didn’t know how to give, it was really starting to gnaw at you—because you wanted to try, wanted more—wanted to make them feel good.

But there was no real right way to go about the subject, at least not one that didn’t make you wish the earth would split open and swallow you whole.

Even as you sat at the dining table, forking at the lunch James had so kindly prepared for you all. You couldn’t focus, mind spiralling out of control, each thought more ridiculous and less plausible than the last.

‘You don’t even know what to do—you wouldn’t be able to make them feel good.’

Suddenly it was much harder to swallow the bit of toast you’d been chewing for far too long—forcing it down as a small frown crept its way onto your lips. Letting your fork rest on the edge of your plate, nails subconsciously starting to pick a the skin around your nails.

Brows furrowing just slightly as you pennied the irrational thoughts that whirled every corner of your mind—internally conflicted. Because you knew they loved you, no matter what, outside of everything else—there was no doubt in your mind.

And you were enough, you knew your worth didn’t depend on your ability to please.

So why did it suddenly feel like the be all and end all of everything?

Plagueing every thought, making you read into every interaction, every passing touch that was meant to be comforting—now had you second guessing everything.

Gods, it was making you feel so pathetic.

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you hadn’t heard Sirius calling you, even after the third time—still staring at your plate absentmindedly. And when his hand made contact with yours, you all but jumped out of your skin, feeling all the eyes in the room on you.

“Woah—you alright, love?”

Sirius’ voice was light, laced with that same teasing lilt—lips curled at the corners in mild amusement, thumb tracing small circles into your skin. You let out small sigh through your nose as you pushed everything you were thinking about into the back of your mind—forcing your lips to match the curve of Sirius’ as you spoke.

“Oh—sorry, yeah. Just a bit tired,”

You also failed to notice James behind you and closing in—pressing a firm peck to the mark he’d left earlier that morning. Walking over to the sink with a stack of plates in his hand as he cooed playfully, “Sorry about that, love.”

Sirius was watching you more intently that you’d realised—if your barely touched plate wasn’t an indication of anything, then the tight lipped smile you gave him in combination with your previous statement did nothing to convince him.

He let his eyes flicker over to Remus, who was also looking at you, brows arched in curiosity at James’ words—waiting for you to expand. Parted your lips as you took in air to fuel your words, before stuttering out the start of several words—feeling heat rise under your cheeks when your lips eventually clamped shut.

James snicker when he turned around, leaning against the sink as he dried his hands—the smirk on his face becoming more smug by the second as your gaze darted around the room. He was so casual, so candid with his words and you had no idea what to do with it.

“Showed our girl a little love before I went on my run, that’s all,”

The tips of your ears were burning under the pressure of his gaze, and as he stalked over—leaning to take your plate of cold food away, his hand soothing over the curve of your neck. You all but frozen, spine tensing up, goosebumps spreading over the surface of your skin from the heat of his palms, feeling very much like a deer caught in headlights.

Remus didn’t say much, just hummed lowly with a nod far too knowing for your liking and all you wanted to do was shrink away from the attention.

Slipping your hand out from under Sirius’ as you reach for your glass of water, James had already made this way around, perching himself recklessly on the kitchen counter as he continued to speak with Remus.

Sirius on the other hand, was still watching you from the corner of his eyes—as you tried to sneak away after washing your glass—he waited a few moments before trailing after you.

Leaning against the door frame of the living room—watching as you sat in your corner seat of the sofa—a book open and forgotten on your lap, staring out the window. He waited a few more long moments before settling into the seat beside you, arm instinctively slinging around your shoulder.

When you turned to him, he had an expectant look on his face—as if he was waiting for you to say something, waiting for you to spill your guts to him, and it made your pulse pick up slightly. Praying to the Gods that he wouldn’t pry, just let you get over whatever was swarming your mind, taking your attention.

“I can see the cogs turning, sweetheart. Wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

Obviously, Sirius saw right through you, and it probably didn’t help that you were doing such a bad job at hiding the small turmoil that was building in you. Accidently confirming his suspicious when you tensed under his touch, body still as stiff as a board next to him.

You just hummed, tearing your gaze away from his and back down to you book—fingers fiddling with the hem of your sleeve as you spoke, “Hmm? Nothing’s on my mind, Siri. Just tire—”

“Tired?”

Sirius cut you off, finishing your poor excuse for you, watching as your lips pursed together for a second—fighting the urge to knaw into the flesh. He was still watching you so intently, eyes boring into your profile, feeling the way your shoulder sunk slightly before you looked him again.

Taking a second to let your eyes scan over his face, you knew he didn’t believe you. But there really was no way you were going to let this extend any further than yourself, instead you just doubled down, leaning into his chest, forcing your body to relax—willing away the tension as your closed your eyes, murmuring again that you were just tired.

His hand soothed over the the skin of your arm, Sirius knew better than to force it out of you—he was by no means going to let it go, but he’d give you at least a day or two to prove to him that it really was just lack of sleep.

You failed.

It has been three days since Sirius first noticed you being ‘tired’. Truthfully, he didn’t know what else to call it—he’d also noticed how in those three days, you’d withdrawn a bit. Coming to bed the latest, sleeping turned away and slipping out at random times in the night—and you hadn’t so much as given any of them a peck since that first morning.

Whatever it was, he’d had enough ****of it stealing you away.

Sirius was no where near as tentative as Remus, and suprisingly more vigilant than James—but the pair hadn’t made any move to pry. And well, Sirius just wasn’t patient enough.

You were sitting in the living room alone—James and Remus lounging in the bedroom. This time, you were actually reading, comfortable in the silence that surrounded you, barely sparing Sirius a glance as he plopped onto the sofa beside you—unnecessarily close, practically on your lap.

Your tone was deceivingly light when you spoke, “What’s up, Siri?”

He shifted to angle his body closer to you, plucking the book from you lap and placing it face down on the arm of the sofa, raising a brow skeptically and letting his gaze linger on your face.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

It was only a fraction of a second, but Sirius saw the way your face dropped at his questioning before you sighed, bitelessly rolling your eyes, automatically spouting out that you’re fine. That wasn’t enough though. And he wasn’t going to let it go.

Practically staring into your soul as he frowned at you, voice just as soft as his touch over your arm. And as he spoke he saw it again, the faltering in your expression, a small crack as you averted your gaze.

"You're doin’ that thing again," he murmured.

Blinking at him, a little too slow, head tilted just enough to feign curiosity. "What thing?"

He sighed, a sound that came more from his chest than his throat, all weight and low thunder. “The thing where you pretend you’re here with us but your head’s off somewhere chewing itself up.”

There was no response, not right away. A small silence filing the room, you weren’t sure if you had the words—or worse, you were afraid you did, and they’d make everything real if you said them aloud.

Sirius shifted closer, until his thigh was flush against yours and the scent of leather and warm oak and his specific brand of recklessness filled your senses. Still, you said nothing. Quietly loud and sharp and unnatural, like the absence of static in a too-quiet room. It made his chest ache.

“Alright,” he said, voice low, brushing his fingers beneath your chin and tilting your head just slightly toward him. “Time to talk, sweetheart.”

You froze—for barely a fraction of a second. But somehow just long enough for him to catch it. Then, you forced a breath through your nose, lashes lowering as if the floor might offer escape.

“Sirius, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffed a dry, humorless laugh, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

Watching you for a long moment in silence, as you unravel in micro-expressions, cataloguing each one like clues to a puzzle he’d already decided he was going to solve. The kind of silence that felt heavier than normal. Expectant. And you felt it—crawling over your skin, settling in your stomach. Like he was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

When you still didn’t say anything, he leaned in closer, voice softer now. “You think we haven’t noticed? The late nights, the cold shoulders, the way you can’t even look at us for more than five seconds?”

You shifted, discomfort flickering in your eyes — and still, you said nothing. He waited anyway.

“You know,” he started slowly, stretching out along the couch, his head tipping back lazily against the cushion, “you’re really shit at pretending.”

Your eyes didn’t leave your lap as you spoke, “I’m not pretending anything.”

That made you finally glance at him, startled and caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone, the softness beneath the teasing. Sirius’ brow arched slightly as you opened your mouth—and then closed it again.

He waited.

You looked away.

“I just…I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime.”

You let out a quiet snort, despite yourself.

He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You’ve been pulling away.”

“I haven’t—”

“You have.” There was no accusation in his tone, just quiet certainty. “We notice, you know. Me. James. Remus.” Tilting his head to eye you sideways, “You flinched when I brushed your hand this morning. Jumped when James kissed your shoulder. I’ve seen ghosts more relaxed than you’ve been lately.”

Sirius shifted beside you, a little closer, but still careful. Just enough to make his presence known.

Shame pinched in the pits of your stomach as you swallowed. “It feels like I’m the only one who’s… not giving. Like I’m just taking and taking and I want to—I want to give, to make you feel good too. But I don't even know how. And I don't want to make it awkward, or ruin anything, or mess up what we already have—"

“Stop,” he cut in gently, not unkindly. “You haven’t ruined anything. There’s nothing to ruin. You know that, right?”

You bit your lip, hard. “It feels like there is. Like I’m…I don’t know. Like I’m some kind of charity case you’re all doting on because I’m clueless and eager and always ready to melt for you. And I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not,” he interrupted, voice firm. “Don’t do that.”

Sirius blinked, eyebrows drawing together. “Is that seriously what you think?”

You didn’t trust your voice to answer, throat too tight—just shrugging dismissively.

There was a pause, before his hand reached for yours, warm and comforting as his fingers laced through yours.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he said, voice lower now. Earnest—real. “We love taking care of you. Love watching you unravel. Love the way you trust us, how open you are—how you light up when you feel good.”

He tipped his head to meet your gaze. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t want you. All of you. Your pleasure, yeah, but your desire, too. The messy, fumbling, sweet little things you want to try, even if you don’t get them right the first time.”

Heat crept its sway from your collar upwards, settling beneath your ears, but that familiar, magneticness that spilled from him held your gaze—and suddenly it feel like you were trying hard not to lean into him.

“And you don’t need to know what you’re doing,” he added, thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles, “that’s the fun part. Discovering it together. Letting us teach you. Letting us feel and learn you, when you’re the one touching, or tasting, or wanting.”

It had your pulse stuttering beneath your chest, heat spreading from your ears to skin of your cheeks.

“You want to try?” Sirius asked, quieter now. A murmur between just the two of you. “You wanna learn how to make us fall apart the way you do?”

All at once the air in the room felt a bit thinner, even as you nodded, slowly as first—than firmer, more eager.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “Because we want that, too.”

You exhaled shakily, something intoxicating about his words, his tone, how his breath fanned over you and the way the proximity felt much less than before—as a sense of relief, warmth and a strange little bubble of excitement rose beneath your skin.

It’s so subtle, so smooth, that at first you barely register the shift—just the warmth of his body folding closer, the brush of his knee against yours, the scent of something familiar and faintly woodsy curling around your senses like smoke.

Then his lips are at your ear, breath curling soft and hot against your skin as he murmurs, “Could show you right now, if you want.”

Every muscle locks up, spine straight, breath caught halfway to your lungs—freezing. His voice is honeyed, velvet and enticing, every word dipped in a promise that hums through you like static. Lips ghosting over your jaw, a breath away from touching. Almost. Not quite.

You only nod.

It’s barely a motion—more instinct than thought—but he pulls back slowly, and there’s a look on his face like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His smirk is small, private but the glint in his eyes makes your stomach tighten and twist in anticipation.

“Wait here, lovely,” he says, voice low and threaded with something dark and pleased.

Then Sirius is standing—disappearing down the hallway, and slips into the bedroom.

There’s only the small sound of a whining hinge as the door creaked open. Muffled voices— hushed, indistinct murmurs. And it makes your hair stand on end. Something electric crackles at the base of your spine, and you fidget, fingers restless on your knees, heart beating too loud in the quiet that follows.

You barely have time to get your bearings before Sirius reappears.

He standing there for a moment, in the doorway, watching you. His gaze is heavy—dark and unwavering—and it pins you in place as surely as if he’d put hands on you, reaching out to you with a hand.

There a short beat before you take i, and he pulls you up, wordless, walking you backwards in slow, deliberate steps. His eyes never leave yours, and the air around you feels thicker and harder to move though when you arrive at the door. Because you can see them.

Remus and James.

They’re sitting on the bed—quiet, composed, eyes lifted to meet yours. There’s something unreadable in their expressions, something that flickers between curiosity and heat and something deeper.

James watches from the far side of the bed, one leg propped casually beneath him, elbow resting on his knee like he’s settling in for something he already knows is going to unfold slowly — deliberately. Gaze steady and flicking between you and Sirius with the faintest curl of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Observantly waiting—amused.

Remus shifts at the edge of the bed, legs parting slightly as he scoots forward, hands resting loose on his thighs.

His expression is softer, warmer. Familiar. When his eyes meet yours, he gives you a small, easy smile — like you’ve just walked into the common room instead of… this.

“Hey, dove,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You’re standing just behind Sirius, slightly to the side, his shoulder brushing yours. The room feels heavier now — not suffocating, but thick with heat and expectation. Your pulse is a roar in your ears, a steady drumbeat that drowns everything out until Sirius tilts his head, leaning in again.

“I told you I’d show you,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Gonna show you on Remus.”

Air catches in your throat—a soft, unintentional squeak of surprise slipping out before you can stop it. Eyes darting between the two boys on the bed, wide and unsure, a question trembling on your lips you don’t quite know how to ask.

“I—” Your voice stutters, coming out too small. “You don’t have to—I mean, I don’t want to take you away from what you were doing—”

Sirius huffs a soft laugh, the sound rumbling low in his chest, smug and fond all at once. He glances at Remus, who quirks a brow but doesn’t correct him. “Trust me, love,” Sirius says, eyes glinting. “Moony’d much rather have us on our knees than finish that book.”

And with no ceremony at all, Sirius sinks to his knees in front of him.

Your breath stalls completely.

He looks up at you from the floor, dark hair tumbling into his face, his smirk lazy and wicked—patting the carpetted space beside him—not demanding, just expectant.

You’re frozen for a beat. Maybe two.

Then your knees give the smallest wobble as you follow. Sinking down beside him slowly, heart fluttering wildly, eyes flicking up toward Remus—who sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, tongue darting out to wet his lips. There’s a quietness to his gaze that had your heartbeat quickening in your ears.

You press into the soft carpet, the fibers unfamiliar beneath your skin, grounding you in the moment as everything else floats just out of reach. Sirius shifts slightly beside you, the heat of his body brushing against yours, subtle but deliberate — an anchor. His thigh nudges yours gently, the pressure reassuring, coaxing. Your breath is shallow, eyes flicking upward again.

Remus hasn’t looked away.

He’s still watching you with that quiet intensity, like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your hesitation. His mouth curves at the corners — not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Just… soft. Expectant.

“Doing good, love,” Sirius murmurs next to you, voice low and velvet-smooth. You swear you feel the words ripple through your spine. He doesn't look at you — he says it like he’s talking to himself, but it still lands square in your chest.

You’re still aware of James on the bed, leaning his chin into his palm, his elbow propped up on his knee. Observing. Not intruding. Just…amused, dark-eyed and humming with quiet interest. He doesn’t speak, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers on your mouth, then dips lower, that makes your breath stutter.

“Rem,” Sirius says, still kneeling. His voice is almost teasing. “Tell her what you want.”

Remus tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s assessing you—peeling back layers without ever touching you. “I want you to show her,” he says, voice calm, level. He leans back on his hands, spreading his knees just a little wider on the edge of the mattress. “Thought that was the plan.”

The air around you all but froze,not urgency, not yet. But anticipation. The kind that prickles down your arms and settles in your gut like a coil waiting to snap.

Sirius shifts forward on his knees until his thighs bracket one of Remus’ legs, his back a straight line of calm control. And then, suddenly, he turns his head—not enough to break the moment with Remus, but enough to glance at you. His eyes flick down, then up, deliberate.

“You watching?” he murmurs.

Slowly, you nod—words caught in your throat.

Sirius smiles again, all teeth this time, and turns back toward Remus, hands trailing up Remus’ thighs with confident familiarity. And still—your gaze is locked in place. The sounds, the movement, the steady rise and fall of breath. The way Remus' jaw tightens when Sirius’ fingers dig in a little.

“You’re shaking,” Remus says suddenly, and you snap your gaze up to meet his. “Nervous?”

Your lips part slightly—to say yes, maybe, or no—but you don’t get the chance. Sirius speaks for you. “She’s excited,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your cheeks burn even hotter.

“Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Your mouth feels too dry to voice words, clearing your throat and humming quietly with a nod.

Sirius shifts again—not to do anything yet, not quite. Just closer, just a little deeper into the space between Remus’ thighs. And his hand finds yours without looking, fingers brushing against your knuckles. “Come closer,” he says, not to Remus—to you.

And so you do. Shuffling forward, inch by slow, painstaking inch, until you’re beside him, eyes wide and breath held.

Remus leans forward, just a little, and his hand reaches out—just barely skimming along the curve of your jaw. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice adopting a warmer cadance—you nod again.

