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baldursgate3tempobsessed · 2 years ago

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Soft Astarion Jealousy

Now with part 2!

I love Ascended Astarion because he's horrible but the sweetness of the other end of the spectrum is impossible to deny. He's just so in love and grateful I can't 🥺🥺

So here's some jealousy that isn't psychotic. Well it is but not as bad:

Astarion never expected to be the jealous type. He always thought...well. In all honesty he never thought about the reality of having a relationship. He didn't even think it was possible for him, let alone the idea that he would actually want it. Even with you, even after he admitted a fraction of his own feelings to himself, he never thought that he would be so... possessive. Though admittedly, he had very good cause for it.

Because you were frustrating. So, so frustrating. For some idiotic reason, you simply didn't understand how alluring to others you really were. You were a pretty little thing, yes but that wasn't the problem. It was so much more than that. And he knew that the others wanted you. Every last one of them. Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Wyll, Karlach, Gale, Halsin. All of them like moths to a flame. And that wasn't even counting all of the strangers you had met on your journey, the extras that thought they had a shot with your greatness. They all wanted you in ways that made Astarion seethe. And the desire from others wasn't even the kind that he was used to, the kind he understood like the back of his hand. Because you didn't need to seduce to cultivate desire. All you needed to stoke the flames was merely your presence. Experiencing you was all that was required for people to know they wanted more.

Astarion knew that the others weren't just looking for a bedmate, they wanted you for the same reasons he had grown to. Your empathy, your desire to understand those around you. Your fearlessness, your infuriating habit of always trying to do the right thing. They wanted you for your laugh, the way your eyes would crinkle in the corners when your smile was too wide. Your silly jokes, your endless hopefulness for a future. It felt as though everyone around saw you for the gem that you were and it was... concerning. Extremely concerning.

Astarion hated thinking about things like this. He loathed admitting the truth to himself even more. But he was...terrified of losing you to someone else. Especially since it could so easily be done. He was so very lucky that you weren't the brightest, or at least not when it came to matters of the heart. You could do so much better than him, a fact that was incredibly obvious to everyone around you. Everyone but you, a luck that Astarion did not take lightly. But how much time did he have before it ran out? Would it ever?

Perhaps it was delusional, but he was starting to think when all of this was over, assuming neither of you perished anyway, that...it could just be the two of you. Living together, exploring the world, even if it had to be under the cloak of night. Maybe... maybe the two of you could even find a cure for his unsavory condition. The thought itself was incredibly stupid, but then again, it was just as idiotic to believe that there was a cure to the Mind Flayer parasite. But here they were, closer then ever. And if that was such an impossibility turned into reality, perhaps a vampiric cure wasn't so impossible. Or maybe even finding an alternative method for immortality for you, without the downsides of his own. Anything that could just keep you both together, for as long as possible. It was an unrealistic dream, that would never come into fruition. If anything it was dangerous, so very dangerous to even entertain the thought of forever. Especially when your connection was so tenuous.

Astarion would never be stupid enough to thank Cazador for anything but...he'd be lying if he said he wasn't appreciative for his own lack of subtly when it came to seducing you. Even if it originally was for distasteful reasons, it still got him ahead of the pack. If he had been less calculating, less astute, there was a sincere chance that you would be warming someone else's bed at night. Callousness would never be without it's uses, even if it led to uncomfortable situations like his current infatuation.

What would he do when you inevitably wanted to leave? How could he survive after having something so...good. Someone so caring, someone who for some very horrifying reason liked being around him. And the sex... it was fabulous. He was a massive fan of your intimacy, when he was capable of participating in it. He adored it, he adored you, your beauty, the sweet noises he could coax from your mouth, the europhia of being inside of you. Then there was the fact that you could be intimate without any traces of it devolving into lovemaking. He had never been gifted with the ability to say no before, so often and so freely without a single fear of punishment. If anything, it felt like he was rewarded when he was honest with you, when he would share his sudden fits of discomfort in his own body, the memories that plagued him and doomed him to staying stubbornly soft. You would never get angry, never even disappointed. You would just listen and smile, always adorable when you would ask, "But I can stay for a cuddle, can't I?"

An extremely silly question, considering the two of you hadn't spent a night apart from each other since you'd made it to the Shadowlands. Yet it never failed to make him melt.

It was getting worse, these feelings. He just wanted you around, by his side, constantly. Constant enough for him to get the ridiculous urge to hiss at anyone else who dared to come near you. He felt an intense need to protect the closeness the both of you had cultivated, the kind that he had never been allowed before. He had no interest in sharing you with your own friends when it came down to it, let alone another lover.

Which is precisely why his original, mild distaste for Halsin turned into a full-blown hatred the night he had the gall to proposition you.

It had felt like a shard of ice going through his chest when you bounded over to him, laughing about one of his greatest fears coming much too close to reality, "You won't believe the conversation Halsin and I just had-"

"Ah, I was wondering when you were going to ask me about that," Astarion laughed, purposefully interrupting you. He had no desire to hear the specifics of that conversation. He didn't even want to be having this conversation, where you were inevitably going to ask if it was okay to explore someone else.

The answer was no. Never would he be okay with it, allowing someone else to be close to what should have been his. But he needed to think strategically here. To say no could be disasterous. If it became a game of choice between him and Halsin... he's almost certain he would lose. Halsin was everything he wasn't; caring, giving, sharing in your worldviews in a way that Astarion never could. He couldn't risk it, he wouldn't. Having you at all was better than nothing.

"But I'd never even consider something like that-"

"It's fine," Astarion interrupts again, the fakest smile he can muster plastered on his face. The pain was worth the risk mitigation, he was sure of that. But... he still had to ask, "But is this because we haven't...y'know, in awhile?"

A sick part of him prays that you'll say yes. Because if that's the reason, he could do something about it. He could force himself if need be to always tend to your needs. Especially if it meant keeping you to himself. It was such a small sacrifice in comparison to the rest of his life. He would do it in a heartbeat if you demanded, anything to just make you stay.

But that was not the answer he received. Instead you frowned, looking him up and down, "What? No, I-Astarion no. Please don't think that. What we have together is so special to me. The physical part of it is lovely, perfect even. But...it's not what we are."

It's almost comforting to hear you say that. But then why did that make the situation feel so much worse? If it wasn't sex you were after then that certainly meant you wanted more with Halsin as well, did it not? But it was too late to rescind it now.

Astarion nodded, a confused mixture of hurt and gratefulness swirling through him, "I just needed to know. But if you're satisfied with me and just want to explore, go right ahead. I'll be here when you're done."

You nodded slowly, brow furrowed when you asked, "So...we aren't exclusive then?"

"No, of course not," Astarion confirmed, ignoring everything inside of him that was screaming for him to take it all back, "We can be as open as you'd like."

"I see..." You said, trailing off with a frown. You coughed into your hand, looking up at him sharply. Sharp enough for him to be sincerely confused, "Does this mean that you'll be speaking to me before you explore your other options?"

"I-yes? If you want?" Astarion answered, a new type of unease settling in his chest. You didn't seem very happy with this conversation, despite his best attempts to give you what you wanted. Where had he gone wrong? Was he already working to throw you into the arm's of another man, without even trying?

You were still frowning at him, your look cold in a way that made him feel particularly ill, "Please do. I'd like to know everything. I'm going to speak to Halsin, get this all sorted. We can talk later."

And then you were spinning on your heel and marching away, like Astarion was the offensive party here. It made no sense. He had done it all right, hadn't he? Agreed to it immediately, didn't make you feel guilty, had tried to be what you wanted. How had he failed?

He didn't wait around to see you go to Halsin. Instead he went straight back to his tent, closing the flap as he laid down. Great. Fantastic. Now he would have to be aware, perhaps even hear you being with another, while simultaneously reliving that horrid conversation in his head for the entire night. The hurt and worry was making his mind wander to uncomfortable places. Perhaps...Halsin could be dealt with in another way if things became too serious between the two of you.

Would poisoning the man be too extreme?

But before Astarion had the time to start thinking of a more detailed plan he was interrupted. Suddnely, moonlight was filling his tent, with your silleoute shining in the darkness.

He blinked up at you, confused, "What are you doing here?"

You frowned at him, looking hesitant in the entry way, "Should I not be? I thought-I can go if you'd like."

"No!" Astarion blurted out, loud and desperate enough to make him cringe. He cleared his throat, trying again, his voice still a touch too pitiful for his liking, "No, no, come here darling. Of course you're always welcome. I just assumed you would be busy."

To his relief you listened, crawling into the bedroll next to him. Astarion didn't waste any time in wrapping his arms around you, relieved to humiliating degrees that you had chosen to come back after the deed. Though...you didn't quite smell as he had thought you would. There were no traces of the floral, woodsy smell of the druid on your skin. Just the sweet, pleasant scent that he had grown so fond of.

You sighed as he tucked you against him, the warmth of you enough to make him relax for the first time that night. You laid together in a pleasant quiet, one that Astarion was actually scared to disturb. Despite the fact that he desperately wanted to know what happened between the two of you.

But you broke the silence for him, muttering into his chest after the two of you were settled, "I'm...sorry for being snappish earlier. I shouldn't have been. You didn't do anything wrong, and I know I don't own you. I shouldn't have assumed."

Astarion frowned, pulling back to get a proper look at your face. You looked hurt, sad even. Like you were the one who had gotten their heart broken. He could feel a curl of distaste settling in his stomach, annoyed that this felt as though the situation was being placed back to him. He had played his part, perfectly. What more could you ask for? What was there to assume?

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Astarion carefully said, his eyes fixed on every micro expression on your face, "What did I do that could have been construed as incorrect?"

"Nothing!" You rushed to say, shame coloring your cheeks, "I was being stupid. You never promised me anything. I just...assumed. Wrongly that we were something we aren't."

That didn't-he-what? Astarion frowned at her, his confusion evident on his face, "What did you think we were?"

