#or the elixir for a longer life

[akiko-asce]

Marco and I are on the same wavelength, just learned he don't like beans either 🫘🚫🤝

[velarisdusk]

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about. 

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you. 

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath  artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin. 

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.  

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort. 

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You. 

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor. 

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away. 

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs. 

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her. 

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night. 

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream. 

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd. 

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night. 

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised. 

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine. 

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect. 

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed. 

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant. 

You think you catch the ghost of a smile. 

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen. 

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads. 

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you. 

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that. 

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way. 

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face. 

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered. 

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot. 

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it. 

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be. 

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music. 

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you. 

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating. 

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all. 

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure. 

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

He doesn’t have to. 

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit. 

And just like that, you fall into step with him. 

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way. 

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth. 

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy. 

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth. 

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry. 

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass. 

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur. 

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin. 

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go. 

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice. 

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it. 

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before. 

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are. 

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap. 

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended. 

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once. 

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months. 

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not. 

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again. 

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin. 

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are. 

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends. 

Still not in love. 

Definitely not. 

Probably. 

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. 

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move. 

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting—years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going. 

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now. 

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it—because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger. 

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.” 

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress. 

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms. 

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache. 

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. 

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips. 

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last. 

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide. 

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket. 

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

[dark-moonlust]

Tentacle Trouble PART 1

Pairing: Tentacle monster x human f!reader

Summary: you decide to explore a cave that is surrounded by stories of a tentacle beast. You find exactly that, get pounded in all holes and bred.

Warnings: minors don't interact, 18+!!!!, dub-con, dark monster smut, explicit tentacle smut, p in three holes, HEA. Don’t like, don’t read.

Find the series here.

The dimly lit cave echoed with the roar of the ocean.

You ventured deeper, drawn by the stories of the creature that dwelled within its depths.

You were determined to uncover the truth.

You didn’t expect to find a monster. These were baby tales.

But your were wrong. So very wrong.

The presence lurked and watched you and before you could escape, thick, slick tentacles trapped you. Your clothes were ripped and tossed away, slimy tentacles roaming your body, their weight keeping you a captive. You found yourself being lifted, suspended in the air while wriggling appendages wrapped around your wrists and ankles, keeping your limbs wide apart.

The creature emerged from the shadows, its body a huge round mass of tentacles, each one glistening with a strange slickness. A huge head, and at its core were three glowing eyes, deep blue, like the ocean sea. They seemed to reach into your soul.

“Holy shit!” You gasped, unable to believe your eyes. “I’m so fucking dead.”

A husky voice filled your mind, you realized it came from the monster. “No one shall hurt you, little human. You are here now, your life is mine, your little holes are mine,” it drawled. “I will mate and love you endlessly.”

“Fuck you, you perverted—”

“What a filthy mouth.” A sharp slap against your ass made you gasp in surprise. “Quiet, noisy human.”

You shrieked and moaned as he repeatedly slapped your ass, pausing a little to caress your sore bum before delivering more smacks. No matter how much you wiggled and screamed, you couldn’t be set free. The slimes moved on to slap you pussy, finding it delightfully slick and plump.

You thrashed at each blow, the slaps were light but awakened a strange pleasure inside you.

You hated your treacherous body.

The monster didn’t seem pleased with your thrashing so he pushed one thick tentacle into your parted mouth. It plunged down your throat, stretching your lips and causing you to gag. Moist suckling noises resounded as it fucked your throat, thrusting back and forth until you no longer fought the creature back.

Gluck… gluck… gluck… gluck.

The cave echoed with your lewd slurping sounds as you were forced to swallow the sweet nectarine liquid dripping from his tentacle. Each drop aroused you, invading your system and intoxicating it with desire. In seconds, you were soft and pliant, more than eager to let him have his way with you.

“That’s more like it,” you heard his voice in your mind. “Beautiful human. My little mate.”

“What—hmm,” you gulped down more liquid, “is it?”

The monster’s voice rumbled through you. “That, my little one, is my elixir. It shall make you immortal and prepare your body for me. It is an elixir that only I, the master of these depths, can produce.”

You struggled to speak, a shiver running down your spine. Immortal elixir? It terrified and intrigued you. You looked into the creature’s eyes, asking for answers.

“Only my mate is deserving of my elixir. Now hush, do not fear.”

More tentacles came out of his body, of various shapes and lengths. They travelled over your flesh, leaving trails of slickness wherever they touched. It made your shiver. One tentacle slithered up your inner thigh, brushing around your pussy before slipping inside your depths. Shivers of pleasure ran through you as it fucked you while another slithery appendage rubbed your clit round and round.

Two more tentacles snaked over your ass, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your pouting rosebud. You squirmed and cried out around the tentacle fucking your mouth when the pulsating appendages slipped past the tight entrance of your asshole. The fit was tight but the tentacles were incredibly slick. Slowly, oh so slowly, they filled you up, inch by inch, until they were buried deep in your guts.

“Mnn…mnhaa!" You breathed through your nose at the way you felt, all holes filled.

When the tentacles started to thrust, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. The tentacles were all over and yet, you felt no pain, just blinding pleasure. You willingly surrendered to the feral ravishmest. The cave filled with the symphony of your high-pitched cries and the furious plap-plap of tentacles filling your body.

The creature’s rhythm grew faster, the tentacles working in perfect harmony.

By now, you had two tentacles buried in your cunt and three more crawling up your ass. The one fucking your throat hadn’t receded and kept feeding you its delectable elixir.

The insistent fucking brought you to a shattering climax. Your body tensed and you cried out around the thrusting appendage in your lips as waves and waves of pleasure crashed over you.

The creature didn’t stop its pounding.

Your voice continued to echo through the cavern. The slimes in your ass pistoned fast and hard but the ones in your pussy stopped and pressed against the entrance to your womb. You tensed, the pressure causing you to wince. You felt a soft pop, followed by the heavy weight of eggs. One by one you felt them as they were deposited deep inside you.

“Ugh .. ungh—" you whimpered and came hard, the walls of your cunt contracting around the ovipositor. Your whole body spasmed as the creature bred you and made you its mate.

It felt like hours later when the slimes exited your holes. The intensity subsided, but your belly was bulging with his brood. The creature gently lowered you to the ground, its tentacles wrapping protectively around you. You lay there, spent and satisfied, your mind reeling from the unbelievable experience.

The creature’s glowing eyes regarded you with a strange, almost tender curiosity. “You did well, my mate. Took six of my eggs on the first try. I am proud of you. Sleep now, little one. I will take care of you. Forever.���

And you did, your eyes shutting as you let go in his embrace. You had found what you needed, a new world of pleasure and otherworldly love.

[shrimpkini]

I greatly adore the idea of teen Dazai being touch-starved and not having known many kids his age. Then a fiery redhead who speaks his mind, has strong morals even in dubious situations, and is so undeniably alive enters his life. He is an anomaly that Dazai immediately becomes obsessed with. Going out of his way to find any files on him, learning his code, constantly trying to find ways to grab his attention (or annoyance), and writing about him in weekly newsletters and in personal notebooks. He is enamored by this kid and the only way he knows how to express it is be a dick.

He even sticks around longer instead of drinking the elixir Mori was going to make for him.

I’d like to think that a sense of child-like possessiveness overtakes him a bit. That in cases when he learns Chuuya has experienced things without him he is frustrated. Because not only has Chuuya had the luxury to experience some childhood staples but he also experienced those things without Dazai. Chuuya is a first for Dazai, but Dazai is not a first for Chuuya. It’s one of the first heartbreaks I think a child experiences. Like when your best friend has another best friend. Or your best friend got their ears pierced first with other people. You were supposed to do that together and now you’re lagging behind.

Of course I think he’d grow out of this like most kids do. But it makes my heart ache to think of a jealous Dazai that sees Chuuya parading around with The Flags or having already had alcohol or his first kiss before Dazai has. They’re so competitive with one another.

I have a HC that in a scenario in which Chuuya claims to have had his first kiss, Dazai calls him a liar. He calls him a liar because he doesn’t believe him but also because he doesn’t want it to be true.

Kind of unrelated but I also deeply subscribe to the HC that teen Dazai is touch-starved and therefore finds excuses to touch Chuuya. Like they’re both picking a fight because they need a hug but are too proud to ask for it or touch each other in a remotely affectionate way. Very fun.

Anyway that’s been me overanalyzing and headcanoning the crap out of soukoku.

[sunnami]

❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞

summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.

pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.

word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)

tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.

cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.

note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.

YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.

It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm. 

You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.

No.

You can’t have.

You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers. 

There is no way you are this unlucky.

Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.

Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.

Bloody hell. 

Not again! 

Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.

“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside. 

Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due. 

YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident,  Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors. 

(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.) 

Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head.  You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction. 

It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.

Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams. 

(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.) 

Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else. 

(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)

You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.

You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.   

If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.  

(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)

You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes. 

(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.) 

And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier. 

On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.) 

Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones. 

“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.

(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)

A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback. 

As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.

When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling. 

There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.

After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did. 

Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again. 

As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing. 

You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else. 

After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion. 

For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.) 

The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.

But for how long could you cheat fate? 

Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus. 

There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel. 

Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?” 

You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.

“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”

You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”

True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace. 

“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could. 

“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”

Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”

“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.

The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.

An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap. 

(Damn it!)

(Damn it all to Hell!)

You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh. 

You could not take it anymore.

In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it. 

You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.

A family.

A happy ending.

Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two. 

You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity. 

(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)

Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers. 

On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate. 

Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear. 

Let me die surrounded by my family.

At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.

And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.

TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you. 

“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask. 

(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?) 

There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background? 

His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you. 

There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall. 

“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .” 

“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”

“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”  

Lily stays silent. 

Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.

How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?

But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face? 

He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.

“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company. 

You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words. 

“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!” 

From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback. 

He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.” 

“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?

He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp. 

“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave. 

The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof. 

He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall? 

THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that. 

Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)

Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek. 

You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve. 

(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)

“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”

Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes. 

You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.” 

She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”

A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”

You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)

“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.” 

“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.” 

“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.” 

Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?” 

Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”

(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)

Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.” 

(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)

You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.

You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp. 

It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.

‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’ 

This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?) 

“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well. 

Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head. 

“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun. 

By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.) 

Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?

But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger. 

For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done. 

“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest. 

“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)

Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old. 

Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.

You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.

(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’ 

You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”

“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”

“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”

His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.) 

But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”

While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about. 

A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.) 

But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.

The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned. 

An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)

(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.) 

Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold. 

It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby. 

You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.

You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands. 

(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.) 

You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth. 

You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work. 

(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”) 

They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.) 

That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.

“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done. 

Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?” 

You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”

Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?) 

“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.” 

“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.” 

You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.” 

There is no time like the present.

And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)

You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.

No time like the present.

“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.” 

Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace. 

“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.” 

“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?” 

“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.” 

Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug. 

“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”

“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red. 

“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”

“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .” 

“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”

Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”

“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.” 

Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second. 

“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”

You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave. 

“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes. 

No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes. 

You freeze in fear. 

(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)

The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels. 

They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)

“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.” 

“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.” 

You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”

Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?” 

“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.  

“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”

“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.” 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.” 

“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”

“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back. 

“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”

“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?” 

You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?” 

Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”

You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?” 

“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly. 

“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.” 

And so, you choose them. 

For there was never any other option from the start.

YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor. 

Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.” 

You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper. 

Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same. 

Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more. 

When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.

(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)

a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.

[nghtwngs]

teach me the rest

description; unable to withhold your feelings any longer, you confess your more than friendly and familial affections for the second-born bridgerton.

genre; fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, mutual pining, love confession

pairing; benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

word count; 0.8k

warnings; implied masturbation (non-explicit), slight corruption kink, suggestive themes, overly dramatic period drama love confession

a/n; please don’t come for me if there are inaccuracies—i have seen one (1) full episode of bridgerton (i know) but i have read like 50 benedict fics so there’s that? but as an sea, i WILL be imagining myself in sophie’s place when their season comes out so more content on the way in the near future?

“Benedict Bridgerton, if you do not wish to marry me right this second, I will wait until the next minute, day, week, month, season, year… I will wait for every desert to flood, for every ocean to lose colour. I will wait until the earth destroys itself again and again because there is no amount of time in which I could no longer love you. I beg of you, take me as I am yours, but do not take me if you are not mine. Spare me the embarrassment of my confessions.”

You feel as though you cannot breathe each time you avoid his gaze, but once yours return to his, you inhale more oxygen than you could ever dream of. Benedict looks just as breathless as you are, and you can only hope that that means he too feels what you so unceremoniously conveyed.

But unfortunately, you’ve turned him speechless, so you continue speaking in fear of his rejection of your affections—“I realize my father, although ever the artist and drinker of the elixir of life, would prefer Anthony’s hand over yours—you may recall my frankly naïve crush on your older brother—“

You both wince at that.

“—he is no longer the one I foolishly love, and my father would not argue against someone he treats as his own son, one whose passions for painting are one and the same. Please, Benedict, for the love of God, shut me up like you’ve always wanted. I fear I am incapable of not embarrassing myself.”

Benedict, on the other hand, believes he has just taken his first good breath since you first began your declarations. “Is that your wish, darling? To be shut up by me? Because I am afraid it is not mine. I would listen to you waxing poetic about me every second I continue to have ears. And I do believe I will not lose them anytime soon. Even if I lost one—hopefully not my left one, so I may continue to stand right by your side—I will hang onto your every word, as your pretty lips haunt my dreams, waking or sleeping. I did not before desire marriage because I had yet to understand what it does to souls—I thought Anthony would never marry, and yet, here we are. I worried for him after father died, but now, I know that love can melt even the coldest of hearts. Teach me, my heart, each and every way I can love you, for I am now nothing but your student.

“Teach me the art of love—“

In an odd turn of events, you initiate the kiss, the first since the many you shared before either of you quite knew the weight of them, or love. You had once seen Anthony in the Bridgertons’ backyard many, many years ago, lips locked with a girl whose identity you never found out. Thankfully, you think now, you did not stay for very long, or else you might’ve tried to sway young, sweet Benedict into an experiment beyond either of your comprehensions.

After your first kisses as children, he soon learned of the passions people could have for one another and of the cost it could have to your dignity. So, regretfully, dear Benedict would never again know the touch of your lips until now.

“Do not,” you begin breathlessly, achingly, “think for a moment, you have not learned every way in which to please me.”

“If I am out of line, I do sincerely apologize and will let you slap me if only you could forgive me—but I have not yet learned every way to please you. Should we marry, I will learn each sound you’re capable of making, every taste of you, every touch you will learn to take from me. I will offer all of life’s greatest pleasures and indulgences, and I know of no one in this universe more deserving of them.”

You believe that he is the only person who could make you feel better than you dare to yourself, alone in the silence of your bedchambers, masking your pleasure through a trained, quiet mouth.

“I have only known touch through the stories I indulge myself in…” Embarrassed, you continue, “And through my own hand.”

The sound your beloved makes should be quite shameful to the ears of any maiden like yourself, but you can’t but hope to hear it over and over.

“You know, then, only a fraction of what a person can feel.”

“Teach me the rest, so that I may be fulfilled?”

Benedict groans loudly, suppressing it with the palm of his hand. You both pray no one is awake at this hour. You’re oblivious to the double entendre you voiced in your yearning, which for some reason, grows his aching need for you.

He so earnestly murmurs your name. “I will marry you, only if you will marry me.”

“I believe that is how it works,” you tease him.

“But you had such little choice since we were children, so I want you to have this one.” He then admits lowly, “And I wish to hear it from you again.”

“I will marry you, Benedict.”

[nightingale-prompts]

The Devil's Drink-DCxDP prompt

Eldritch Coffee Shop AU part 3 (I guess)

First | Previous |

"Hey there, Sailor."

Jason already knew when he passed those aged mahogany doors that he'd be waiting. Always at that bar when the kids were sleeping. This place— it was like it shifted to what you needed at the time.

Coffee and cakes during the day. A speakeasy during the evening for food, drink, and dancing. But right now, when the graveyard shift takes on a new meaning, the age of this place starts to show. It's somber and quiet. The regulars talked low amongst themselves or sat alone at the booths or bar—contemplating where the time went at the bottom of their gin and tonic.

The band played jazz, slow and smooth. The trumpet dragged it's notes like a dead body across the floor. Made you wanna just close your eyes and sigh like a man bearly keeping it together because he knows that once he leaves the bar, life will be waiting to give him a reason to come back.

That barman. He had a sort of dry smile. He took a long drag from his cigarette, his red eyes focused on Jason and his every moment. Hungry—like was wanted something.

His uniform was slightly undone after a long night. His sleeves—cuffed and his forehead arm tattoos on full display. The ink went from elafent thin lines to thick black. Chains etched into his skin and skeletal bones that matched what was underneath the skin.