And Sirius, still knelt beside you, presses his lips to your shoulder. A small kiss, silent comfort.

“Then watch closely, love,” he says, voice dark with purpose. “Because this is just the beginning.”

His presence beside you was magnetic—all controlled heat and focused intent—but what strikes you most is how steady he is—eveything silently screaming that he’s done this before. He’s led before. But right now, he’s doing it with you, and something about that felt almost sacred.

Remus leans back again, propping himself up with one hand now, the other resting loosely on his own thigh. His eyes are on you again. But this time, there’s no teasing. Just warmth. Just patience. A quiet welcome, like he’s holding a door open for you and waiting for you to cross the threshold in your own time.

“You don’t have to do anything yet,” he says gently, voice barely more than a breath. “Just stay. Just watch me.”

Too much to say and no air to say it with—you swallow thickly and straighten your back, mumbling a small okay. Sirius hums in approval, the sound vibrating low in his throat, and you feel it more than you hear it. His hand drifts up your back, fingers trailing lightly along your spine. Goosebumps rise in their wake.

He doesn’t rush—none of them do. That’s what makes it worse. Or better. Or unbearable.

Because it means every second stretches longer. Every glance, every brush of skin feels deliberate. Designed. Like they’re building something out of you—sculpting the moment with nothing but touch and breath and proximity.

Sirius finally leans up towards Remus, lips ghosting across his throat, his jaw, like a slow exhale of reverence. Remus lets his head tip back just a fraction—an invitation that Sirius gladly took, latching his lips to the skin with a hum.

And you’re still watching.

Still feeling everything—the drag of Remus’ breath when Sirius’ mouth reaches his collarbone, the subtle shift of Sirius’ hand as shifts on Remus’ thigh, curling and curving upwards, gripping at the flesh. But more than that…you feel them both waiting—for you.

Sirius turns to you again, hand drifting over to yours. He threads his fingers with yours this time, and something about that small act—so simple, yet so intimate—and it makes something tighten in your chest. Raising your joined hands slowly, deliberately, to Remus’ knee, pressing your palm against the warm line of his leg.

Your eyes dart up when you hear another hitching breath from above you, Remus’ adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, gaze locked on your hands—the heat spreading through the thin fabric that seperates you.

Sirius was bold—smirking at both yours and Remus’ reactions, sliding the hand that was pawing at Remus’ thigh and inching it up towards the hem of his shirt, baring the skin.

The pads of his fingers dimpled the flesh as he leaned closer—pressing his lips into the skin of his hips—earning him a low hum of approval from Remus. And you watched as he smirked against him. Following Sirius’ movements in a wave of confidence, you scooted closer—letting your hand trail up from his knee joining Sirius’ in the tugging of Remus’ shirt and you felt him shudder beneath your palm.

Resting your head slightly on his knee as your eyes followed Sirius, observing every move he made and the reactions they earned.

There was a clear tent in Remus’ trousers now, accompanied with a light flush on the tops of his cheekbones, and you couldn’t help but admire him—and as Sirius palmed at his bulge—forcing a groan from his throat. The object of your watchful gaze changed quickly.

Sirius’ fingers were hooked under the waist band of his trousers, waiting a moment—just letting his fingertips brush over the skin beneath it before he detatched his lips from Remus’ stomach.

Eyes dark and on you—watching as you stared at his palm that covered Remus’ middle.

He huffed a chuckled through his nose, licking his lips as he leaning in closer to you—breath fanning over the curve of your neck when he spoke, “Shall we get these off him, love?”

The sound of his voice tore your gaze away from his hand, taking your bottom lip into your mouth as you hummed back to him. And by the time his trousers pooled by his ankles, Sirius had a positively wolfish grin on his face—almost preening at your reaction.

Because not only did Remus hiss slightly at the feeling of the cold air, but your eyes visibly widened when his length slapped up towards his abdomen—pupils blowing right before Sirius’ eyes.

It’s not like you’d never felt Remus before, pressed against you, usually clad under clothing—but for some reason, you’d assumed it was smaller. Or maybe just not this big. Almost intimidatingly long and pretty—tip matching the blush of his cheeks.

Sirius only snickered lightly, leaning in—tongue already peaking out from his lips as he licked a strip from the bottom of his shaft, all the way up. And you watched as Remus’ hands twitched by his side, sucking in sharp breath as his brows pinched on his forehead. Your hands unconsiously gripped at the flesh of his thighs, eyeing Sirius’ movements with purpose.

When he pulled away, Remus’ length glistened just as much as Sirius’ lips—and you swallowed the saliva that had pooled in your mouth with a thick gulp the moment Sirius’ voice met your ears, low and candied.

“Doesn’t Rem look pretty?”

His smirk was dangerous as you nodded, words sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, just for you to hear—”Why don’t you tell him yourself, love?”

Remus was looking down at you both with half-lidded eyes, chest rising at a slightly faster pace than normal, hyper aware of the way your hand was curled around his thigh—trying his hardest to stay composed.

If the way you looked up at him, bleary and innocent, wasn’t enough to make his composure crack—the soft and sweet tone of your voice as it reached his ears was going to send him over the edge.

“Think you look so pretty, Rem,”

A low groan filled the air and his length physically jumped in Sirius’ hold—you noticed it straight away, eyes widening at the sight—staring at his middle intently.

Sirius was enjoying this all far too much, barely containing his delight as he caught your gaze, whispering “watch,” under his breath before he leaned in—taking Remus’ tip in his mouth while his hand worked small fists around the base.

And Remus’ eyes immediately screwed shut, voice trembling as he hissed out, “Fuck, Sirius,” hands fisting the sheets beside him when Sirius hummed around his length, taking more into his mouth.

You leaning in closer, eyes focused on each small motion that he made, each bob of his head, each moan that sounded from Remus.

He pulled his lips off with a satisfying pop—grinning at the way Remus shuddered against him, hand still twisting and pumping steadily around him.

Sirius had already diverted his attention to you—lips brushing against the curve of your jaw, his words ringing in your ears over and over. “Do you wanna try, sweetheart? Make Rem feel good?”

Your eyes scanned his face when he pulled back, nodding before you would really compute what it meant—before Sirius was shifting to the side, making space for you between Remus’ legs.

And it had your breath catching in your throat—Remus cracked an eye open at the rustling beneath him and his lips parted when your hand wrapped around his base.

Eyes flicker between Sirius and your hand. And you could feel the heat radiating off his length—when you twisted your hand upwards experimentally, he throbbed in your hand undeniably, gasping slightly.

Sirius all but preened at the reaction, leaning in and whispering a set on instruction into your ear, hand sliding down the curve of your spine in silent encouragement—to which you nodded to. Shifting your gaze back to Remus.

His self-control was fraying by the second, trying to be as still as possible, but having you between his legs, looking up at him with blown wide eyes—his resolve felt weak, and heat pooled in the pits of his stomach—sending all blood south.

Your palm was still dragging up his length in slow, tentative pumps—taking your time and trying not to think about it too hard. Sirius had made it look so easy, already having Remus breathless before he’d even touched him.

He could feel heat of your breath fanning over his length as you neared, gaze flitting up and down as you spoke softly, just barely above a whisper—but Remus heard it, like it was only for him.

“Can I?”

Gods, you were going to be the death of him. Nodding eagerly, words rushed and pinched; “Fuck—yes, dove,”

Careful and hesitantly, you leaned forward—tounge peaking out as you pressed it flush against the tip—eliciting a sharp shuddering gasp from Remus. And he used every cell in his brain to keep his eyes open, desperately wanting to be catch the moment your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Remus mouth drops into a fucked-out little oh! when you finally do, tounge swirling and just barely sucking at the tip—and he squirmed in his seat when your head dipped lower, taking more of him in.

He wouldn’t dare tear his eyes away from the sight.

And when you pulled off of him, breathless, lips glistening, small strings of spit still connecting you—a small whispered Merlin sounded from beside you before you spoke, “s’that okay, Rem?”

Remus’ lips were stil parted, drinking in air greedily to fuel is racing pulse, palms sweaty and fidgetting at his side was he gulped, words breathy on an exhale, “more than okay—so good,”

Even that small praise was dizzying, it had your shoulder relaxing as an almost relieved and pleased smile twitched the corners of your lips.

Suddenly driven by a small confidence boost, you took him into your mouth again—earning you another low groan, his voice cracking at the end. You let your other hand trail up his thigh, resting along the short happy trail by your head—lowering your head further than the last time—humming slightly at the weight of him pressing onto your tongue.

Remus’ hips jumped involuntarily as he let out a loud moan—it sent his tip straight into the back of your throat and you jolted back with a choked gasp. Throat burning slightly drinking in sharp inhales of breath, cheeks flushed, face painted with a shocked expression.

Profuse, breatheless apologies already filled the space between you, “m’so sorry dove—didn’t mean to do that,” Remus shifting his weight onto one hand as he ran the other through his hair—eyes swiming with more unspoken apologies.

You were still trying to catch you breath, swallow the burning sensation that accompanied each breath—visibly confused for a moment as you looked to Sirius.

He didn’t look nearly as concerned as Remus did, which was comforting—because you couldn’t figure out what went wrong.

One hand was rubbing small circles into the small of your back, and the other trailed up and down Remus’ thigh as he spoke, lips curving into a smirk at your expression.

“The vibrations, sweetheart.” He leaned in closer, pressing a small kiss to the thin skin beneath your ear as he continued, “Made Rem feel…so good when you hummed—that’s why he did that, love,”

His lips on your neck were rather distracting, taking a few moments to respond with nothing more than a small, “Oh.”

And Sirius’ lips just stretched into a grin as he muttered into your skin, “Wanna try again?” Sighing contently into him, you nodded—eyes falling dark and back onto Remus.

The whispered instructions Sirius gave you echoed in your mind, take your time—but now when you pressed your tongue flat against the vein on the underside of his length—you were having other ideas.

Watching closely, looking up at Remus when you closed your lips around him, taking him in deeper, inch by inch—spurred on by the strangled moans that built in his throat.

Pausing a few inches from the base before reeling back and repeating—squeezing your thighs together when SIrius’ praise, velvet and soft reached your ears.

“Fuck—thaat’s it, sweetheart.”

Sirius tucked a straggling hair behind your ears, humming in approval as you focused on the tip, hand still fisting the base—and Remus was shaking beneath, using all his brain power to not buck into your touches, groaning out, “Oh- Oh fuck! Feels s’good hngh-” as he fisted the sheets with white knuckles.

You had no intention of rushing, slowly bobbing up and down, relishing in the salacious moans that ripped through Remus’ throat and the way he twitched and throbbed on your tongue.

But it was like a little devil was whispering into your ear, polluting your thoughts—egging you on to take more.

Letting your hand slip to rest on his stomach—all you wanted to do was make him feel good—sucking in a deep breath through your nose before swallowing around the tip; eliciting a lewd gasping groan from Remus.

But you kept going, dipping your head further, forcing every muscle to relax—not stopping till your nose met the small brown hairs at this pelvis.

Eyes squeezing shut, whimpering at the burn and stretch.

Remus’ jaw slacked, and he lost it—hands reliquishing their grip on the sheets in favour for your hair, eyes rolling back in his head as he gasped out “Shit shit shit oh-dove,”

God, Remus already thinks he could pass out.

Even as you pulled back—lips wet and eyes glossy—lungs burning as you drank in shuddering gasps of air, Sirius’ voice falling deaf on your ears. You can’t find it in you to mind the mild discomfort, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you looked up at Remus.

He truly was a sight.

Chest heaving, hair mussed, flush spreading from the tips of his ears to the center of his cheeks, his hand carding through your hair as his panted. Sirius was by your side still, speaking lowly again, “you okay, love? d’you need a minute?” pressing a kiss into your shoulder.

You shook your head almost instantly, gaze still locked on Remus as you muttered, “Wanna keep going,” Already leaning forward and taking Remus back into your hands.

He’d barely had enough time to recover before you took him back into your mouth, instinctively collecting your hair in a loose handful to keep it out of your face as you sunk down again.

Sirius was light praises and the gutteral moans that left Remus sending heat curling directly to your core—each hushed candied whisper of; ‘gooood girl’ and ‘taking him so well’ dizzying you.

When you sunk to the base again, willing away the slight gag that built in your chest, Remus’ hips bucked up into your mouth, his grip on your hair tightening—but instead of pulling off completely, you kept his tip buried in your plush mouth—whimpers muffled and tears prickling at your waterline, while you tried to steady your breathing.

Remus’ body shook as he spouted out delirously “Fuck—shit, m’sorry, sweetheart. S’too ngh—fucking good.” words were slurred and rushed, drunk off the way you swallowed and hummed around him.

He cracked his eyes open, when your fingertips pressed into the flesh of his thighs, steadying yourself, and the sight of you almost had impossibly closer to the edge—coil in his stomach tightening when you looked up at him.

Tears clingling to your lashes, lips stretching lewdly around him with each bob and he could feel his sanity slipping away with each small whine that built in your throat.

Sirius leaned into you again, voice low and sultry in your ears, “Fuck, angel—he’s not gonna last long. d’you want him to cum?” you just leaned in closer—even as Remus gently tugged to pull you away. You didn’t let up, hallowing your cheeks with a muffled moan and he went rigid beneath your touch, spilling into your mouth in hot spurts.

Jaw slacking as his voice cracked—his high still washing over him, “fuckfuckfuck—mmfgh! dove, so good,” shuddering as you pulled off of him. Sirius immediately pressing small kisses to your skin, whispering hypnotically into your ear, “mmhm—swallow f’me, sweetheart,”

Your cheeks flushed further at his words, ignoring the way your lungs still burned for air as you swallowed—hearing Sirius hum in approve when your lips parted, sucking in deep breaths of air—leaning slightly into his hold.

Remus quickly leant down to you, trousers already resting low on his hips again. Tugging you out of Sirius’ hold and onto his lip, pressing his lips firmly onto yours, groaning at the contact.

Thighs splitting over his hips as he tugged you to straddle him fully, hands already smoothing up your sides, greedy in the way they gripped and slid and roamed like he couldn’t get enough, muttering against your lips, “throat alright, pet?” biting back the smirk that threatened to play on his lips.

His kiss was bruising—all tongue and teeth and breathy groans. You barely had time to catch your breath, nodding mindlessly, before you were chasing his mouth again, whimpering softly into the kiss as his hips shifted up, pressing flush to you with no shame, no hesitation.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as he licked into your mouth, pulling a gasp from your lips. Warm, solid beneath you, and the way he was touching you—like he was mapping every inch of skin he could reach—sent your head spinning.

Remus grunted softly, breaking the kiss only to press hot kisses down your jaw, your neck, and then he shifted—gripping your hips tightly and guiding you back until your spine hit the mattress. You stared up at him, pupils blown and chest heaving, dazed and flushed, legs parted beneath the weight of his gaze.

He didn’t move for a moment—just hovered over you, smirking down, letting his hands drag slowly down your ribs as your stomach fluttered beneath his palms. But your attention snagged when you noticed movement at the edge of your vision.

James.

He was sitting there at the edge of the bed, still and watching you with a heat in his eyes that made your skin prickle. His gaze didn’t waver, making your breath catch in your throat, back arching instinctively under Remus' hands.

Remus turned his head just slightly, catching James’ expression—and the smirk that curved his lips deepened. Dipping back down, mouth brushing yours with a teasing slowness before murmuring low against your lips, “Jamie has something to ask you, pet.”

Before you could even process the words, James was shifting forward, one knee sinking into the mattress as he leaned in close to your ear—his curls brushing your cheek, voice low and velvet-smooth as he said,

“Can I taste you, sweetheart?”

The world narrowed to the rasp of his voice, the heat of their bodies, and the deafening thrum of your heartbeat in your ears. Remus had already slipped away from you, and you hadn’t even had time to mourn the loss before James was pressed against you.

Lips easily finding the curve of your jaw, kissing and nipping a trail to your collarbone—palms of his hands hot against your skin. Wasting no time to bare the skin of your stomach, touch incessant and insatiable.

Even as you stuttered out, mind foggy and breathless, the end of your sentence loosing itself in the thickness of the air. “…You w-wanna…” hips twitching up into him as his lifted the hem of your top up and over your head.

Connecting your lips again deeper, hungrier, his molding into yours in perfect rhythm.

Pulling away for just to pepper marks down your neck, kisses wet and firm to your skin, punctuating his words, “Mmhm, wanna taste you…make you feel good,”

You couldn’t focus on his words even if you tried, each touch more dizzying than the last, heat curling unforgivingly in the pits of your stomach, gasping out his name when his hand slid between your thighs—cupping your core over your shorts.

Fingers tangled into the short tufts at the nape of his neck and he continued his assault on your skin, relishing in the small gasps your let out as he nibbled at a spot that he’d already marked. Grinning into your skin as you bucked helplessly into his palm, hips unconsciously search for friction.