You looked uncomfortable, avoiding his gaze when you answered, "I thought that we were...together. Alone. Just us. But if that's not what you want I understand. It's fine-"

"What in the hells are you talking about?" Astarion blurted out, his anger and pain bubbling to the surface, "I haven't done a thing. And we were just us before you decided to galivant off with a bear of a man!"

He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. So much for playing things safely. No, he couldn't even have the self-control to stay quiet. He always had to ruin everything.

But surprisingly, you didn't look angry. If anything you seemed just as confused as he felt, "What? I didn't-we didn't do anything! When did I say I wanted to do anything with Halsin? You were the one saying you didn't care!"

You weren't making any damn sense, "Well why else would you ask me about it?"

"I didn't!" You huffed, glaring at him, "All I was going to say was that he asked me. And I wanted your help on how to best turn him down! And then you jumped at the chance to push me onto someone else-"

"I did nothing of the sort!" Astarion seethed back, "If it was up to me you would never look at another man again! Or woman for that matter!"

It was an odd feeling, to be arguing while holding each other so closely. But Astarion had no intention of letting you go anytime soon, even if he could feel you squirming against his ironclad grip when you fumed at him, "Then why would you say it was okay?!"

"Because I don't want you to leave me!" He shouted back, loud enough to snap him out of his own anger. All of his fury was instantly replaced with fear. Gods, why had he felt the need to say that? To lay his biggest insecurity out on the line. Why not just hand you a stake while he was at it, since he was so eager to give you the tools to destroy him.

But you were still seething, hissing back at him, "Why praytell, would I leave the man I've been in love with for months? Hm? Please, explain it to me!"

Astarion couldn't. He was too busy being shell-shocked at the confession, feeling too many emotions at once. Joy, relief, somehow even more fear than before. You so freely said the words that he had done his damndest to bury, to ignore. But now they were out there, filling him with a horrifying joy.

He wanted to say it back. He did. But he couldn't get the wrecthed words out. Instead he was just staring at you like an imbeicle, his mouth hanging opening at the confession.

But his silence didn't make you falter. Instead you looked determined, near fierce as you grasped his face into your warm hands, "I love you Astarion. You don't have to say it back. That's not what this is about. But I want you. And only you. If you want the same of me then you must tell me. Now."

Astarion let his hands flutter over your wrists, humiliating tears prickling at his eyes. But at least his vocal chords allowed him to answer you this time, "I do. So much more than you know. I want us. Just us. No one else."

The words were flowing out of him, too fast and sincere for him to make the appropriate edits in his head. He was saying too much, feeling too much, giving too much. But the way your eyes brightened at his words, the way you grinned at him before pulling him in for a sweet kiss made it suddenly feel like he wasn't giving anything up at all.

As much as he loathed to admit it, Astarion was exceedingly grateful for Halsin's existence after that night. He would never have had the gall to demand you to himself without a trigger, without the anger you both shared at being misunderstood. Because now, you were his. His alone, the proclamation coming from your own lips. And he was free to stop hiding how much he had wanted it. How willing he was to do anything to keep it. He let himself off his own leash after that, leaning completely into the mutual ownership you had of each other. No more would he silently sit back and seethe as a stranger flirted with you. No, now he'd be upfront and center, with a possessive hand around your waist as he glared them down, more than prepared with a confidence-shattering quip on his tongue.

He started to let all of his urges seep through, taking full advantage of your willingness. If Wyll looked at you for too long at the fire, with a touch of something that Astarion didn't like in his eyes, he'd effortlessly pull you into his lap onlookers be damned as breathed you in. If Gale suddenly had a suspect offer to teach you some new magic in a secluded location, Astarion would invite himself, impervious to any glares sent his way. And when he felt as though all of them were being a bit too flirtaious, he was more than happy to put them in their places at night. Spending hours upon hours making you scream his name in bed from pleasure, loud enough for everyone to hear and know exactly who you belonged to.

He couldn't care less if it added to his own unpopularity amongst their merry-band of rejects. Their opinions didn't matter. Not when you were eating all of the sudden attention up.

You let him do it all because you understood him, in ways that no one else had bothered to before. You knew who he was, what he wanted, the extent to how much he craved your attention. And you let it all happened, reveled in it even. The intense shows of affection. Because you loved him. And he loved you. And one of these days he'd allow himself to admit the obvious.

But for now, he had what he wanted. What he needed. And in the first time in his life, even with disgusting tadpoles squirming his his brain, Astarion was actually...happy.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion fic #long fic #you'll pry my long posts out of my cold dead hands #may add a dirty part two here #dirty sweet

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devotionlest · 1 month ago

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*Epically punch a hole through your door to unlock it then proceeds to crashes through the the wall right next to the door* Hey can I request the survivors thoughts on the new Survivor reader who has the abilities of a Fisher?

The plot Idea or whatever you want to call this: the survivors are happy that you are around because they no longer just have to eat pizza or chicken but they are worried that when the trials (idk what they're called in lore) start you might not last that long but luckily for them you were able to take care of yourself and be a major help like: (these are just ideas for the abilities you don't have to use them) they can use their fishing rod to pull the killer or the survivors near them like Isabel's fishing rod from Smash, set a cage trap, and maybe have a harpoon for self-defense.

🎣 survivors x reader w/ fisher abilities 🐟

generally, the idea of a new survivor itself was exciting for everyone. it certainly wasn't every day that someone new fell victim to being (unfortunately) dragged into this hellish realm, so they were rather stoked and intrigued to meet you in the cabin face-to-face for the first time.

it wasn't overwhelming at all. in fact, it was very peaceful and welcoming. everyone took turns asking basic questions and greeting you, enthusiastically taking their time to get to know you. and you got along with them well! though, the most common question that everyone took particular interest in: what exactly do you do..?

it was quite a surprise to see you actually pulling up into your first round carrying around fishing equipment with an unreadable expression on your face as if this was an every day thing. some even expressed their worry that they fear you wouldn't last very long without their protection. you insisted that you could handle yourself, so everyone decided there was no time for questions and instead should be busy making it through the next hour.

as the round went on and you expressed more of your abilities, your fellow teammates eventually caught on. elliot took particular interest in your healing capability, incredibly relieved that there was another person who could help him help out everyone else. he even makes sure to spare you a slice even if you aren't very low, just making sure you that have enough to get through the rest of the round. if anyone knows how stressful it is to chase people down to heal them, it's definitely him.

not only that, but you could also lure the killer in with bait right into an efficiently placed trap! a few people seemed to favor this little ability of yours the most, using the killer's moment of weakness to slash their daggers and swords.

builderman and guest always give you a pat on the shoulder for your proficiency, constantly cracking fish related dad jokes that never fail to make you smile despite how cringe they can be. 007n7 can only force himself a smile at these jokes as well, mentally adding them to the list of 'dad jokes' he's been keeping track of for future reference.

the fact that you can do so much with your limited amount of supplies is mind boggling to everyone, basically covering every field of survival.

two time, though, takes high interest in your method. usually sticking by you during the rather calm rounds to question you. unfortunately, their touchy tendencies driven by curiosity never do seem to die down, always poking at your gear and asking you to demonstrate your abilities personally for them, only because they're so mesmerized by how easily you can swing your rod around without struggle.

chance is also one to tag along during exceptionally slow rounds, comparing the concept of fishing to the gambling he enjoys doing in his free time. at first, you thought it was kind of a stretch in comparison, but the two of you actually ended up forming a friendly bond over that conversation.

what appeared to be seemingly useless skills proved to be so much more than some had thought. despite the silly concept and initial judgement, the survivors trust in your ability to fend for yourself, praising you relentlessly by the end of the round for your helpful aid!

post script: this idea is really cute & i hope i portrayed it well enough for your standards! sorry only a few survivors are included here..i unintentionally rushed this a bit

#roblox #forsaken #roblox x reader #forsaken x reader #two time x reader #007n7 x reader #elliot x reader #builderman x reader #guest x reader #chance x reader #shedletsky x reader #if you squint really hard

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sweetest-honeybee · 1 year ago

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So turns out opening commissions again might happen sooner than I thought 😂

Ya know, I’m out here reworking my commissions so I can open them at some point and there’s this whole document I made for terms and conditions and whatnot and it’s all fancy and the new sheet looks nice and I’m very proud

But genuinely on the other hand I can and will draw some insane shit if you pay me enough 😂

#I thought I had way more stuff to refund and finish before resetting everything and starting over but apparently not!#just one actual piece left and I’m good! :D #I’m so freaking stoked #and don’t worry the refunding and whatnot isn’t necessarily a bad thing #just took up more work than I realized I could manage #but getting to start over with new terms and methods is gonna help TREMENDOUSLY #esp since I’m moving #ya girls getting a hella good reset on a whole lotta things hehe #I’m hoping sometime like #early ish July ?? I should be able to open them again ??#we shall see

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thekinslayed · 11 months ago

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His Most Diligent Student

summary | Aemond helps his twin practice High Valyrian with the most peculiar of methods. (based on this request.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x twin sister!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! cunnilingus, the pussy eating champ eats it from the back hehehe, incest, no plot just two hornballs

wordcount | 1.4k

note | the passages are from fire & blood, translated into high valyrian with a translator and a dictionary. i do not claim those as mine, those are all grrm's work! also, apologies for any mistranslations!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider graphic is from this website)

“S-se ānogar hen zaldrī…zes ēdruta u-umbagon vok…” (The blood of the dragon must remain pure.)

It would only take a little more force than the white-knuckle grip you had on the aged tome to rip the pages apart. Your forehead was beaded with sweat, and your thighs shook restlessly as you kneeled on your feather mattress. A fire was being stoked in between, fed by the ferocious licking of your brother’s tongue. With a particularly delicious rub of the hot muscle between your folds, you ceased your reading of the Conqueror’s reign with a whimper, digging your forehead into the plush mattress.

Aemond’s calloused hands squeezed the ample flesh of your thighs at your pause in warning. “Gaomagon pikīptas. Nyke gōntan daor ivestragon ao naejot keligon, gōntan nyke?” he scolded, tutting when your hips wriggled to make him continue. (Keep reading. I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?)