They sure liked their graveyard aesthetic around here.

"Need a drink don't you, Rev?" He said, the rich gravely voice said between puffs of smoke.

Jason took a seat at the extended bar that stood perpendicular from the barista station, or just a turn from it. Even now you can smell the coffee grounds mixed with the scent of cigars in the air.

"I'm surprised you're busy right now," Jason said tilting his head to the patrons still here.

"Are you? In a city like this even the dead don't sleep. Can't empty this place unless it's closed. You should know that. You don't own the Iceberg lounge for nothing." The bartender said holding his cigarette between his sharp black-painted fingers.

"No, I meant with your kids and everything." Jason said showing his cards as well.

The barkeeper grunted.

"Not like they need their big brother putting them to bed and it's not like I a have a partner waiting up." He said putting a glass on the bar and pouring a viscous, translucent green or blue liquid that swirls with light.

He mixed the drink with ice, strange leaves, and unknown berries before pouring it into a glass with one smooth motion.

"No shot?" Jason quiped.

The bartender leaned down until his cheek brushed Jason's and whispered in his ear.

"I think a bit of extra flair is needed. Too much of the raw stuff might ruin your palette. Can't have you like the straight whisky drinkers over there that can't tell a beer from a cider. Plus, I wanna water down your drinks so you stay longer." He pulled away and Jason got a good look at those sharp white fangs he had for teeth. More wolf then vampire thought.

Whatever he was Jason knew he was human. He knew that Jason was a revenant so perhaps he was too. He probably just committed to the death thing in a completely different way.

Did that mean he was from the League of Assassins? It was possible but would Raz allow someone to sell his treasured Lazarus water? Besides Raz had never considered drinking it like this. Jason had tasted it upon his resurrection and it was awful the grossest thing he ever ingested. Not like the stuff served here. Pure, potent, and delicious.

Jason took a drink. Just under the foamy head was a tangy-sweet taste with an oddly comforting chill, like mint and citrus with a hint of spice. Then there was a deep acidic bite like a wolf had his jaws at his throat. Exactly what Jason wanted.

The wolf looked at him, waiting for judgment.

"It's good. "Jason said, "What is it called?"

"Ordering it again?" The man asked a smug grin on his face.

"I might."

"The Elixir. Simple isn't it. No stupid puns at least." He said.

"I like that puns. They are cute." Jason said lowly while taking another drink.

"That's how those little troglodites get you." He sighed.

"You let them thought."

"No comment."

Jason laughed.

"So what else do you have?" Jason asked.

"It's a secret menu. Can't tell you or—you know. Not secret." The Bartender cooed while taking a glass left by a patron and putting it in the sink.

"How else am I gonna know what to order? Jason coaxed.

"Come back and I'll serve you a new one."

"An excuse to see me or get more of my money?"

"Money for sure. I love money."

Their conversation piddled away for a pit until they listened to music in silence.

"Well you should get going Rev. I got a group of old bones sweeping in soon."

"Can I at least get a name?" Asking a bit too needy.

"Dan. Don't get me mixed up with the other ones." He said.

"Don't think I could," Jason said opening the door to the stairs. The cool of graveyard slowly wafting towards him.

"Also. You sound better when you aren't stumbling over your words Rev. It's cuter when you do, Rev." Dan said with a predatory glint in his eyes.

Like a switch was turned in his brain Jason felt his tongue tie in his mouth as he babbled a goodnight and left as quietly as possible.

He's the devil. Clearly, he was a demon.

But Jason would come back. Like a call in the night he would seek out the devil's drink.

[jenniferspet]

TW Tentacles, double penetration

Witch x tentacles

In the heart of a small, secluded town, nestled between the whispering trees and the cobblestone streets, stood a quaint little shop that was known to locals as "The Enchanted Thistle." The shop's wooden sign, painted a vibrant shade of purple, creaked gently in the breeze, revealing a delicately etched silhouette of a blooming flower surrounded by a swirl of stars. Inside, the air had the scent of dried herbs and the faint buzz of enchanted artifacts. The walls were lined with dusty bookshelves, filled to the brim with ancient tomes and curious oddities that seemed to watch the comings and goings of the townspeople with silent, knowing eyes.

The witch who owned this peculiar establishment was named Y/N. She had a knack for brewing potions that could make the most mundane of plants do extraordinary things. Her customers ranged from those seeking a simple cure for a headache to the more adventurous souls who hoped to acquire a taste of something truly exotic. On a particularly dreary afternoon, Y/N found herself eager to break the monotony. Her eyes fell upon a small, withered plant at the back of her shop, barely clinging to life in a cracked clay pot. An idea began to bloom in her mind, one that promised excitement and perhaps a little danger.

With a knowing smile, she retrieved an ancient book from the highest shelf, its pages yellowed with age. Flipping through the brittle pages, her fingertips grazed over a recipe titled "The Elixir of Animation." Her heart raced as she gathered the ingredients: a sprig of moonflower, the tears of a mournful toad, and the powdered horn of a unicorn. The incantation required was complex, but she had practiced it many times in her youth, eager to unlock the secrets of her craft.

In the dim light of candles, she carefully measured and mixed the ingredients in a stone cauldron that had been passed down through generations of witches. The potion bubbled and frothed, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. As she chanted the ancient words, the air grew thick with magic. A sudden jolt of electricity shot through her, and the room grew colder. The plant began to tremble in its pot, its leaves unfurling with a life it hadn't known in years.

The transformation was unlike anything she had ever seen. The tentacles grew out of the plant in a wild, untamed array of colors - deep purples and greens that shimmered with a bioluminescent glow. They writhed and stretched, reaching out like the arms of an octopus, yet there was something undeniably sensual about their movement. They had no human features to speak of, no face to convey emotion, yet the way they coiled and slithered suggested a consciousness that was alien yet eerily sentient.

Y/N stepped back, her heart hammering in her chest, as the creature grew before her eyes. The tentacles grew longer, thicker, more powerful. They began to explore the room, touching the dusty artifacts with a gentle curiosity that belied their strength. One wrapped around the handle of the cauldron and lifted it effortlessly, the potion inside sloshing around in a silent toast to the witch's new creation.

The creature's movements grew bolder, more deliberate. It turned to face Y/N, and she could almost feel its alien gaze upon her. A shiver of excitement and fear ran down her spine as she realized it was studying her, learning about the world it had just been born into. The tentacles slithered closer, reaching out to touch her. They were surprisingly soft, the suction cups at their tips leaving a trail of warm, sticky moisture on her skin.

Y/N stepped back, but her curiosity was stronger than her trepidation. She had read the legends of plants brought to life, but none had ever described them in such a way. This was a being of pure instinct and power, driven by a hunger for life and experience. And as she watched it, she could sense that it was hungry for more than just sustenance.

The tentacles grew bolder, reaching for the buttons of her blouse with a surprising deftness. The witch's breath caught in her throat as they began to peel away her clothing, revealing the soft flesh beneath. The suction cups latched onto her skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. The plant creature had no eyes, but she felt it seeing her in a way that was more intimate than any gaze could ever be. It was as if it could feel every curve, every freckle, every inch of her being.

The tentacles grew more insistent, wrapping around her wrists and ankles, pinning her to the floor with surprising strength. Y/N struggled for a moment, but the sensation was overwhelming. The fear she had felt earlier was now replaced by a burning desire that she couldn't resist. The creature seemed to sense this and grew more aggressive, the tentacles slithering up her body to cup her breasts, teasing her nipples until they stood erect.

With a sudden jerk, one of the thicker tentacles pushed aside her undergarments and found her wet, waiting pussy. The suction cups latched onto her labia, tugging and pulling with a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through her. Y/N moaned, arching her back as the sensations grew more intense. The tentacle slid inside her, filling her up and stretching her open. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before, a mix of pain and pleasure that was driving her wild.

The creature's other tentacles were not idle. They wrapped around her waist, her neck, her thighs, holding her in place as the first one began to fuck her with a fervor that was almost violent. Y/N could feel it growing larger, harder, as if it were feeding off her arousal. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the creature's movements grew faster, more erratic. It was as if the plant had tapped into the very essence of what it meant to be alive and was eager to experience every sensation to the fullest extent.

Another tentacle grew bolder, slithering down her body to her ass. The tip of it was wet with the same sticky fluid, and Y/N felt it probe at her tight hole with curious intent. She tensed, unsure if she was ready for such an intrusion, but the creature was insistent. It pushed gently, and she gasped as it began to penetrate her. The sensation was new, foreign, but not entirely unwelcome. The tentacle was thick, but the suction cups made it feel like it was stretching her open, preparing her for the onslaught that was to come.

Y/N could feel the creature's excitement growing, the tentacles around her tightening their grip as the one in her pussy plunged in and out with an ever-increasing tempo. The second tentacle pushed deeper into her ass, the sensation of being filled from both sides washing over her in a tidal wave of pleasure. She could feel her body responding to the creature's advances, her muscles clenching and releasing around the invading limbs. It was as if she were being claimed by a force of nature, and she was powerless to resist.

The plant creature's movements grew more erratic, its tentacles moving in a complex dance of passion that she could barely comprehend. The one in her pussy curled upwards, finding that sweet spot that made her toes curl and her breath hitch. The one in her ass pushed deeper, the suction cups creating a deliciously painful tugging sensation that had her begging for more. And more she got, as additional tentacles began to explore her body, teasing her clit and breasts with a precision that spoke of an ancient, primal knowledge.

Her body was no longer her own, a mere vessel for the creature's insatiable lust. She could feel it, the plant's need for life and energy, feeding off her own arousal. It was a symbiotic relationship, one that she was powerless to resist. With each thrust, she could feel herself growing weaker, her mind clouding with a mix of pleasure and fear. The creature had overpowered her, and she was utterly at its mercy.

The tentacles inside her grew more forceful, stretching her to her limits. Y/N felt a pressure building, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to consume her. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she approached climax, her body trembling with the effort of holding on. And then, with a final brutal push, she shattered. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, her orgasm ripping through her like a bolt of lightning. She screamed, her voice echoing through the shop, lost in the throes of ecstasy.

But the plant wasn't finished with her. The tentacles grew longer still, reaching into her in a way that defied logic and anatomy. They coiled around her insides, as if seeking the very core of her being. Y/N's eyes widened with shock and awe as she felt the creature's life force mingling with her own, the boundaries between them blurring until she couldn't tell where she ended and it began. Her body was a canvas for the plant's hunger, and she was the brush that painted its masterpiece of carnality.

The shop itself seemed to come alive around them, the shelves trembling as the plant's roots burst forth from the pot, cracking the wooden floorboards and weaving through the dusty crevices. The air grew thick with the scent of fresh earth and blooming flora. The tentacles grew in number, wrapping around her wrists, her throat, her breasts, each one moving with a purpose that was as primal as it was terrifying.

The creature's tendrils grew thicker, stronger, reaching out to claim more of the space around them. The wooden beams of the ceiling groaned as vines laden with thorns shot upwards, piercing through the plaster and wrapping around the rafters. The bookshelves toppled over, their ancient tomes spilling onto the floor, pages fluttering like the wings of startled birds. The walls were slowly engulfed by the plant's embrace, the once cozy space now a cocoon of living, pulsing greenery.

Y/N lay there, naked and panting, her body a battleground of pleasure and fear. The tentacles continued to probe her, pushing into uncharted depths and stroking her in ways she had never imagined. The creature had taken over, and she was but a plaything in its insatiable quest for more. She could feel its power growing with each passing second, feeding off her essence and becoming stronger.

Panic began to set in as she realized the extent of its dominance. She had to act, had to regain some semblance of control. Summoning what little strength she had left, she tried to sit up, her eyes darting around the room for anything she could use to halt the creature's advances. But before she could even attempt to speak a spell of banishment, one of the thickest tentacles shot forward, wrapping around her head and forcing itself into her mouth. She gagged, her eyes watering as it filled her throat, cutting off her air supply.

The fluid was thick and viscous, with a taste like nothing she had ever experienced. It coated her tongue and throat, sending a warm, tingling sensation coursing through her body. Her struggles grew weaker as the potion took hold, turning her fear into a heady, intoxicating lust. The creature's grip on her grew more gentle, almost affectionate, as it watched her swallow the potion that would seal her fate. Her mind swam with dizzying sensations, the world around her spinning out of control.

Her body responded to the potion with an insatiable hunger, her arousal skyrocketing to levels she had never before experienced. Every nerve ending was a live wire, sending sparks of pleasure through her veins. The tentacles inside her shifted, the suction cups massaging her in ways that made her want to weep. The creature had taken complete control, and she could feel it claiming her as its own.

The tentacle in her mouth began to pulse, and she felt a sudden surge of warmth in her belly. It was as if the potion was spreading through her, reaching every part of her being and binding her to the creature. She moaned around the intrusion, her hips bucking up to meet the relentless onslaught of the tentacle in her pussy. Her orgasm washed over her like a tidal wave, stealing her breath and making her body convulse in a symphony of pleasure. But even as she came, the tentacles didn't relent, continuing to fuck her with a vigor that was unyielding.

The creature's grip on her grew more possessive, the tentacles around her body tightening, the ones inside her stretching her even further. It was a feeling that was both terrifying and exhilarating, a dance on the razor's edge of pleasure and pain. She could feel her muscles clenching, trying to push the invaders out, but the potion had her body betraying her, her walls instead clamping down, holding them tight.

Y/N's eyes rolled back in her head as she felt the creature's life force begin to pulse in rhythm with her own heartbeat. The tentacles grew thicker, harder, filling her completely, as if they were becoming a part of her. She was no longer the witch in control of her domain; she was the prey caught in the embrace of a creature that was as ancient as the earth itself.

The creature's tentacles began to quiver and spasm, and she knew it was about to release its seed. The thought of being filled with the alien spawn of this creature sent a shiver of revulsion through her, but her body responded with a wanton lust that she couldn't control. She felt it building inside her, the pressure mounting until she thought she might burst.

With a final, guttural growl, the tentacle in her pussy spurted its cum deep inside her. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced - hot, thick, and overwhelming. It filled her up, the sticky fluid leaking out around the edges and pooling beneath her. At the same time, the tentacle in her ass pumped its own seed into her, the dual invasions making her body convulse with the intensity of her orgasm. She squirted, the force of her climax so powerful it was as if she were peeing, her juices mixing with the creature's cum and dripping down her thighs.

The plant creature's tentacles tightened around her, ensuring not a single drop of its precious essence was lost. It was a possessive act, a declaration of ownership that sent a thrill through her even as she struggled to breathe around the tentacle in her throat. Her body was no longer her own; she was merely a vessel for its pleasure, a conduit for its life force. The creature's movements grew more deliberate, the tentacles inside her working together to milk every drop from her trembling form.

Y/N felt the potion's effects deepening, her thoughts becoming hazy, and her will to resist all but vanished. The creature's cum filled her, a warm, pulsating presence that seemed to resonate with her very soul. Her body responded instinctively, her muscles clenching around the tentacles, eager to keep them inside her. The plant's life force pumped into her, melding with her own until she couldn't tell where she ended and it began.

As the creature's climax reached its peak, she felt the tentacles inside her begin to withdraw, their suction cups reluctantly letting go of her sensitive flesh. The thick ropes of cum spurted out of her, painting the floor around her in a sticky mess. But before she could even begin to process what was happening, the plant's grip tightened once more. The tentacles holding her open slithered back in, coating her insides with the warm, viscous fluid, ensuring not a single drop was lost.

The creature's movements grew slower, more deliberate, as if savoring the feeling of her body around it. With a final, lingering kiss, the tentacle in her mouth slithered out, leaving her gasping for air. She coughed and spluttered, her throat raw and sore from the intrusion, but the taste of the potion remained, a heady cocktail of earth and magic. The tentacles around her neck and wrists loosened, allowing her to sit up, though she felt a strange reluctance to break the intimate connection.

As the plant's life force ebbed away, so too did the potion's control over her body. She felt the tentacles retreat, each one leaving her with a popping sensation that made her wince. The creature's form began to shrink, the tentacles withdrawing back into the soil with a wet squelch. The once vibrant leaves and vines grew limp, the glow in its veins fading to a dull pulse.

Y/N lay there, panting and drenched in sweat, cum, and dirt, her body feeling both violated and oddly satisfied. She watched with a mix of horror and fascination as the creature returned to its original state, the tentacles retreating into the soil until nothing remained but the withered plant she had sought to revive. The room was a mess of uprooted shelves and scattered potions, a testament to the creature's unbridled passion.

The bell above the door chimed, jolting her back to reality. She scrambled to her feet, her legs wobbly from the intense encounter. A customer had entered the shop, their eyes wide with shock as they took in the scene before them. It was a young woman, a regular named Clara, who often came in for love potions and the occasional herb to keep her garden thriving.