Whining out, “J-jamie,” when he pressed his hand firmer against you—squirming beneath him, as he hummed lowly. Words making your ears burn tenfold, as he pressed his lips into the curved of your breast, already working his way down to your core, “want you to cum in my mouth, love,”

Legs were already slung over his shoulder before you could really compute his vulgar sentences, gasping when his hands carrassed and pawed at the flesh of your thighs, mind spinning, pulse thumping you didn’t notice Sirius planting himself beside you—

“Jamie’s really good with his mouth. Gna let him take care of you?”

You were already nodding mindlessly when James pressed a kiss over your clothed core, and your entire body shuddered. Hands taking purchase on the sheets beside you, gasping as heat spread invasively under the surface of your skin.

James’ fingers were hooked under the waist band of your bottoms, using his body to raise your hips and peel them off your in a clean, swift swipe—leaving you bare and breathless. Heat coiling in your stomach at the sight of him between your legs, indulging himself with each kiss he planted onto your inner thighs, inching closer and closer to your dripping core.

Goosebumps raising over your thighs when the rough pads of his fingers dragged over the flesh, spreading your legs further apart. James’ lips split into a far too pleased smirk at the sight of your folds, glistening and slick, his breath fanning over you when he spoke,

“ooo, all wet from making Rem feel good, huh?”

All you could do was squirm under his hold, one leg still hooked over his shoulder—his other hand trailing up your slit, spreading you as he nibbled lightly at your inner thigh, words muffled by the thin flesh, “Sooo pretty, love,”

Choking out a gasp when he pressed a soft kiss to the swole bundle of nerves, thighs twitching by his head. He looked up at you, drinking in each small micro reaction with a smug smirk—watching as your eyes screwed shut when he laid his tongue flat against your core.

Fingers teasing along the edge of your folds, hooking his other hand around your thigh when you inched away from him. In a single fluid movement, he pushes passes the tight ring of muscles and into your core, humming against your clit when a loud whimper sounded above him.

It was all so intense so suddenly, warm between your legs and curving his digits roughly into your plush walls. Forcing out babbled cries from your lips, “Ngh—Jamie, oh god—James!” Hand resigning its hold on the sheets in exchange for a loose purchase on his hair.

Your head lolled back into the pillows, brows arched high on your forehead as your jaw slacked when he curled his fingers up up up, searching for the familiar spot that had you bucking into him.

White-hot jolts of pleasure running from the base of your spine where James was indulging himself. Moaning into your core as he shuffled forward, helplessly grinding against the sheets beneath him—burying his face further into you.

The coil in your stomach was threatening to snap under the pressure that James was steadily building. Bullying thrusts into you as he took your clit between his flushed lips—tears stinging in your eyes as you tried to buck away from the harsh sucking of his lips.

Crying out in a pitched hoarse voice, incoherent babbles littered with his name, releasing your grip on his curls to push him away before you accidentally pulled out hairs.

James cracked his eyes open, and caught your hand, intertwining your fingers and pulling you closer to him—locked in with no escape. His hips becoming more frantic in their ruts against the mattress, chasing his high as he pushes you closer to yours.

Muffled between the obscene laps of his lips at your core, words littered with groans that sent shivers down your spine, “mmm, cum f’me, love…wanna—feel,” filing your ears as your back formed an arch.

His hips were already stuttering when you gasped about a choked sob, squeezing his hand to ground yourself as your high washed over you in cruel unforgiving waves. Each stronger than the last as James continued to work you through it—walls clenching around his fingers as stars clouded your eyes.

Shaking and trembling against him, his name spilling from your lips like it was the only prayer you knew.

When he detached, lips flushed and glistening, pupils blown and a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. You’d just barely blinked back your vision, whimpering when he pulled his digits away—thighs trying to squeeze shut at the sensation.

You were still breathless, chest heaving and gaze unfocused when your head rolled—catching sight of Sirius. Name immediately slipping past your lips in a hushed whisper.

And he looked at you with such unfair warmth, cheeks just as flushed as yours—painfully hard and tenting in his bottoms. Automatically cooing out small praises as the aftershocks of your high subsided, but you still kept whispering his name—over and over until he inched closer.

Coaxed by your hand reaching out, all but clawing at his forearm. And when he was just close enough that you didn’t have to strain your hoarse voice, he heard it.

Low and breathy and sweet in his ears, “Want you.” And it had his breath catching in his throat, eyes travelling over your bare figure as you turned, leaning into him. Sirius just pressed a kiss to your forehead, almost brushing off your words as delirium.

But you almost whined when his hand stroked the stray hairs away from forehead, words soft and gentle. “rest, love.” And then Sirius heard it again, as firm as your voice could handle—looking at him through your lashes—flush in your cheeks just barely settling.

“Want more, Siri…want you,” sucking in a sharp inhale—finding air to support your voice, “Wanna go all the way.”

Staring at him with a glint in your eyes that made his head spin—his pulse suddenly much louder beneath his spin. “Y’know you don’t have to, love. There’s plenty of time later—“

Craning your neck up, your pressed a soft kiss to his lips, cutting him off. Before just as quickly as you came in, pulling away—words barely above a whisper. “You don’t want to?”

His stomach dropped, instantly shaking his head, “It’s not that. I want to—believe me, I do. Just don’t wanna pressure you, sweetheart,”

You were still staring up at him, giving him that look—that soft pleading look that said don’t make me say it again, heat curling beneath your cheeks as he leaned in.

His hands were on your waist as he kissed you—trying to take his time, be slow and gentle but you pushed back into him with a vigour that had his resolve fraying instantly.

The kiss deepened, and you felt Sirius melt into you—hands flexing against your waist as if grounding himself. His breath shuddered into your mouth as your hands roamed upward, threading through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him impossibly closer.

“Fuck—” he whispered against your lips, voice low, like a confession. “You’ll be the death of me.”

You only hummed in response, arching slightly beneath his weight, and Sirius groaned—deep and ragged—as your hips brushed his.

That sound went straight to your head—heat coiling in your stomach as you rolled your hips again, deliberately, and his lips parted against yours in a gasp before he dragged his mouth down—jaw, throat, collarbone—leaving a trail of reverent kisses that made your skin burn.

His voice rasped against the curve of your neck, “You’re sure, love?”

Fingers cupped his face, guiding him back up so you could look him in the eye. Your expression was soft but certain, gaze unwavering.

“I’m sure, Sirius.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, almost something sacred in the way his lips moved over yours. Like he was memorising the shape of your mouth—like he was thanking you with every breath—clothes peeling off in a flurry of movement. Then you felt his hand slide lower, gripping your thigh, guiding you to wrap around his waist as he shifted to settle between your legs—eyes never leaving yours.

“You tell me to stop,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, “and I stop. Understand?”

You nodded, a small sound escaping your throat—something between a yes and a please—and Sirius swore under his breath, kissing you again, deeper, like he couldn't help himself. Gripping onto his shoulders with a desperate hand, trying to pull him in closer, flush against you, as if to fall into him—become one.

It was only when you felt him, hot and firm against your folds that a small gasp slipped past your lips—his eyes were still on you, searching for any hesitation, signs of protest—but he couldn’t find any. Sirius was only met with your flushed cheeked and bleary expression, breathless and soft beneath him.

He found himself chasing your lips, muttering against them, “Gods, you’re so pretty,” As his length rested over and twitched against your core—he could hear the way your breath hitched with each slow and tentative rock he pushed against your folds. Tempting, teasing—and it forced whines and gasps from your lips at the friction.

One heated palm trailed down the side of your body, ghostly far too gentle touches—still swallowing each small mewl that built in your throat—before you felt his hand hitch up your thigh, leaning in closer—making room for himself. Your hands found purchase on the long curls that hung by base of his scalp—carding and tugging when you felt him press into you. Body stiffening as your brows pinched.

A sharp gasp of his name spilt from your lips at the stretch, and he froze—lips parted, eyes squeezed shut before he cracked them open, fingertips tracing nonsense patterns into the skin of your waist. Concern swimming behind his eyes when he spoke, “D’you wanna stop?”

Hips shifting unconsciously as you shook your head—and you both hissed at the friction, chests rising and falling in shaky uneven breaths as he slowly pushed further into you—walls clinging to him, plush and soaked—and it had both your heads spinning.

Thighs quivering beside his hips as your jaw slacked, “O-oh-” Moans and mewls tumbling out of your mouth before you even realised, the stretch had your spine arching as you all but drooled around his length. Sirius was still trying to be patient, placing small kisses along the curve of your neck, your jaw, the thin sensitive skin behind your ear—whispering lightly into your skin.

It was when you sucked him in deeper after the first thrust—hips bucking up in a filthy cadance that had your vision blurrying—that Sirius almost cracked. Hands flying to your hips to keep you still, to keep his sanity, groaning out as he reeled back slightly, “f-fuuck, sweetheart—haah, hold on,”

Squeezing his eyes shut, evoking the patience of a saint to keep each drag of his hips slow and steady—but slow wasn’t going to cut it. Not when the room was spinning, not when all you could think about was Sirius Sirius Sirius, every sense overwhelmed by him, not when you could feel each vein dragging sinfully against your walls.

Your voice sounded foreign to your own ears—pitched, shaky, airy—with each whimpering plea that spilled out, “Hnngh—please, Siri. Ah! s-s’good,” If the chanting of your hips up up up didn’t break him, the sweet ring of your voice in his ears surely did. His head fell into the dip of your neck, cursing under his breath, grip on your hips tightening as he dragged his hips back before pushing all the way in with one languid thrust.

Each nerve was set alight, spine arching into him with a deep curve as a lewd cry tore its way out of you. His eyes threatened to roll back in his head at the way your walls spasmed around him with each weight rut—but he’d forced them open, stuck on you—memorising the way you looked beneath him, overcome with pleasure.

Grasping and clawing at every part of him, and he was no better—pads of his fingers pressing bruisingly into your flesh, capturing your lips in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth. Nothing slow and tentative anymore, every shift, and moan, and thrust was feverish—chasing and pushing you further to the edge.

“f-fuck you feel so good—mmfph! taking it so well, love. so good f’me,”

And then, Sirius was angling his hips upwards—urgently, desperately—the hot coil in the pits of your stomach suddenly impossibly tighter as his tip barrelled into that spot, your vision darkened at the edges and tears sprung at the corners of your hazy eyes—thighs trembling from the striking jolts of pleasure that ran through you. Radiating from the base of your spine out.

You were all but melting into the sheets beneath you—staring up at Sirius with a bleary dazed expression, incoherent mewls mixing with his name like a mantra.

Walls clinging to him impossibly tighter with each ram—and he wasn’t going to last much longer, eyes squeezing shut as he nipped and kissed at the skin of your jaw.

Words muffled as he pressed his lips against yours. Hand resigning its bruising grip on your hips to slip between you, thumb rubbing small circles into the over sensitive bundle of nerves—mumbling into your skin when your jaw hung, “c’mon love, need you to let go—f-fuck, please,”

All the muscles in your body became taut, brows pinching impossibly higher on your forehead as your high crashed over you—trembling and shivering as he worked you through it, gasping out as your mind practically shattered.

Vision black, ears ringing before becoming completely boneless.

He was barely holding on when your clamped down onto him, forcing himself out of your core and spilling onto your stomach with an salacious moan, shuddering out breathy whispers of your name. Collapsing onto you lightly, brushing hairs out of your face—small delicate pecks pressing into your jaw.

One hand skimming over the side of your waist, soft and gentle whispers fading away—body resigning itself to sleep.

a/n:this is 7 words away from being 11k....insane

[lexiputellas]

Tiny Traitor

Alexia is benched today. Not a shock—you knew it was coming. She knew it was coming. A minor injury, just a precaution, but that doesn’t mean she’s taking it well.

She’s vibrating with frustration.

You can feel it from across the stadium, like she’s radiating silent rage. The coaching staff knows. The players know. Hell, even the stadium pigeons are probably reconsidering their life choices.

Meanwhile, you’re seated alone, and it’s glorious. No forced conversations, no small talk, no one invading your space. Just you, the game, and the comforting weight of your wedding band rolling between your fingers.

You love football now, but only because you love her. Before Alexia, it was just another sport. Now? It’s different. It’s hers. It’s yours, too, in some way.

A sharp, sudden movement in your arms pulls you from your thoughts.

Alice.

She kicks her tiny legs, shifts against you, and then—destruction.

The most heartbreaking, earth-shattering cry you’ve ever heard from her.

You freeze.

"Oh, no."

The pacifier? No. She glares at it like it personally betrayed her.

The feeding bottle? Also no. She turns her head dramatically, like she needs you to know she hates it.

You try bouncing her, swaying her, whispering shh, shh like you’re some sort of expert.

Nothing.

And now that the game has ended, her cries aren’t mixing with chants and cheers anymore. People definitely hear her now.

Your heart rate spikes. Anxiety creeps up your spine. People are staring, and this doesn’t feel right. Someone is definitely about to call security. Excuse me, ma’am, is this your baby?

You just need Alexia to finish her post-game routine in record time so you can go home, take a bath, and erase this moment from existence.

Then you think: Breastfeeding.

You don’t love doing it in public, and in the middle of the stadium? Hell no.

Maybe you should go to the bathroom, but where the hell will you sit in there with this tiny, furious dictator?

Alice’s cries grow louder, and before you can even stand, you have no choice. Desperate times. Desperate measures.

You start breastfeeding her.

And just when you think things can’t get worse—she bites you.

Your whole body tenses. Your mouth drops open in sheer betrayal.

"Oh, you little—"

A shadow falls over you before you can finish your sentence.

"Are you breastfeeding or fighting her?"

You turn your head so slowly it’s almost comical. You stare at Alexia, horrified.

"She bit me."

Alexia blinks. "She’s teething."

"She bit me," you repeat, louder, because clearly, she is not grasping the seriousness of the situation.

Alexia tries—tries—to keep a straight face, but she’s already failing. "It happens."

"Oh, does it?" You clutch Alice closer like she’s some tiny, dangerous creature. "Because to me, this feels personal."

Alexia chuckles, reaching out to rub Alice’s back. The second she does, your daughter melts, cuddling into her mother’s touch like she wasn’t just attempting to end you.

Your jaw drops. "You traitor."

Alexia takes Alice from your arms effortlessly while you adjust your top, and just like that, the storm passes. No more tears, no more biting—just the world’s most peaceful baby resting against her mother’s chest like she hasn’t been actively trying to ruin your life for the last ten minutes.

You rub your face with both hands. "I’m never doing this again."

Alexia hums like she’s heard this before. "I think you said that last time."

"And yet, here I am. A victim." You gesture wildly to yourself, pacing in front of her. "I was just trying to be a good mother. And what do I get? Attacked. Humiliated. Judged by an entire stadium. No, wait—worse. By the VIP section, Alexia. The VIP section."

You drop into the seat beside her with a dramatic sigh. "This is how I die. This is it."

Alexia, absolutely unfazed, watches you with that same infuriating calm. "I’ll tell your story."

You glare at her. "Tell them I was brave."

Alexia nods solemnly. "And strong."

"And that I loved her so much, even when she betrayed me."

Alexia rubs Alice’s back, pretending to hold back a laugh. "I’ll make sure they know."

You shake your head, exhausted. "I need gelato. From that place."

Alexia stands, adjusting Alice in her arms. "Let’s go."

You narrow your eyes. "And Cannolo Siciliano with Rafaello. And the Cookies Rellenas pistachio. And the Ración Tarta de Queso de Pistacho. Also—"

Alexia sighs but is already leading you out of the stadium. "And all of that."

You’ve been through too much in the last hour to deny yourself the simple joy of sugar and carbs.

By the time you’re in the car, Alice is safely tucked into her car seat, finally asleep, and you’re sprawled dramatically in the passenger seat like you’ve just survived a war.

Peace.

Until—

"I need a massage," Alexia says casually, taking a turn toward your favorite gelato shop.

Your head snaps toward her. "A massage? For what? For warming the bench too much?"

Alexia gasps, clutching her chest in mock offense. "It hurts my back, carrying the weight of being the preferred mom, you know."

Your mouth falls open. "Oh, you didn’t."

Alexia grins, entirely too smug. "I did."

You whip around, pointing at Alice, now peacefully asleep in the back seat. "She likes you more because she’s an attention seeker just like you."

Alexia shrugs. "Or maybe I just have a special touch."

You groan, rubbing your temples. "I cannot believe I married you."

"You can’t?" Alexia glances at you with a smirk. "Because I recall you saying it was the best day of your life."

Your eye twitches. "Biggest mistake of my life."

Alexia snorts. "You’re obsessed with me."

"I’m resigning from this family."

Alexia finally lets out a laugh, her hand—warm and familiar—moving from your thigh to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a quick kiss. "You love me."

You sigh, long and suffering, but ultimately, you don’t pull away. "Unfortunately."

She smirks. "And Alice loves me more."

You cross your arms, turning your body toward the window. "I hope you wake up with a sore back."

Alexia snorts. "That’s petty."

You nod. "I wasn’t the one sulking on a bench for ninety minutes today."

Alexia glares at you as she parks the car. "You’re never giving me that massage, are you?"