“Kostilus, lēkia,” you pleaded, craning your head back to meet his good eye. (Please, brother.)

He had stood back to his full height, looming over your bent-over form like a shadow. You must look like a fool, with your flushed face and frowning lips. Your skirts were a crumpled mess around your hips, the ribbons in your stockings loosening their grip on the thin fabric with his every grope and squeeze. No doubt your hair was a mess, baby hairs of silver stuck to your hairline, and the illustrious braids your handmaiden had meticulously pinned together messed from how you had rolled around with Aemond in your sheets prior to this predicament.

He had been teasing you relentlessly for what felt like hours now. It started with an innocent request to help you practice your High Valyrian. After all, there was none more capable of teaching your blood’s mother tongue than he. You had settled on his lap, just as he always wanted, starting on the first pages of Aegon’s Conquest, but then his hands began to wander.

One slithered down your waist, past your skirts to settle on your inner thigh, while the other squeezed at your bosom through the fabric of your dress. You had tried to ignore him and his ways, focusing on the foreign glyphs that detailed the journeys of your forebears. But Aemond was persistent. One thing led to another, and you ended up on all fours on your bed, your twin’s tongue prodding deep into your cunt behind you, all the while bidding you to keep your eyes focused on the tome.

“Se Dēmalion Āegenko i… iksin sētegon lēda perzys—”

“Perzys. Roll your r’s.”

You bit your lip painfully at the delicious rumble of his voice against your folds. He was enjoying this, evidently so. You could hear it in the dark color of amusement in his tone, poorly masked by the sternness in his instruction. “Se Dēmalion Āe–āegenko iksin sētegon lēda– ah! P-perzys se korzion se ossȳngnon, i–issa vestās.” (The Iron Throne was forged with fire and steel and terror, it is said.) Your cheeks burned with frustration, or pleasure; you weren’t sure. The quivering in your voice was undeniable, and you swore you were growing cross-eyed the further Aemond’s tongue slithered into your walls. “Aemond, please. I can’t…” you whined, subtly grinding your hips backward against his face. He merely hummed, sending another spark shooting up your spine.

“Finish the page, and I will grant you reprieve,” Aemond promised, his soft voice urging you with no speck of harshness. Large, calloused hands comfortingly caressed the smooth span of your arse’s cheeks, rough from his time wielding a sword. Your twin, the other half of your soul. His edges may have grown rough over the years, but you cherished him all the same. You were dragons bound by fire, destined to burn together. The realm may quiver at the menacing sight of him and his war dragon, but fear was never something you felt for your Aemond. “Would you like that, my light?”

Your silver tresses swayed with your fervent nod. Where yours were waved with curls similar to mother’s, Aemond’s shiny locks were straightened with a hot comb every morn. He had you do it for him most days, much preferring the gentle, homely feel of your touch than that of his servant’s. Attached to the hip you both were, just as you always had been.

With a renewed fire in your chest, you picked up the book that had fallen from your hands, gripping the worn leather tight. Your chest was heaving, brows furrowed in concentration to get through the last page. You were halfway through, with only a few more passages to accomplish. You willed yourself to focus, trying your hardest to ignore the building warmth deep in your belly.

"Iksis sȳrkta naejot forestall bēsīmonāzmi naejot dīnagon zirȳ ilagon," you read, enunciating each syllable to your brother's approval. (It is better to forestall rebellions than to put them down.)

Ever delighted to relish in your torment, his tongue teased you with progressively quicker flicks the more you read. It threatened to derail you, made you want to roll your eyes back as another moan bubbled in your chest. Your throat was growing drier by the second, gut stirred by the sounds of wet slurping between your thighs. With the last section of words left, Aemond’s fingers found your pearl. Tight circles were rubbed into your nubbin, causing you to accidentally bite down on your tongue in the chaotic swirl of pleasure fogging your better thinking. Tears beaded in the corners of your purple orbs, pooling to overflow down your cherry-colored cheeks.

“Īles iderēptis b-bona se ēlī vēttir hen… hen tegun iksin se dārys lyks.” (It was decreed that the first law of the land was the King's Peace.)

The ancient tome was thrown off to the side with little regard for its importance. Your hand reached back to grip Aemond’s hair, pressing his face even deeper into your cunt. The thought of suffocating your other half bared little weight in your mind, addled with the addicting desire of chasing your release. You were humping his face like a lioness in heat, rocking yourself back and forth into his aquiline nose. Your toes clenched in your stockings at the bubbling heat rising to your chest, warming you in your green gown.

Moans bounced off the decorated walls of your chambers, audible to none but the ghosts and the rats. You shrugged the collar of your garments in haste, ringed hands fondling your own breasts and pinching your buds to spur yourself further into release. With a particularly harsh tug of Aemond’s fingers on your bundle of nerves, you came with a cry of his name. His tongue never grew tired of its ministrations, lapping up every drop of your pearly essence like a man starved.

There was a pleasant buzz in your temples in the aftermath, limply plopping down onto your back. Aemond smiled down at you in satisfaction, rubbing the outside of your thighs comfortingly. “Well done. You have made significant improvement, hāedar.” His praise made you smile, lifting the round apples of your cheeks. A dreamy sigh escaped your lips at the soft kiss he planted on your forehead, followed by a pat on your hair. “I will come visit you again on the morrow so we may work on it some more. Perhaps we might get to Jaehaerys’ reign, yes?”

You lifted yourself to kneel before his standing figure, before wrapping your arms around his trim waist. “I shall look forward to it, lēkia,” you responded, snuggling into his chest. The kisses he bestowed on your hairline were sweet, a greater pleasure to have in his warm embrace. You tilted your head to meet his gaze, mirroring the fond smile on your twin’s lips. No other place in the world felt better than being in Aemond’s arms, you had known this throughout your life. It has been proven through time, with the countless moments you had sought his embrace, only his. Many nights have been spent sneaking into each other’s chambers so he may hold you while you slept, propriety be damned. It was always meant to be this way. The blood of two dragons only burned brighter together after all.

“Stay diligent in your practice, sister. A better reward shall await you once I deem you deserving.”

His words made you raise your eyebrows, the devilish smirk on his feline pout piquing your curiosity. You had opened your mouth to voice your inquiry, but instead, your hand was taken into his, lowered to rest on the bulge in his trousers. His clothed cock twitched under your palm, stiff and large. Your smile only widened at his implications, teeth catching your lower lip as the warmth in your eyes melted into something of hunger.

Emboldened, you rubbed the soft cotton of Aemond’s trousers, giggling at his sharp inhale from a small squeeze. You bestowed a kiss on the corner of his lips, before pressing your forehead against his. Your dragon’s perfect nose nudged into yours, silently asking for more.

“Iksan aōha olvie pāsābari jollōriros. Nyke kessa mazverdagon ao hostas, lēkia.” (I am but your most diligent student. I shall make you proud, brother.)

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader

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mahalachives · 2 months ago

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Part 9: Shadows and Secrets

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

The dream always began the same way.

A small wooden cabin, nestled deep in a forest far from any court. The perpetual scent of pine and moss, the constant drip of rain on the roof.

Isolation that seemed to stretch forever in all directions.

In the dream, you were a child again, no more than six or seven. Your small hands worked methodically, stoking the hearth fire as winter winds howled outside. You prepared a simple stew in a dented pot, the steam rising in lazy spirals.

She lay on her bed, your mother, staring at the ceiling, as she had for days. Her once vibrant eyes hollow, her cheeks sunken. This wasn't illness.

This was something deeper, a wound in her spirit that never seemed to heal.

"Mother," your child self whispered, "I made dinner."

No response. Just that vacant stare, tears occasionally sliding down her temples to disappear into her hair.

You placed the wooden bowl beside her bed, knowing it would remain untouched. Just as yesterday's had. And the day before that.

"I'll leave it here," you said, your small voice almost swallowed by the emptiness of the cabin. "For when you're hungry."

Loneliness wrapped around you like a physical cloak, heavy and suffocating.

Through the window, you watched snowflakes dance in the darkness, deepening your isolation. No one would travel these woods in such weather. No one would find your cabin.

No one would find you.

Then came the voices, whispers that seemed to seep from the very walls of the cabin. Words you couldn't quite make out, meanings that skittered away when you tried to focus on them.

Strange images flashed. Your reflection in the window glass, eyes shimmering with an odd light. Your mother suddenly sitting up, panic lending her strength where grief had stolen it, grabbing your shoulders with desperate hands.

Words you couldn't remember upon waking, a promise you didn't understand.

You jolted awake, a gasp catching in your throat, but the sound was muffled against warm skin and solid muscle.

Disoriented, you blinked in the pre dawn darkness, momentarily confused by the weight across your waist, the unfamiliar heat surrounding you. Then recognition settled in, along with immediate comfort.

Azriel.

His arm was draped possessively around your middle, his chest pressed against your back, his wings partially unfurled to cocoon you both in living shadow and warmth. His breathing was deep and even, fanning against your neck in a rhythm that normally would have lulled you back to sleep.

But the dream lingered, its ghostly fingers still clutching at your mind.

You shifted carefully, not wanting to wake him, but of course he sensed the change instantly. Azriel had spent centuries honing his awareness, training his body to register the slightest disturbance even in sleep.

"What is it?" His voice was rough with sleep, yet quiet in the darkness. The arm around your waist tightened slightly, instinctively protective.

"Nothing," you whispered back, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just a strange dream."

You felt him shift behind you, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at your face.

Though the room was dark, you knew he could see you perfectly. Those Illyrian senses missed nothing, especially not the rapid flutter of your pulse, the lingering tension in your body.

"The same one?" he asked softly.

You nodded, though you couldn't remember telling him about the dreams before. Maybe he'd sensed them, felt the disturbance through the mating bond that connected you.

With gentle insistence, he turned you in his arms until you faced him. In the darkness, his hazel eyes seemed to glow faintly, catching what little light filtered through the curtains. His shadows stirred around him, coiling closer as if sensing your distress.