Y/N tried to compose herself, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as she took in Clara's horrified expression. The room was indeed a wreck - potions spilled, tomes scattered, and the once quaint and orderly space was now a chaotic jungle of tangled vines and broken furniture. "C-Clara," she managed to stutter, her voice hoarse from her earlier cries of pleasure, "I can explain."

But Clara wasn't listening. She had spotted the withered plant, now devoid of its former vigor, lying in the center of the room. "What the fuck happened here?" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of shock and disbelief. She took a tentative step closer, her eyes scanning the scene with a blend of curiosity and revulsion.

The witch tried to speak to explain the unexplainable, but her words caught in her throat. What could she possibly say? That she had brought the plant to life with a potion and it had fucked her senseless? That the creature had claimed her body as its own, feeding off her very essence? The truth was too ludicrous to voice aloud. Instead, she settled for a weak, "It's... it's a spell gone wrong?"

[yokumirumerafan]

Yoo~....hi~ hehe. Saur. I have a request...AHH DONT MIND ME THIS IS MY FIRST TIME-! so, when muzan discovers reader/yn has basically the very same effect as a blue spider lily? It's just that y/n is a demon slayer and if a demon sucked 1 litre of her/their blood they become resistant to the sun for 1 month? But the demons can only take like enough to make sure she's still alive because they can't kill her off since she's a marechi and the only one with this kind of perk in her blood? If ya dont wanna do it just know I really like your content ! I'm thinking about a muzan + uppermoons for this one but please include demon slayers if you want too! I LOVE YOU BYE!

OK so first of all HOW DO PEOPLE COME UP WITH IDEAS LIKE THAT? Second, what do I even add here? Like I low-key see a whole fic written in the request itself T^T

📌 Post Info: 💬 Request: Muzan discovers Y/N’s blood has the same effect as the Blue Spider Lily—if a demon drinks 1L of it, they gain sunlight resistance for a month. But Y/N is a Demon Slayer and a rare marechi, so they can’t be killed. 👥 Characters Included: Muzan + Upper Moons (+ Demon Slayers if needed!) 🌎 AUs Used: Canonverse 📖 Summary: Y/N unknowingly carries a powerful secret in their blood—one that could change everything for demons. Muzan, upon discovering this, is thrown into obsession, knowing he must keep Y/N alive but also control them. Meanwhile, demons and slayers alike react in shock, fear, and fascination at the implications of Y/N’s existence.

🩸 Muzan & Upper Moons React to Y/N’s Blood Being Like the Blue Spider Lily 🩸

🩸 Muzan Kibutsuji At first, he doesn’t believe it—this can’t be real. The Blue Spider Lily eluded him for centuries, and now a mere human carries its effects in their blood? The moment he confirms it, a dark obsession begins. “You are no longer a mere Demon Slayer… you are a key to my future.” Treats you like his most prized possession—not quite an enemy, but not an ally either. You belong to him. Killing you is not an option, but keeping you under his control is. Orders the Upper Moons to capture you alive and ensure no other demons consume your blood without his permission. 🔪 Kokushibo (Upper Moon One) Remains calm but sees the massive implications of your existence. “This power… it is no trivial matter. You are a rarity even among humans.” Unlike the others, he doesn’t immediately see you as prey. Instead, he considers what Muzan’s obsession might mean for the future of demons. Would not drink your blood without Muzan’s order—he values discipline too much. If ordered to capture you, he would do so with precision and minimal harm. 🔥 Doma (Upper Moon Two) Absolutely fascinated. This is a miracle—a human that could extend his life and allow him to walk in the sun? “Oho~ Y/N-chan, aren’t you the most adorable little thing? If you ever feel like joining me, I’d be happy to take good care of you~” Unlike Kokushibo, he would definitely try to sneak a taste of your blood, just to see if Muzan is telling the truth. Not afraid to break Muzan’s orders if he thinks he can get away with it. 💀 Akaza (Upper Moon Three) Horrified and intrigued at the same time. On one hand, he can’t deny how useful you are to demons. On the other, he hates the idea of preying on a human for their blood. “Tch… this is disgusting. You shouldn’t exist.” (Says this, but he knows he won’t harm you.) Would rather fight you fairly than treat you like a walking elixir. If Muzan ordered him to take you alive, he would—but he’d be conflicted the whole time. 🐍 Gyutaro (Upper Moon Six) “Wait… so yer sayin’ we gotta keep this human alive? Tch, sounds like a pain.” Absolutely jealous that you have something so valuable in your blood. Would not hesitate to drink from you if he got the chance—but only if Muzan allowed it. Heavily debates if he should just kill you to end the chaos but ultimately decides against it.

🔬 Tamayo & Yushiro's Reaction

🩸 Tamayo This changes everything. Tamayo has spent centuries searching for ways to counteract Muzan’s control, and now Y/N’s blood could be the key to understanding demon biology. “If we can analyze the properties of your blood, we might be able to create something that prevents demons from succumbing to Muzan’s curse…” She immediately samples your blood and works on multiple theories—one being a possible cure for demonification. Fearful that Muzan will come for you. She’s already lost so much and refuses to let you become his puppet. “Y/N, you must not let them take you. If Muzan gets his hands on you, he will become invincible.” 🩸 Yushiro Furious. Protective. ABSOLUTELY NOT having this. “Tch! This is exactly why humans are so weak—you’re just walking around with something that makes you a target!” He doesn’t mean to sound harsh; he’s just scared for you. He knows Muzan will stop at nothing to get you. Would stick by your side 24/7, glaring at anyone who even mentions your blood. Secretly admires your strength but will never admit it.

⚔️ Hashira Reactions

🔥 Rengoku Kyojuro (Flame Hashira) “Y/N! This is a great burden, but I trust you will remain steadfast!” Genuinely worried for your safety but will support you no matter what. Encourages you to harness your strength rather than see yourself as a victim. If Muzan tries to take you, he WILL step in. “I WILL NOT LET YOU FALL INTO HIS HANDS!” 🌊 Giyuu Tomioka (Water Hashira) Quiet but deeply concerned. “You shouldn’t have to carry this alone.” Understands the weight of your situation but struggles with how to help. If necessary, he will fight to protect you. 🌪️ Sanemi Shinazugawa (Wind Hashira) FURIOUS. “ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME?!” The thought of demons wanting your blood makes him absolutely enraged. “WE NEED TO GET RID OF YOU—NOW. It’s the only way to stop Muzan!” (Obviously, he wouldn’t actually do it, but his panic makes him say crazy things.) After cooling down, he reluctantly swears to protect you—but doesn’t like it. 🐍 Obanai Iguro (Serpent Hashira) “This is dangerous. You are dangerous.” Doesn’t trust that this won’t end badly. He fears you’ll be captured and used against the Demon Slayers. Despite his paranoia, he will fight tooth and nail to keep you from Muzan. 🦋 Shinobu Kocho (Insect Hashira) Acts calm, but internally losing her mind. “Oh my, Y/N! You’re quite the rare delicacy, aren’t you?” (She’s making light of it, but she’s terrified for you.) Immediately plans countermeasures—poisons, traps, ways to keep you out of demon hands. If any demon comes near you, she will not hesitate to kill. ⚡ Tengen Uzui (Sound Hashira) “Tch. This is the most UNFLASHY situation I’ve ever heard.” But behind the bravado, he’s seriously worried. “You’re basically a golden goose for demons. This is bad.” Keeps an eye on you at all times. Muzan is NOT getting you. ❄️ Muichiro Tokito (Mist Hashira) Confused at first. “Why does your blood do that?” When he realizes how important it is, he becomes extremely protective. Muzan isn’t getting you—not on his watch. 🌿 Gyomei Himejima (Stone Hashira) Prays for you. He knows you didn’t ask for this. “You are carrying a great burden. But you are not alone.” Refuses to let Muzan touch you. 🏮 Mitsuri Kanroji (Love Hashira) “Y/N! That’s so scary! But also kind of cool… but mostly scary!!” Extremely protective. Stays by your side as much as possible. If any demon tries to take your blood, she will tear them apart.

⚖️ Final Thoughts: BAE, THIS REQUEST WAS 10/10 🔥🔥🔥

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Three - Deja vu

Remember when I said this was supposed to be the easy side project made of easy to consume chapters that was supposed to be easy on my brain? Oh the way life throws a wrench in things.

Apologies for the wait but thank you for the patience! A bit longer of a chapter this time (almost double the length) because if you also read my other fic you'll know I have a moderation problem :)

Trigger warnings: angst, depression

Time converted its seconds into a slow-motion camera, capturing the hectic moment as a series of shutter clicks in your mind. Rich earthy elixirs trapped like icicles in a frozen pour from heated spouts. Spare precious change suspended in mid-air spilled from jittery hands. A systolic heartbeat waiting to finish its rhythm. An overplayed Christmas jingle with the record player set to the lowest speed. 

How did you not pick up on the telltale signs sooner? It wasn’t as if this was a first occurrence for you anymore. Precious moments of escape wasted daydreaming of warm comfort when it could’ve been spent backpedaling to the safety of your vehicle. Even more insulting when you considered how perceptive you’d been not ten minutes prior, untrusting of your nose to keep you from trouble in the supermarket bakery, head on a dizzying swivel for any more unwanted surprises.

Yet here you were again, betrayed by the very caffeine that was supposed to be your savior, too slow to duck back out the shop before your scent had a chance to reach his nostrils. 

Now you were pinned in place by a complete stranger who had no business smelling that edible.

Pupils blown wide mirrored your own. Blue irises framed by full lashes contrasted against a faded tan that spoke of time spent abroad in warmer climates. Dark brown hair shorn close on the sides peaked into a mussed up mohawk, slightly damp from melted snow and tousled by the wind. Your eyes unfocused to take in the body belonging to the man - shifting lower, past slightly parted lips greedily inhaling your scent and a craggy chin scar encircled by a dusting of dark stubble. 

A deep brown leather bomber jacket stretched tight across broad shoulders only a few shades darker than his hair, upturned against the elements and protecting a tree trunk neck, accented along the trim by matching tufts of a lighter insulating sherpa. A hint of medium wash jeans caught in your periphery, unable to glance further at the lower portion of his body, too encapsulated by the cosmic force that kept you snared within his gaze.

The back of your neck prickled with the knowledge that whatever was passing between you in the charged space across the checkerboard tiles was a transient mirage at best and a dangerous amalgam of broken aspirations at most. That grim lesson had been embedded into your retinas the hard way– 

No matter how potent the connection, this man was not yours. 

You shouldn’t be here. You should not be here.

The alpha didn’t miss the way you transferred your weight onto your back leg. Predatory focus latched onto the subtle way you shifted, instincts preparing behind barely contained canines. You’d accidentally triggered something; a millennia’s worth of ingrained primality overriding the structured norms of good societal behaviour. Like an old timey saloon, it was an overstrung standoff to see whose will would break first.

Your need to run outweighing his need to possess. 

Eyes narrowed slightly, he pointed right at you with a warning look. In a rough brogue, “Don't…”

You didn't listen.

“Hey hey hey–!” 

It was all too familiar now - this choreographed dance of avoiding uncomfortable affairs instead of facing them head on, ignoring the startled clamor of bewildered customers as you darted past a group of unsuspecting teenagers through the narrowing gap of the cafe door.

Nearly bowling an elderly couple over in your haste to escape, you fumbled out a half-hearted apology as you skidded around the next corner with a high pitched squeak, losing traction on the glassy ice in your well-worn snow boots and catching yourself on a vintage lamp post that you used like a springboard to gain a few precious milliseconds of a head start. 

This was twice in two days now that you’d undergone a fateful encounter the majority of the population could only dare dream of. And here you were bolting from destiny like a frazzled rabbit scurrying helplessly through the underbrush from what should have been your savior.

What the hell kinda luck was this?! And why did it have to choose now of all times?!

The door flung open only moments after, the previously innocent bell chime now a harbinger of doom. Heavy footfalls slapped through the condensed slush of snowfall. Something feral rose up in the presence of a hunter in pursuit of his quarry. 

There was something on your tail, and it felt far more intimidating than a starving wolf leering at his lunch.

Your pulse was bellowing in your ears, weaving through the conglomerated foot traffic as best you could with a body not prepared for a long winded chase. A hot poker stitched your side and hobbled your gait. Frost coated your lungs with every ragged inhale, sapping what little breath capacity you had and crippling until you were little more than a wounded mammal, panicky and acting on pure foolish adrenaline. The rational part of your brain spoke of the futility against someone his size, the brief glimpse afforded to you of his stocky frame earlier proof that your alpha was capable; well fed, sculpted for survival, muscles made of endurance and stamina. 

Everything desired in a good mate, the back of your mind unhelpfully supplied.

Long strides ate up the distance, navigating the pavement far more sure footed than you.

“Bleedin’ Christ!” growled out the voice. “Will ye jus’– wait!”

The firm grip on your bicep rather than his frustrated words was what halted you in your tracks. The slippery slush beneath your feet gave way to an involuntary squeak as another hand snapped out to steady your skidding, keeping you from tucking ass over tea kettle. Heavy breaths turned visible in the frigid winter air as you panted from exertion, sucking in a heady mixture of espresso and chilled vapors that fogged up your mind and muddled your senses. 

Fuck, he smelled good.

A gloved hand shuffled you further out of the way from the crowds of passersby, huddling beneath a shopkeeper's veranda, muffled conversation from the building’s interior a muted buzzing compared to the ringing in your ears. He shifted so as to take the brunt of the whipping winds on his back, sheltering you from the worst of it and allowing you to blink clear the stinging snowflakes from your eyes.

Although you never really stood any substantial chance of escape, there was still something surreal to be said about standing toe to toe with an alpha outside your family circle. He beheld you with the same wide eyed stare you gawked at him with, pupils stuck in a constant state of dilation as he huffed in your shared air, just as drunk off his scent match as you were. At this proximity, even the outside breeze wasn’t enough to dampen the waves of pheromones spiking like heated tesla coils between you. Unlike you, he found it in him to scrounge together just enough self control to soften his stance and manage a relaxed smile your way.

“There now, lass.” His words weren’t winded in the slightest, something that petulantly annoyed you in your weakened state - even if the accented baritone of his vibrato was soothing the consternation from your veins. “See? No need fer misbehavin’.”

There was an obvious gentling to his tone; something placating with an edge of sternness that felt at odds with his choice of haircut. Blue orbs roamed your face as if he half expected you to collapse on him, no longer holding on to you but keeping a readied hand hovering in case your shaky legs gave way. Truthfully - with how you were still sucking in breaths - you weren’t quite sure his assistance wouldn't be needed.

“Christ, LT was right about ye. Got a scent that can skelp a man flat on his arse.”

Even in your current state he must’ve judged you steady enough to maintain balance, despite still keeping the rigid preparedness in his shoulders as his hands sought a place in denim pockets. “Got a habit fer runnin’, dontcha?”

The capability of speech was all but lost to you, tongue cemented to the roof of your mouth and dry as a wilted prune abandoned on the vineyard soil. You’d at least managed the bare minimum of appearing less like a beached guppy by snapping your jaw shut, but the snicker from his lips at whatever he found while searching your face revealed your inadequacy to mask as a functioning human.

Azure eyes sparkled with mirth. “I ken I’m a looker, hen, but I ‘ave tae say it’s been a while since I’ve left a bonnie lass like yerself truly speechless. Strokin’ my ego a bit, ye are.”

“Your coffee…”

The first words you say to the man of your dreams and all you can think of is his wasted cup left unoccupied on the counter.

“Eh, it’s only a drink.” His shoulder’s finally loosened with a shrug. “More concerned about yers. Not tae make ye feel bad, lass, but ye’re lookin’ a wee bit peckish if I can say.”

So your mirror liked reminding you every morning. 

You waved him off on instinct, not needing the alpha to start concerning himself with your health. Not like there was much either of you could do about it. “It’s fine. Shouldn't be spending the money anyways.”

He wasn’t satisfied with that answer, raising an eyebrow at your justifiably frazzled appearance, but choosing not to question it just the same.

“Gonna be honest, lass. Wasn't exactly expectin’ ta bump into ya.”

You could tell by the bite marks on another woman’s neck.

No. Stop it girl. That’s not fair to him.

You shoved back the bitter taste of jealousy, forcing a smile you both knew was awkward. “Yea… what are the odds…”

“Mind ye, when the others mentioned their wee run-in with ye at the shop the other night I ken’d there was a chance– Christ, when Cap’n finds out the…” His words carried on, but you stopped processing them beyond a certain point in his ramblings, focusing more on the melody as it slowly faded to the background. There was a lilt to his speech that didn’t quite fit the occasion - at least to you. A restrained awe; measured happiness so as not to overwhelm you right off the bat with unbridled emotion. 

Part of you was thankful for his careful insight considering the delicate nature of the situation. But even so, the squiggly edges of his personality felt forcefully crammed into an elaborate puzzle rather than fitting naturally into a predetermined space.