You smirk, stepping out. "Not even in your dreams."

(But you know you will.)

[radiance1]

An offshoot of this post because why not.

So, Danny who wears sunglasses to hide his eyes from the GIW and Constantine who is very sure he's a ghost pretending to be human and vows to keep an eye on him.

The way the League meets Danny isn't all that grand. One moment there was Constantine, the next there was a boy lifting up and walking out of his coat while holding a pack of cigarettes.

"These are bad for you and will kill you." Theboy says while lighting himself one, Constantine doesn't even make a move to stop him as he tries it, only to immediately hack up a lung and Constantine takes that moment to pick his pack out of the boy's hand, lights himself one, and smoothly does what the boy failed to do while flipping him off.

The boy flipped him off in the midst of coughing.

Batman breaks the silence when the kid finally stood up properly, asking who he was and why he was here.

"Name's Danny, this guy." He points at Constantine. "Is my illegal guardian and I'm here becquse apparently you needed an expert in pacifying ghosts?"

"There are so many better ways you could have worded that." Constantine groaned and Danny smirked. "What? It's the truth though, I am your expert."

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about."

"Gotta be more specific, old man."

"Least I lived past 14."

"You wound me." The boy says, hand on his chest and wiping away invisible tears while Constantine rolled his eyes.

"Ahem." Batman narrowed his eyes.

[misaamoure]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭:

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨? 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨… 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫!!

⋅ ˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬:

“Nnngh, Sylus,” You groaned, tossing your head back into the pillow. “It hurts!”

“I know I know. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

Things had gotten a little toooo intense last time the two of you had sex.

You really did have a knack for riling Sylus up. And he played into you every single time. Without fail.

You had been loving it in the moment, throwing your ass back on him and asking him for more.

Sylus rooted a hand in the back of your hair, pulling your back to make eye contact with him.

“Are you going to be a good girl? Hm? Or do I have to punish you again?” He spoke through gritted teeth, speeding up his thrusts.

“Punish me! Oh my… fucking god Sylus please punish me…!”

And he did just that. Making you count each hard smack to your ass as he pounded you into the mattress.

As I said earlier, you were absolutely loving it, creaming all over his cock and driving him just as crazy.

It was after you two had finished, and resorted to cuddling in bed together that your problem had started.

At first it was light stinging… nothing out of the ordinary. This was usual after he spanked you.

But then the stinging evolved to a deeper pain. Slightly deeper than other times, and a little more intense than you cared to deal with.

Awww, poor you.

“Fuck, this is all your fault!” You swatted at Sylus weakly, something he easily dodged.

And the nerve of this asshole… he chuckled in response.

“The fuck are you laughing at? Do something you stupid prick!” Oh if looks could kill.

“Alright. As you wish.” He responded almost immediately, raising your suspicions. Usually he would try and fuck with you more.

You felt the bed dip as he moved, and then you felt him pull your hips off the bed so you were in a slight arch.

“What are you- ack!” You were even more surprised as he pulled your panties down with one swift movement.

“I’m kissing it better, sweetie,” You felt him fondle your ass cheeks before giving the sore red spot a gentle kiss. “Didn’t you want me to do something?”

One kiss. And another. And another. To all the areas that were aching and tender.

You were extra sensitive in those spots, making the feeling all the more intense.

“Sylus…” You sighed out dreamily once he started to knead at your lower back in tandem with the kisses.

Well… it actually felt quite soothing.

“Oh? My kitten finally stopped hissing and scratching. Have I finally pacified her?” You felt the deep rumble of his laughter against your skin.

With his gentle touches and light massage to your lower back… you felt yourself relax and allow yourself to be indulged in his care.

𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞:

“I’m sorry Y/N. I should’ve had more restraint. Forgive me.”

The look of remorse in Zayne’s eyes was unmistakable.

He had let a moment of raw passion in the bedroom get to him.

Zayne had just gotten back from one of his business trips in the arctic. He barely had time for himself in those few days… let alone you.

Just the whiff of your perfume as you jumped into his arms at the airport was enough to drive him insane.

You thought that Zayne had been even more quiet than usual on the way back to his place… and just as you were about to ask him what was wrong, he practically jumped you.

Peeling off all your clothes and quickly warming you up to take his cock.

Bouncing you on his lap and using you like a human fleshlight… Zayne got an exclusively good view of your neck and chest.

And then he had a thought. One that bore deep into his brain and stripped him of reason.

“I want to mark you,” He said breathlessly, running his hand up your body to grip at your neck. “Can I? May I?”

Trying to make sense of his request through the shockwaves of pleasure, you nodded fervently.

That was all the confirmation Zayne needed.

One hickey on your neck. Another on your chest. And then another. And another. And another.

Soon after you had too many to count. It looked like a rash had spread over your collarbones.

“I’m sorry, I really am.” Zayne took your hands in his as he looked you in the eye.

He was being so serious about something so small… it honestly made you laugh.

“Zayne, it doesn’t particularly hurt. You don’t have to apologize. I feel fine.” You caressed his face with your hands, which he leaned into.

“You say that, but still,” Zayne sighed. “I should have restrained myself.”

Little did he know you fucking loved it when he didn’t restrain himself.

You found yourself giggling again.

“If you feel that bad,” You leaned forward to bite his bottom lip playfully. “Kiss it better. Yeah?”

Zayne gave you an odd look before pulling you closer.

Leaning your head to the side to give him access, you held his shoulders as he leaned into you.

Feeling his soft lips kiss at the hickeys he left on you, you gasped and dug your nails into him.

The marks were so sensitive… it felt so good.

“Like that,” He pressed another kiss to a hickey on your collarbone. “Does that make it better?”

You hugged him even closer than before.

“A little more.”

And he did just as you asked as you melted into his touch.

[httpsserene]

I have been having SUCH a thought since the Thigh Riding, and I NEED to tell you.

We know reader has been loving Max and Charles’ thighs, but have you seen those silicone thigh toys? They’re basically ridged pads you strap to your thigh and…well you can guess what they do with them.

I just- I feel like it would elevate it, their sweet girl opening up to the world of toys whilst in the comfort of something she loved.

httpsserene’s 1K Special | Track Limits

summary: she’s oversensitive and hates vibrators. max and charles introduce her to something better.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. this is from december 2023, jesus christ. about fucking time right, @vetteltea? this has been haunting me in my sleep ever since this hit my inbox, now it’s y’all’s problem too < 333 psss, next post will either be toasty part two (toto) or a smau! (if you’re unsure about what these specific thigh toys are, look up “grinding pad sex toy” to get an idea of what i’m referencing).

view the full track limits table of contents.

⌕ prev | join taglist | reqs & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents | next ↻

downforce — 𝐜𝐥. 𝟏𝟔 & 𝐦𝐯. 𝟏 charles leclerc x max verstappen x fem!black!reader 2.4k words. thigh riding. sex toys. non-penetrative sex. edging. praise kink. corruption kink. implied dom/sub dynamics. coming untouched. sub!charles. sub!reader. dom!max.

You’ve deeply repressed the memory of your orgasm-deprived outburst that kick started your sexual exploration with Max and Charles. Vaguely, you can remember saying that you possibly considered the thought of buying a vibrator to get yourself off since riding your pillow wasn’t enough anymore.

[…you’ve become depraved enough to consider buying a vibrator, but all packages delivered to this apartment have to be approved by max or charles to be sent up, and you’re definitely not bold enough to go out and buy one (and risk being seen by one of their fans or have to physically talk to someone to buy one)...]

[…you seem to have missed the fact that you sent their minds reeling and continue venting, “i don’t know what to do, maxy!  i’ve been doing the same thing, and it’s NEVER failed me before. it’s cruel that it stopped working when you guys left me for more than a month! no matter how i did it–if i did the exact same things i’ve always been doing, or tried something new, nothing worked! i was literally just considering buying a fucking vibrator! a vibrator, charles, i’d rather run naked in the street than buy that online and have to put in this delivery address–”

charles gently presses finger against your mouth, shushing you. he pulls you into a deep hug, rubbing a hand up and down the length of your back , the motion pacifying you. he hums, and it vibrates through his chest to yours, “mmm, we’re home now, mon ange. there’s no need to run in the streets naked–” “definitely not,” max jumps in, reacting possessively at the implication of other people seeing you undressed. charles rolls his eyes and continues (like he’s not just as jealous as max), “or buy a vibrator. i know it must be so frustrating…”]

Charles was right. You didn’t have to go streaking or buy a sex toy to get off, your boyfriends took care of you. That night, you were satisfied by riding Max’s thigh. Then a few days later, you learned how to pleasure your men with handjobs. A couple of days after that you were fingerfucked into an altered mental state, then followed up with watching Charles cum untouched as Max ate him out. You had Max’s mouth on you next and weeks later in a Spanish villa, you allowed them to take your virginity.

The five days you three spent in that villa were filled with pleasure, as Max and Charles fulfilled every request of yours without question. In bed, on the sofa, from the kitchen floor to the dining table, from the hot tub to the bathroom shower, horizontally, vertically, parabolically, from dusk to dawn—the two years of relationship you had without sexual intimacy had been put to rest. The understanding, the vulnerability, and the trust rooted within everyone had led to that moment. It was worth it.

So, one would understand your confusion when Max drops the idea of sex toys in conversation with you and Charles on a random morning. With an audible noise of confusion, you tilt your head up at him adorably, and genuinely question, “Why would I use a toy when I have you two?” Your tummy tightened when that sentence caused Charles to look at you with dripping molten eyes and Max’s mumbled grumble about corrupting your innocence goes unheard. Minutes later, you were bent over the kitchen island, the skirt of your sundress shoved up around your waist, and your white panties dangling off of one ankle as they took turns eating you out. Needless to say, you forgot about the subject of conversation the moment they knocked your legs open.

Eventually, they do manage to have a chat about toys without it devolving into sex. 

“Schat,” Max grabbed your attention, the clink of his silverware resting on his plate further interrupted your focus on spinning pasta onto your fork.

“Yes, Maxy?” you responded, meeting his eyes with a smile.

“After this discussion, we will never bring this up again if you are adamantly against the idea,” you brought your fork to your lips, munching away with a look of puzzlement, the Dutchman continued, “But, Charlie and I were talking…and we think, that—with your approval, of course—that there’s a chance you may enjoy experiencing and learning about sex toys, and how good they can make you feel. As long as either one of us is using them on you—and, with your hatred of them—they’re also not vibrators.”

You choked on your pasta, Charles making a noise of surprise as he rushed forward to pat you on the back.

Airways now cleared, you looked at Max with watery eyes, “There was not enough foreshadowing to let me know where the conversation was going. And, fuck vibrators. They are way too strong.”

The Monegasque’s eyes brightened with humor, “Hm. I think vibrators are nice, especially when they’re in Max’s hand.”

“You’re a menace and a freak,” the older man responded, “And she’s chronically sensitive. Don’t tease.”

Charles tugged at one of your curls, chuckling as he saw the brown skin of your cheeks redden.

“I mean,” you paused to play fight with your boyfriend, batting his hand from your hair cutely, “You guys haven’t been wrong with anything you’ve introduced me to. If you think that I might enjoy something…I guess I can try it. And, you’ll stop if I tell you to, right?”

“Always, mon ange.” “Of course, liefje.”

“Okay, then. I just don’t think there’s a toy that I’ll like?”

A smirk spread across Max’s lips when he glanced over at Charles, like they knew something you didn’t. His blue eyes were alight with humor as they looked back at you, “Let us worry about that.”

You did such a good job of letting your boyfriends “worry about sex toys” that you ended up forgetting the conversation happened. Until tonight, when you walked into your bedroom to see Charles on the bed completely naked, save for—what appears to be, a pink silicone pad strapped around his tanned, muscular thigh.

You freeze in the doorway, mouth parted, struggling to process the sight in front of you. The brunette is ruined. His hair is damp with sweat, strands of curls stuck to his forehead, and green eyes moist with dried tear tracks painting the ruddiness of his cheeks. His lips are bitten red, swollen, and moist with his spit—Max’s too. The bruises start on his collarbone, deep red marks brush along his clavicle and pecs, and there are visible imprints of teeth around his right nipple. Traces of Max’s unforgiving grip are painted on his waist, thumbprints obvious to your eyes. His cock looks painful; burning red, twitching randomly, the vein on his underside raised, and precome has been leaking out of his tip for a while if the puddle by the base is any telling. 

Employing his skill for perfect timing, the en-suite door opens, and Max steps into the room with a bottle of lube in his hand. 

“Charlie?” Max coos, walking over to the delirious man, pouting sympathetically when the brunette’s head falls forward to rest on his hip, ruffling his hair and scratching along his scalp. “Aren’t you going to thank our pretty girl for putting an end to your torture?”

“–rci, merci,” the exhausted man mumbles messily. Max hums in content, dropping the lube on the bed and gesturing for you to come closer. Tripping over your feet in haste to follow his order, you ask softly, “How long have you had him like this?”

“Around forty-five minutes,” Max shrugs, dismissively, “He was getting too excited as we waited for you to join us.”

Swallowing shakily, you inquire, “Excited about what?

“Your new sex toy.” 

You gasp and Max’s eyes flutter across your face as he gages your reaction. Max sees you shift on your feet and casts look downward; your thighs are pressed together for friction—you’re aroused.

“Do you want to try it?”

“Yes, Max.”

The Dutchman smiles at you, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, and leans forward to press a multitude of chaste kisses on your lips, laughing lowly when you whine with displeasure as he ignores your attempts to deepen them. “You’re being so brave for me. Take your clothes off, pretty girl.”

Bare in the blink of an eye, you look at your older boyfriend for his next direction.

“Our Charlie,” Max starts, helping the fucked-out man sit up straight, “Has been so kind to volunteer his thigh to you. Strapped around it,” he pauses to slap his hand down beneath the toy, smirking at Charles’ delayed yelp, and squeezing the meat of his muscle warmly, “Is a ridged silicone pad designed to simulate the vulva and clit as you grind. The waves and spikes of silicone are malleable and soft,” Max drags his finger across them demonstratively, “and are smooth and bouncy as you slide across it, allowing for a continuous rubbing sensation—I did my research.”

Giggling nervously as your eyes flicker between Charles��� cock and the daunting pink slab of plastic, “I can tell. Um—I just ride it like it’s his thigh?”

Max nods and offers you his hand for stability as you move to straddle the pad. Charles blinks, raising trembling hands to rest on your hips, staring at you with hazy eyes. You sigh, tangling your hand in the nape of his hair and using it to pull him forward into a kiss. His lips are clumsy but eager as they move against yours, whimpers muffled into your mouth and beard scratching along your chin. He tries to tug you downwards to have you firmly sit on the pad but is halted by Max.

“Greedy, both of you,” Max snorts, picking up the forgotten bottle of lube and uncapping it to lightly drizzle some on the toy's surface, “I know you get wetter than the ocean but, better safe than sorry.”

He pats you on the ass in encouragement, and you shake your head with shame as you lower yourself down on the silicone, draping your arms around Charles’ shoulders and pausing to acquaint yourself with the new feeling. The chill of the lube startles you but aside from that, the toy is…comfortable. The raised hump sits perfectly against the curvature of your cunt and already, you’re anticipating the focused stimulation it will provide. 

Max sits behind Charles and the bed sinks under his weight, barely jostling the Monegasque’s thigh. However, it’s enough of a movement that it causes one of the soft spikes to clip your clit, pushing a quiet noise of surprise from your lips.

“Oh,” you murmur airily.

Trying to hide the quirk of his lips, Max leans forward to whisper directly into Charles’ ear, “This seems awfully familiar to the first time she rode my thigh, no?”

You whimper audibly, knowing that he purposefully spoke loud enough for you to hear his words. Refusing to fixate on Charles’ reply, you circle your hips, breath catching as the various textures set your nerves ablaze. You understand that Max added the lube to prevent any unwanted roughness—it’s rendered unnecessary as your arousal starts to leak. Digging your nails into the younger man’s back, you rock your hips back and forth slowly, moaning freely as the waves are a consistent friction against your labia. 

“It’s–fuck—i-it’s good.”

“Stuttering already,” Max tuts, and you feel the heat in your cheeks radiate down to your bouncing chest. Your rhythm roughens; dragging yourself along the toys in desperation, toes curling at every random press of the spikes against your outer lips and clit. Charles gasps in relief, your quickened pace causing his cock to bounce and rub against his abdomen in his puddle of precome. He gets lucky on every few grinds when you undulate forwards and his cock bounces to glide against your navel. His hands grip firmly around your hips and shove them into a jerkier motion, keeping you close to him so his reddened length can be soothed against your skin constantly. 

The change in angle and position has caused the spikes to form a barrage around your clit and the waves drag over your entrance, teasing you with the feeling of being opened up. Dropping your head to hide your face in Charles’ neck, you muffle your pitchy moans and shrieks by tasting the sweat beading on his skin.

“I’m jealous, schatje,” Max speaks, “I almost want to pull her off of your thigh and have her sit on my face.”