"Tell me," he urged, one scarred hand coming up to brush hair from your face.

You hesitated, trying to grasp the dream details that were already fading.

"I was a child, in a cabin somewhere... with my mother, I think. She was sad... or sick. I don't know." You shook your head, frustrated by the fragments slipping away. "It felt so real, but now it's just... pieces."

Azriel's expression shifted, the neutral mask giving way to something sharper, more alert. His shadows suddenly swirled more actively, stretching toward you in agitated patterns. One brushed against your cheek, surprisingly cool against your skin.

"This is the third night," he said, his voice no longer sleep-rough but precise, calculating. "The same dream, becoming clearer each time."

You blinked, surprised by his intensity. "It's just a dream, Az."

"Is it?" His gaze remained fixed on yours, searching.

You tried for levity. "Maybe I'm just stressed about Gregory's upcoming scale polishing appointment. Fish parenting is serious business."

Your joke fell flat against Azriel's unwavering concern. His shadows whispered to him, coiling around his ears before stretching out again to touch your hair, your wrists, the pendant at your throat.

"We need to see Rhys," he said suddenly, already sitting up. "Now."

"What?" You stared at him, bewildered. "Now, as in right now? It's not even dawn!"

"Now." The word was firm, brooking no argument.

"Azriel." You sat up, clutching the blanket to your chest. "It's the middle of the night. We can't just burst into the High Lord's bedroom because I had a weird dream about a sad mother and a pot of stew. That's not how normal people behave."

"You're not normal people," he said, already pulling on his fighting leathers with swift, economical movements. "You're my mate. And something's happening to you."

"Yes, it's called sleep deprivation," you protested. "Caused by a certain shadowsinger waking me up at an ungodly hour to discuss my dreams with his boss."

Azriel paused in buckling one of his many knives to his thigh.

Despite your exasperation, you couldn't help admiring the sight of him, half-dressed and serious.

The man could make paranoia look attractive.

"The cabin," he said quietly. "Did it have a blue door? With a carving of a crescent moon?"

Your heart stuttered. You hadn't mentioned that detail, had you? "How did you..."

"Rhys has been searching for a cabin matching that description for weeks," Azriel said, returning to his weapons with renewed urgency. "Ever since the night of the River House party, when he first recognized you."

"Recognized me?" You felt like you were missing several crucial pieces of a puzzle. "I've only met Rhys a handful of times since I started at the Archives."

Azriel's gaze met yours, something ancient and knowing in his eyes. "No," he said gently. "You met him long before that. You just don't remember."

A chill ran through you. "That's... that's not possible."

"Isn't it?" He crossed back to the bed, kneeling before you, taking your hands in his scarred ones. "The voices that no one else hears. The dreams that feel like memories. The way my shadows sought you out from the moment we met, like they recognized something in you that I couldn't yet see."

Your mouth went dry. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he replied, squeezing your hands gently, "that you need to talk to Rhys. Tonight."

"Can I at least put on clothes first?" you asked weakly, grasping at the last shreds of normalcy. "Or should I meet the High Lord of the Night Court in my nightgown? I hear that's the fashion these days."

A smile flickered across Azriel's face, there and gone in an instant. "Clothes would be advisable."

"Well, thank the Mother for small mercies." You slid from the bed, moving to your wardrobe. "But if Rhysand is sleeping, I'm blaming you entirely. I'll tell him you forced me to come, driven by some mad spymaster conspiracy theory about my entirely ordinary bad dreams."

Azriel watched you with that penetrating gaze of his. "You're deflecting."

"I'm coping," you corrected, pulling out a simple dress. "Some of us manage fear with humor rather than an arsenal of pointy objects."

His expression softened. "I would take all your fear if I could."

The simple sincerity in his voice melted your resistance. You sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine. We'll go see Rhys. But I want it on record that this is ridiculous, and I'm only agreeing because you look very convincing with all those knives."

Azriel's lips curved in a barely-there smile. "Noted."

Ten minutes later, dressed and marginally more awake, you found yourself gathered in Azriel's arms as he prepared to fly you to the River House. His wings spread wide, magnificent even in the dim light of your bedroom.

"For the record," you mumbled against his chest, "if he's is annoyed at being woken up for dream interpretation, I'm throwing you under the carriage."

"He won't be," Azriel said with absolute certainty. "He's been waiting for this."

"For what?"

Azriel's arms tightened around you as he moved to the window. "For you to remember."

As his powerful wings caught the night air and lifted you both into the star-strewn sky, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were flying toward something that would change everything. That the dream wasn't just a dream, but a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered.

You promised. No magic. No matter what you see or hear.

But whose voice it was, you couldn't remember.

The flight to the River House was mercifully brief.

Dawn was still nothing more than a promise on the horizon when Azriel landed on a wide balcony with practiced silence, setting you gently on your feet.

You'd expected darkness, servants scrambling to attend unexpected visitors, perhaps even an annoyed High Lord in sleeping attire.

Instead, warm light spilled from the open balcony doors. Rhysand stood waiting, fully dressed in elegant black, a glass of amber liquid in one hand.

As if he'd been expecting you. As if he'd been waiting.

"Right on time," he said, violet eyes gleaming in the low light. His gaze swept over you, assessing, before settling on Azriel. "The dreams have started."

Not a question. A statement of fact.

Your mouth fell open. "How did you—"

"Let's talk inside," Rhys interrupted smoothly, stepping back to allow you entrance. "Feyre has prepared tea."

Your steps faltered. "Feyre's awake too?" You shot Azriel an accusatory look. "Is everyone in the Night Court up at this unholy hour discussing my sleeping habits?"

"Not everyone," Rhys replied with a hint of amusement. "Just those who need to be."

The High Lord's study was unexpectedly cozy, with a fire crackling in the hearth and comfortable seating arranged around it. Feyre rose from an armchair as you entered, her expression kind but tinged with something that looked disconcertingly like concern.

"Please, sit," she said, gesturing to a plush sofa. "You look like you've had a rough night."

"Apparently it's about to get rougher," you muttered, but did as suggested. Azriel settled beside you, close enough that his wing brushed your back in a gesture of silent support.

Rhys remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece with casual grace that didn't quite mask the intensity of his focus. "Tell me about the dream."

Under that violet gaze, you suddenly felt self-conscious. "It's nothing special. Just a cabin in the woods. A sad mother. Some voices." You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably. "Probably just my subconscious processing Archives stress or something."

"The cabin had a blue door," Rhys said softly. "With a crescent moon carved into it."

Your heart stuttered. "How do you—"

"You were small," he continued, eyes never leaving your face. "No more than six or seven. Your mother was... unwell. Not physically, but inside. She wouldn't eat. Wouldn't speak except to warn you about something. To make you promise."

The room tilted alarmingly. You gripped the sofa cushion to steady yourself, feeling Azriel's hand press reassuringly against your lower back.

"That's... that's impossible," you whispered. "How could you know the details of my dream?"

"Because it's not just a dream." Rhys pushed away from the mantelpiece, moving to sit across from you. His expression softened, a surprising gentleness entering his voice. "It's a memory. One that was taken from you."

"Taken?" Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "By who?"

Rhys and Feyre exchanged a look laden with meaning. Then Rhys sighed, seeming to make a decision.

"By my father," he said simply. "The previous High Lord of the Night Court."

The words landed like physical blows. You stared at him, unable to process what he was saying. "I've never met your father. He died centuries ago."

"Yes." Rhys leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. "But you knew him before that. When you were a child."

"That's not possible." You shook your head vehemently. "I grew up in a small village near the Day Court border. My mother was a seamstress. I only moved to Velaris a few years ago."

"Those aren't your memories," Feyre said gently. "They're fabrications, planted to replace what was taken."

You let out a shaky laugh, looking between them. "This is insane. Why would anyone bother tampering with a random child's memories?"

"Because you weren't random," Rhys said, his voice dropping lower, carrying a somberness that made your heart ache. "You were his secret, yes. A pawn, perhaps. But you were also—" His breath hitched. "—something he kept hidden, even from us."

The room went utterly silent. You could hear the crackling of the fire, the soft rush of Azriel's wings as they shifted. You could feel his tension beside you, the protective coil of his shadows around your wrists.

"No," you said flatly. "That's not... no. My father was a Day Court soldier who died before I was born. My mother showed me his portrait."

"Did she?" Rhys asked softly. "Can you remember his face?"

You opened your mouth to reply, to describe the portrait you'd seen a thousand times... and found nothing. No clear image. Just a vague impression of a uniform, a faceless figure, a story told so often it had become truth.

"This is ridiculous," you insisted, though uncertainty crept into your voice. "Why would you even think that I... that he..."

Rhys's expression turned solemn. "Because I remember you."

His hand trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small carved star, its edges smooth from years of wear. It glinted in the firelight, a relic from a past neither of you could have foreseen. "This…" His voice cracked. "You gave this to me, when you called me brother."

A chill skittered down your spine. Something about the star in his palm tugged at your mind, a faint thread of recognition.

"You were brought to the Court Under the Mountain when you were about six. Your mother had been my father's mistress for years, but kept you hidden until then. One night, I found you on a balcony, watching the stars."

Feyre made a small sound, halfway between sympathy and wonder. Azriel remained silent beside you, but his hand found yours, fingers intertwining with quiet strength.

As the memories churned within you, Azriel's shadowed presence at your side became a delicate balance.

He was there—always there—but his restraint burned through him, a visible tension in his jaw. He wanted to reach out, to wrap you in his arms, but he was waiting for you, respecting the distance you needed. His shadows, once so familiar and comforting, now seemed like an extension of his anxiety, curling tight at his sides as if waiting for you to allow them closer.

"After that night, you disappeared," Rhys said. "Both you and your mother. My father forbade anyone from speaking of you. When I asked, he... punished me. And then he removed the memory entirely."

"But it returned," Feyre added, her gaze compassionate. "After all these years. When he saw you at the River House party, something clicked. A memory that had been altered but not completely destroyed."