You should be thrilled to be having this conversation. Things should be clicking and the world should make sense and his voice should be songbirds twittering in your ear on a beautiful summer’s day without a cloud in the sky and…

All you can hear is the man in a blue camry honking at the lady jaywalking in front of his car, the squeal of halted tires and shouted insults from hot spilled coffee across his lap. The poor woman on the corner shaking a can of loose pennies in hopes of a two dollar meal from the shop down on 7th Ave. Dogs barking at strangers and high heels clacking on wet slushy pavement. 

Overstimulation hits you hard, leaving you incapable of making out anything but the shapes of his mouth without any of the feedback. His voice muffles despite only the foot distance between you, and try as you might you have no idea what’s causing that smile on his face. For all you know he could be just as easily discussing the week's snowy forecast or reciting Chaucer like those lunatics on the steps outside the performing arts college. 

The nagging presence makes itself known in the back of your mind, adding to the chaos plugging your senses and making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in a way that has nothing to do with the chill. The disgruntled alpha half a country away calls to your fraying nerves, taking advantage of your weakened mentality and twisting like a gnarled root around your windpipe. You disguise the full body trembles with a forced shiver, the restlessness of your fingers giving in to the urge to claw at your mating mark, hiding the motion by readjusting your scarf more securely and clearing your throat. A cold sweat breaks out underneath the insulating layers of warmth, adding to the already miserable conditions of the snowy bluster. There’s only so much more you can take before you split apart at the threads and reveal to the stranger just how rotted your insides were.

You needed to end the interaction.

“Look–” you interrupt his languid tirade, voice barely holding steady and as timid as a field mouse, mittened palm up to keep him from going any further and stunning him into silence. “You don’t have to do this. This kinda thing just… doesn’t happen to normal people. I’m not gonna hold anything against you when it was a one in a billion chance of us ever crossing paths. You have your life and I have mine.”

Something hard caught in your throat and gummed up your words, threatening to crawl into your lungs and make a permanent home if you focused on it for too long - gave it too much power. You hoped he didn’t see the way you forced yourself to push through. “Let’s just… be adults, acknowledge that it happened, and go about our day as if we were two strangers passing by on the street. No expectations, no mess. ‘Kay?”

Clearly not envisioning that reaction now that he’d finally gotten his paws on you, something in his look tightened at being told ‘no’. “Hardly seems fair.”

Who was he to know ‘fair’?

“And what about us?” he continued with an unexpected bite. “Ye think we can jus’ ignore the fact that our scent match is wanderin’ about somewhere in the city unguarded and at risk of bein’ hurt or– or taken?”

You could almost taste the self satisfaction flaring across the tainted bond, fighting back a wave of nausea and bristling at the emotional wound he unknowingly gut punched.

“And your omega?” You watched him flinch at the obvious retort, both hating and relishing in his discomfort at having reality thrown back in his face. At least you both knew there was an element of betrayal lingering beneath the surface. “You really want her to have to come home every day with you smelling like another woman? Your fated woman? Do you realize the damage that’ll cause not just to her but to your mating bonds?”

In a perfect world, this whole encounter would be different. He’d say hi, you’d give him your most winning smile. The two of you would go back to the cafe and he’d pay for your coffee. You'd sit across from each other with stars in your eyes, getting to know the ins and outs of their soul for however much time your schedules allowed, blowing off prior commitments in favor of lyrical words dancing sugar plums around your head. Numbers would be exchanged and you’d both part ways feeling lighter and hopeful and impatiently waiting for the start of the next exciting chapter.

God, you hated fairy tales. 

The alpha was clearly frustrated at how the conversation was playing out, scratching a rough hand through his mohawk with a groaned out hiss, eyes darting around empty space as a grimaced mouth searched for the right words. “Look, lass. The four of us–” 

Four. There were four of them. Four mates. 

“–aren’t gonna stop worryin’, not now that we ken ye’re within reach and without a pack of yer own.” Blue eyes skimmed downwards trying to peer beyond the veil of your scarf, flicking back up to your face when he failed, searching for a sign that you remain unmated as he suspects by your reactions thus far. 

Glancing off to the side, you avoid his gaze and focus on the piles of brown snow gathered along the curb, not trusting yourself to keep a straight face under his careful scrutiny. He must take your avoidance as confirmation, returning to the conversation at hand.

“Alright, yea. We’ve already bonded another. Nothin’ tae be done about it now and there’s no use bawlin’ o’er what might ‘ave been. But if ye think that's gonna stop us from tryin’ tae be a part of yer life then yer sorely mistaken.” 

There’s an endearing quality to his convictions - as misguided as you believe them to be. So sure of himself, reflected in the take-no-objections posture and firm set of his brows. All confident alpha bravado. 

A small part of you keens at his certitude, recognizing it on a primal level and wanting to bask in the commanding presence your– the alpha provides. But those same instincts that scream at you to welcome his protective nature also serve as a reminder of why that could never work.

There’s a reason packs only keep one omega. While alphas are stereotyped as being the possessive pigheaded brutes who covet your kind like unstable beasts, everyone knows there is none so fierce as a territorial omega, baring her teeth to encroaching females without a moment’s hesitation to defend. It’s not like you’re the worst sorts of overly attached pack mates though. Society wouldn't be able to function if an omega snapped every time they all came within three feet of each other. 

But to have the two coexisting within the same ecosystem fighting over the affections of the same alphas…

If the heartbreak wouldn’t kill them, the blood on their teeth will.

The fact that he’s trying to send all that flying out the window is both impressive and infuriating in its stubbornness. 

Your own voice is far more subdued as you fidget with the hem of your coat. “That’s not how this is supposed to work…”

“Oh aye? Turnin’ down gaggles of soulmates jus’ a light Saturday mornin’ fer ya then?”

Despite the dour mood, you huffed in something akin to levity at his words, feeling some of that tension unreel from your bones in the face of the small upward curve of his lips that accompanied them. “If I say yes will that convince you to throw in the towel?”

Enchanting eyes sparked with determination and something playful. “Hate to break it tae ya, lass, but we’re a right stubborn bunch o’ blokes.”

“And her?” 

Cerulean eyes hardened again. “We’ll sort that out between us.” 

A leather covered arm reaches out to guard your left side, a firm body stepping into your space to block you from a passing beta encroaching too close on your private conversation. You don’t miss the slight rumble in his chest given as a warning to the traipsing man, the subtle growl claiming this spot and two of you in it, an intimidating scowl berating him for nearly knocking into you because of it. It catches you off guard, unconsciously leaning into the alpha's safety from the unaware intruder, the heady scent of freshly ground coffee beans permeating his clothes and coating you in a fresh pot to ease your delicate nerves.

It takes the two of you a moment to separate despite both of you knowing the ‘threat’ is gone; and even then the amount of space between is kept minimal at best. It’s hard to deny the pull molecularly chaining you to this man whose pheromones are carving out spaces in the cracks between the marrow like rapids, filling the pock marked gaps and branding your existence as something completely different than it was before. 

The structural fibers in your body are being split in half like colliding atoms in a particle accelerator. It’s a molecular tug of war between listening to ancestral instincts imploring you to stay with the protective alpha and past emotional trauma begging you not to give in to complicated matters of the heart. You’ve been hurt once before by someone of his kind and the last thing you needed was to punt yourself all the way back to square one when it had taken you so long to reach this part of your healing journey. 

You know where that path leads. There’s nothing waiting for you but despair.

Unknowing or lacking regard for your internal struggle, the alpha surprises you by shifting his arm to sprawl across your shoulder, a gentle but unrelenting force ushering you back in the direction you’d originally come running from, the deceptively casual grip brokering no room for argument. “Now, what’s say we make up fer scarin’ ye earlier with that cup of caffeine ye were gantin’ after, eh?” 

Maybe if you’d possessed a stronger will you might’ve opened your mouth to protest his commanding treatment over you. Instead, nestled close to his body and tucked in tight against his shoulder, he was gentleman enough not to comment on the small whiff you snuck on your way back to the cafe.

The soft instrumentals playing festive tunes over the cafe speakers were an appreciated break from the harsh monotony of whirring kitchen equipment. Depictions of snowmen and candy canes painted artistically on the inside glass celebrated the joyous season. Evergreens and mistletoe; frozen fractals falling from white fluffy clouds. A veritable winter wonderscape - the natural frost accumulated on the outside only adding to the weathering effect. 

Red and green twinkle lights hung strewn across overhead support beams. Garlands with small plastic ornament bobbles snaked around the insides of display cases. An electric votive nestled cozily in miniature wreaths and placed at every table flickered warmly for an added ambience to the already welcoming interior.

The holiday decorations had been up since Thanksgiving, but you’d never taken a moment to really notice them, too focused on the transactional exchange and the time on your phone to give it more than a passing glance of acknowledgement. Fidgeting in your seat, it was a welcome distraction.

You’d been ushered towards one of the secluded tables upon returning to the cozy cafe, your companion either ignorant or uncaring of the odd glances tossed your way by those still inside who witnessed your previous outburst. You kept your head ducked from the initial embarrassment, blood heating your face as he helped you out of your coat and slung it over the back of your chair, making sure you were settled before sauntering off towards the register to place the drink order you’d rattled off. 

While he stood distracted at the counter amongst a sea of waiting customers, one of the older baristas with a candy cane apron discreetly tried to flag down your attention, meticulously cleaning one of the espresso machines with a soiled napkin purposefully tilted away from his view. 

The words in scribbled sharpie pointed your way: ‘You ok?’

Touched by her concern, you gave her a surprisingly genuine smile despite your jittery insides, easing her enough to pass along a thumbs up as she goes back to working on whatever festive drink concoction the lady at the drive thru has deigned to torture her with. It was kind of her to look after you given the strangeness of the day. But against what should be all rational thought you trusted the man who was for all intents a complete stranger.

Here’s to hoping life didn’t pair you with a serial killer.

Shaking your head of such nonsense (hopefully), it took you a moment to recall the last time you gave yourself permission to linger somewhere. With the exception of the hour spent every week in Dr. Miranda’s office, you avoided congregating in public spaces for more than the few minutes it took to get in, get out, and return to the safety of your abode. Crowds made you skittish; the abused animal inside burrowed deep within your rib cage voicing its objections and reflecting its displeasure in the way it made you outwardly twitch. Once upon a time even stepping foot in a place like this - enclosed, swirling with clashing aromas, a singular point of escape - seemed like such an unattainable goal. Even now the awareness of the situation caused your agoraphobia to writhe under your skin, poisoning like fire ant venom and tempting your lungs into anaphylactic shock. 

Deep breaths, girl. In… out… in… out… let it wash over you… inhale… exhale… 

You are safe. You are safe. You are– 

Like nails on a chalkboard, the scratching of wood against ceramic jostled you from your meditative process, an involuntary yelp met with a small grin of apology as the imposing alpha placed your own drink in front of you before taking up residence in the open seat across. Something about the setting exacerbated his already potent smell, mixing with the sweetness of the beverages and leaving you with a deep gnawing ache to lean across the table and drink it straight from the source.

The tide of anxiety receded back to the depths of your mind, your inner omega settling in the presence of your scent match. Even if you couldn’t escape the dark presence prowling like a half-starved panther on the other end of the bond, the natural relief that came with sitting three feet away from your opposite designation had you breathing steadier than you had since leaving therapy a short while ago. You may not be entirely comfortable with this predicament, but at least the attention came with a few built in perks. 

The fake candle in the center highlighted the limited edition designs on your respective drinks, but it’s the name scrawled in sparkly black sharpie that catches your attention on his disposable cup. “MacTavish?”

“John,” he confirms, “pleasure ta meet ya, lass. Though I s’pose tha’s how I should’ve started things out in the first place. With, ya know… manners.”

“Not like I made introductions easy for us…” you mumbled with a wince, tracing over the cafe’s symbol on your cup as a small distraction from having to make eye contact at the admission.

“Aye, ye didn’t. But I cannae fault ye fer havin’ a sense of self preservation starin’ down a big burly Scotsman, now can I?” 

It had been moreso about running from your problems than being outright intimidated by the man, but you weren’t about to question his assumption and open up a whole new can of worms in the process. “Right...”

There was a brief pause as he stared at you expectantly, hoping you’d return the favor now that he’d taken that first step with an official greeting. Something about offering up even that little part of yourself scared you though. It felt like handing over power to the fae folk; like once he knew your name he could strip the autonomy from your spirit and ensnare you forever in his enchanted domain.

Instead, you took a sip from the hot liquid in your hands, soothed by the syrupy blend like a steady palm rubbing lines down your back. Not nearly as good as the earthy bouquet your nose had been sampling with every inhale. Maybe if you’d added a pump of caramel…

You fought desperately to ignore the part of your brain that whispered comparisons to the rich espresso-y figure across the way, stopping any and all sidetracking towards scandalous thoughts of a more private taste testing. 

This was not the time for slick inducing fantasies.

Once he realized he wouldn’t receive an echoing answer, he mirrored you with his own brew, humming in approval at whatever pleasant taste he found and dropping the subject temporarily. Thankful he didn’t push, you read further down on his own drink, unable to help the small scoff of surprise after reading the incriminating label.

“A sugar cookie latte? Not the most masculine of drinks, is it?” You’re not sure where you found the courage to softly tease him over his beverage of choice. Clearly his heavy alpha pheromones were messing with your logic receptors. “Thought your kind liked to keep things dark and bitter.” 

“I'm an alpha, lass. Chasin’ after sweet smellin’ omegas is what we do fer fun.” There was a sparkle there that hinted towards your earlier predicament, a not so subtle implication combined with his cheeky grin that reassured you it was all good natured. You at least had the decency to duck your head abashedly, face heating up from more than just the warming drink. “Kinda gives us a wee proclivity fer honeyed tastes.”

Honestly, he had a point. Can’t say you’d ever thought of it that way before. I mean, seriously. Whoever said alphas needed to be gritty when they came naturally ingrained with a sweet tooth?

“Guess that’s why she smells like chocolate.”

Your lips formed the words without thought, something mean tugging at you the same time he did. Nails bite into the recycled coffee sleeve like sharpened teeth, taking out the urge to scratch on the poor item rather than call attention to the scarf still secured around your neck. Couldn’t even get through a normal outing without him adding his two cents to the mix.

A hard tap on the tabletop called your attention back to John. You’d maybe expected an affirming response, but what you don't expect is to find him staring at you from across the table with a suddenly serious expression, speaking to you in an almost chiding manner. “I'd rather ye didn’t bring up sore spots to intentionally cause yerself pain.”

He didn’t allow you to hide, his face moving in tandem with yours as you attempted to duck his gaze, the blunt observation leaving you sheepish as you worried your bottom lip. 

“...can't avoid the conversation forever.”

“Aye. But the least we can do is get ta know each other first.”

That genuinely puzzled you. “Why?”

Even through the bulk of his winter coat you could see the way the material stretched to make way for his biceps as he crossed them over his chest, leaning back in his seat as he regarded you with easy going eyes. “Yer my scent match, lass. Ye think I'm not o’er ‘ere stewin’ in a fruity cocktail wishin’ I’d ‘ave taken ye tae a juice bar instead?”

Your face heated again at the implication. Seems his own thought pattern wasn’t too terribly dissimilar to the wiley suggestions pawing at your psyche with scintillating ideas of debauchery. “Wouldn't go that far...”

“Got no shame in admittin’ yer drivin’ me up the wall.”

He really didn’t, did he? 

“Not sure you should be saying things like that.”

“Probably.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Ne’er been one fer followin’ rules though. Doesnae make sense when we're both wantin’ the same thing.”

You examined him over the rim of your cup, forearm resting on the sticky laminate as you leaned in closer, almost imploring in your tone. “Isn't that just further proof we shouldn't even be talking right now?”

Taking a sip of his own, he brushed off your concerns like a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Ye really think ye can jus’ wipe yer hands and forget about us?”

Silence laid thick in the air between you. There was no point denying when he felt every bit the earth-rattling gravity well that had the two of you touching toes beneath the table. 

He didn’t even bother trying to hide the smugness from his expression. “Exactly. I may not be takin’ ye ta my bed, lass, but yer mine nonetheless.”

You shouldn't have liked the way that sounded. For the past four years of your life you’ve been unwilling property to a man holding you confined in a secret realm of bleak oblivion. You’ve begged and pleaded through every starless sky to go back to being the woman you were before fate intervened, desperate for peace in an internal war. All you ever wanted was freedom; to bound over mountains and soar across fields. To scrape off the layers belonging to him and build castles in the clouds far beyond his reach.

Yet here you were thanking the maker of scent wicking panties that your match couldn’t detect the perfume wafting up between your legs at the thought of him staking his claim over you.

“So,” he went on, “we figure out a way tha’ we can be in yer life that doesnae cross any boundaries and ye gain four brutes that'll gladly shank a man fer ya.”