Fresh tears spill from Charles’ eyes as he begs, “N-no-no—mmmph—please, ‘m close.”

Your hips start to rabbit against the toy, and the texture between your legs is overwhelming but too pleasurable to consider slowing. 

Max yanks Charles’ head backward with a fist in his hair, “Do you want to cum, Charlie?”

The man in question babbles incoherently, chest trembling from lack of oxygen as he continues to sob; he tries to nod, but can’t, thanks to Max’s firm grip. The burning of his scalp doesn’t subdue him, it encourages him to keep tugging so the pain floods endorphins through his body. 

“You know what to say,” Max states calmly, the words sending shivers down your spine. Your own body starts to tingle as you taste your orgasm on the tip of your tongue; you’re too delighted at the new sensations to let any embarrassment build from reaching the edge quickly.

Charles struggles to get his tongue, lips, and vocal cords to cooperate. You see a frantic look light in his eyes, sure he’s trying to puzzle out what language he’s sane enough to communicate in. He manages to verbalize sounds that could be likened to Max’s name if you brush past his whimpers and cries.

“Plea–,” Charles tries to push the word out pitifully, “—ah, sss'il te pla—” his cock bumps against your navel, and his words cut off, eyes rolling back before he can finish begging.

A humorous laugh leaves Max; this is the easiest way Max has ever made the younger man lose his speech. He softens, and gives into the pillow prince, “You did so good, Charlie. You tried your hardest for me, yeah? You begged so prettily tonight, almost as pretty as you look. Such a good boy, Charles. You can cum.”

Strikingly, the approval works for both you and Charles. Twin cries of pleasure erupt as your orgasms blur your vision and burn through your muscles. The feeling of Charles’s cum splattering against your stomach sends another burst of light through your skin as you continue to grind fitfully on the silicone pad. A lake of wetness puddled on the poor man’s thigh, that squelches as you move. 

Charles is rendered silent as his cock continues to pulse even when the flow of his release ceases. Max brings his hand down to squeeze at his base and Charles releases a choppy scream as it pushes another couple of ribbons out of him. His hips thrust upwards with every string, forcing hisses of over sensitivity to slip from you as it drags the soaked pad against your cunt. You would happily crawl off his thigh, but you haven’t regained feeling in your legs yet. 

Thankfully, Charles deflates back into Max, his cock finally softening and slowly losing some of its flush. Tears start to leak from his eyes again, his chest shuddering through little sobs. You whimper softly at his tears and Max pulls you both to rest comfortably in the bed, as he shushes you two through the comedown. When the tears, shivers, and shakes halt, a pleased tilt of lips rises to Charles's face as his eyes dance between you and Max. 

The Dutchman unclips the toy from Charles’s thigh and smirks at the wet peeling noise that sounds.

“So…I assume this toy has your approval?”

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[mahalachives]

Part 10: Golden, At Last

Author’s Warning: This is the final chapter. Prepare your tissues, your emotional support bunny, and possibly your will to live. Enjoy, and sob responsibly. 🖤🐇🔥 Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The crown of the High Lady rested on a velvet cushion beside your bed, a physical manifestation of power that needed no adornment.

Unlike Beron's flame circlet, your crown was simpler.

Twisted copper branches studded with amber gemstones that glowed with inner fire. You hadn't worn it since the coronation three days ago.

You stood at the window of what had once been Beron's chambers, now yours by right of power and blood.

The Autumn Court stretched before you, eternal flames painting the landscape in crimson and gold.

Beautiful, undeniably. But was it home?

The bond within you remained muted but present, a dull ache where once golden light had flowed. You'd tried to sever it completely, but some connections transcended even the strongest will.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your desk, their tiny flame forms nudging a stack of reports toward you: diplomatic communications from other courts, updates on rebel strongholds, casualty counts from skirmishes still flaring at the borders.

"Later," you told them, turning back to the window. "I need a minute to process... everything."

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

"Enter," you called, straightening your shoulders.

Eris stepped inside, his injuries from Beron's torture still evident in the careful way he moved. His face bore half-healed cuts, but his eyes were sharp, alert.

"The Dawn Court delegation has arrived," he said without preamble. "Thesan came personally."

Your heart stuttered. "I thought they weren't expected until tomorrow."

"Apparently Dawn Court operates on its own schedule," Eris replied dryly. "And... there's another report about the shadowsinger."

You didn't need to ask.

The guards had been bringing reports for days about Azriel's presence at the borders of your territories, watching, waiting, sending shadows to gather information about your wellbeing.

"What is it this time?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral and failing miserably.

"He's made camp at the western border," Eris said, studying your reaction. "The guards say he looks... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days."

The bond twisted painfully at the information, a golden thread pulling taut beneath your breastbone. You'd left his charm behind in Velaris, deliberately creating distance between you. But the connection remained, a constant awareness that transcended physical tokens.

"Tell the guards to maintain the perimeter," you said, the words costing you. "No entry without my express permission."

"This is the fifth day," Eris noted, no judgment in his tone, merely observation. "How long will you keep him at the borders?"

"As long as necessary," you replied, turning back to the window. "I have a court to stabilize. Rebels to pacify. I can't afford distractions."

Eris made a noncommittal sound that somehow conveyed disbelief without directly challenging you. "The eastern rebellions have been contained," he reported, changing the subject. "Lucien's efforts have been... surprisingly effective."

Lucien had left the Night Court temporarily to help after Beron's death, his diplomatic skills honed through years of navigating complex political landscapes proving invaluable in bringing rebel factions to the negotiating table.

"He has a talent for mediation," you agreed.

"And for avoiding topics that need addressing," Eris added pointedly. "Like your apparent disinterest in actually ruling the court you now control."

You bristled at the accusation. "I've attended every council meeting. Signed every decree."

"With the enthusiasm of someone awaiting execution," Eris countered, his gaze unwavering. "The court needs more than a figurehead, sister. It needs a leader."

"I'm doing my best," you said finally, the admission costing you.

Eris's expression softened fractionally. "I know. But we need to decide what happens next. The court is stabilizing, but your... reluctance... creates uncertainty."

Before you could respond, another knock came, this one lighter, more musical somehow.

"That will be Thesan," Eris said, moving toward the door. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"

You straightened your informal robe, wishing you'd worn something more appropriate for receiving a High Lord. "No, I'll see him. Just... give me a moment."

Eris nodded and departed, leaving you alone to collect yourself. You moved to the small mirror, assessing your appearance with critical eyes. The High Lady of Autumn looked back at you, familiar features that still sometimes surprised you, golden light occasionally pulsing beneath your skin when emotions ran high.

Who was she, really? The cruel Lady of Autumn from before? The human nurse whose body lay in a hospital bed? Or someone new entirely, forged in the crucible of trauma and healing, of two worlds colliding within one soul?

You had no answer yet, but the question itself felt important, a compass pointing toward something true.

Thesan entered with the quiet grace characteristic of Dawn Court, his copper-gold skin catching the flame-light from nearby sconces.

"High Lady," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Forgive the unexpected visit. The roads were clearer than anticipated."

"High Lord Thesan," you replied, inclining your head in return. "Dawn Court is always welcome in Autumn territories."

His smile was genuine as he straightened, eyes taking in your informal attire and the scattered reports on your desk with knowing sympathy. "The early days of leadership are always overwhelming," he observed, no judgment in his tone. "Even when the transition is more... conventional... than yours was."

You gestured to the sitting area near the hearth where flames danced in ever-changing patterns. "Please, join me. I can offer refreshment if you'd like."

"Just your company is refreshment enough," Thesan replied, settling into one of the copper-inlaid chairs. "My court has been following your progress with great interest. The reforms you've implemented in just a few months, quite remarkable."

"Necessity more than vision," you admitted, taking the seat opposite him. "Beron's approach was unsustainable."

"Perhaps," Thesan acknowledged. "But identifying necessity and acting upon it, that is leadership, whether you recognize it as such or not."

Something in his tone, in the quiet confidence of his assessment, eased a tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying. Unlike Eris's pointed observations or the court's watchful speculation, Thesan's words carried no agenda beyond recognition of shared experience.

"How did you know?" you asked, the question emerging before you could consider its wisdom. "When you first became High Lord, how did you know you were making the right choices?"

Thesan's expression turned thoughtful, fingers absently tracing the copper inlay on his chair's arm. "I didn't," he admitted candidly. "No one does, not really. We act based on the best information available, guided by whatever moral compass we possess, and hope the consequences align with our intentions."

"That's... not especially reassuring," you replied, a hint of your former human humor surfacing despite the gravity of the conversation.

He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected. "No, I suppose it's not. But it is honest. And honesty has been in short supply in Prythian's courts for far too long."

The flames in the hearth danced higher, responding to your emotional state without conscious direction. You'd been working on control, but moments of genuine connection still triggered your power in ways you couldn't always predict.

"May I speak freely?" Thesan asked, his gaze following the flame patterns with understanding rather than concern.

"Of course."

"The shadowsinger at your borders," he began, careful but direct. "His presence creates... speculation... among the other courts."

You tensed, the bond flaring briefly beneath your skin. "Azriel's actions aren't my responsibility."

"No," Thesan agreed. "But they are connected to you nonetheless. The mating bond between you is evident to those with eyes to see such things."

Your hands fisted in your lap, knuckles whitening. "I have responsibilities now. A court to rebuild. People who depend on me. I can't allow personal attachments to interfere with duty."

"An admirable position," Thesan acknowledged. "And yet... in my experience, denying such connections rarely results in greater clarity or focus. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What are you suggesting?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Speak with him," Thesan said simply. "Not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as yourself, whoever that may be now, to one who sees you clearly across that divide."

The bond pulsed at his words, golden warmth briefly spreading through your chest before retreating to that muted, distant ache. "It's not that simple."

"Few worthwhile things are," Thesan replied, rising with fluid grace. "But consider this, I have witnessed dynasties rise and fall, courts evolve and dissolve, power exchange hands countless times. The one consistent truth I've observed is that those who lead from connection rather than isolation ultimately create more lasting change."

He moved toward the window, gazing out at the eternal autumn that painted your territories. "Your court reflects you, whether you intend it or not. If you remain divided within yourself, so too will your lands, your people."

The insight struck with uncomfortable precision, naming what you'd felt but couldn't articulate, the sense of operating half-present, caught between worlds, between identities, between paths diverging before you.

"I'm still figuring out who I am in all this," you admitted, the confession easier with this High Lord who radiated compassionate understanding rather than political calculation. "Human nurse or High Lady of Autumn. Both seem equally impossible and equally real."

Thesan turned from the window, copper eyes gentle but direct. "Perhaps that's your strength, not your weakness. The ability to see from both perspectives, to bring human compassion to Fae politics, to recognize that power need not corrupt if wielded with awareness of its cost."

The words settled deep, a truth you'd sensed but hadn't fully claimed. Your hands unclenched in your lap, flames in the hearth settling to steadier patterns that reflected growing calm within.

"Thank you," you said simply. "For seeing me. The real me, whoever that turns out to be."

"Dawn Court specializes in transitions," he replied with a small smile. "In the spaces between darkness and light, between what was and what might be. Your path is uniquely your own, but not one you must walk in isolation."

Before you could respond, another knock interrupted. A guard entered, bowing deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, High Lady, High Lord. Reports from the western border require immediate attention."

Your heart skipped. "What's happened?"

"The shadowsinger, my lady," the guard reported, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "He's... well, he appears to be constructing something. Our scouts report it resembles the beginning of a small dwelling."

The bond flared painfully at the information. A dwelling. A cabin. The dream you'd shared of a place between mountains, with windows facing sunrise and a porch for watching storms.

"Is he within our borders?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.

"No, my lady. He remains just beyond the boundary, in unclaimed territory. But his presence has drawn attention from neighboring courts. The Summer Court has sent observers."

Thesan exchanged a glance with you, understanding passing between you without words. The political implications of Azriel's actions extended beyond personal connection, creating potential complications you couldn't ignore regardless of your feelings.

"Thank you," you told the guard. "Double the patrols but maintain distance. No engagement without my direct order."

After the guard departed, Thesan moved toward the door. "I've taken enough of your time," he said. "But consider what we've discussed. True strength sometimes lies in acknowledging connection rather than severing it."

"You've given me much to think about," you acknowledged, rising to escort him properly. "Dawn Court's wisdom is appreciated in Autumn territories."

His smile warmed. "We are neighbors, after all. And I, for one, am pleased with the changes in leadership at our borders." He hesitated at the threshold, then added, "Should you need neutral ground for any... conversations... you might wish to have, Dawn Court stands ready to offer sanctuary."

The offer hung between you, significant in its generosity, in its recognition of both your official position and your personal dilemma.

"Thank you," you said again, meaning it more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.

The night terrors started three weeks before Winter Solstice.

You woke screaming, sheets twisted around your limbs, fire erupting from your fingertips to scorch the bedding. Guards burst through your chamber doors, weapons drawn against invisible threats, only to find you alone, trembling, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.

Night after night, the pattern repeated.

Images haunted your sleep.

Cold stone corridors, hands pinning you down, laughter echoing off walls, pain beyond bearing.

"You need to speak with someone," Lucien insisted after the fifth consecutive night of screams that echoed through the palace corridors. He had returned to the Autumn Court temporarily, taking leave from his position in the Night Court to help stabilize territories in rebellion. "This isn't normal exhaustion or stress."

You sat in your private sitting room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fire blazing in the hearth. You couldn't seem to get warm, the chill settled bone-deep regardless of external heat.

"I'm fine," you insisted, the lie transparent even to your own ears. "Just court pressures manifesting in dreams."

"Lies don't become a High Lady," Eris commented from the doorway, his entrance silent as always. He studied you with calculating precision, missing nothing. "Particularly not when they're this poorly constructed."

You hadn't invited him to this conversation, but you lacked the energy to send him away. "What do you want, Eris?"

"Answers," he replied simply, crossing to pour himself a measure of wine. "The entire court is whispering about their High Lady's nocturnal disturbances. Some suggest madness. Others, possession."

"And what do you suggest?" you asked, exhaustion making the words sharper than intended.

Eris settled into the chair opposite yours, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I suggest you're remembering."

The simple statement hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his mechanical eye whirring faster as it darted between you and Eris.

"Remembering what?" you asked, though dread pooled in your stomach, a certainty you weren't prepared to face.

"The Winter Court corridor," Eris replied, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "The night your soul shattered."

Cold swept through you, so intense you gasped with it. The fire in the hearth dimmed, responding to your instinctive retreat from heat, from flame, from sensation itself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, but your voice trembled, betraying the lie.

"You do," Eris countered, setting his wine aside untouched. "You've carried the memories since returning to this body, but they were dormant, disconnected, until recently."

Lucien moved to stoke the fire, avoiding your gaze. His discomfort was palpable, confirming what you already suspected. He knew what Eris was referencing. He'd known all along.

"What changed?" you asked, the question directed to neither brother specifically, perhaps not even to them at all. "Why remember now?"

"The Winter Court emissaries," Lucien supplied reluctantly, still focused on the flames rather than your face. "They arrive tomorrow for pre-Solstice negotiations."

Horror washed through you in a nauseating wave. "Winter Court," you repeated, the words ashen in your mouth. "Here. In Autumn territory."

"Diplomatic necessity," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction closely. "The first official delegation since before Beron's death."

A memory flashed, unbidden. Pale hands against your skin, frost magic creeping through your veins, voices whispering terrible promises while you struggled against restraints both physical and magical.

"No," you said, the word emerging as a plea. "I can't, I won't see them."

"You must," Eris replied, no cruelty in his tone, only cold realism. "You're High Lady now. Diplomatic relations cannot be avoided based on personal history, no matter how... significant."

"Personal history," you echoed, a hollow laugh escaping you. "Is that what we're calling it? Thirteen nobles. My soul literally torn in half. Just 'personal history'?"

Lucien flinched at your words, finally turning to face you. "We didn't know," he said, voice rough with what might have been guilt. "Not until later. Not until it was too late."

Another memory surfaced. A palace guard finding you at the border, body broken beyond recognition, frost magic still lingering in your veins. The guard's horror, his hesitation, his eventual decision to bring you back rather than leave you to die. The bitter knowledge that nothing could be done, no justice sought, not without risking open war with Winter.

You rose abruptly, blanket sliding from your shoulders. The cold had vanished, replaced by rage that burned hotter than any Autumn flames.

"Who were they?" you demanded, each word precise despite the fury coursing through you. "I want names. All thirteen."

The brothers exchanged a glance laden with centuries of silent communication, of shared survival beneath Beron's rule.

"Most are already dead," Eris finally said. "The war with Hybern claimed several. Others fell during earlier conflicts."

"How many remain?" you pressed, fire dancing at your fingertips unbidden.

"Two," Lucien answered reluctantly. "Lord Heatherson and Lord Gaius."

"Lord Kieraven was the leader," Eris added, his voice hard. "But Azriel killed him during the war with Hybern. The shadowsinger selected him specifically from the battlefield, though none knew why at the time."