You swallowed hard, trying to process what they were saying. "So you're claiming that I'm... what? Your half-sister? The illegitimate child of the previous High Lord?"

"Yes," Rhys said simply. "And I believe my father altered your memories before sending you away. Created a false past for you and your mother. To keep you hidden, perhaps as insurance, or perhaps out of some twisted form of protection."

"The dream is your true memory fighting to surface," Feyre explained. "The cabin was real. Your mother's depression was real. And the voices..."

"The voices were your power," Rhys finished. "A power I've never seen before in any daemati. Even in our bloodline."

Your head spun.

It was too much, too fantastical.

And yet... and yet it would explain the whispers in the Archives. The strange sense of recognition you'd felt toward Rhys from your first meeting. The way Azriel's shadows had always seemed to know you, reaching for you even before he consciously recognized the mating bond.

"What do you mean, a power you've never seen before?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys leaned forward, intensity radiating from him. "I'm considered one of the most powerful daemati in Prythian's history. But your abilities, even when untrained and trapped behind whatever shield my father put in your mind... they're extraordinary. You don't just hear thoughts. You hear voices across realms. You hear the dead."

"That's not possible," you whispered, but even as you said it, fragments of memory flickered at the edges of your consciousness. Whispers in the dark. Secrets no living soul should know. The endless solitude of that cabin, broken only by voices that shouldn't exist.

"My father placed a shield in your mind," Rhys continued. "But I don't know why. What he was hiding. What he feared." His violet eyes locked with yours. "I want to help you uncover it. To remember who you truly are."

As he spoke about your mother, about the cabin, something shifted in your mind. Like a key turning in a rusty lock, a door creaking open to reveal horrors long hidden.

The image of her body—a stillness that didn't make sense to your young mind—kept cutting through your vision like a broken film reel.

Blood, you thought. It clung to your skin, soaked into your small hands, but the details weren't clear. You only knew the terror, the screaming. The whispers of someone else… someone cold… someone waiting for you to be strong.

Your mother.

Not sitting up in bed, not warning you about using power.

Her body. Still. Cold. Lifeless.

Blood. So much blood. On the floor. On your tiny hands. On your nightdress.

Your child self, screaming. Sobbing. Alone with a corpse in the wilderness.

And a voice, familiar yet chilling. "She was weak. But you, little one... you will be strong."

The memory slammed into you with physical force. You jerked back, a strangled sound escaping your throat. Azriel's arm immediately went around you, his shadows flaring protectively, but you barely felt it through the surge of panic.

"She's dead," you gasped, the words torn from some deep, wounded place inside you. "My mother. She's dead. In the cabin. I found her."

Rhys straightened, alarm flashing across his features. "What do you remember?"

But the memories were coming too fast now, a torrent of images and sensations breaking through the crumbling dam in your mind. Your mother's body.

The isolation. The terror.

You tried to shove it down, to rebuild the walls that had protected you for so long.

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be your life.

Your mother died peacefully. Your father was a hero. You were normal. Ordinary. Safe.

But the truth clawed its way out, ripping through the carefully constructed lies, leaving you raw and exposed.

The air stilled, thick with tension as your power surged, a wave of energy too raw and untamed to control. The fire sputtered and died in the hearth, the once steady flames now nothing more than flickering embers that reflected in Rhysand's wide, shocked eyes. The tea service shattered, its delicate porcelain scattering in a rain of broken shards that echoed through the silence, the sound as jarring as the chaos inside you.

"Stay away from me," you said, surging to your feet, backing away from them all. Your chest heaved with panicked breaths. "All of you. Stay back."

Azriel's shadows, once a comforting presence, writhed beneath his skin, the invisible tendrils curling tighter around you, though the proximity of his presence did little to ease the tempest inside you. His eyes darkened with his own helplessness, his usual calm shattered by the storm of emotions sweeping over you.

"You're safe," Azriel began, rising slowly, hands outstretched in a non-threatening gesture. "No one here will hurt you."

But you weren't seeing him anymore. You were seeing a cabin in the woods. A small child covered in blood. A High Lord with darkness writhing at his command, reaching for you, into you, twisting something in your mind until the world went black.

"Don't touch me!" The words burst from you in a wave of power that rippled through the room, knocking over furniture, extinguishing the fire, shattering the tea service.

Feyre gasped. Rhys moved in front of her instinctively, though his expression wasn't fear but shock.

And Azriel... Azriel stood perfectly still, watching you with those ancient eyes, shadows writhing around him but never approaching you.

"I need to go," you said, backing toward the balcony doors. "I need... I can't..."

"Let me take you home," Azriel said quietly. "Please. I won't touch you if you don't want me to. I won't speak. Just let me make sure you get home safely."

The raw concern in his voice penetrated your panic. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw not the threat your fragmented memories had conjured but your mate.

Your protector.

The one who had woken in the night to your distress and brought you here out of worry, not malice.

"Az," you whispered, voice breaking on his name.

He took a careful step toward you. "I'm here."

"I don't know what's happening to me."

"I know," he said softly. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

You looked past him to Rhys and Feyre, who remained where they were, making no move to approach. The shock on their faces had been replaced by deep concern.

"I didn't mean to..." you gestured weakly at the destruction around you.

"It's nothing," Rhys assured you, his voice gentle in a way you'd never heard before. "Just furniture. What matters is you."

And in that moment, despite the terror and confusion, despite the horror of the memories surfacing in your mind, you felt something unexpected.

Belonging.

"I want to go home," you said finally, your voice small.

"Then that's where we'll go," Azriel promised, moving to your side but still not touching you without permission. "May I?"

You nodded, and he carefully wrapped an arm around your waist, gathering you close as his wings spread in preparation for flight.

"We'll talk when you're ready," Rhys said from behind you. "No pressure. No timeline. This is your journey, on your terms."

You didn't respond, couldn't find words through the storm in your mind. But as Azriel lifted you into the dawn-brightening sky, as Velaris spread below you in all its awakening beauty, you clutched the carved star Rhys had pressed into your palm and wondered what other horrors waited behind the walls in your mind.

The apartment felt both sanctuary and prison.

For three days now, you'd barely left your bedroom, the walls both shield and cage. Gregory's bowl sat on your nightstand, his silent companionship the only interaction you could bear.

Even then, sometimes his innocent bubbling felt like accusation—why are you hiding?

Outside your door, life persisted.

The quiet conversations, ceramic against wood as meals appeared and disappeared, untouched. The soft rustle of wings as Azriel moved through your apartment—a constant, patient sentinel.

He hadn't tried to force his way in. Hadn't sent his shadows slithering under the crack to spy.

He simply... waited.

Like the mountain waits for spring after winter's grip—inevitable, unrushing, certain.

Your latest nightmare had left your body hollowed, sheets damp with cold sweat that smelled of fear.

The memories—were they even memories?—grew sharper each night, glass edges cutting deeper. Mother's body. Blood pooling black in the moonlight. The silence after screaming that stretched into forever.

Who am I, if not who I believed? The question echoed, unanswered, a stone dropped into a bottomless well.

A soft knock pulled you from the spiral, gentle but unmistakable.

"There's food," Azriel's voice came through the wood, his deep timbre neither demanding nor pitying. Just stating fact. "And tea. When you're ready."

You didn't answer. Hadn't in days. But something in you ached at his voice—steady as the North Star while you drowned in shifting seas.

"Lira stopped by," he continued, as though conversing through doors was perfectly natural. "She brought more books from the Archives. Said they might help distract you."

Your chest tightened. Lira. Sweet, fierce Lira who knew nothing of your true heritage but had still shown up, bearing gifts and stubborn concern.

"Is she still sick?" she'd asked earlier, her voice carrying through the door.

"Something like that," Azriel had replied, the evasion smooth as silk.

You'd pressed your ear to the door then, desperate for that connection to normal life—if it had ever been yours at all.

"Well, tell her Gregory misses his mother," Lira had said, false lightness straining her words. "And that Mor is threatening to organize a rescue mission if she doesn't emerge soon."

The thought of Mor charging in, all golden fury and determination, had almost—almost—made you smile.

Another knock, firmer this time.

"You should eat," Azriel said.

Not an order but a reminder that your body still existed, still needed care, regardless of the crisis consuming your mind.

The whisper of fabric as he shifted outside—a sound so faint only Illyrian hearing could detect it. His shadows moved too, their presence palpable even through the door, like cool fingertips brushing the wood between you.

"This will pass," his voice came again, softer now, intimate as a shared secret. "Nothing lasts forever. Not even this darkness."

The words carried something rare for Azriel—naked emotion, unguarded by his usual careful reserve.

"How can you know that?" you whispered, unsure if he could hear.

A pause. Then, "Because I see you, even when you can't see yourself."

The simplicity of it burned your eyes with unshed tears.

For days, you'd been terrified of the power that had exploded in Rhys's study, of hurting those you loved. Yet Azriel's voice held no fear, only bedrock certainty.

"I'm afraid," you admitted, pressing your forehead against the door. "Of what I might do. What I might become."

"I know," he said, and you sensed him move closer, his presence a weight against the other side. "But whatever you face, you don't have to face it alone."

His shadows seeped through the thin crack beneath the door, not invading but reaching—cool tendrils of night that carried his silent promise.

"Some nights," he continued, voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated through the wood, "when darkness feels absolute, I remember that dawn has never once failed to come. Not once in five hundred years."

Gregory bubbled in his bowl, a mundane counterpoint to Azriel's poetry.

"What if I hurt someone?" The fear that had kept you locked away. "What if I can't control it?"

"Then we learn control together," he answered without hesitation, the words carrying a thread of steel. "No one expects you to master this alone."

You closed your eyes, his words settling into the hairline fractures of your fear like healing rain into parched earth.

"The others have been asking about you," Azriel said after a moment. "Mor. Cassian. Even Amren, in her way."

"Amren?" The surprise pulled your voice higher. "Truly?"