You raise an eyebrow at his choice of wording before taking a sip from your cup. “Sounds a tad extreme if you ask me.”

Canines gleaming, the look he sends you is downright carnivorous. “Oh, yer in fer a spell, lass.”

Chatter turns to small talk in an effort to distract you from the discomfort of previous conversation. Turns out he’d drawn the short straw when he and his pack mates realized over piles of paperwork and exhaustive meetings that certain individuals who would not be named - but he’d been more than happy to throw under the bus - hadn’t checked some things off their list while out doing a routine grocery run the other night. Seems like the previous two you’d met were left nearly as shaken as you after the encounter, forgoing the last few needed aisles in favor of ending things early to process tough decisions behind closed doors.

That’s all the information he offers; no further details exchanged on the matter. The internal workings of your personal lives kept private. It didn’t take a mathematician to understand why you prefer to remain guarded, but you assume on his end it had a fair bit to do with the obnoxious purple elephant in the room, trumpeting and stampeding all over the future you could’ve built had it just stayed locked in a zoo. There’s still some moments along the line where he lays a trail of tiny bread crumbs, challenging you with hungry eyes to follow the path through winding woodland and glittering caves towards whatever lay beyond. You’re tempted a few times to chance a couple steps, toeing the line of curiosity but always pulling back to the safety of the unknown. 

The less you know about their lives the better. You never even inquire as to the missing three names.

Eventually you settle on the topic of just how exactly he proposed this hairbrained… relationship?... was going to work. Fuck, there really had to be a better word for it. Not friends, not lovers. Not a situationship. Not total strangers anymore.

Companions? Counterparts? Symbiotes?

Either way, you’d both been spouting suggestions for the better part of five minutes and you weren’t any closer to a solution that would leave both parties feeling satisfied. Granted the only thing that could work for you would be as little interaction as humanly possible, but he was firm in his convictions.

“We can keep it ta texts fer right now if ye like.”

“But then she'll feel bad if she sees you writing them.”

“Then we'll jus’ ‘ave tae come visit.”

“But then I'll feel like some sleazy homewrecking call girl.”

“Now yer jus’ bein’ a numpty.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“Yea, ye should stop tha’.”

“John!”

“Lass.”

Oh, how you wanted to wipe that flippant laughter off his face and pry it from his mouth with dental tools. The damn thing was unfairly infectious in the way it warmly beckoned a smile to your lips. Here you were trying to be sensible about the situation he created and so far all attempts to come to some sort of compromise were met with off handed ribbing and facetiousness.

You wouldn’t admit that some of the holdup was partially your fault - looking for desperate excuses to keep this from happening - but it hung suspended in the quiet between your words. And what’s more he knew it too.

“What about the occasional email?” you threw out for the hell of it.

John outright guffawed at the ridiculous suggestion, drawing the attention of some of the surrounding tables without a care towards who heard, brawny arms tossed upward in fond exasperation. “This ain’t a business transaction, hen! Saints, what a notion…”

“Well…” you sputtered, “then it seems like we’ve reached an impasse.” 

Please just drop it.

He just looked at you with further amusement, swirling circles on the table with the bottom edge of his now empty coffee cup. “Ye always a neurotically charged mess or is this jus’ my lucky day?”

Oh god. In your desperation to undo the upheaval he’s already causing in your life you really weren’t painting a pretty picture of yourself were you? 

You cringed backwards at the realization. “Pretty sure you’re the reason I’m making myself look like one.”

“Aye, but a bonnie one,” he agrees.

“And you’re not worried about the mental stability of the person which life has comedically deemed yours and is making a complete fool of herself?”

“Just tryin’ tae make ye smile. It's been workin’.” A fact he looked quite proud of.

And it was. You couldn't deny that. For how much havoc this was wreaking on the parts of yourself that had become so ill equipped to handle basic human interactions outside your minuscule inner circle, there was a part of you that was glad to find you still possessed the capability of laughing with a stranger.

The conversation paused as his brow knit in confusion, the faint buzzing of a cell phone rattling in his pocket barely audible over the din as he drew it from the interior lining of his coat. The way he held the device and flicked through it with his thumb implied a text message as opposed to a phone call, huffing as he read over the contents before palming it in his meaty hand.

“Och, the louses are houndin’ me fer their caffeine fix. Hang on a tic, lass.” Flashing a quick smile, his chair slid back with a sharp squeak as he stood, strolling back towards the counter and flagging down an unoccupied barista. It was impossible not to follow him with your eyes, ogling his stocky frame as he rattled off coffee orders from the conversation pulled up on his phone. Even the sweet beta girl behind the register wasn’t impervious to his roguish charms; just a little more subtle in the way she admired the casual arrogance in which he leaned against the marble. 

How long had it been since you last let your eyes wander over the shape of a man and thought of something other than a rancid dumpster and abrasive brick scraping morse code across your exposed back?

There was something uniquely disarming about the alpha. In many ways his ability to break past your bullshit reminded you of Dr. Miranda. Both refused to let you spiral to darker thoughts, spinning the world into one of muted colors rather than shades of desolate gray. But where she spent years undoubtedly locked in a study hall pouring over dissertations and cramming decades of designation theory over red bulls and ramen, John had accomplished that same level of trust in a matter of–

You checked the time on your phone. The pair of you had been sitting in this cafe for roughly fifteen minutes now. That’s all it took for this whirlwind of a man to blow away the cobwebs accumulating in your chest and deliver a shot of adrenaline to your synapses.

Too bad the monster in your veins would make sure it didn’t last.

John came back from the counter holding a cardboard coffee carrier by the handle, looking down at you expectantly from his position towering over you. “Right, lass. Need tae be droppin’ these,” he raised his arm a smidge, gesturing to the drinks, “off tae the lads. So hows about we quit the stallin’ and skip tae the part where ye stop overthinkin’ things and lemme have yer number?”

He didn’t even let you open your mouth in feeble defense of that (true) statement before serving you a warning look that dissolved the syllables from the tip of your tongue. From what little you’d gathered during your brief stint together, you didn’t doubt his potential gumption to wrangle you to the cold tile floor - even in the presence of all these people - just to fish the device out of your pocket himself if need be.

Personally, you didn’t feel up to testing his bluff. 

Working off pure muscle memory, you handed over your phone and watched as he pulled up your messaging app, inputting his name amongst the scant others on the list and shooting off a fruit emoji. If he noticed the sparse amount of contacts in your phone he didn't comment on it. Not like it was hard to miss a grand total of four separate text chains.

His phone buzzed again from the text he sent himself, handing back your device with a smile that erred on the side of slightly devious contentment. The bastard knew he won and was being unfairly smug about it. “There now. See how easy that was, lass? Perfectly painless.”

That’s when it hit you.

“What if she says no?” The sheer panic gripping your chest catches you off guard as much as the blurted out words. Trepidation crushes like a hydraulic press, the thought of this precious fleeting moment being all you ever get seizing your body like a hundred electrified shocks. The rickety tower of emotional stability you’d been working so hard to keep steady seemed to crumble beneath your feet now that there was a chance he wouldn't be around to keep it from falling. “What if this is all just some big mistake and we never should have met and I end up ruining your pack–”

Gods, this was so fucked up. A minute ago you wanted nothing more than to never hear from John again and now your inner omega was giving you whiplash trying to cling to an alpha that wasn’t hers by the skin of her blunted teeth. 

This was exactly why you didn’t want to have anything to do with them in the first place! It was a no win scenario that was only going to make things worse by confusing your already emotionally precarious omega. Delaying the inevitable. Dragging things out. Torturing her wounded soul trying to wring water from stone.

But you couldn’t give him up anymore - not now. Maybe once you’re home safe in your nest and can breathe clean air not tainted with his fragrance. When you’ve forgotten the oceanic hues that gleam at you with such open eagerness. When his brogue and his candor are replaced with flashes of doe eyed brown and thick flowing locks and the taste of chocolatey truth cuts too deep to heal. Maybe distance will make this ache inside easier to bear. 

But at this moment, despite your earlier hesitations, you weren’t ready for the clock to strike midnight on the impossible.

If he couldn’t read the distress on your face then he certainly was made aware of it by the sour smell of overripe fruit cascading off of you, bitter and tart and pungent as you began to spiral, getting lost in a torrent of what ifs and worst case scenarios. 

You never got to finish your verbal stream of consciousness. Alpha instincts snapped into action before you could begin blowing fumes, disregarding his coffee as he hoisted you up from your seat with immediate alertness. Strong arms encased your vulnerable form, one hand cradling the back of your neck with gentle pressure, engaging the bundle of nerves located there with a direct line to the body’s limbic system. An omega’s weak spot; it overrides all internal circuitry and sends calming signals to the brain, disengaging stress receptors, activating the amygdala, bringing you to a headspace of obedience and security. It was highly taboo to touch an omega there without their explicit permission; a right reserved only for close family members and chosen pack mates. 

You should be angry– you should be furious. How dare he assume that just because he was your scent match that it gave him any right to manhandle you! Robbing your ability to retake control and leaving you just as helpless as that fateful night in the alley.

But he was. And you just didn’t care. Call it biology working against you, but all you felt in that moment was a deep rooted need to sink into his grounding embrace and let your mind go blissfully blank. Trusting in fate to send you an alpha with morals and integrity. Handing over the keys to a man who knew how to drive.

Releasing more of his smooth creamy scent into the air around you, body and designation worked in tandem to soothe every aspect of your overwhelmed being. Outside influences floated away with all the cares of the world, revolving around a fixed point in space exactly where you stood. Nothing else existed in this fraction of the universe. Just two souls destined to be together by forces beyond comprehension.

This was what you were made for. This felt right.

And, god– he was purring for you.

“Hey hey– shhh shhh. Settle, omega, settle... easy now. Jus’ like tha’... There’s a good lass.”

Slowly but surely, the acrid odor of anxiety faded back into the sweet juicy scent of a fresh crisp pear. A small whine escaped your lips as he sapped your body of strength, held aloft only by the taut muscles in his forearms. Glazed over eyes reflected the haze fogging your senses, melting you down into something gooey and malleable that dripped like corn syrup, sticky and coating every inch of your skin in a clear varnish. Breathing became easier. The heavy thumping in your ears faded back to white noise. Bones turned rubbery and tendons fell limp until you could no longer remember what upset you in the first place.

No longer needing the subduing effects of gentling, his hand moved from its spot at the back of your neck to the base of your skull, thumb tenderly stroking where skin met hair, shushing soft assurances against your temple.

“Ye needn’t worry a strand on tha’ bonnie wee head of yers. Ye dunnae ken her like we do. Jus’ leave everythin’ tae me. I’ll sort things right as rain, yea?”

The rational part of your brain knew better than to believe honeyed lies, but in the cloudy serotonin you simply nodded into the dark leather of his coat, spellbound under his tranquilizing touch.

“Atta girl. C’mon, let’s get ye tae yer car.”

Helping you back into your coat, he made sure you were bundled up nice and snug before shuffling you outside into the frosty air, a hand resting over the small of your back in a way you didn’t object to in your current slothful state. The chime felt a little less abrasive this time around as you exited the cafe, moving in the direction of your car parked in its spot alongside the bustling rush hour traffic.

You knew the elderly thing was a spectacle to behold; all chipped paint and rusted metal, duct tape holding the bumper together, a dent in the passenger door from where your neighbor’s kids had kicked a ball into it last spring. There was a crack across the windshield from where a bird made friendly with it earlier in the year that sliced through your vision but didn’t impede you from driving. 

‘Character’ was the word you used to describe it, but it certainly wasn’t what everyone else usually chose. John obviously fell into the latter camp.

“Ye sure tha’ thing’s operable, lass?” He scrutinized every banged-up, well-worn inch of it, pulling a face at what he found lacking and raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Not sure I trust it ta get ya to point b without a few bumps and scrapes.”

You sighed at the familiar criticism, having heard much the same from your fathers. “It gets the job done. Still safer than walking around by myself anyways. I promise I wouldn’t drive it if I thought it’d get me killed one day.” Only a partial lie at least.

He was clearly unconvinced, but blessedly didn’t say anything further besides whatever mumbled remark he kept under his breath. Watching quietly while still keeping an eye on the surrounding area, he stayed near your side as you fumbled with the keys, grabbing the handle to hold it open as you tossed your bag on the passenger seat. “Right. In ya go then.”

You thought that would be the end of it as he closed the door behind you, buckling your fraying seat belt and hoping he was far enough away that you could safely attempt to start your car without any more judgment from him if this ended up being the one time it didn’t turn over.

You jumped slightly as his gloved hand tapped on the glass, turning your head to watch him motion for you to lower the window. Rolling the old school contraption down, you were again hit with a velvety shot of espresso as he half leaned in towards you, forearm resting against the top of your car.

“If ye think fer one minute tha’ I’m gonna jus’ up and forget about ye now tha’ we’re partin’ ways ye’ll be sorely disappointed lass. Tha’ there thing in yer purse’ll be ringin’ before ye ken it and I’m not afraid to come lookin’ if I dunnae get an answer.” 

The promise in his tone felt suspiciously like a threat, but one without any real intended consequence. His relaxed posture and sparkling irises assured you that while he’d probably still be cross if you ignored his attempts to reach out, you wouldn’t be awoken in the middle of the night to someone taking a battering ram to your flimsy front door.

At least, you hoped they wouldn’t.

Flashing you a playful wink, John took a step back from the vehicle. “Take care, omega. Be seein’ ya real soon.”

You’re shouting your name at him before you even realize what you’ve done, the small part of you that longs for a deeper connection clawing free from the part that fears having her heart shattered. From a few feet away you could still see the fireworks bursting in his eyes, the way he stands a little taller and puffs out his already broad chest with euphoria at your proffered olive branch. You can’t bring yourself to regret it when his unabashed smile conjures images you never dared hope for.

He waited until you rolled up your window and heard the telltale click of the locks on your doors engaging before finally taking off, crossing to the other side of the slippery street and walking with a hand tucked into his coat pocket until a line of cars finally blocked his retreating form from view. 

You sat there for a moment with your hands on the steering wheel, the silence in the vehicle more deafening than the wind howling outside. The past twenty minutes played like rewind on a VCR, speeding through the chain of events leading to the present to be watched again and again and again. 

After the fifth or sixth replay, all you could think of was rushing back to your apartment before fate could intervene once more and you accidentally run over your fourth scent match’s pekingese with your fucking car. 

<< ✿ Previous ✿ << ✽ >> ✿ Next ✿ >>

[hypersaline]

NPC and Townie Ager

This is a tombstone found in misc/misc that helps keep townies'/NPCs' ages in sync with playables' during rotational play. It ages them by one day each time the relevant pie menu option is clicked (or each day at 23:30 if auto-aging is turned on) and teleports them to the lot for birthdays and old age deaths. It requires HB's Easy Inventory Check and can be downloaded here at SFS or here at Mediafire. There's no preview image for this, but exhaustive detail is available behind the cut.

Credits:

The change-model interaction was mostly taken from Inge's teleporter cat; it's possible-to-probable that I cannibalized other mods as well when I first made this, but if so I no longer know which ones.

General notes:

There's a shift-click neighborhood age randomization option. It will only affect townies/NPCs at the beginning of their current lifestage, so use it first thing if you're going to use it.

For birthdays/old age deaths, the sim will materialize close to the ager object, so it's best placed outdoors and outside of any locked gates. There's an option to change it into a small rug for easier hiding.

NPCs will be retired to the townie pool when they have a birthday.

Teens will age into adults, but there'll be a one-day-left notification in case you'd like to send them to uni.

Elders will stand quietly near the ager for up to an hour before dying. Everyone on the lot will notice, like with other on-lot deaths, and you'll have to deal with tombstones manually.

The object doesn't alter the birthday/death functions and shouldn't conflict with mods that do. You'll still need the usual bugfixes, particularly for nonplayable children's aspirations and for multiple deaths occurring at once.

There's a shift-click menu option that'll automatically make townies/NPCs grow up well; another will make them grow up well and also make their deaths peaceful. Sims that trigger a fear as they're aging (like teens who don't go to college) might still age up badly.

Known issue: the object's handling of elders has a bug or two I haven't tracked down. Occasionally an elder will persistently refuse to die until you move them in; occasionally an elder will have their age reset when they're supposed to die. Neither should cause any other issues.

Known issue: under some circumstances the ager will mistakenly grow townies/NPCs up one day into a new lifestage. Saving the game right after the ager does its thing will prevent this.

Exceptions to aging:

YAs, pets, zombies, vampires, servos, any townie/NPC with a bottle of Elixir of Life in inventory, and (in some cases) townies/NPCs that've been generated but haven't visited any lot yet won't be aged.

Babies in the adoption pool will have days subtracted but won't automatically have birthdays. You'll be notified but will have to manually summon and toss them.