A chill ran down your spine at this revelation. Had Azriel somehow known? Had his shadows whispered secrets about the male who had orchestrated your suffering?

"And are they among the delegation arriving tomorrow?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Both of them," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction with calculating eyes. "As Kallias's appointed representatives."

Your knees buckled. You sank back into your chair, trembling returning despite your efforts at control.

"I can't face them," you whispered, the admission costing you. "Not yet. Not while these memories are still fragmentary."

"You must," Eris insisted, leaning forward. "Not just as High Lady fulfilling diplomatic obligations, but as yourself, the self you were before, the self you're becoming again."

"Why?" you challenged, tears threatening.

"Because some wounds don't heal until the blade is removed," he replied, surprising you with unexpected wisdom. "Because your soul will never be whole while pieces of it remain lost in darkness."

Silence fell between you, heavy with implication, with possibility both terrible and necessary.

"I'll be with you," Lucien offered unexpectedly, his voice firm despite the discomfort evident in his posture. "Every moment. They won't have access to you without witnesses."

"As will I," Eris added, something approaching protectiveness in his tone. "The time for allowing Winter Court transgressions has passed. Beron may have valued politics over family, but we do not."

The declaration, spoken with such certainty, broke something open inside you. These brothers, complicated, difficult, damaged in their own ways, were offering something you'd never experienced from them before: unequivocal support, protection without condition or expectation.

"Family," you whispered, testing the word, its weight, its truth.

"Vanserra Siblings," Eris confirmed, no hesitation in his voice. "Whatever came before, whatever may come after, that much remains constant."

You nodded once, decision crystallizing. "I'll meet the delegation. I'll face Heatherson and Gaius." Resolve hardened your voice, straightened your spine. "But on my terms, in my court, with my power."

"As is your right," Eris agreed, satisfaction evident in his expression. "High Lady."

The title no longer felt foreign, no longer sat uncomfortably on your shoulders. It felt like armor, like identity, like the person you had been and were becoming again.

That night, after leaving your brothers, you made a decision. Before you could face the Winter Court delegation, there was something else you needed to do. Someone else you needed to see, even if just from a distance.

You donned a simple, dark cloak, evading the palace guards with ease born of centuries living in these halls. The night embraced you as you slipped beyond the castle walls, magic carrying you swiftly toward the western border.

The bond in your chest pulled stronger with each mile, the carefully constructed barriers weakening with proximity. You followed that golden thread through forest and field, until finally, you stood at the edge of Autumn Court territory.

And there he was.

Azriel.

Your breath caught at the sight of him. He sat before a small fire, his wings folded tight against his back, shadows swirling restlessly around him. Even from this distance, you could see the changes in him. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than before, as if he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testifying to sleepless nights.

Before him, the foundation of a cabin was taking shape, stone by stone. Windows positioned to catch the sunrise, just as you'd dreamed. A porch that would someday face the storms rolling across mountains. A home built by hand rather than magic, each stone placed with deliberate care, with hope, with patience.

The bond throbbed painfully in your chest, golden light briefly illuminating your hands before you forced it down again. You took a step forward, drawn by something beyond conscious thought, beyond reason.

Azriel's head snapped up suddenly, as if sensing your presence. His shadows froze, then surged forward, testing the air, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.

You retreated behind a tree, heart pounding. His face in that brief moment of awareness had been transformed, hope and longing replacing exhaustion in an instant. It would be so easy to reveal yourself, to cross that border, to let the bond between you flare back to full strength.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

As long as your human body lay in that hospital bed, as long as part of you longed for a world beyond Prythian, you couldn't give Azriel what he deserved.

A mate fully present, fully committed, fully his.

With a final glance at the cabin rising stone by stone, you turned away, tears streaking silently down your face. The bond protested, a physical pain in your chest that echoed with each step back toward your court, your responsibilities, your throne.

Tomorrow you would face the Winter Court delegation. Tomorrow you would confront those who had shattered your soul. But tonight, you allowed yourself to mourn what might have been, what still might be, if only the worlds would align, if only your fractured self could become whole again.

The Winter Court delegation arrived precisely at midday, when Autumn Court's eternal sunlight blazed at its brightest, a deliberate choice that didn't escape your notice. Winter Court preferred twilight and dawn, times when light and darkness balanced. By forcing them to arrive at noon, you established dominance from the first moment.

You sat upon your copper throne, crown gleaming with inner fire, as the delegation entered the great hall. Eris stood at your right hand, Lucien at your left, both brothers radiating cold vigilance despite the formal occasion.

Lord Heatherson entered first, his pale skin almost translucent under autumn light, veins like blue shadows beneath the surface. Lord Gaius followed, silver-white hair bound in traditional Winter Court braids, his steps deliberate and measured.

Your breath caught in your throat as they approached, memories threatening to overwhelm you. Cold hands. Cruel laughter. Pain beyond endurance.

"High Lady," Heatherson greeted, bowing with precise formality. "Winter Court brings greetings and congratulations on your ascension."

"Indeed," Gaius added, his voice as brittle as his name suggested. "Your coronation marks a new chapter in relations between our courts."

You studied them, these males who had once torn your body apart, who had fractured your very soul. They showed no recognition, no awareness that you might remember. To them, this was merely diplomacy, politics as usual.

"Winter Court is welcome in Autumn territories," you replied, the formal words tasting like ash in your mouth. "So long as all agreements are honored."

The diplomatic discussions began, trade routes and border policies debated with careful precision. You participated with cool detachment, signing what needed signing, agreeing where agreement served your court's interests.

Through it all, the memories simmered beneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment. Lucien noticed your tension, his hand occasionally brushing yours in silent support. Eris watched the Winter Court representatives with predatory intensity, missing nothing, cataloging every reaction for future reference.

As the formal negotiations concluded, Lord Heatherson requested a private audience "to discuss matters of historical significance between our courts."

The implication was clear, a discussion of past grievances, policies established under Beron's reign.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steady despite the rage building beneath your calm exterior. "My brothers will join us, as is tradition when discussing matters of historical record."

Disappointment flickered across Heatherson's face, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn't been watching carefully. "As you wish, High Lady."

You led them to a smaller council chamber, where wine had been prepared in advance. As the Winter Court representatives sipped from copper goblets, Lucien engaged them in conversation about border policies, his diplomatic skills creating a facade of normalcy.

But something had changed in the atmosphere.

Tension crackled beneath the polite exchanges, a current of awareness building with each passing moment. You could feel it, the sense of a trap about to spring, though who had set it remained unclear.

"I must say," Lord Gaius remarked, swirling his wine thoughtfully, "you seem remarkably... different... from when we last encountered you, High Lady."

The words hung in the air like an icicle about to fall. Eris tensed beside you, his hand drifting casually to the knife at his belt.

"Different how, Lord Gaius?" you asked, voice deceptively mild.

"More controlled," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "More... present. As if pieces of you that were once missing have been returned."

The deliberate provocation sent ice through your veins. He knew. They both knew. This wasn't diplomatic small talk; this was calculated testing of boundaries, of memory, of power.

Lucien's control snapped first. "How dare you," he snarled, his mechanical eye whirring furiously as he set his goblet down with enough force to slosh wine across the table. "How dare you stand in our court, drink our wine, and make such insinuations?"

"Insinuations?" Heatherson's face arranged itself into a mask of innocent confusion. "I believe Lord Gaius was merely complimenting the High Lady's composure."

"We all know what you meant," Eris said coldly, his voice all the more threatening for its quietness. "Just as we all know what happened two centuries ago."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both Winter Court nobles froze, composure briefly cracking before masks slid back into place.

"I'm afraid I don't recall any significant events from that time," Gaius said carefully, but his eyes betrayed him, darting nervously between you and your brothers.

"Don't you?" You finally spoke, rising from your chair with deliberate grace. Fire danced at your fingertips, responding to your emotions without conscious summoning. "Thirteen nobles. A female bound with frost magic. Hours of torture. Does none of this sound familiar, Lord Gaius?"

Heatherson's face drained of what little color it possessed. "High Lady, these accusations—"

"Are not accusations," you interrupted, your voice calm despite the inferno building inside you. "They are statements of fact. Facts we all know to be true, though some have spent centuries pretending otherwise."

Power flowed from you in waves, the High Lady's magic responding to your righteous fury. The fires in the wall sconces blazed higher, shadows dancing across the faces of males who had once believed themselves untouchable.

"What happened that night was a diplomatic incident," Gaius said, his voice betraying a tremor despite his attempt at composure. "One that both courts agreed to put behind them."

"Both courts?" Lucien echoed, incredulity and rage making his voice shake. "You mean Beron agreed to silence in exchange for continued alliance. The victim was never consulted."

"The victim?" Heatherson's laugh was brittle. "You speak as if she remembers. As if part of her didn't flee that very night, leaving behind a shell we simply... helped reshape."

The casual cruelty of his words, the dismissal of your suffering, the pride still evident in his tone—it was enough.

More than enough.

"I remember everything," you said, each word precise and heavy with power. "Every hand. Every voice. Every moment."

Golden light flared beneath your skin, the High Lady's magic merging with the bond, with your human consciousness, with the part of your soul that had fractured and fled. For the first time since your coronation, you felt truly whole—human compassion and Fae power united in perfect clarity.

"High Lady," Heatherson began, rising from his chair, fear evident now. "Perhaps we should return to diplomatic matters—"

"This is diplomatic," you replied, flames now wreathing your hands in controlled, deadly beauty. "I am informing Winter Court representatives of new policy regarding those who harm Autumn Court citizens."

With a gesture, fire encircled the chamber, cutting off any escape. Not attacking, not yet, but a demonstration of power, of control, of boundaries that would no longer be crossed.

"You can't do this," Gaius protested, frost magic gathering defensively around his fingertips. "This violates every diplomatic protection—"

"As you violated me?" Your voice remained steady, though the fires burned hotter. "As you violated the most basic tenets of decency, of honor?"

"That was different," Heatherson insisted, backing away as flames licked closer. "That was politics. That was—"

"That was rape," Lucien said, the word dropping into the room like a stone into still water. "That was torture. That was an act of war disguised as politics."

Silence fell, heavy with centuries of unspoken truth finally given voice.

"Here is the new policy of the Autumn Court," you announced, your power filling the room until the very air shimmered with heat. "Those who harm our citizens answer with blood and bone. Those who tortured their High Lady answer with their lives."

Gaius made a desperate move, frost magic surging toward you in a futile attempt at self-preservation. The ice melted before it reached you, evaporating in the heat of your rage.

"High Lady, please—" Heatherson began, but it was far too late for pleas.

"I, as High Lady of the Autumn Court, find you guilty of crimes against this court, against its lady, against its future," you declared, the formal words binding, irrevocable. "The sentence is death."

Fire answered your command, precise and purposeful. It did not burn wildly or cause unnecessary suffering. It simply consumed, reducing the two Winter Court nobles to ash where they stood, their screams brief before silence fell once more.

As the flames receded, Eris moved to your side, assessing you with new respect in his eyes. "What of Winter Court? They will demand explanation."

"They will receive one," you replied, your voice calm as the fire within you settled to embers. "The full truth, documented and witnessed, will be sent to Kallias. He may choose war if he wishes, but I suspect once he knows what his nobles did in Winter's name, he will choose justice instead."

Lucien's mechanical eye whirred as he studied the piles of ash. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then Autumn Court stands ready," you said, turning toward the door. "We will no longer sacrifice our own to maintain false peace."

As you walked from the chamber, power still humming beneath your skin, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The memories remained, the pain not erased, but facing those who had hurt you, delivering justice long delayed—it had changed something fundamental within you.

For the first time since your coronation, since waking in this world, you felt not torn between identities but unified. Human compassion and Fae power, merged into something new, something stronger.

That night, standing on your balcony, you gazed westward once more.

The vial of Ash Tea rolling between your fingers. The dark liquid caught the amber light of the setting sun, its potent magic a silent promise of temporary peace.

The tiny pinpoint of Azriel's fire still burned at the border, a beacon in darkness. The cabin would continue rising, stone by stone, window by window.

And perhaps, when you were truly ready, when your court was secured, when your soul was fully healed—perhaps then you would cross that border. Perhaps then you would let the bond flare to full strength once more.

But for now, you had a court to rule. Justice to deliver. A future to build, brick by brick, just as he built that cabin stone by stone.

For now, that was enough.

The wind whispered through the pines like it knew you wouldn't stay, mourning before you spoke a word.

You stood at the threshold between Autumn territory and unclaimed land, taking in the cabin Azriel had built with his own hands. It was more beautiful than you had imagined - sturdy logs fitted perfectly together, a welcoming porch wrapping around one side, windows gleaming in the afternoon light.

Azriel appeared at the doorway, shadows twisting anxiously before settling around his shoulders. When he saw you, hope flared in those ancient eyes - too much hope, a brightness that would only make the darkness to come more devastating.

"You came," he said, voice rough from disuse. His shadows stretched toward you before he pulled them back, a habit of restraint he couldn't break even now.

"I wanted to see it," you replied, gesturing to the cabin.

"I thought—" he hesitated, shadows twitching, "—maybe you were ready to come home." The fragile hope in his voice made your heart splinter.

You couldn't meet his eyes. "It's exactly as you described."

He stepped onto the porch, movements careful, measured. "Windows facing east," he confirmed, a tentative smile touching his lips. "For the sunrise."

"And the porch for watching thunderstorms roll across the mountains," you added, remembering your conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

You followed him inside. The interior was simple but beautiful - pine furniture he must have crafted himself, a fireplace of river stones, bookshelves already filled with volumes. A home built for two, with every corner yearning for a presence it had never known.

You turned to face him fully. "I know the whole truth now," you said. "About what happened in Winter Court. About why my soul fractured."

His face softened with understanding. "Your memories returned?"

"Not all of them," you admitted. "But enough. Enough to understand why part of me fled to another world, why I woke up in a hospital bed with a family who'd never heard of Prythian."

Azriel moved to the window, looking out at the mountains. "You were too gentle for what was done to you," he said. "Too kind for the cruelty they inflicted."

"I was broken," you acknowledged. "And now I'm whole again. But I still have to choose."

He turned back to you, and something in your face must have given it away. The shadows around him stilled completely.

"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Not just to see the cabin."

"I had to come," you said. "To say goodbye properly."

The light in his eyes dimmed. "Goodbye?"

The bond between you didn't just throb—it screamed, a golden cord pulled taut enough to snap, singing with the agony of a love denied.

"I've made my decision," you forced yourself to say. "I'm going back. Back to my world."

"Of course," he said softly, staring past you. "Why would you stay?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Don't lie to make it easier."

"Azriel—"

"Was it ever real?" he asked suddenly, voice breaking. "Any of it? Or was it just the bond?"

The question hung between you, raw and bleeding. The hearth looked cold despite the fire. The books seemed too untouched. The walls too thin to hold the ache left behind.

Instead of answering, you crossed the distance between you. After a moment's hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him.

He remained still, unyielding, before slowly, painfully embracing you in return. His arms encircled you with restrained strength, as if afraid you might shatter. The bond between you wailed in golden agony as his wings folded around you both, creating a sanctuary of shadow and starlight.

"I understand," he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. "If it brings you happiness, I would never stand in your way."

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His arms tightened, memorizing the feel of you. "These moments with you have been worth centuries of solitude."

You felt tears dampen your hair as he pressed his lips to your crown.

"I love you," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I've existed for five hundred years, but I only began living when I found you."

A sob escaped you, muffled against his chest. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and sacrifice.

"I'll wait for you," he promised, voice thick with emotion. "If there's even the slightest chance you might return... I'll wait centuries more."

His scarred fingers tilted your chin up, hazel eyes memorizing every detail of your face. "The cabin will remain. This life I've built will remain. Whether you return tomorrow or in a thousand years."

You reached up, brushing tears from his beautiful face. "Live for yourself, Azriel. That's all I ask."

"I will try," he whispered. "But part of me will always be yours."

You stayed locked in each other's arms as the sun began to set, casting the valley in amber light that matched the golden bond pulsing between you. Neither willing to be the first to let go, to end what might be your last embrace.

"Be happy," he murmured against your temple. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

When you finally pulled away, both your faces were streaked with tears. He let his wings unfold reluctantly, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been.

You turned away as he whispered your name like a prayer he'd never say again. The door didn't close behind you. Neither of you had the strength to end it.

Beeping.

That's the first thing you notice. A steady, mechanical rhythm cutting through darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your mouth is dry, with something hard and plastic between your lips. A tube. You can't speak.

With monumental effort, you crack your eyes open. Fluorescent lights, harsh and clinical, burn your retinas.

White walls. Machines with glowing numbers and lines.

"Oh my god." A familiar voice breaks through the fog. Your aunt. "She moved! Doctor! Nurse! Someone!"

Hurried footsteps approach as her face appears above you – lined with exhaustion and hope. Tears immediately well in her bloodshot eyes.

"You're back," she whispers, clutching your unresponsive hand. "You're really back."

More faces appear. A doctor in a white coat. A nurse adjusting something on the machines. They speak in quick, clinical bursts.