"She said—and I quote—'Tell the girl to stop wallowing and come learn what she can do.'" A hint of wry amusement colored his tone. "I believe that's her version of concern."

Tiny, ancient Amren, with her quicksilver eyes and merciless pragmatism, worried about you. The thought unfurled warmth in your chest—this strange, cobbled family refusing to abandon you, even now.

"Rhys hasn't pushed," Azriel continued. "He understands better than most what it means to discover truths about yourself that change everything. But he's there, when you're ready."

When, not if. The distinction wasn't lost on you.

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," you confessed.

"You will be," he said, conviction running through his words like iron. "And until then, I'll be right here. Not moving."

His shadows pulsed beneath the door, physical manifestations of his oath, curling up like ribbons of midnight. One shadow reached toward your bare foot, pausing as if asking permission.

You stared at it—this living darkness that could pierce any barrier yet respected your boundaries enough to wait, to ask.

Slowly, you lowered your hand, allowing the shadow to brush your fingertips. The sensation was cool but not cold, silk against skin, a touch more intimate than any physical contact.

"Az," you whispered, his name breaking on your lips.

"I'm here," he answered immediately, voice taut with restrained emotion.

Your fingers found the door handle, hesitated, then began to turn it.

And then they came.

Whispers.

Not one, but dozens. Hundreds.

A cacophony of voices like brittle bones breaking, like water over burial stones, like the final stuttering exhale of the dying. They surrounded you, filled the room, pressed against your skin from all sides.

"Little listener," they hissed, words overlapping, discordant as broken instruments. "Little one with the gift and the curse."

Your hand froze on the doorknob, lungs seizing mid-breath.

"The shadowsinger cannot protect you," another voice rasped, this one colder, closer, the sound of it like frost forming on your spine. "His shadows are nothing compared to us. We exist in the space between heartbeats. In the darkness behind your eyes."

"His throat would open so easily," whispered one that sounded like a child, the innocence in the tone making the words obscene. "Wet and warm and red. We remember red. We miss red."

Terror crashed through you, limbs locking rigid as ice spread through your veins.

"His wings would snap like frozen branches," offered another, the voice wet with anticipation. "We could guide your hands. We could sing the song of breaking bones together."

"Stop," you breathed, the word barely audible. "Please stop."

The voices laughed—a sound like maggots writhing in rotting flesh.

"She thinks she commands us!" they mocked, voices layering over each other in horrible harmony. "Little daemati, little Night Court foundling. You don't command the dead. You are our doorway. Our puppet. Our hands in the world of flesh."

A sob caught in your throat, your fingers slipping from the doorknob as you backed away. The voices followed, clinging to you like grave mold, their phantom touch raising gooseflesh across your body.

"What's wrong?" Azriel called, alarm sharpening his voice. "Are you alright?"

You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words as the voices pressed closer, their whispers filling your ears, your mind, crowding out thought.

"Tell him," they urged, vicious excitement in their chorus. "Tell him we're here. Tell him we can see the exact moment his heart will stop beating."

"Tell him we're coming for him through you."

The doorknob rattled. "I'm coming in," Azriel commanded, all patience evaporated in the face of your distress.

A sharp crack split the air—wood splintering, metal snapping—and the door swung open, lock destroyed by Illyrian strength.

Azriel stood in the doorway, wings flared wide, shadows roiling around him like storm clouds. His eyes, usually so controlled, burned with fierce concern as they found you huddled against the far wall.

"Don't," you gasped, pressing back as if you could melt into the plaster. "Please. Go away."

"Too late," the voices crooned, crawling over each other in gleeful anticipation. "Too late, too late, too late..."

He didn't leave. But he didn't approach either.

Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, a careful distance away, movements slow and deliberate as if approaching a wounded animal. His wings tucked tight, though his shadows continued their agitated dance.

"I'm not leaving," he said quietly, each word a stone foundation. "Not now. Not ever."

The voices hissed—some in frustration, others in what sounded disturbingly like hunger.

"How sweet, his devotion," they mocked. "How easily it will break when your hands wrap around his throat. Your body, our will. Your power, our purpose."

You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears tracking down your cheeks. But you couldn't block the voices. They were inside you, part of this cursed gift you'd inherited.

"There's something wrong with me," you managed, words raw and jagged.

"No," Azriel replied without hesitation, the word landing with the weight of absolute truth. "There's something wrong with what was done to you. That's different."

The distinction hung between you—simple yet profound. He didn't demand explanations. Just sat there, solid as bedrock, his shadows gradually settling as your breathing steadied.

The voices retreated slightly, their frustration a tangible pressure, but they didn't vanish. They lingered at the edges of your awareness, whispering promises of violence, of control, of horrors to come.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. You couldn't tell him about the voices, about their threats. Not yet. Not when you feared they might use you as their instrument.

"None of us do," Azriel replied, unexpected vulnerability in his admission. "We're all just... finding our way forward. One step at a time. Even Rhys."

A surprised laugh escaped you, so incongruous with the terror still coiled inside that it startled even you. The voices recoiled at the sound, as if your moment of genuine feeling caused them physical pain.

That was... interesting.

"You don't have to tell me everything," Azriel said, his perceptiveness cutting to the heart of your silence. "Not until you're ready. But don't convince yourself you need to face it alone."

Gregory bubbled energetically from his bowl, as if agreeing—or perhaps sensing the momentary retreat of the dead that had filled the room.

"Even Gregory agrees," Azriel noted, the faintest hint of humor warming his voice.

You wiped tear-stained cheeks with trembling hands. "You broke my door."

"It was between us." he replied simply.

Another surprised laugh, this one stronger. "You're impossible."

"I've had centuries of practice." His gaze remained steady, shadows settling into calmer patterns. "Are you hungry?"

The question was so normal, so everyday amid the supernatural crisis consuming your life, that you could only stare at him.

Then, absurdly, your stomach growled—loudly.

Azriel's brow lifted slightly, the closest thing to smugness his severe features could manage. "I'll take that as yes."

For the first time in days, you felt something simple and human beneath the fear. Hunger—a reminder that regardless of what else you might be, you were still flesh and blood with basic needs.

"Maybe a little," you conceded.

He nodded, rising with fluid grace that belied his warrior's build. He didn't offer his hand, didn't try to help you up—understanding you needed to stand on your own terms, in your own time.

"I'll bring it here," he said, already turning toward the broken doorway. "You don't have to come out until you're ready."

The consideration in the gesture made your chest ache. "Az?"

He paused, looking back over his shoulder, wings shifting slightly.

"Thank you."

For staying. For breaking down doors. For not demanding answers you couldn't give.

"For everything."

His expression didn't change, but his shadows swirled with something that might have been tenderness. "Always."

As he left to retrieve food, the voices whispered again—fainter now but laced with malice.

"You won't escape us forever," they warned. "We are patient. We are eternal. We will always find you, little daemati."

But for the first time since they'd begun their terrible chorus, their threats felt less absolute.

A shadow—one of Azriel's—had remained behind, curling around your wrist like a bracelet of cool night. It pulsed gently, as if taking your pulse, reminding you that you weren't alone in this darkness.

That perhaps there was light worth fighting for after all.

Consciousness returned like the tide—gradual yet inevitable. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting golden stripes across your rumpled sheets and warming skin that had felt cold for days.

You shifted, muscles protesting after being tensed in fear for so long. The absence struck you first—that terrible chorus of dead voices had finally quieted sometime in the night. The silence in your mind felt vast and pristine, like fresh snow before footprints mar its surface. You'd forgotten how peaceful quiet could be.

A soft rustle drew your attention.

Azriel sat in the chair beside your bed, a sentinel carved from shadow and steel. His wings were folded tight against his back, the tips brushing the floor. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, the only evidence of his sleepless vigil. His shadows moved languidly around him, more settled than you'd seen them in days.

Guilt twisted through you. "You didn't sleep," you murmured, voice rough from disuse.

His eyes—sharp despite his evident exhaustion—focused on you immediately. The slightest tremor ran through his hands before he stilled them against the armrests. "You did. That's what matters."

You pushed yourself up against the headboard, studying him. The shadows beneath his eyes looked almost bruised, his normally immaculate appearance showing subtle signs of strain—a slight wrinkle in his fighting leathers, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead.

"Az, you need rest too," you said softly.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I've gone longer."

The stubborn male.

Your lips pursed into what you knew was a childish pout, brows drawing together as you frowned at him.

Something shifted in Azriel then—subtle at first, like ice beginning to thaw.

The rigid line of his shoulders eased slightly. The severe set of his mouth softened at the corners.

Then, like dawn breaking after endless night, his expression transformed completely. A genuine smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes in a way so rare and beautiful it momentarily stole your breath.

"What?" you asked, unsettled by this sudden change.

"There you are," he said, voice hushed as if sharing a sacred truth. "I thought I'd lost you to the fear."

His shadows stirred, stretching toward you like creatures seeking warmth.

Before you could respond, he moved to the edge of your bed. Not with his usual predatory grace, but carefully, almost tentatively, as if afraid you might shatter or flee.

"Az?" Your heart quickened as he leaned closer.

His scarred hands hovered near your face—hesitating, uncertain—before gently, reverently cradling your cheeks. The calluses on his palms were rough against your skin, a warrior's hands trying to be gentle. Then he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if in prayer.

"Azriel!" Heat flooded your face at the unexpected tenderness.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, something vulnerable flickering in the depths of his hazel eyes. A question. A fear of overstepping. But at whatever he saw in your expression, his hesitation melted away.

Another kiss found your temple, his breath warm against your skin. Then your cheek, the touch feather-light yet devastating in its sweetness. The tip of your nose. Each contact deliberate, almost worshipful.

"Az, what are you doing?" you asked, breathless.

The shadows of his lashes fell across his cheekbones as he looked down. "Making sure you're real," he confessed, voice rough with emotion he rarely displayed. "That the voices didn't take you from me."

His shadows joined this unexpected display of affection, curling around your wrists like cool silk ribbons. Where they touched, they left a sensation like starlight against your skin—bright yet gentle, familiar yet extraordinary.