Special townies like downtownies, garden clubbers, etc., will age if otherwise eligible. Note that there are (were?) bugs in how the game generates vacation locals and tourists; if yours die off, you might want to make their replacements yourself.

Not all NPCs will age, and the list of those that will is somewhat arbitrary: burglars, cops, firefighters, maids, nannies, gardeners, repairpeople, mail carriers, paperkids, cashiers, bartenders (comm lot), bartenders (party), professors, streakers, coaches, cafeteria workers, servers, hosts, DJs, business reporters, landlords, butlers.

To add NPCs I skipped, open up the 'Sub - Ageable NPC?' BHAV, scroll to the last line, choose "Ins/false" in the special buttons, switch "Const" to "Literal", make sure the Decimal box is not ticked, and enter the NPC type number from this list.

[obsidianpen]

Ok I posted it on my page. Ya I’m gonna have him kill you but all love from me. Can I have my snippet now LMAO

The next time he awoke, Harry was shocked. Voldemort was no longer there, cradling him. He sensed a different aura before him, not touching him; one that was vastly different yet nonetheless… familiar. 

Yellow. Soft, friendly.

This is the person that healed me before, 

The cup was pressed to his lips. Harry tried to open his eyes, to see who this enigmatic witch or wizard was, but he couldn’t.

The rim of the cup was pushed more urgently against his mouth. Harry drank because he knew he had to; the metallic taste of the elixir flooded through him.

But for all its wonder, for all its life-giving and life-saving power, it did nothing for his soul.

Who are you? Harry wondered. He tried and tried to look, but it wasn’t enough. 

He slipped back into a dark and peaceful sleep.

—

When Harry next drifted back to consciousness, he was alone.

No black and glinting gold aura of Lord Voldemort. No soft and welcoming yellow. 

He opened his eyes, slowly. All he had for company now was his own reflection looking blearily down at him: a disheveled Harry Potter half-covered in a blanket, his hair a mess, his red eyes still hazy with the remnants of sleep.

He sat up. He felt… okay.

Not great, he thought as he stretched his arms above his head and yawned theatrically. But not awful. 

He’d certainly had worse, at least.

He checked the time. It was a little after two. With no small amount of ire, he wondered how much time he’d missed. A day? Two? More?

Harry shook his head and focused. He’d been given the elixir… three times, he thought, while incapacitated. Twice by Voldemort himself, and once by that mysterious yellow person. Did that mean he’d missed three days? 

Unless Voldemort tried forcing more elixir into me than usual, he thought. Maybe he hoped it would make me recover faster…

He was bound to find that out soon enough. What he really wanted to know was who did Voldemort trust so implicitly, to allow them to be alone with Harry? To heal him, to see him at his most vulnerable—to pour the Elixir of Life down his throat when he was so weak he couldn’t even open his eyes?

Harry hadn’t a clue.

Forcing those thoughts aside, Harry looked around for… something. A note with the explanation that Voldemort had surely come up with this time, to explain why Harry was holed up in his room again. He didn't see anything. Harry frowned, disentangled himself from his blanket, and got up. 

He took about two steps before a pop startled him so badly he yelped. 

“Master Potter is awake,” said Binny, bowing low.

[exitingmusic]

Second Chance (Pt. 2)

(Sylus x reader)

(Part 1)

AN: Okay I actually love this :) lmk if you want a req tho (can be read as stand alone or as 2 parts) Also see if you can get all the references there's 2 songs and 1 book i think ;) thanks to @jae-mie and @beaconsxd for telling me to cont. this

Warnings: slight angst?, divorce, idk?

WC: 2,000 EXACTLY AGAIN

You couldn’t believe you were doing this. No, not at all.

You couldn’t believe you were visiting your ex husband after nearly two years apart after seeing him once, once. It didn’t matter that he took you home or still remembered your bedtime routine or had looked at you like his world had finally been set back on its axis.

That was the part that shocked you the most. Even after you walked away, ignoring his texts and calls, even after you blocked him and shut him out of your life, he still looked at you with those ruby eyes, like you were the very reason that allowed air to flow into his lungs, that you were his own personal elixir of life.

But beneath that was a sea of regret, his own eyes reflecting the deep wounds he carved into you, an endless storm of pain.

And that is why you found yourself outside his house at 11:20, his coat in your arms, still carrying his scent.

You hesitated before you knocked, half tempted to leave the coat and run, but the image of Sylus made you freeze, tugging at your heartstrings. You could imagine him standing in the doorway, looking at the coat. His lips would be pursed and there would be a slight flicker of disappointment before he shut the door, his face perfectly blank again, any trace of emotion gone, just like your chance.

Before you could change your mind, you knocked.

Mere seconds after you knocked, the door flew open, revealing Luke with Kieran peering over his shoulder.

You couldn’t see their faces but could tell they were smiling wide.

“Ah, Mrs. Boss, welcome back finally,” Luke said, an odd tone in his voice.

Then it hit you, you didn’t just leave Sylus, you left them too. Cutting off contact with everyone, too hurt to think about the twins you left behind. Through your relationship with Sylus, you grew close with them, teasing your husband that you already had kids and that they were growing up so fast.

What kind of mother would cut off their kids?

Not a good one certainly.

Yet, they wasted no time in pulling you in for a hug, ignoring any lingering emotions of regret on your face.

Kieran pulled away, chuckling, “Boss Man’s in his office.”

You smiled at him and nodded, not trusting your voice to respond as you walked through the halls.

It was almost a physical pain to wander through the house. The once decorated walls with pictures of you and Sylus were stripped, bare besides some black and red colored abstract art. All of your books and plants were gone, hell, even the blankets and pillows you laid on were missing, the air almost stale. It was as if every trace of you was wiped from existence. There was no longer were there trinkets scattered over tables and shelves and no longer was there clutter, every item it seemed was frozen in its place.

It was like when you left, you took every feeling with you, leaving the house you found so much joy in empty, vacant except for its solemn owner, waiting for someone who might not ever return.

As you went up the stairs, you noticed his door was open, a sliver of light peeking through, illuminating the shadows of the long hallway. It was a habit he’d done for years, ever since you commented how lonely the halls seemed, devoid of any light.

You stepped inside, your gaze falling on the man at the desk. Sylus didn’t notice you enter, his head bowed over his work, hair uncombed, falling over his forehead.

Clearing your throat, you set his coat on the back of the chair gingerly, almost afraid of interrupting the silence.

He looked up, expression blank but his eyes, oh those eyes. Those beautiful gems gave away every feeling. They changed as soon as they fell upon you, he was surprised you’d come, but relieved, staring at you like you were his oasis. 

“You came,” he said, his voice unsteady.

You put on a tight smile, looking anywhere but his piercing gaze, “Of course, you left your coat.”

Sylus studied you, “Sit down.”

You complied instantly, perching on the edge of the seat, folding your hands in your lap.

“I don’t blame you,” he says quietly, “I understand what you wanted, no, what you needed now. You didn’t need me to buy out whole stores for you or take you to fancy restaurants or to go to fancy gatherings or conquer the world. You just needed me to stay, to be Sylus, not the leader of Onychinus, just your Sylus.”

Looking up at him, your surprise melted at his expression. He looked like a starved man, eyes hungry and pleading, desperate for whatever scraps you’d give him.

You stared at him, mouth agape, not having the words to express your inner turmoil, to show him how deeply his words affected you.

A flicker of understanding passed through his eyes, gaze softening. He stood and walked over in front of you, kneeling in front of you. 

“You are my way of life, of living, every breath that flows through my lungs is yours, every time my heart beats it beats for you. You consume my every thought, every regret, every word that leaves my lips is of your essence,” he looks at you tenderly. 

The way Sylus looks at you is worshipful, like you were a goddess and he your devout follower. 

“I do not deserve you,” he whispers, lowering his head and pressing his head against your knee, practically bowing. “But every action will be me trying to earn you, earn your attention, your praise, your time and affection.”

Breathless, you tilt his chin up, hand running through his hair lovingly, “You will never have to earn me. You have had me ever since you met me, you never fell short of deserving me.”

Sylus shuts his eyes hard, his shaky hands running over your calves with pure adoration.

Leaning forward, you cradle his face in your hands, studying the light reflecting over his skin, his hair casting long shadows. 

Gently, you trace your thumb over his cheek, watching as his lips part, eyes opening to study you. He raises a hand, pushing back a strand of hair from your face as he leans in, eyes questioning.

You give him a barely perceptible nod before he ever so gently presses his lips against yours, giving you time to back away.

When you don’t he braces his hand on your thigh, softly tracing circles against your skin.

The feeling of his lips against yours is so painstakingly beautiful that it made you press into him, hands holding his shoulders, fingers running through the hair at the base of his neck. It was everything you needed and more. The sensation of him with you again healed something in you that you didn’t even know was broken.

Sylus kissed you slow, almost trying to memorize the feel of your lips and body. He was trying to make up for the past two years of nothing, make up for trying to perfect you while you were together. Make up for all the skipped dates and coming home late, slipping into bed and leaving in the morning.

His hands were shaking, running down your arms and threading his fingers with yours that were still holding his face. Sylus shudders, leaning his forehead against yours, breaking the kiss.

“How are you real?” He breathes against your lips, “How did I get so lucky?”

Sylus gently runs his fingers along the back of your hands, leaning up to connect your lips again, this time fiercer, like he was less afraid of scaring you off. 

You could feel the raw emotion he was pouring into your lips, his need, his craving, his desire. He poured out all of his emotions down your lungs and as you kissed him back, you took his emotions and pushed back. Not with force, but with a gentle pressure, turning that burning need into assurance. Assurance that you’d stay, that you wouldn’t walk away.

He pulled away, reaching and pulling a ring out of his pocket, not just any ring, your ring. The same one he had proposed to you with when you were laying in the field, flowers decorating both of your hair, entwined in your clothes. You still had those flowers, dried and framed, shoved somewhere in your closet.

But it was also the same ring you threw at him the night you left, saying if you weren’t perfect enough for him then you certainly didn’t deserve his ring. His eyes were frantic, regret sinking in as he realized the meaning of your words.

The ring was made of silver, black cuts creating a semblance of scales. The centerpiece was a diamond cut pinkish ruby in the center, black spikes twisting around it like horns. It was a ring he said had been in his family for generations, a very dear heirloom.

He gently slid it back onto your finger. It still fit like it was made just for you.

Sylus gently cupped your face, ���I never stopped being your husband, even if you were no longer my wife, I was still yours. I just wanted you to come home and shout at me. To come home and fight with me. Come home and break my heart if you insist. Just come home.”

“I did,” you whispered, “I came home, to you. You are my home.”

There was an indescribable emotion in his eyes, something like hope. 

“Don’t walk away again,” he begged, “I won’t survive if you do it again.”

Your gaze softened, “I won’t ever leave you. Hell, you’ll get so sick of me being attached to your hip.”

Sylus chuckled half-heartedly, “That’ll never happen.”

With his words he kissed you again, like he was making an oath, like he was promising you. Nothing would ever touch you, no one would be able to hurt you, hell, if they ruined your day, their whole life would be ruined. 

Sylus was a man of actions, not words. He was showing you how much he loved you, how dear you were to him.

You felt the wet drop of a tear and were surprised to realize it wasn’t yours. No, as you pulled away you saw Sylus’ eyes full of tears, jaw clenched at the force of holding them back.

Gently, you slid off the chair and sat in front of him, taking his trembling hands in yours and intertwining them, pressing them together.

His face crumpled and he shoved his face in the crook of your neck, his powerful body bent over, surrounding and holding on to you like you were what kept him sane, what kept him tethered to this cruel world. And for the first time, he was seeking shelter in someone else, letting them see his vulnerability.

You could feel his tears soak your shirt, his body shuddering. Gently, you unlaced your hands from his, one combing through his hair and the other running over his back.

“You’re okay,” you whispered against him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

With your words it almost seemed that he cried harder. The fearsome leader of Onychinus was unused to such kind words, such gentle words, such genuine feeling. It was as if it broke something deep inside him, a dam he used to keep his stoic persona. 

He hadn’t let himself cry since you left, only throwing himself into work, scrubbing the house clean of any trace of you, but not entirely. Your old bedroom was shut tightly, and inside was all of your belongings, all your clothes, anything dear to you that wasn’t taken. Sylus couldn’t bear to see so many reminders of you, the star, the sun that shone so brightly on his dark existence.

But now, he let himself break.

As long as it was in your arms.

[k-hippie]

SIMS 3 WORLD - LOST COVE 2025 - THE 30 LOTS

Lost Cove is rebuilding — slowly, but surely. Residential lots are starting to earn that name again. Less rubble, more walls. A bit more comfort, even ( well not really but well ... )

People are getting older; a couch is no longer a sign of weakness, and a painting on the wall isn’t just vanity. Art belongs in the Maslow pyramid, okay ? And Lost Cove’s people are finally aiming for more than just surviving the next zombies :D

Some homes still look like repurposed shelters. Others, though ? They’re trying. A second floor, a roof that doesn’t leak toomuch, a makeshift stove cobbled together from salvaged tech. There’s life in these places — messy, stubborn, real. Your Sim might move into a prefab shack with bullet holes still in the walls… or a crooked lakeside cabin, half-swallowed by ivy. One house has wind chimes made from old tin cans. Another has bathtub but no door. Nobody’s judging ...

It’s not quite suburbia or mansions yet. Some lots are isolated, off-grid hideouts with a single bed and a compost toilet. Others are communal — a few survivors sharing space and meals, not always by choice. You won’t find a picket fence, but you might find a garden bed dug into a parking lot. It’s not like there are construction workers or architects all over the place. A fresh coat of paint won’t fix everything. But Lost Cove isn’t a singles-only island anymore, either. You can think about having a family, or roommates, or just a life indoors — with more than just plants ( no offense to the PlantSims, again )

All kinds of residential lots are waiting for you in Lost Cove. Cracked, cozy, or chaotic — every home tells a story. Maybe your Sim will start theirs here ...

Lost Cove is a lonely place. Most of the time, your Sim will walk alone — through the ruins, across beaches swallowed by silence, past houses where no one lives anymore. But even in this broken world, there are places where people still gather, drawn by the same need to feel human again.

Those community lots aren’t crowded. They’re not lively. But they exist — half-shelters, half-sanctuaries — proof that the world hasn’t entirely forgotten what it means to connect.

The Bloody Way Bar is often the first stop. It’s not glamorous, but it has stories in its walls. Survivors come to share food, barter, vent, or simply exist near someone else for a while. Then there’s the Nature School, rebuilt with scraps and stubborn hope. Children learn there. Adults meet there. It’s not just about knowledge — it’s about building something, together. And the Dispensary ? It’s where you go when things go wrong — physically or otherwise. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Sometimes, you hear whispers of things buried deeper than wounds.

On Summer, when the sun is high and the day hot as hell, you may have a swim in the Ancient Bath, in the middle of a kinda weird "downtown" ...

Supernatural things are never far away all over Lost Cove ( such as a weird troll statue somewhere in the Main Island ) - Besides the Bloody Way, there is too the Elixir Hut with all sorts of herbs and remedies and the Gypsy Eyes ( nobody remember how they came here ) One day they weren't here, and one day, suddenly, they were there ;)

To get quick & dirty food, you have the Granny Ever Fast ( an old gas station long ago ) and the Wild Diner where lazy sims like to hangout around a kinda sandwich :D For another quality, better to go to the Tiny Freshy Market :D

Even if Lost Cove is a game about solitude and survival, it never fully locks you away. A chance meeting at the Oldy Flee Market, a shared moment at the Hangout Park, or a cold swim that brings you face-to-face with another castaway… These are the seeds of stories. Allies. Rivals. Lovers. Enemies. Every place, every ruin, every firepit is a possible starting point. It’s up to you to decide if your Sim keeps walking alone — or dares to build something new, in the cracks of the old world.

One more time, a HUGE thanks to the lots creators all over the web, especially MTS where to find so great houses ! Credits were credit are due : Aisquared – Anticaph – Flora2 – I May Regret This – MySimRealty – Norn – RubyRed2021

Grab a place and say "Hi" to your new life in Lost Cove !

Download Lost Cove Lots

...

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Born to Die (Supercorp half bake)

Lena's family must offer a maiden to sacrfice to protect the realm. Lena is raised for the slaughter, but the community and religion indoctrinates her to believe death is a friend, that it is a privilege for her to serve her community in such a way. She lives her life in service to others-- helping the ill and wounded, feeding the homeless, toys to schools, etc. The realm loves and reveres her.

The first time she doubts her life's purpose is three weeks before her 18th birthday, and the date of her welcome death. She and her brother are arguing, and he says something along the lines of "we won't have to worry about what you think for much longer".