"...unexpected return to consciousness..."

"...extraordinary after this duration..."

"...need to run tests immediately..."

The breathing tube is carefully removed, leaving your throat raw and aching. Someone holds a straw to your lips, and you take a small sip of water.

"Can you hear me?" the doctor asks, shining a light in your eyes. "Can you blink once for yes?"

You manage a slow, deliberate blink.

Your fingers unconsciously reach for your chest, seeking something that should be there. A warmth. A pulse of gold beneath your skin. Nothing. Just the steady beat of your ordinary human heart.

Hours later, after the initial medical frenzy subsides, the door opens. Your grandmother enters slowly, leaning on her cane, your aunt supporting her elbow. Your grandmother's face, deeply lined and framed by silver hair, crumples at the sight of you awake.

"My girl," she whispers, her voice wavering. "My precious girl."

Your aunt helps her to your bedside. With trembling hands, your grandmother cups your face, studying you as if memorizing every detail. Her tears fall onto your cheeks, mingling with your own.

When she embraces you, fragile arms holding you with surprising strength, something breaks inside you. The dam holding back your emotions crumbles completely.

You sob against her shoulder, great heaving cries that shake your weakened body. The tears come from somewhere bottomless, somewhere that knows what you've lost, what you've gained, what you've left behind.

"I'm here, my darling," she murmurs, her voice cracking. "I'm here."

Your aunt joins the embrace, her arms encircling you both. They hold you as you cry, mistaking your tears for relief and trauma from the attack.

They don't understand you're mourning a life they can never know about. A bond severed. A cabin in a valley. A shadowsinger with scarred hands who promised to wait forever.

"We kept the light on for you," your aunt says, stroking your hair. "Every night. We knew you'd find your way back to us."

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. The guilt of wanting to be elsewhere when they've waited so faithfully for your return. The gratitude for their unwavering love. The grief for what can never be explained.

As night falls and they reluctantly leave, promising to return at first light, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. The machines continue their vigilant beeping.

You close your eyes and try to reach across the void. Try to feel that golden thread that once connected you to a world of magic. To him.

But there's nothing.

In the silent hours before dawn, you whisper his name, the sound barely audible even to your own ears.

"Azriel."

No shadows stir in the corners of your room. No wings unfurl from darkness.

The bond is severed. The connection lost.

You are home.

But in your dreams that night, you smell night-chilled stone and cedar. You feel the ghost of wings enfolding you. You hear a voice promising to wait, even as it fades into memory.

"Until we meet again, my heart."

Five years, and the world still doesn't fit right.

Five years since you woke in a hospital bed with hands that remembered magic and a heart that had forgotten how to beat without him.

Medical school consumes your days and nights. The transition from nursing student to medical student raised eyebrows, but your near-death experience provides a convenient explanation for your sudden change in direction.

What you can't explain is how anatomy comes to you like breathing, how you can identify trauma patterns with uncanny precision, or why you instinctively reach for moonleaf or frostroot—plants that shouldn't exist here, but live vividly in your muscle memory.

"Your spatial reasoning is exceptional," your neurosurgery professor remarks after watching you practice sutures. "It's like you've been doing this for centuries."

You flinch at his words, a memory fragment flickering—your hands wreathed in golden light as you healed a wounded faerie in Dawn Court. You smile tightly to hide the tremor. "Just good with my hands."

You specialize in trauma surgery. Each life you save feels like redemption for the one you abandoned. Each scar you repair reminds you of wounds you couldn't heal across worlds.

Two albino rabbits sit in the pet shop window, twitching their noses. Their eyes are wrong—not quite red, but a soft, gleaming pink.

You freeze. The world blurs.

You don't notice you've sunk to your knees until someone asks if you're alright. You aren't. You haven't been, not since two glowing shadows with cotton-flame tails hopped through fallen leaves, and someone with a voice like dusk laughed beside you.

You wake some nights gasping, hand clutched to your chest, sure the bond has snapped back into place—only to find yourself alone in the dark, throat raw with his name half-spoken.

During thunderstorms, you sit on your apartment balcony, watching lightning split the sky. Sometimes the shadows seem to reach for you, comforting and familiar.

In those moments, you unconsciously reach for your chest, searching for a golden warmth that no longer pulses beneath your skin.

Autumn becomes your season. You collect fallen leaves that shimmer copper and gold in certain light, pressing them between book pages like precious memories.

Your apartment fills with candles scented with cedar and pine, though they never smell quite right—never like night-chilled stone and forest.

Your grandmother notices these peculiarities but never questions them. "You came back different," is all she says, squeezing your hand during Sunday dinners. "But you came back. That's what matters."

Your aunt is less philosophical. "You need to start dating again," she insists regularly. "That surgical resident keeps asking about you."

You nod and make vague promises you never keep.

How could you explain that you left your heart in another world? That you loved someone with wings and shadows and scars who offered to wait centuries?

In your final year of residency, you join a research trip to Scotland.

The program pairs physicians with historians to study ancient healing practices.

While your colleagues are excited about the medical aspects, you're drawn by a different hope—one you barely acknowledge even to yourself.

The museum sits nestled in the highlands, a small stone building housing local artifacts.

Your group filters through the first exhibition hall, examining crude surgical tools and herbal remedies. You lag behind, something pulling you toward a separate gallery.

And then you see him.

Not his face, not truly.

But the silhouette, the posture, the wings—etched into you so deeply no time or world could ever wear it away. And your soul answers. Fiercely. Immediately.

Azriel.

A tapestry, ancient and faded, stretches across the far wall.

Your breath catches in your throat. The air tastes like lightning. Like cedar. Like home.

The weaving depicts a forest of perpetual autumn, trees burning with colors that never fade. Figures with pointed ears move through the scene, and at the center stands a male with a crown of living flame.

"Fascinating piece, isn't it?" The curator appears beside you. "Local legend says it depicts 'the autumn people' who live beyond the forest. Fairytales, of course, but the craftsmanship is remarkable."

You barely hear him, your eyes fixed on the tapestry's border. There, nearly hidden in the woven scene's edge, sits a small cabin with east-facing windows. A figure stands before it, wings folded against its back, staring at mountains as if waiting.

The curator moves on. Your colleagues drift toward the next exhibition.

You remain rooted, trembling.

You step closer, fingers brushing against the woven silhouette. Golden light flickers beneath your skin—then flares. It burns like resurrection.

The bond, asleep but never gone, seizes your chest in a silent scream of recognition.

"Azriel," you whisper, the name both foreign and familiar on your tongue after years of silence.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you trace the winged figure.

Something inside you breaks open—grief you've suppressed for five years flooding to the surface.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," you sob quietly, fingers pressing against the tapestry. "I'm so sorry."

You collapse to your knees, forehead pressed to ancient threads, sobbing like a soul unmoored. Your tears fall into a forest woven in legend, into a promise that never died.

And somewhere—across stars, across centuries—he lifts his head.

He's still waiting.

Ten years pass in rhythms of healing and work.

You try dating—a surgeon from your hospital, a literature professor who quotes poetry, a kind veterinarian with gentle hands.

Each relationship ends the same way. "You're never fully here," they eventually say. You can't explain the hollow space in your chest where golden light once pulsed.

The nightmares still come, though less frequently.

Cold hands holding you down. Mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. You wake gasping, drenched in sweat, reaching for shadows that aren't there.

These experiences shape your medical practice—you specialize in trauma recovery, creating a program for assault survivors that combines medical and psychological care. Your colleagues marvel at your intuitive understanding of trauma's physical manifestations.

"It's like you've lived through it yourself," a psychologist comments.

You smile tightly. "I just listen carefully."

At forty, you're respected, successful, alone.

Your apartment fills with more autumn leaves, more candles that never smell quite right. You volunteer weekends at an animal shelter, drawn especially to the rabbits with their twitching noses and watchful eyes. Your coworkers call you the "rabbit whisperer" when traumatized ones calm at your touch.

"You understand them somehow," the shelter director says.

If only she knew how you sometimes whisper to them in a language that shouldn't exist, how you occasionally catch yourself looking for pink flames that never appear.

Your fiftieth birthday arrives with honors from the medical community. You've pioneered trauma-informed surgical protocols now implemented nationwide. Your sister hosts a celebration dinner, her grandchildren clambering for your attention.

"Tell us a story!" they beg as the adults clean up.

You settle in your favorite chair, children gathered at your feet.

"Once," you begin, "there existed a world where autumn never ended, where trees burned with colors that never faded..."

Your stories grow more elaborate over the years—tales of courts governed by seasons, of creatures with powers tied to natural elements, of shadows that whispered secrets.

Your family assumes they're born from your imagination rather than memory.

"You should write these down," your great-niece suggests on your sixty-eighth birthday. "These stories about the shadowsinger and the flame lady are beautiful."

You smile, throat tight. "Perhaps someday."

At seventy-two, retirement brings contemplative quiet. Your hands, once steady in surgery, now shake slightly as you press another autumn leaf between journal pages.

The cabin with east-facing windows haunts your dreams more frequently now—so vivid you can almost smell pine needles, almost hear wings rustling in pre-dawn darkness.

Your eightieth year brings pneumonia that never quite resolves.

Hospital corridors feel strange from the patient's perspective. Family gathers, whispering consultations with your former colleagues.

"It's my time," you tell your great-nephew when you catch him crying. "Don't be sad."

"We can't lose you," he insists, clutching your fragile hand.

You smile, peace settling in your bones. "I'm not being lost. I'm going home."

The night your body finally releases you, golden light flickers beneath your skin for the first time in decades.

The monitors flatline as nurses rush in, but you're already gone—crossing between worlds on a bridge of light that never truly broke.

You wake with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs. The scent of cinnamon and burnt maple rushes into your nostrils, familiar and foreign all at once.

Sunlight filters through amber-stained windows, casting warm patterns across your nightgown. For a moment, you're disoriented, the transition too abrupt, too complete. Your fingers trace the silk sheets, luxurious against your skin after decades of hospital linens.

"I'm back," you whisper, touching your face in disbelief. The skin feels impossibly smooth, eternally young. "I'm actually back!"

Small pink embers spark from your fingertips, startling you. Your magic. Your true power, returning like an old friend.

Without thinking, you leap from bed, nearly tripping over the nightgown that tangles around your legs. You catch yourself on a bedpost carved with autumn leaves that weren't there before, already running toward the door.

"Eris!" you shout, flinging open your chamber door. The familiar weight of it surprises you; heavier than human doors. "ERIS!"

Briar, who was carrying fresh linens, shrieks as you barrel past, dropping her basket. Sheets flutter to the floor like startled ghosts. Her face is the same, yet different. Faint lines around her eyes that weren't there before.

"My lady!" she calls after you, voice cracking with disbelief. "You need proper attire! The court will see you! My lady!"

You ignore her, bare feet slapping against cool marble as you race through familiar corridors. The walls have been repainted, you notice absently. Darker reds, deeper golds. A guard nearly drops his spear as you round the corner, his uniform subtly different from what you remember.

"The Lady is awake!" he shouts, voice breaking in shock. "After all this time! The Lady is awake!"

The cry echoes behind you, rippling through the castle like wildfire. Servants peek from doorways, many faces you don't recognize, eyes wide with shock. More guards join the chorus, their disciplined decorum crumbling at the sight of you, the Lady of Autumn Court, sprinting through hallways in a nightgown with your hair flying wildly behind you.

"My lady, please!" calls an elderly housekeeper you've never seen before, clutching her chest as you leap over a small decorative table that definitely wasn't there eighty years ago. "Your slippers! Your robe!"

The scent of autumn magic fills your nostrils, stronger than before. The court has grown in power during your absence.

"Where is Eris?" you demand, not slowing. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the sensation grounding you in this reality.

"The war room, but—"

You're already gone, leaving the poor female sputtering in your wake. The corridor stretches longer than you remember, new tapestries depicting battles you don't recognize hanging between windows.

You skid around another corner, nightgown billowing. A young noble steps directly into your path, and you collide with enough force to send him sprawling. His papers scatter like autumn leaves. His clothing style is subtly different, more angular, with decorative metal leaves at the shoulders that would have been considered ostentatious in your time.

"So sorry!" you call over your shoulder, already back on your feet. The bond in your chest pulses stronger with each step, drawing you west. Pulling you back to life. "Royal emergency!"

Behind you, the noble stares open-mouthed at your retreating form. "Was that...?" you hear him ask a nearby guard.

"Indeed, Lord Ramel," the guard replies, his voice reverential and hushed. "After eighty years... she has returned."

"In her nightclothes?"

"Apparently so, my lord."

The war room doors loom ahead, massive oak panels carved with battle scenes from Autumn's history. New scenes have been added since your time, conflicts you never witnessed, victories and defeats that occurred while you slept.

Two stone-faced guards stand at attention, their expressions flickering with shock as you approach. The insignia on their armor has changed. Eris's mark now, not Beron's.

"My lady," one begins, swallowing hard at the sight of you. His eyes darting to your bare feet, your disheveled state. "Perhaps you would like to—"

You don't let him finish. With a strength that surprises even you, you slam both doors open, the bang echoing like thunder through the chamber beyond. The wood feels different against your palms, worn smooth by hands that touched it while you slept.

Silence falls instantly.

A dozen lords in autumn finery turn as one, mouths agape. Maps and tactical markers cover the massive table between them. A territory dispute you don't recognize depicts borders that have shifted since your time. And at its head—

Eris.

He stands frozen, quill suspended over parchment, amber eyes widened in disbelief. A flame crown burns atop his head, smaller than Beron's had been, but undeniably the mark of High Lord. He looks older, not in body but in bearing. The weight of leadership has changed him, sharpened his edges, softened others. A thin scar traces his right cheekbone, one you've never seen before.

"Sister?" he whispers, face draining of color. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly, the quill shaking in his grip.

You beam at him, suddenly aware of your nightgown, your bare feet, your hair that probably resembles a bird's nest after eighty years of disuse. Inside, you feel both people you've been, the healer and the lady, merging into something new. "Surprise!"

No one moves. No one breathes. The scent of shock and disbelief fills the room, thick enough to taste.

Then Eris, the terrifying High Lord of Autumn Court, drops his quill. Ink spatters across ancient maps and generations-old treaties. Without a word, he vaults over the table—literally vaults, one hand pressed to the wood as he leaps—sending markers and figurines flying. A move so unlike the controlled brother you remember that you almost don't recognize him.

"It's really you?" he asks, approaching cautiously as if you might vanish. His voice breaks on the question. "Both parts of you?"

You nod, tears and laughter mingling. The bond in your chest pulses, reaching westward even as you stand here. "All of me. Every memory. Both lives."

A strangled noise escapes him as he pulls you into a fierce embrace. His body trembles against yours, a vulnerability he would never have shown before. Over his shoulder, you see the assembled lords exchanging glances of utter bewilderment. Some you recognize, aged but familiar. Others are complete strangers, risen to power during your absence.

"My lords," Eris says, his voice suspiciously thick as he turns to face them. The flame crown flares briefly with his emotion. "Meeting adjourned."

"But the Winter Court border dispute—" one begins, gesturing to markers that indicate a conflict near the mountains where once there had been peace.

"Can wait another day," Eris cuts him off. The authority in his voice is new, a confidence he lacked when you last saw him. "My sister has returned from the dead. In her nightclothes. Priorities, gentlemen."

The lords bow hastily, filing out with backward glances and poorly concealed whispers. The last one pulls the doors shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly empty chamber.

Once alone, Eris holds you at arm's length, examining you with eyes that gleam suspiciously bright. His hands grip your shoulders, as if assuring himself you're solid. "Eighty years," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Eighty years, and you choose to return while I'm in the middle of the most boring border dispute in Prythian history."

"Your timing was always worse," you counter with a watery smile. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, both familiar and unfamiliar. More like the Lady of Autumn than the nurse you became.

"Says the female who just crashed a war council in her nightgown." His gaze travels pointedly to your bare feet, where a small flame bunny has materialized without your conscious thought. "Nice entrance, by the way. Very dignified. Absolutely befitting a Lady."

The flame bunny sneezes, leaving a scorch mark on the ancient floor.

"Ember?" you whisper in disbelief. "After all this time?"

The bunny chirps, hopping up your leg to nestle against your hip. A small piece of home you'd thought lost forever.

"What happened?" you demand, instinctively stroking the flame creature. "Why am I here? I was eighty! I died in that hospital bed!"

"Not exactly," Eris says, looking amused despite the wetness in his eyes. "You never actually died."

"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended, your Autumn Court accent reasserting itself over the human one you'd adopted.

"The Ash Tea you took. It didn't just dampen your magic—it eventually put you into a death-like sleep." Eris gestures to a new tapestry on the wall, one depicting your sleeping form surrounded by flame. "Your body remained here, perfectly preserved, while your consciousness..." He waves vaguely. "Went wherever it went."

You blink. "Like Sleeping Beauty?" The human reference feels strange on your tongue, a remnant of your other life.

Eris stares blankly. "Like what?"