"I'm still here," you assured him, flustered by this uncharacteristic display. "You can stop now."

He caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, his expression softening further.

"No," he said simply, the word carrying a world of tenderness you'd never heard from him before. "I don't think I can."

The bold declaration, so unlike his usual measured restraint, left you momentarily speechless.

"When did you get so impossible?" you managed finally.

His thumb traced the curve of your lower lip, his touch reverent. "When I thought I might lose you to the darkness in your mind."

You tried to maintain your composure, but a smile betrayed you, tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I'm stronger than that."

"Yes," he agreed, shadows swirling with something that might have been pride. "You are."

He brushed your hair back, the scarred ridges of his fingertips catching slightly against the strands. "The voices... are they quiet now?"

The question sobered you. You turned your awareness inward, holding your breath as you listened for that terrible chorus.

Nothing.

Where before there had been a cacophony of malicious whispers, pressing against your consciousness like hands trying to break through glass, now there was only blessed stillness. The relief was so profound it brought tears to your eyes.

"They're gone," you whispered, voice breaking on the words. "I can't hear them at all."

A shudder passed through Azriel, his exhale shaky as he leaned his forehead against yours. "Thank the Mother."

For a moment, you simply breathed together, sharing the same air, the same space. His shadows drifted around you both, forming a cocoon of living darkness that felt strangely like protection.

"You know," he said finally, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard, "Rhys believes he can help."

Tension crawled back into your shoulders. "How?"

"He's a daemati too," Azriel reminded you, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck in a steadying touch. "He could teach you to build shields in your mind. To filter what you hear."

His shadows faltered slightly at the mention of Rhys, twisting into agitated patterns before settling again—a tell you'd never noticed before.

"What if I hurt him?" Fear crept back into your voice. "What if the voices come back when I'm with him, and they make me do something terrible?"

Azriel's grip on you tightened fractionally, his jaw hardening with determination. "Then I'll be there. Between you and him. Between you and anyone who might be harmed." His shadows surged in agreement, darkening with protective intent. "But we can't hide from this forever."

The "we" wasn't lost on you—he had claimed your burden as his own without hesitation.

"I'm terrified," you admitted.

"I know." He kissed you again, this time at the corner of your eye where a tear threatened to fall. "But I've watched you face impossible things before."

"You make me sound braver than I am," you murmured.

"No," he said with unexpected fierceness. "I see you exactly as you are."

The simple truth of it struck deep, warming places inside you that had been cold with fear for days.

His thumb brushed your cheek. "We'll go only when you're ready. But Rhys can help in ways I can't."

You sighed, leaning into his touch. "When did you get so persuasive?"

"Five centuries of practice," he replied, the serious line of his mouth betrayed by the warmth in his eyes.

"Fine," you conceded, unable to resist the hope he offered. "We can see Rhys. But after that, you're going to sleep for at least twelve hours."

"Is that an order?" he asked, amusement threading through his voice.

"Yes," you said firmly. "And stop with all the... the..."

"Affection?" he supplied, pressing another deliberate kiss to your cheek.

You tried to summon a glare, but a helpless laugh escaped instead. "It's disconcerting. You're supposed to be scary and brooding."

"Only to everyone else," he said with quiet sincerity. Then, as if catching himself being too earnest, he added, "Besides, this is far more effective at keeping you off-balance."

He rose gracefully, extending one scarred hand. "Breakfast first? I imagine you're hungry."

Your stomach growled in agreement, making his lips twitch with satisfaction.

As you placed your hand in his and let him help you to your feet, you felt something fundamental shift between you. The voices might return. Your power remained untamed. But for the first time since the River House, since the memories and the whispers had begun, you felt a flicker of something precious.

With Azriel looking at you as though you were the dawn after his longest night, even the darkness that had nearly consumed you seemed less absolute, less eternal.

And in the Night Court, perhaps that was the greatest victory of all.

Author's Note:

Dear wonderful readers,

I apologize for vanishing faster than memories in the Night Court! Life's been a whirlwind—juggling the whispers of the dead, a pet fish named Gregory, and a moody shadowsinger boyfriend demands more multitasking mojo than I've got.

I promise the next update won't take as long—Azriel's threatened to hunt me down with his shadows if I keep you waiting. (Who knew he'd be so invested in my storytelling? Definitely not him!)

Thank you for your patience! Now, back to stumbling over things and accidentally causing havoc.

Tag List: @songbirdpond @tothestarsandwhateverend @lovely-susie @kksbookstuff @ladycaramelswirl @gamarancianne @writtenbypavani @bubybubsters @moonlitscrolls @valyas-corner @iris-lavender @lreadsstuff @nebarious @azrielssgirl @lamimamiii @fantasydreamwalker @dallynjennasgirl @tenshis-cake @lilah-asteria @sweetsugarcoffee @fall-winter-heart97 @lovely-susie @lreadsstuff @sofi03 @songbirdpond @nico707 @justtryingtosurvive02 @yourlocalcancer @saltedcoffeescotch @thatacotargirl @happypeanutstrawberry @theverseoftheblackpearl @tele86 @highladyofhogwarts @fuckingsimp4azriel @thegoddessofnothingness @lovelyflower7777 @stressed-reader @karespocketboyfriends @lreadsstuff @yourdarkroses-blog @plants-w0rld @oldernotwiser26 @ashduv @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @adventure-awaits13 @thegoddessofnothingness @fuckingsimp4azriel @highladyofhogwarts @stainedpomegranatelips @i-am-infinite @arcticfoxxes

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #feyre acotar #cassian #nesta acotar

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mothinkling · 3 months ago

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Sinfully Grateful, An Overachiever.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

Pairing: Kuras x GN!Reader.

Word Count: 1.0k

Summary: Kuras seems intent on being an overachiever in your relationship, even if his lack of empathy can't help him understand why three orgasms might be too much for your little human body.

A/N: Howdy! This short drabble is inspired by this toe curling one by @sichore

Your bare stomach pressed against the rapidly warming white linen; hands splayed flat over the crumpling fabric laid on top of the cot you first met Kuras.

Tears started to build in your foggy eyes as your skin flushed impossibly hotter, the redness of your cheeks rivalling the sore flush of your hole.

"K-Kuras, I can't--"

Cold hands slither up the lengths of your forearms from behind, long dark fingers wrapping around your wrists as a soft hushing came from behind you.

You could almost see the smug grin on his face, his lips curled upwards in satisfaction at every whimper that left your lips; pride at the idea that he was successful.

Honestly you should've seen this coming after the third time you were coming.

Methodical was the only word use to describe his relentlessness when it came to wrecking you, oh, but is that not what lovers do to each other?

He may not understand the vast extent of human emotions, but he can understand when he's achieved what he's setting his mind to, especially when it comes to the human body.

Especially when it comes to your body.

"Shh, my love.'' he cooed, the dark tip of his cock rubbing almost reverently against the sensitive skin around your hole, "Is this not what you wanted?"

You'd be lying if you said it wasn't, you were the one to bring up intimacy in the first place.

It wasn't until his fingers brushed against your cheek did you realize tears had finally started to drip from your cloudy eyes; ones that rolled back when he started to nestle himself back inside.

No matter how many times you took him, you'd never fully adjusted to the sheer size of your lover- he was longer than he was girthier, but that didn't stop you from being molded to every bump and vein of his cock.

It was too much, too much but he didn't care.

"Relax and relish it, my darling." His smooth voice wrapped around your brain, almost as overstimulating as your last three orgasms.

It was delicious torture, being spread so slowly and lovingly after hours of relentless pushing and cooing.

You're being so good, he'd tell you, pushing through even when you're crying and whining.

It felt like hours passed before he finally came to a stop, pushed fully inside of you until the base of his hips pressed lovingly against your quivering flesh.

The touch was burning in more ways than one, the coolness of his skin only stoking heat when pressed against yours so sinfully.

"I-I can't take anymore..." you sobbed out pathetically, your cheek smooshed against the linen of the cot as tears slipped down your flushed cheeks.

"You can." He said almost clinically, as if he was focusing more on your physical capabilities than your overstimulated mind.

His hands ran along your bare back in an almost worshipping gesture that belied his words, he knew you were enjoying it; and if your body could carry on, why would he ever stop?

"You're doing so well, dear." He spoke in an almost mocking voice, his lips quirked up as his golden eyes stared impassively at your foggy, tear-stricken expression, "Such a good little thing, even if you're temperament is... low."

His chuckle was smooth and warm as it flowed throughout the dark office, papers and vials stood as still as time slowed; like you were the only things moving.

"S'not low!" You whine slightly as your quivering legs feebly attempt to kick slightly in distain, "I-It's been two hours--"

He crooned out a noise of false sympathy, his cock slowly sliding out your stretched hole with a lewd squelch as it dragged the liquid of his own pleasure along with him.

You almost whimpered in relief as you clenched around the empty space gratefully, assuming he was finally done.

Except he slammed right back inside of you.

A higher-pitched squeal was the only noise to leave your throat as he started to move against your exhausted flesh, kindling both the heat in your stomach but also the one of his flesh.

It was disgustingly wet, your used hole drooling from the combination of liquids until strings of cum slapped along with his rhythmic thrusts.

His long, firm body laid over your back to keep you still as the rush of pleasure and pain made you squirm, your toes curling as you had no choice but to simply take it.

"There we go." His voice was a low pant, puffs of swift breath leaving his mouth in-between each thick word, "I knew you could do it."

His voice drops back into a cajole, almost edging you on, "Is it too much for you?" Something in-between a breath and a laugh left his lips, "Am I not giving you everything you wanted and more, love?"

Something in his voice changed slightly, a gravel scratching at his throat.

"Perhaps lust isn't the only sin here." You could see a slight shift in the shadow falling above you, your eyes so foggy and dazed you weren't sure if it was real, "Greed is far from a virtue, my dear."

His hands burned against your skin as they ran up your shoulder blades, hot enough to burn an imprint into your very soul.