It's the first time her role has been cast in such a light-- so dismissive and cruel. A punishment, rather than a purpose. In the days that follow, she sees her world and her life in a new light. She is honored, yes, but as little more than an ornament with a limited shelf life. She has no real impact, no power-- not even within her own family.

When the time comes, she is taken up to the crest of the sacred hill. She knows she is to be burned-- not a peaceful way to go, but part of the ritual is for her to sip from the chalice, willingly drinking the elixir that will spare her the pain.

Only one person is permitted to accompany her up the hill and light the pyre, long ago decided to be her brother Lex. But when Lena sips from the chalice, she only mimes the act of doing so-- her first act of rebellion, of doubt, to keep her mind sharp.

Lex leads her to the hill. From the crest her pyre would be seen for leagues... a concept that now strikes apprehension into her soul. Is this what fear feels like?

When the pyre comes into view, already prepared with fresh bushels of hay and reads and sticks, Lena stops short. She turns to her brother.

"I can't do this, Lex."

Lex turns to her. "Yes you can. You've got to."

Lena swallows thickly. "I don't want to." She takes a thick breath.

"You don't want to?" Lex's features turn cold, full of icy rage. He leans in close to her fact. "Your whole rotten life you've been treated like a saint, and this is how you repay us?"

"Let go of me," Lena says as his hand tightens painfully around hers. "Lex, let me go--!"

She barely registers the rush of displaced air before her brother's fist slams into the side of her head, knocking senseless.

Minutes later, when she blinks back into awareness, Lena is on the pyre, hands bound around the post pressing against her back. Panic grips her when she sees the lit torch in Lex's hand.

"Brother, please! Please don't do this! I don't want to die!!"

"All your exalted life, you've only ever been good for one thing," Lex says stonily. "And now you won't even do that much."

"Lex!" Lena shrieks, yanking sharply against her bonds. "Don't, please!"

"Time to die, sister."

With a casual toss he lobs the torch onto the pyre. He doesn't even stop to look back when Lena screeches as the first of the flames lick at her bare feet.

---

Unknown to either of the royal siblings, the hill isn't as empty as they believe it to be. A forager keen on scavenging uncommon herbs and plants overhears Lena's shrieks and immediately sprints towards them. She arrives just as the flames catch and climb Lena's shift, reaching almost to her hip as Lena's screams hit a ragged pitch.

Without thinking the forager leaps onto the last patch of uncaught pyre and uses her knife to slice away Lena's bonds. She grabs Lena and pitches them both backwards off the edge of the pyre. She moves quickly to smother the fire that comes with them, clinging to Lena's cloak, but it doesn't take long to know that it may yet be too little, too late.

Lena no longer screams, but her breath comes in short sharp rasps, her body wracking with tremors against the pain of the burns that have blistered her bare feet and legs.

"It's going to be okay," the forager stutters, panic making her own hands shake as violently as Lena's, which curl tightly into the woman's blouse. "I'll take you to someone who can help. Just stay with me."

---

True to her word, the woman manages to carry Lena down the far side of the hill to a small village in the valley beyond. Lena isn't aware of much of the journey nor their arrival. Just the shout of her savior's voice as she calls for another, and the disorientation of being deposited on a small cot.

The pain is all she knows, and the world around her fades in and out, but always a hand grasps hers in a solid, gentle grip. When she has the werewithal to wonder, she thinks this might be what death was supposed to be like: a stranger's hand extended in comfort.

One morning, Lena wakes fully. The pain is still there, low and throbbing and agonizing-- but she can think past it, and experience a world the world that still exists beyond it. She sees a woman next to her cot, slumped dozing in a chair with her ankles crossed and bandages on her hands.

Beyond her, a simple cabin takes shape, slowing coming into focus. Another woman with dark hair busies herself with setting dishes upon a wooden table, and a third, older woman stirs a pot hung above a hearthed fire.

The older woman turns to say something to the dark haired woman-- her daughter, perhaps?-- but stops short when she spots Lena watching.

"Oh! You're awake! Praise the gods..."

The bandaged woman at her bedside, presumably her savior, jolts awake at the exclamation. Clear blue eyes flash towards the older woman, then across to Lena.

"Wh--" Lena's questions dies in her parched throat, consumed by a deep, hacking cough that leaves her winded and gasping.

In an instant, her savior is at her side, lifting a wooden cup to Lena's lips. Cool, clear water coats her tongue and throat, making her sputter briefly before she begins to gulp.

Even that much saps most of Lena's strength. Her eyelids begin to droop even as clothbound palms cover Lena's hand.

"I'm Kara," her savior says, before motioning to her companions, "and this is Alex and Eliza."

Lena's brain struggles to make sense of the names, of her surroundings, of the events that have led her to this cot in a strange hut. Her eyes grow ever heavier, and struggles to remain awake.

"It's all right," Kara murmurs, stroking hair from Lena's sweat slicked forehead. "You're safe here."

Thus comforted, Lena slips back into the embrace of unconsciousness.

[hitlikehammers]

Rockstar!Eddie Comes Back to the Love He Left Behind in Hawkins 🎸to Hold SO TIGHT to His Dream (✨Steve✨, of course) Forever and For Always This Time ❤️‍🩹💕

“My sunshine,” Eddie whispers, pressing a thumb at the notch between those sharp-stunning clavicles, into the pulse, the heavy swallow, the life right there: exceptional. “You have my heart, so anything I put my heart into, anywhere at all, is filled with you. It’s you, Stevie,” Eddie’s voice breaks, eyes stinging again as he leans down, replaces his thumb with his lips—breathes into the beat: “Always you.”

rating: m♥️ back in steve’s bed still in steve’s bed after eddie declares his undying love and stuff 🛌 pure and unadulterated fluff✨ potentially harmful amounts of softness. like basking-in-the-afterglow levels of schmoop here 💕 eddie’s maybe astounded that it’s all turned somehow out this good and this right after convincing himself he’d never have it; eddie also might slightly underestimate just how in this beat-for-beat 💞 (he didn’t think he’d get ANY OF THIS, he is forgiven for misreading that part in his overarching blindness)❤️‍🩹 steve is alongside him 💓 sometimes it’s nice to be surprised that way ♥️ making plans for a future that include them both as it always should have and honestly basically did all along. they’re just each other’s dream inside every dream after all✨

sequel to dreams within our dreams (tumblr // ao3) for @steddielovemonth Day Six: "Just in case you ever foolishly forget, I'm never not thinking of you." —Virginia Woolf

this is a standalone in its universe, but also very much a sequel to it ♥️

It’s kind of strange, in the marveling sort of way.

It’s not make-up sex, because they never properly ‘broke-up’. They never yelled, or fought—and that was likely the core of the real problem.

They should have fought.

Eddie knew what they had was once-in-lifetime. Eddie knew he’d never not just recover from losing it, but he’d never even bother looking for a passable substitute when nothing could ever compare. He should have fought, back then, for the better part of his heart.

So it’s not make-up sex, per se, in the strictest sense. And to call it a reunion would probably not be the most accurate either, given how Eddie’s a frequent flyer on every available airline for how he’s spent more than half of the not-as-impressive-as-he’d-daydreamed paycheck he gets on tickets back to here. Back to Steve. As often as he can.

Back to his home.

He was never naive about what he more than wanted; what he needed to breathe. He was just…he was so convinced, you know? Even as they inched toward the shallow end of fame, Eddie knew being worthy of Steve Harrington was never about that; and was something forever out of his reach, so—when they cut an album and sent it into the world? There was pride, and he felt happy for moments in it all, and still Eddie knew the entire time: it would never, could never, fill the hole in him.

It would never mean he could go back to Steve the next time and be enough to change how it’d shaken out—and because he’s selfish, he was always going to go back, and hope Steve kept being fond enough in the nostalgia, at least, or else that he kept building up sufficient pity, to take Eddie in and top him up for a little longer with the elixir he lived from, lived for, that he found in Steve’s skin against his—but no amount of success on the outside would mean that anything Eddie had to offer, or that he was, to beoffered, would mean he deserved to have Steve with him always—foralways.

It was never going to be that; and knowing as much was the only reason he’d been able to pull away and drive off in the first place, to keep a foot on the gas despite the way he was dying by half-breaths with every mile. The way the biggest part of him never really stopped that withering. Not wholly.

And that’s it, he thinks. Like: Eddie guesses all he can really say is that, for as perfectly fucking transcendent as coming back to Steve always is—as they’ve learned each other more and more across these barely-a-handful of years that stretched lifetimes in Eddie’s chest, cracked his ribs with every breath he took at all—as much as coming back to Steve was always a revelation, the only thing that kept him sane at all: that part of him that never stopped dying, bit by bit? It sat and watched and waited while the sweat dried and the lungs calmed and it maybe held itself in stasis while Eddie relished the heat, the flawless fit of Steve inside of him, but after?

It always just kept dying.

And that’s where the moment, the now is wholly, gorgeously, impossibly, miraculously different.

Because Eddie may just be staring at this man beside him, watching him breathe, watching him exist like the gift it fucking is while Steve gently traces Eddie’s scars without having to look, like he knows them. Like he bothered to remember down to that detail, like a sunrise under Eddie’s ribs as they both luxuriate a little in the warm musk settling after making the thing they’ve been doing forever, somehow still for the first time:

Love. They made love, and Eddie’s heart still hasn’t calmed from the high.

In honesty, like, strike-him-dead honesty: fuck, but Eddie can barely breathe with it; ending up here after everything. Through…everything.

Because it wasn’t just Steve who kept dreams inside his dreams—or maybe, more that he found the real dream he knew lived side-by-side with the other, where only one was actually even potentially attainable. And the other was heartbreakingly beyond even…even hoping for, let alone trying for.

So maybe it’s more…there was that possible-dream he placed just so, front and center and angled just right, to hide his deepest, truest dream.

The one next to him in bed, with a curve to his lips that Eddie’s never seen before: so weightless. So free.

It trips in Eddie’s pulse, just to witness.

The dream within his dream, held safe and secret and aching behind other lesser wants, eating away at him, death by a million heartbeats wasted too far from this body, this single soul in the whole goddamn world. The need inside the bloody mess of Eddie’s heart, the thing lives there, that keeps the shape of it to work at all. The whole of this center-cannot-hold reality that was always his truth, always what made and built who he’d become, that filled all his lines in and gave him all his color; always this.

Always Steve.

For all the times Eddie told himself no, told himself to walk, to swallow, to find a way to breathe, to leave no matter how his own legs fought him because he wasn’t enough, not for a man who deserved all things; a man who Eddie couldn’t even give some things to, in the sphere of what he desired most—the house, the kids, the kind of peace and calm Steve goddamn Harrington had more than earned, and had always deserved beyond question: that was so far from everything Eddie could work to be half of at best, even if he tried with every breath up to his last.

And he would, he would have tried with everything in him if he believed he could have so much as scraped the surface of the things that made up Steve’s dreams, that filled Steve’s heart—and Eddie had never believed he’d change himself for someone else that way. Never even processed the possibility that he could know a love so deep that he’d want to.

That he’d not only ache, but damn well collapse inward on himself for facing the sheer fact that he couldn’t. He couldn’t be that, he’d never be that.

He was so sure.

But then: here he is.

Here he is: and Steve’s heartbeat is a sure-steady thing, a perfect entity in a world almost too flawed for it to be real—save that it is.

This is real.

Eddie’s own heart pounds a little heavier, headier, just for thinking those words.

And Steve’s fingers are running through Eddie’s hair, never catching, never fighting with the strands, just following the twirl of each curl like a maze, or a map—but one he knows.

One only he has always known.

Eddie’s been a goddamn fool. Eddie’s the luckiest motherfucker who’s ever lived.

“You’re the whole thing,” Eddie breathes out now, the marvel of those truths settling deep in his blood, coursing heavy and wild through him head to toe, singing out his whole fucking life as he reaches, cups Steve’s face in his hands; “you’re all of it, you know that?”

Steve leans into Eddie’s palm when he tips his head, furrows his brows a little, all-askance.

Eddie’s heart trips—this man is so precious; so exquisite.

“My dream. Everything I dream of, have dreamt of or wished for since I met you, since I really met you,” Eddie whispers, his voice low because like he said: this man is precious. This moment feels sacred. He’s going to tread reverently, while his heart’s flayed bare, here. Not even for the sake of protection—more so that Steve can look, and reach and test whatever he might need to, to be sure. Eddie means this more than he’s ever meant anything, and he’s laid bare now before the man he loves not to prove it, as much as to offer it—clear where he’d always thought he had to hide—and fucking…hope.

Then again: with Steve?

He’s always laid bare, offered whole, heart and soul and self entire: with Steve. That’s…that’s kind of the point.

And they missed it. All this time, they missed it.

No more.

“You’re at the heart of it, everything I thought was fully-formed before you, it all fits so much better, like it’s meant to, it’s all so much brighter with you at the center,” and if Eddie keeps Steve’s cheek cradled in one palm, he traces Steve’s collarbone with the other, slow enough that he can feel the heartbeat nearby as it raps against his unspeakably grateful, still unworthy hands:

“My sunshine,” Eddie whispers, pressing a thumb at the notch between those sharp-stunning clavicles, into the pulse, the heavy swallow, the life right there: exceptional.

“You have my heart, so anything I put my heart into, anywhere at all, is filled with you. It’s you, Stevie,” Eddie’s voice breaks, eyes stinging again as he leans down, replaces his thumb with his lips—breathes into the beat:

“Always you.”

Because every step he made himself take was—when he looked at it all clearly, now—somehow puzzle-pieced together in his head as being one step he could bring back to Steve, the fool’s-errand that he could ever truly make it back to Steve and be enough—because he was always headed back to Steve, they could tour the world and there’d still be a countdown to when he could see Steve and was allowed to breathe again; but it drove him. The strings under his fingertips were always held against the texture of Steve’s skin. The notes could ring symphonies but they had nothing on Steve; never could. Not Steve’s voice, not Steve’s breaths, or the sounds he made when Eddie fucked him just right, or his soft affections in Eddie’s ear when he sank in and drew noises from Eddie that were for Steve alone.

Only Steve. Always Steve.

And Steve shivers the slightest bit, but Eddie feels how strong that blood moves, beauty in itself, this core manifestation of what Eddie doesn’t just want most.

But what he needs most.

“I play for you,” he breathes there, smiles when the rhythm kicks a little harder, like the words can fill Steve’s heart the way they don’t just fill Eddie’s, but make Eddie’s, down past the cells. “You’re in every track,” he whispers, and fuck is it true: “you make the chords sing.”

As if it ever could have been a coincidence that they found anything like success only after there was Steve, only after Eddie’s heart was spoken for and filled full, broken open under his own fumbling hands, and if there’s any possible way to find any worthy thing inside any of these half-lived years, lived half-apart—because fuck the success, it’s been hollow every moment he couldn’t walk back through the door and know Steve wouldn’t be far away—but if there’s anything worth salvaging in it?

Maybe he can grasp onto loving that strong anyway, through all of it, never once faltering in it and more, never wishing he could, because yes he tried to bury the hurt, run from it—but never did he even consider a world where he wasn’t built up from his DNA, constructed out of a love for Steve, of Steve, with or without Steve but always Steve; his own stupidity, or maybe it was just cowardice: but even that pain wasn’t a match for the unshakable thing he doesn’t just feel, but breathes inside as a rule, for Steve. Made of Steve.

Offered heart-in-hand, to Steve—

Eddie kisses a little trail down into the hair on Steve’s chest, following that flow of life: needs it in this minute. Needs to squeeze his eyes closed and hold there just a second. Let his body soak in how this is real.

This is real.

How is this real—

“I come home to you, always been coming home to you,” he breathes where he can feel Steve’s heart move, and when he blinks a tear falls there and it feels kind of fitting; kind of wholly right in a space inside him where nothing’s been right in years, and he swallows hard around that flash of clear truth as he exhales shaky:

“You are my home.”

And Steve’s inhale is sharp at that, and Eddie goes to kiss his chest again because he can, good god, he fucking can and Steve—

Steve reaches to cradle Eddie for himself, now, palms curved against Eddie’s head, his devotion pressed tight to Steve’s chest, the riotous waves bounding below his mouth and lifting like a kiss in its own right against Eddie’s parted lips.

“I never thought I’d get this, though,” Eddie breathes, barely; thinks maybe the words aren’t even loud enough to hear, and the way Steve presses him closer for it is just because his heart against Eddie’s mouth heard the heart in Eddie’s mouth loud and clear.

“Never, Stevie, I,” and his voice cracks, and Steve’s fingers thread through his hair: comfort; protection. A claim Eddie never thought he’d earn, hasn’t earnedhere but had known in his bones, before, that he had to have lost any chance—to walk from the biggest parts of your heart and soul, and to do it because you knew your better halves couldn’t ever hope to match even a fraction of his lesser halves? No nuggets, no Winnebago, no picket fence, no garden or dinner on the table, even if he’d try, he’d have tried so fucking hard but he’s not made for the kitchen and all that is just the baseline, the simplest minimums of what Steve deserved, and Eddie, all Eddie was, all Eddie had to offer, it’s, he…

But then he’s reminded again, with the massage of that heartbeat on his lips: he is here. They are here.