"Sleeping Beauty! The princess who pricked her finger and slept for a hundred years until true love's kiss woke her?" The bond in your chest pulses at the mention of true love, a warmth spreading through your veins.

"That sounds... highly improbable," Eris says diplomatically. His expression has changed, you realize. He's learned restraint in your absence, a political savvy he once lacked.

"Says the immortal faerie with fire powers," you retort, the banter familiar despite the years between.

He concedes with a tilt of his head, a new scar visible along his jawline when he turns. "Fair point."

"Does anyone else know I'm back?" Your hand instinctively rises to your chest where the bond pulses stronger. "What about Azriel? The Night Court?"

At the shadowsinger's name, the bond flares so strongly that small flames dance along your fingertips. Eris notices but doesn't comment.

"No one knows yet," Eris says, sobering. "And it should stay that way temporarily. You're vulnerable right now. Your magic needs time to stabilize." His protective instinct reminds you of the brother you knew, beneath the High Lord he's become.

"Vulnerable to what?" The question feels naive even as you ask it.

"Assassins, power-hungry nobles, the usual delightful court politics," he says casually, as if discussing the weather. The words carry weight that speaks of experience. "We've had three attempts on the Autumn throne in the last decade alone."

"Lovely. Just what I needed after eighty years of human medicine—fairy court murder plots." Despite your sarcasm, your body remembers court life. You find yourself automatically scanning exits, assessing threats. The Lady of Autumn reemerging.

Eris smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome home, sister."

"But wait—if I've been technically alive all this time, why wake up now?" you wonder, running a hand through your tangled hair. "Why today specifically?"

Eris shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "The Ash Tea finally wore off? Cosmic timing? Who knows how these things work?"

"Or maybe... the charm..." You touch your chest, feeling the golden bond stir and pull westward. The sensation stronger than it ever was before. "Maybe he called me back somehow. Maybe he never stopped trying."

"Speaking of your brooding shadowsinger," Eris says, something softening in his expression. A melancholy that speaks of changes you don't yet understand. "I assume you'll want to see him rather urgently?"

"Is he—" The question sticks in your throat, fear suddenly gripping your heart.

"Still in that ridiculous cabin with the impractical east-facing windows? Yes." Eris sighs dramatically, but there's a fondness in his voice that surprises you. "Eighty years, and he's still there, waiting. Immortals and their stubborn attachments."

Your heart stutters. "He's still waiting? After all this time?"

"Of course he is," Eris says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Hasn't left that valley for more than a few days at a time since you... left."

"I need to go," you say, starting for the door before realizing. "But not like this! I need clothes!" Your nightgown, while fine for running through the castle, would hardly be appropriate for reunion with your mate after eighty years.

Eris looks you up and down, smirking. "I don't know. This look might be exactly what the shadowsinger has been waiting eighty years for."

"ERIS!" Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from embarrassment and from your magic responding to emotion.

"Fine, fine." He chuckles, guiding you toward the door. "Let's find you something suitable. Though fashion has changed considerably in eighty years."

"If you try to put me in anything with unnecessary feathers or those weird shoulder leaves that lord was wearing—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies smoothly. "Though the current style does involve quite a lot of strategically placed autumn leaves..."

Your horrified expression sends him into a fit of laughter as he leads you down the hall, his arm around your shoulders in a gesture of protective affection you'd never experienced from him before.

Behind you, servants whisper excitedly:

The Lady has returned—in her nightgown, no less—and she's headed west, to a cabin with east-facing windows, where a shadowsinger has waited eighty years, watching the sunrise, never giving up on the bond that finally, finally called you home.

You crest the last hill just before sunset, your boots crunching over the forest floor. The path winds familiar but strange; wider than memory, the trees newer, as if time itself tried to soften the edges of what you left behind.

You pause at the treeline.

The cabin waits below.

Except, it isn't a cabin anymore.

It's a home.

Two stories of weathered wood and stone, a wraparound porch shaded by climbing vines. A garden spills out in vibrant rows of herbs and vegetables. Windows facing east gleam in the fading light, capturing the day's last embers.

Your chest tightens, the bond humming faintly beneath your skin.

"Azriel?" Your voice sounds small in the vast silence.

No answer. Just the hush of wind through pine.

You step forward, each footfall carrying the weight of eighty years. The door stands ajar, as though left that way for you. Inside, the air holds warmth but no presence. A stillness too reverent, too expectant.

The house is a reliquary. A shrine to a love he never abandoned.

Your fingers trail across a workbench where wood shavings still curl, fresh and fragrant. A half-finished flame bunny waits patiently beside carving tools.

The pink glass eyes gleam, unfinished but already alive. On the mantle above the fireplace, dozens of others stand in silent formation; each unique, each perfectly capturing some essence of Ember and Sizzle.

You turn slowly, taking in walls lined with bookshelves, maps of stars, sketches of landscapes you've never seen. The home feels thoroughly lived in yet meticulously organized. Everything has a place, a purpose.

A note lies on the kitchen table, pinned beneath a carved stone bunny:

Gone to settle matters with Rhys. Return in three days. —A

Three days. After eighty years of waiting, you've missed him by hours.

A laugh breaks from your throat, wet and trembling, as you sink into the kitchen chair.

Not from humor. From disbelief.

The sort of cruel irony only fate could orchestrate.

Your fingers tighten around the carved bunny. Its tiny ears tilt slightly left, just like Ember's did when he was curious. He remembered.

Of course he did.

As you explore further, you notice something strange about the land surrounding the cabin. Boundary stones mark a perimeter that belongs to neither Court.

He's carved out a territory... a small realm between worlds, belonging to no High Lord.

"He's created his own little realm," you whisper, touching the stones etched with unfamiliar symbols. A place outside court politics. A sanctuary.

On a lower shelf, tucked between histories of Prythian, you find a collection of journals bound in midnight-blue leather. Your hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the spines.

Is this too private? Too personal?

But the need to understand these missing decades overrides your hesitation.

The first entry is dated exactly one day after you took the Ash Tea.

The writing is tight, controlled, betraying nothing of emotion.

She is gone. The bond remains, but muted. I will wait.

Just three sentences.

But the pressure of the pen has nearly torn through the paper.

You trace the words with trembling fingers, feeling the grief preserved in careful script.

Your tears fall, smudging the ink before you hastily wipe them away.

You turn pages, decades passing between your fingers.

Year 5: Began construction on the second story. The sunrise is better viewed from height.

Year 12: Rhy has conceded territory around the cabin. Cassian calls it folly. Perhaps it is.

Year 20: Found pink crystal in the mountains today. Captured the exact shade of the flame bunnies' eyes. Have begun carving again.

Year 37: The garden produces more than enough now. I've started leaving the excess at the border village. They still fear the "shadowsinger" but the food disappears by morning.

Year 53: Feyre visited today. Asked if I regret my choice. I do not.

Your fingers press against your chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swear the bond hums.

Soft and golden. Waiting.

As the decades progress, the entries grow longer, more detailed.

More...hopeful. The words of a male who has chosen patient waiting over despair.

Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds? Is she near windows facing east?

Year 79: Dreams of her return have increased. The shadows whisper of changes coming. I dare not hope, yet find I cannot stop myself.

The final entry, dated just days ago.

Rhysand has requested my presence. After all these years, a summons I cannot ignore. I go reluctantly, but perhaps this is the Cauldron's design. I leave signs of my return, should the impossible happen while I'm gone.

Three days. I will be back in three days.

You close the journal, something breaking open inside you. Eighty years of patient waiting, of building and preparing, of never losing faith that somehow, someday, you would find your way back.

The day fades into evening as you explore further.

The upper floor holds a bedroom with that promised view of the sunrise. A smaller room adjoins it, filled with musical instruments and comfortable chairs... a room for leisure, for living, not just surviving.

You climb the stairs like you're in a dream.

The bedroom is beautiful: warm wood, east-facing windows painted with sunset. A reading nook nestled in the corner. A space made for two.

But it's the third room that destroys you.

A nursery.

Simple, practical, but unmistakable. A cradle carved from pale wood. Tiny clothes folded in a dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.

Your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor, sobs tearing from your throat, raw and wordless.

He hadn't just hoped for your return. He had prepared for a future.

A life.

Every dream you'd whispered together, every small detail you'd imagined for a life beyond courts and duty... he'd made it real. He'd built it, year by patient year, while you lived an entire human lifetime.

Night falls gently, like a blessing. You light the hearth, the candles. Shadows dance across walls that have waited for you. Outside, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves sense something momentous.

You could return to Autumn Court, wait in comfort, let Eris announce your return properly. The diplomatic, sensible choice.

But no. Not when he carved eighty years of devotion into every beam of this house.

"Three days is nothing," you whisper, settling into the chair by the fire with another journal.

You stay.

And somewhere, far across the courts, a shadowsinger feels the shift in the air.

The bond hums.

The fire rekindles.

The forest holds its breath.

Three days. After eighty years, what's three more days?

Light spills through east-facing windows, bathing the cabin in liquid gold. You've fallen asleep in his chair, his journal open in your lap, after two days of exploring every corner of the home he built for you both.

The door opens with barely a whisper.

Azriel stands frozen in the threshold, wings tightly folded, dawn painting his silhouette in fire and shadow. The package in his hands drops to the floor with a soft thud. His shadows, always in motion, go completely still.

Your eyes flutter open.

Time stops.

The space between heartbeats stretches into eternity as your gazes lock across the room.

Neither of you moves. Neither breathes.

The morning light wraps around him like a memory made flesh, illuminating the planes of his face unchanged by decades, yet somehow different.

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, as if he's seeing a ghost.

Perhaps he is.

His name rises in your throat but gets caught there, trapped behind emotion too vast for sound. The bond between you pulses once, tentatively, like a bird testing broken wings.

"I'm finally going mad," he whispers, voice raw and reverent.

You rise slowly, journal sliding forgotten to the floor. The movement feels like swimming through honey, each second precious and thick with meaning.

"Azriel," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

The sound shatters his stillness. His shadows surge forward, reaching you before he does: tentative, trembling. They brush your cheeks, your hands, your hair, as if making certain you're real.

"How?" The word tears from his throat, rough with hope and fear.

"The bond never broke," you whisper, your voice trembling with truth. "It stretched across worlds, across time. My body lived there, but my soul was always anchored here, with you."

He takes one step forward, then another.

His scarred hands hover near your face without touching, as if afraid you might dissolve like morning mist.

"Every sunrise for eighty years," he says, voice catching, "I've stood on that porch and whispered your name to the mountains."

"I heard you," you tell him, tears spilling freely now. "In my dreams. I always heard you calling me home."

When your fingers finally brush his cheek, he collapses.

Not like a warrior falls in battle, but like a man finally allowing himself to believe. His wings fold forward, arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach. You sink with him to your knees, your legs giving out from the sheer weight of finally being found.

"I'm here," you whisper into his hair, voice breaking, "I'm home."

His scarred hands cradle your face with such reverence it breaks your heart.

"Tell me you're staying," he pleads, voice raw with eight decades of longing. "Tell me I won't wake tomorrow to find you gone."

Instead of words, you take his hand and place it over your heart where the bond pulses golden beneath your skin.

"Feel that?" you whisper. "It never faded. It never broke. It only stretched between worlds until I could find my way back to you."

The bond flares between you, no longer muted by distance or dimensions, but blazing with renewed life. Golden light spills from beneath your joined hands, illuminating his face.

A single tear traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I built this home with my own hands," he says, voice breaking on each word, "plank by plank, stone by stone. Not because I believed you would return, but because I couldn't bear to stop waiting."

Your thumbs brush away his tears. "How did you survive it?" you ask, your own voice breaking. "How did you bear it alone for so long?"

"I wasn't living," he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours. "I was existing. Breathing because my body refused to stop. My soul has been right here all along, waiting for you to make me whole again."

As if summoned by the truth in his words, warmth blooms between you. Pink flame erupts in twin bursts of light and joyful squeaking. Ember and Sizzle materialize, hopping excitedly around you both.

"They remember," you whisper in wonder.

"Everything that is part of you refuses to forget," Azriel says, watching the flame bunnies with awe. "Just as I memorized every detail of your face, every sound of your laughter, every shade of light in your eyes."

Ember hops onto his shoulder while Sizzle circles your joined hands, leaving tiny scorch marks on the wooden floor.

"After you were gone," he says softly, "I kept feeling you everywhere... in the sunrise, in the autumn wind, in the spaces between heartbeats. They said I was mad to keep believing."

"I felt you too," you tell him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Even across worlds, even across time. My soul never stopped reaching for yours."

His shadows curl around your joined hands, no longer restless but finally at peace. "When I felt our bond dim," he whispers, voice raw, "it was like watching the stars fade one by one until the night was empty."

"I thought I was setting you free," you confess, pressing your forehead to his chest. "I thought I was being merciful."

His arms tighten around you, wings creating a cocoon of shadow and warmth. "There is no freedom in half a soul," he says fiercely. "No life worth living without you in it."

You look up at him through your tears. "How can you still look at me like that? After all this time?"

"Like what?" he asks, his voice achingly soft.

"Like I'm everything."

"Because you are," he says simply, the words striking your heart like lightning. "You are dawn after endless night. You are the answer to prayers I was too broken to speak."

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as he lowers his forehead to yours.

His shadows curl around your face, tender and possessive. "My fierce, impossible mate," he breathes, voice rough with wonder. "My heart. My home."

And then his lips find yours, gentle yet desperate, a reunion and a promise in one.

His wings wrap around you both, shuttering out the world until there is nothing but this: his mouth on yours, his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the bond between you singing like the first notes of creation.

When you finally part, both breathless, his eyes hold a peace you've never seen before... the look of someone who has finally, after endless searching, come home.

Your gaze falls to the forgotten package on the floor. "What's that?" you ask, voice still thick with emotion.

A different kind of warmth colors his cheeks as he retrieves the small burlough sack.

"I remembered how much you missed it," he says softly as you open it.

The rich, familiar aroma hits you immediately: coffee beans, perfectly roasted, their scent rising like a memory from another life.

"You remembered," you whisper, tears welling fresh in your eyes as you run your fingers through the dark beans.

"I spent eighty years trying to grow them," he admits, his shadows curling bashfully. "The first plants all died. Then the beans were too bitter. By the fortieth year, I could make something drinkable, but it wasn't right. It wasn't what you remembered."

A laugh bubbles up through your tears. "You spent eighty years learning to grow coffee beans? For me?"

His smile is small but reaches his eyes, perhaps the first true smile you've ever seen transform his face. "I would have spent eighty lifetimes learning."

Ember hops excitedly around the bag, leaving tiny scorch marks that curl into a heart shape. Sizzle bounces onto Azriel's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek with fiery affection.

"I think they approve," you laugh through your tears, clutching the precious beans to your chest.

You rise together, his arm steady around your waist, the bond between you glowing like captured starlight.

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything you built."

Outside the window, dawn breaks fully over your valley.

Your home.

Bathing everything in golden light that feels, at last, like a beginning rather than an ending.

Author’s Note: And that’s it. That’s the fic. She died, she lived, she ran through a palace in her nightgown like a feral fairy princess, and she got her man (who, in case you forgot, spent EIGHTY YEARS building a house and practicing agriculture like a sad, winged Pinterest husband). 🐇💔🔥

Thank you for crying with me. Screaming with me. Whispering “oh my god just kiss already” with me.

This story was equal parts pain, pining, trauma-healing, and “what if Azriel just... stood outside her kingdom for decades like a Victorian ghost with a toolbelt?”

To those of you who made it to the end. I see you. I love you. I, too, would betray a High Lord for a coffee bean grown out of pure love.

BUT WAIT.

While the main arc has closed with a very dramatic, very deserved Happily Ever After, you didn’t think I’d leave you without some bonus content, did you?

Stay tuned for bonus chapters featuring:

1. The mating ceremony (someone cries, someone combusts emotionally and/or literally, everyone gossips) 2. Azriel trying to be a husband and a mate while quietly short-circuiting every time she kisses his cheek 3. Domestic arguments about mundane things like curtain color and whose turn it is to wash the flame bunnies 4. Azriel learning to cook without murdering a pan (he fails, but his arms look great while doing it) 5. Found family visits. Too much wine. Velaris bets. Rhysand regrets inviting himself. 6. Intense fluff. Devastating angst. Some smut that’s been aged like fine wine in my drafts 7. And yes, maybe babies, because listen... have you seen Azriel hold things gently? Of course we're going there

Basically: a mating bond is forever, but so is the chaos that comes with it.

Thank you for reading this soul-wrecking, hope-restoring, very dramatic tale of second chances and shadow-soaked love. You made it through. Go scream into a pillow and eat something carb-heavy. You’ve earned it.

—With all my love and possibly a flame bunny plush in hand, mahalachives 🖤

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

[zepskies]

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

If you want to read a reverse of this - How Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy, and Russell Shaw would take care of you when you're sick, check out this HC by @luci-in-trenchcoats:

How They Take Care Of You When You’re Sick

And if you want even more fluff, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell:

Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

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