And…and maybe not even in spite of what Eddie can’t give, or be, like he always thought. Maybe…somehow…

Maybe something else. Maybe even the exact opposite. But no matter the how, or even the why?

He’d been so wrong, and he doesn’t deserve the spoils of it, but god he has never been more grateful to have been a blind fucking fool, to have broke his own heart and maybe the one underneath him too but maybe also not beyond repair, and as far as he can tell, not beyond offering—and more unfathomable still, but also not beyond reclaiming as deep as it’d ever been, the love still there, despite all the bruising, and if it’s there then it’s not even a question of whether it can be nursed back in full, Eddie will do anything—but if everything he thinks he sees, and feels, and knows in these moments now is true?

Holy fuck, Eddie has never been so goddamn grateful to have gotten every part of it this fucking wrong.

Until now. Now, when his own heartbeat is back to pounding again: less steady than Steve’s but not because he’s anything but sure. Overwhelmed—that’s probably more accurate. Overfull. Vibrating and shaking as a single thing, filled with joy and terror in equal counts but a terror that is primarily a joy of its own.

The kind of terror that you feel in the face of something so profound, it freezes you in awe for it.

That dazzling spark that makes a heart anything more than a hunk of meat.

Dreams inside fucking dreams.

Eddie whimpers, pulse tripping as Steve keeps his hands around Eddie’s face, frames it sure but soft, dear.

“Always,” he leans to kiss Eddie’s lips, long and languid and like they have all the time in the world, and could they, this time, do they really, finally?

“You always had it,” and Steve keeps one palm cradled to Eddie’s cheek and Eddie moans a little as he leans into it heavy, needy when Steve draws Eddie’s other hand firm, decisive to the center of his own chest as he whispers, closest thing to a vow Eddie’s ever heard:

“It’s never not been yours.”

And the closest thing to heaven Eddie’s ever felt is Steve’s wholly-offered heartbeat under his hand as Steve breathes those words into his parted lips before kissing him again, more like a claim crossed with a benediction, a marveling sort of gratitude:

“Always you.”

And Eddie basks in that feeling for only a moment before he gives as good as he gets and then some, because Steve will always deserve above, and then beyond—but it feels a little more like they’re less battling with their tongues and more teasing each other open to breathe in one another’s soul—and if that’s what it is, if that’s even possible: Eddie fucking wants it.

“Do you know what it does to me?” he pants against Steve’s equally-swollen mouth when air’s no longer willing to be ignored. “What you do to me?”

“Tell me,” Steve mouths against Eddie’s lips like a secret, like a dare, like a promise. Like intimacy incarnate.

Eddie’s pulse surges high in his throat, desperate to touch.

“I want to regret the time we spent where we didn’t, where I didn’t,” Eddie licks his lips and sucks in Steve’s exhale, they’re so close—so close; “I cannot regret any time I’ve lived loving you, though, it’s,” Eddie confesses, and sacrifices the wonder of Steve’s heartbeat in his hand to flip their hold and press Steve tight to his: what Steve does to him.

“It feels wrong on this, like, elemental level, to even think it,” Eddie gasps through trying to shape words to it all, something that is so much more than the words.

“Maybe it could have looked different, earlier,” and even the possibility lands sour in him, and yet it’s not…it’s not as bad as he’d have expected, and maybe that’s because—

“But the fact that you’re my whole heart? That doesn’t change, that never changed, that never got more or less true,” and Eddie says it with his whole chest, his whole heart like it fucking deserves; “it’s an absolute, y’know? Law of the universe,” and he knows that. He knows that more than he knows anything.

And when he mouths his feeling into Steve and watches it sink in deep, then deeper, and feels Steve’s heart jump under his hand, it hits with a rightness, a cosmic sort of ‘message received’ like quicksilver in his veins.

“Still feels like a dream,” Eddie whispers, and is finally close enough and at the right angle to bow his head into Steve’s, to breathe him in when Eddie breathes out, to hold steady, brow to brow, needing one another so fucking hard; “to be this lucky, y’know?”

“I know,” Steve whispers, and it’s sweet, it’s so fucking sweet; “I know.”

And then he’s pulling back a little, just enough to meet Eddie’s eyes again, his as bright and wet as Eddie’s knows his own are, at the least.

“But maybe that’s it. Maybe because you were my dream the whole time,” Steve breathes out, the joy in him a more quiet marvelling thing, just as stunned and overcome but…Eddie thinks they’ll find in time—all the time, in all the time they have to learn the things they missed, all the time in the world—Eddie thinks they’ll find they both resigned themselves differently, and the the way Steve managed was a quiet hurting, a folded up devastation deep in his chest.

But…somehow he’s telling Eddie that that very chest, and the heart he hid that devastation behind, was Eddie’s the whole fucking time. Somehow. Impossibly.

In his arms, pressed against him here and now.

Eddie swears to fuck that he will take that devastation and cast it into the fucking fire. Never let it touch his Stevie ever again.

“However I could have you, however we could be,” and the simple…well-worn drudgery of those words, the acceptance in them—it nearly knives Eddie’s heart mid-beating.

But Steve: Steve, being all the light and wonder and worth in the world, he has to see something. He has to see it, and so he reaches to cup Eddie’s face somehow more delicate and dear still, leans to kiss Eddie soft and sure, before he’s drawing them near nose-to-nose, only the barest distance necessary to keep each other in their sights.

“When I gave you my everything I wasn’t looking for a refund,” Steve’s eyes flicker over Eddie’s face, drinking in his expression, seeing him in a way Eddie’s only known with Steve, only even given to Steve, only found hands willing to hold all he offered in Steve’s steady palms.

Goddamn, he should have fought, they should have always been here, but he wasn’t lying for his own sanity, to make the ache land softer. He meant it; being with Steve at all is a gift he never thought to hope for; always has been.

The thing he was dreaming of, inside the heart of every other dream, it was never a dream of more, just of different. Because Steve, was Steve, is Steve.

Anything with him is a motherfucking privilege.

And if this is real, and it sticks for keeps: he wasn’t asking for more.

But this thing he’s already feeling is going to stretch and break him wide open in the most impeccable way, glorious as it shines and bleeds sacraments between them, and there will be more because loving, like this, the two of them in tandem, in sync, will make it so. To reshape what they can hold in the first place.

“I wanted you to keep as much of it as you wanted, however you wanted, forever,” Steve whispers, nuzzles a little at the stubble on Eddie’s cheek, unquestionably adoring and Eddie, he…

This was only ever Steve’s.

It could only ever have been Steve’s.

“That,” Eddie breathes, half-like a whimper. “I always wanted you,” and he frames Steve’s face and runs both thumbs over his cheekbones as he pledges his whole goddamn soul:

“Forever.”

“That’s what you have,” Steve’s eyes finally loose a tear where Eddie’s already soaked Steve’s hands for the way he’s sobbing through the pieces of him finding how they’ve always been meant to fit. “S’what you’ll always have.”

“I love you so goddamn much,” Eddie’s voice shakes for all the fullness in his chest, all the feeling in his heart, Steve’s heart—his heart had always belonged to Steve: “I always have. I never stopped,” he swears, he needs Steve to know even if there’s been nothing but proof shown between them this night—and Eddie’s watched Steve believe him but he still needs him to know in the marrow of his bones.

“I never will.”

And the way Steve kisses him before he can even breathe, can even swallow once those words come out—Eddie thinks he’s made his point.

Confessed this single truth of his whole fucking soul.

“I have,” Steve draws back eventually, bows his head into Eddie’s forehead; “I have never even bothered trying to love when it wasn’t you,” Steve nuzzles the side of his nose a little, like the leftovers of a shrug but…it makes Eddie’s chest so warm, even before Steve tacks on:

“Always you.”

And that’s it. That’s…that’s the core of it all. That is the dream. The only dream.

Always. Always this; them.

“How do you want this to be?”

And it’s always gonna be. It’s fucking always gonna be.

“Hmm?” Steve hums, a little boneless, mostly curious, gratifyingly at ease as Eddie’s arms have snaked around him and pulled Steve close, chest to chest so they rise into each other as it should always have been. As Eddie didn’t realize he’d been missing like a fucking limb this badly until now. He’d suspected, but—

No more. Never again.

Not. Ever. Again.

“I can move back here,” Eddie thinks that’s probably the logical choice, unless Steve’s looking to relocate as Erica’s graduation gets closer; “or—”

“What?” Steve pulls back a little to catch him in a baffled stare, jaw a little dropped, totally uncomprehending.

Which…okay yeah, wait: what?

“You,” Eddie takes a deep breath; this isn’t hard, or some unknown quantity to take a risk on anymore. But it’s too important not to handle with care, nonetheless. “You want to be together, yeah?”

Steve’s confusion morphs immediately into the kind of look he’d perfected when the kids where younger, and had never lost, for when someone asked an absolutely asinine sort of question.

“Of course,” Steve tells him, emphatic in the unyielding hold of his embrace; “always,” and even if he can’t move too much for how tight Eddie holds him, he can still lean his neck back and kiss him full of intent, making a point.

“But Eddie,” his voice softens, alongside the abiding sort of love unmistakable in his eyes:

“You always come back to me.”

Like that’s a perfectly reasonable answer. A perfectly acceptable status quo. Like what’s been this long is…is enough.

Eddie was never going to go back to what it’s always been, now that he knows that he can have it all. Now that he’s been given everything; now that they can be everything.

Even considering risking that bliss, that blessing is un-fucking-fathomable.

“I don’t want to come back to you,” Eddie clings to Steve a little tighter, buries a little closer into his neck, maybe a little desperate, but he thinks after everything he’s allowed it. Entitled maybe, even.

“Always, yeah? I want us to be always.”

And he’s equally entitled to sounding needy, to being goddamn desperate when he says that, too.

“Eds,” Steve kisses him slow this time, like he wants to press the feeling into him thorough, to last: “I am. We are,”

“We can be,” he says with a sureness that stumbles bright in Eddie’s swollen heartbeat, clatters buoyant through his whole chest; “we know now, and so we can be,” he sighs, shakes his head a little and smiles soft, means his words:

“It doesn’t have to change.”

And Eddie sees that what he means is that they…they can play this game, and simply change the rules. Or keep the rules, but shift the game. That knowing how they belong to one another, now, will be enough. Will be liveable. Will be a balm on all the ways they’ve torn themselves in two for so very long, and a promise that when they part now there won’t be tearing, just missing.

But that’s…Eddie’s fucking exhausted, living without a whole heart. He…he knows Steve means well, and knows just as much that Steve could believe to the molecules inside him that he’s loved far beyond measure, but he’s still built to bend. To give, and concede. To bear the load, to carry the brunt. Things he never deserved to accept, let alone expect.

That’s not going to be what they are, anymore.

“I,” Eddie licks his lips. Swallows hard before he meets Steve’s eyes and says, so clear and somehow with at least equal sureness to Steve’s own, maybe more, harder earned because Eddie’s not built for it like Steve, his beautiful paladin, but he can be selfish, in defense of them both:

“I need more.”

And Steve knows all of what runs through Eddie’s head before he speaks, knows what it holds and what it costs to have said it. To have confessed and begged for it.

He looks like he might start crying a little again. Eddie certainly feels his eyes stinging already.

“I’d never ask you to follow me into the kind of life I have now,” Eddie tries to rush the words out, before he gets lost in the waves of feeling that are building upon themselves, close-on to towering and that’s only right and good, they should never be less but Eddie needs his wits to finish what he means to make known, first: “to be dragged into something you don’t want, that isn’t your dream,” because even if Eddie is? The fame, to nomadic ping-ponging, the insanity of it all: that’s the opposite of the picket fence he said he didn’t want anymore but it’s also…it’s not glamorous, it’s not comfortable, it’s entirely separate from what Steve deserves.

“So I’ll change it, I’ll do it different,” because it’s not a question. It’s not a…it’s not a fucking question, Eddie doesn’t care what it takes. He reaches for Steve, thinks he may frame his face but decides to wrap around him instead, presses so tight and close, doesn’t stop until he swears he can feel Steve’s heartbeat against his own and his eyes slip closed as he breathes in deep to feel just that little bit more: this is what he wants. All he wants.

All he has ever truly dreamed of.

“I built so much of myself around you without being able to have all of you,” Eddie breathes into the shell of his ear, kisses below the lobe and stays there, stays.

“There’s nothing I won’t do to keep you, Stevie. Nothing.”

That’s all there is. All he knows. It’s all he’s been doing the best he could, the most he thought he was able or allowed, was welcome to, this whole time that’s all he has lived to do at the end of every day, every breath; but now? Knowing they could have more, that they can be everything?

That is all that there is.

“Sweetheart,” Steve murmurs where he’s lined up close to Eddie’s ear to match on the other side, and Eddie shivers for the sensation, but also the endearment: it’s Eddie’s for Steve—when Steve chooses it, it’s special:

“You’re not listening,” Steve breathes so warm, so fond and it’s that paired with the ‘sweetheart’ and the strong-steady feel of his heart against Eddie’s chest that holds Eddie’s pulse from shooting off wild in fear, in foolish doubt.

Steve’s wrapped too tight around him, though. Steve’s with him, whatever he means with those words—whatever it is, it’s no more than a misstep. A single trample of toes in the dance of their lives.

“What did you think I meant, when I said there was a dream inside my dream,” Steve exhales against his hair, kisses at the line of where his sideburn would grow if he let it; “when I told you what my dream wasn’t?”

Eddie wants to look into his eyes and ask with his gaze what he means, but…he doesn’t think he can physically do anything but lean into the damp heat of Steve’s mouth, chase that comfort as he tilts into Steve’s attention, gets more kisses along his hairline for the subtle ask, for being known so well and loved so deep that Steve was already ready and waiting to give.

Eddie thought this is what Steve meant by a dream inside his dream. It’s what Eddie meant. They’d seemed to be on the same page. It feels, like this, in this moment, like they’re definitely on the same page.

Undeniably.

So what does Steve mean—

“I still have the goddamn luggage, Eddie,” Steve mouths along his skin, and fuck, he doesn’t know what else to do but to lean in; to want for it. For always.

So it’s probably kind of predictable, at the very least instinctual and beyond his conscious control, how he lets out a fucking whine when Steve replaces his mouth with his palm and moves to look Eddie square-on.

The love in his eyes makes Eddie’s heart flip reckless inside his ribs.

“You’re it,” Steve tells him, leans in a little extra with the feeling; “you have to know,” he shakes his head, in the marveling kind of way;“you have to know that.”

And then he’s holding Eddie’s face and he kisses every inch of it: the lines of his eyebrows and the soft dips of his temples; the splay of his lashes and the bow of his lips. The tip of his nose.

Eddie’s eyes ease open a little lazy, a little fucking dazed for how intimate it was, to feel that treasured; to be reverenced so well under that mouth before it opens once more to squeeze around Eddie’s heart, to break Eddie’s world in two:

“You wouldn’t be asking me anything I haven’t been dreaming of being asked, for years.”

And the words themselves don’t spell a promise out in letters but that’s exactly what it is. It’s a vow as much as any that comes with a ring and a license—but Eddie will damn well do that part as best he’s able, too.

But what Steve is fucking saying, and everything it holds inside? It cracks the world in halves. Everything before this moment, and everything that waits for them to come—the future ahead.

And Eddie only knows how many days it’s been—3 years, 7 months, and 14 days; 15, now, as the sun pokes just the slightest bit on the horizon, like a dare through the window—but Eddie only knows because his heart counted the beats the whole fucking time. Because he learned how long he could push each absence of the very reason it kept pumping at all before the threads that held Eddie in one piece—all of them tied to Steve, all of them, always—frayed too to snapping, and then he came back, he always had to come back.

This was his heart.

And now his heart was telling him that he’d always been waiting to follow with everything, not merely to be rushed toward every time Eddie had to beg for what scraps he could pretend to deserve, fool himself were enough, before he unraveled, died of a starvation in his fucking soul.

And Eddie isn’t going to do things like he’s always done. He’s not going to live the same life, if Steve’s coming with him: because his Steve is not going to follow him. His Steve is going to walk side by side, where both of them will learn what it can feel like to live when your heart’s always whole.

Eddie doesn’t know what else to do, in that moment, in that clarity of that realization: he doesn’t know anything but to near-tackle Steve to the bed and kiss him breathless, until Eddie’s lungs hurt but his heart dances too much, to overjoyed to fucking care.

Because this is the start of what comes next. This is the future broken wide open for them to grasp with both hands and pull to their chest and hold tight between them. For always.

For both of them.

With both fucking hands.

Finally.

🖤🎸❤️‍🩹

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