"So desperate, so precious." His voice fell into a whisper as his shadow shifted above you, rippling like the water of your tears, his form changing to appear as big physically as he felt mentally, "I could simply eat you whole."

Under different circumstances, you might've turned your head; to gaze upon what your lover had become.

But your mind was full of fog, ever nerve on fire as you felt him slide in and out of you, his cock pressing insistently on the deepest parts of you that've already molded itself to him.

Even if the divine sprouted in sin, you have no reason to be afraid.

#touchstarved game #touchstarved ais #touchstarved leander #touchstarved mhin #vere #mhin #kuras #touchstarved mc #touchstarved oc #ts leander #touchstarved #ais touchstarved #visual novel #kuras x reader #kuras x mc #touchstarved vn #touchstarved fanfiction

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vampire-matcha · 2 years ago

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Thinking about Mechanics!141 and fem reader with a shitbox car (totally not me). You're in there every three to four weeks with something going wrong with your death trap of a car. The boys aren't sabotaging your car or anything. They don't need to. Your car is just that bad. It's a miracle it hasn't killed you yet. You're trying to save up for a newer car, but your shitbox keeps burning a hole in your wallet with every light blinking on your dashboard. It's to the point that the boys recognize you as soon as you walk into the shop. They hear the bell ring and they just know it's you again.

(Contains: sex as payment, oral sex/blowjob, fingering/masturbation) but of a different style from BitW but enjoy. Not proofread :p

"What is it now?" Price asks, wiping the motor oil from his hands on a greasy rag. You're already looping the key fob off your keychains.

"It's shaking whenever I get above 45."

"What part of the car is shaking?" He asks, pulling up your information on the computer.

"All of it," you say, slapping the key onto the counter with a huff. Price gives you a sympathetic look.

"Darling, you should really get yourself something more reliable," he tells you. You sigh and lean your elbows on the counter. His eyes glance down to your chest and the low-cut shirt you were wearing.

"I'm trying, Price," you say with a little more attitude than you intended. "It's impossible to save money when everything goes back into this fucking car!" You run your hands over your face. "I'm gonna die in that thing," you mutter, only half-joking. Price stops typing for a moment, thinking to himself.

"What if we could work something out?" He asks tentatively. You look up at him to see him already staring you down.

"Like... a loyalty discount?" You try to clarify. Surely he didn't mean...

"I was thinking something more along the lines of... an alternative method of payment." He leans against the counter in front of you, his face close to yours. He smelled like what you'd expect: motor oil and engine grease and musky, manly sweat. "Something under-the-table..." Your heart skipped a beat at the double-meaning of his words, allowing him just enough plausible deniability if you chose to not accept. You swallowed hard.

"What do you have in mind?" You ask softly, your heart pounding in your chest, and with how hard Price was staring at your cleavage, you think maybe he could see it. You reach a hand out to stoke a finger along his arm, feeling the coarse hair all over it. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

"I think I have something in the back office that might work. Follow me and I'll show you."

It wasn't that you were totally desperate. Well, you were. This car had cost you thousands more than it was worth and you needed to save any penny you could when it came to it. But you wouldn't have followed just any mechanic into the rinky-dink office at the back of the auto shop. This was John Price. And he was all man.

"You want that discount, you're gonna have to work for it."

Broad shoulders tapering into a narrower waist, but still lined with the perfect ratio of hearty muscle and soft belly, all leading down to an alluring bulge and plump ass, and finally, those thick, beefy thighs. Not to mention his hands: thick, strong, and calloused from years of hard manual labor, and forearms and biceps that twisted and flexed underneath his button-down work shirt.

He holds the door open for you, his body crowding you into the tight space. The office is more of an oversized closet with a desk and an old computer. He closes the door behind you both and settles himself into the rickety office chair, which creaks under his weight. He sits with his legs spread and his hands on his thighs and gestures for you to come closer.

You kneel between his legs and he smirks, adjusting his hips in the chair while you work open his belt. He lets you open his trousers for him but pushes them down for you so his semi-hard cock can spring free. He sighs when you take it into your hand, stroking him to full hardness.

He isn't much of a moaner, you didn't expect him to be, but his chest puffs as you take the tip into your mouth and suck on it lightly. Your hand moves up and down his shaft slowly, your fingers moving to meet your lips. You lick around the head and push the tip of your tongue into his slit, making his hips jerk lightly.

You close your eyes, letting yourself fully focus on his cock, letting desire and submissiveness take over your mind as you work to please him on your knees. You take him deeper into your mouth, widening your jaw and rocking your mouth side to side to fit him farther down. Your other hand slides up his thick, meaty thigh to massage his balls while you find yourself in a gentle rhythm. You bob your head, going down just far enough, but not enough to gag you, and sucking hard on the way up as your hand holds and twists the base. You melt onto him, the feeling of him in your mouth quieting your mind, leaving any thought of hesitancy far, far behind. All you need is John Price's dick in your mouth, and you think you could reach enlightenment between his thighs.

You barely register the fact that you're moaning around him until he's teasing you for it.

"Yeah? You like this, don't you? Letting me drag you to the back of the shop to suck my cock like the little whore you are." You whimpered at the filthy words he was spitting down at you. "Knew you would- the boys and I- knew you'd like us usin' you like this," he says with a grunt as he watches your eyes roll back. "Go on and touch yourself for me, dear."

You let go of his balls and quickly open your pants to sneak your hand inside. Your pussy is soaked, your fingers gliding through your lips with ease. You moan louder as you circle your clit, the motion sending sparks through your pelvis and thighs.

"There's a good girl. So obedient. I can hear how wet you are for me." He places a hand on your head, not pushing, just guiding your pace up and down his length. You press your tongue to the underside of his cock to add pressure while you touch your clit, the wet nub buzzing with electricity.

"Just like that," he puffs. He holds up his shirt and you see through your fluttering lashes the way his abs constrict with pleasure. "Go on, make yourself cum like that. Think you can do it? You think you can cum with my cock down your throat?" His hips jerk up into your mouth again with more urgency.

Your thighs twitch as your stomach tightens. His vulger words send you over the edge, and your hips stutter against your hand. Your body twitches and thrusts on the floor between his thighs.

"Good girl- good fuckin' girl," he says, his voice deep and strained, and he fists your hair harder and pulls it tight. The rush of euphoria makes you moan around him low and loud, and he cums into your mouth with a grunt. You choke on the salty fluid, swallowing what you can, but some of it slips out of your lips and drips down your chin.

He pulls you off and takes a good look at how ruined you are, your lips swollen, your eyes unable to focus, your hand down your pants, and best of all, his cum decoration your face. He smiles at you and hands you a relatively clean rag to clean your face. Little black streaks preplace white droplets on your skin, and he can't help the fond smile that creeps up on him. He's marked you now in more ways than one.

He untangles his hand from your hair and let's you rest your head on his knee until you catch your breath. You take your hand out of your pants, and he motions for you to raise it up to him, and instead of wiping it with the rag, he leans forward and sucks your wet fingers into his mouth. He holds your eyes and you feel his tongue swiping across the pads of your fingers, until he releases then with a smack of his lips.

"I'll let the boys know about our little arrangement. They'll collect their own payment when you pick it up tomorrow," he says with a wink. He helps you stand up and walks you back to the front, leaving you with one final squeeze to you ass. "Oh, and you might want to wash your hair," he adds as he opens the door to the garage. He hands up a greasy hand. "Got motor oil in it. Sorry."

#captain john price #john price #john price smut #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x female reader #fem reader #mechanic!141 #mechanic!price

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reddesires · 2 months ago

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Play By Play

Bucky Barnes x Selective Mute Reader (Spy!AU)

Synopsis: Bucky is an eccentric espionage operative who enjoys the thrill of fucking shit up and bothering his beloved moody partner who puts up with his shit. They're the unlikely pair who work extremely well with each other. (it helps that they secretly love each other. And they were partners! gasp)

Word count: 4415

Tags: Cursing, tired reader, mentions of blood, mention of trauma, dummy Bucky, spy shit, scenes of violence, flirty/exasperated duo, bickering & banter, selective mute reader, smug bastard Bucky, love & hate relationship (they both love each other), I love them your honor

A/n: Wow, I actually managed to get this out with relative ease (sike, I had a miniature meltdown at some parts.) I wanted to make a banter fic so here is my hand at it. I tried, lol.

Flirty cocky Bucky is my favorite kind of Bucky, so this was self-indulgent if you couldn't tell.

He's an idiot, an 'irritatingly grates on your nerves incessantly' kind of fuckin idiot. He prefers his "pro no-bono method" which by the way made no damn sense but in his bucky brain, it makes perfect sense. It's making shit up along the way which usually ends with you having to pull away from your designated safe zone just so you can save him from his idiotic slip ups- swooping in at the nick of time so his dumbass doesn't get killed.

He has his moments. He's the smartest dumbest person you've ever met, but he's also the best partner you've been paired with.

He was incredibly adept when the moment really called for it, he was good at his job, he matched you on having a long history of experience of being espionage operative but he just couldn't help himself to 'spice' things up.

Truthfully, he was an adrenaline-junkie who craved more than the monotonous covers of the same old, same old. And you, his complete opposite who played by the rule book, just stoked that fire brighter.

You allowed him that space to be a complete dumbass because you possessed the proper brain cells to pull him out of sticky situations.

You have to remind yourself, 'He's the best partner you've been paired with. Deep breath, don't kill him yourself.'

He gets you, attuned with your movements both on and off the field. Dare you say that he was your closest friend despite all his headassery that gives you a constant throbbing migraine that appears the very second you can just feel he's about to do something incredibly stupid, though he calls it making 'very calculated risks'.

Again, he's the best partner you've been paired with.

With him there's no need for words, his ability to read your facial expressions bordering on something of a supernatural skill, it comes to him as easily as breathing it seems and he doesn't push for more from you.

Incredibly loyal and incredibly stupid.

You watch all the cams with a close eye- their positions settled discreetly within the elegant venue that Bucky is currently operating in, your eyebrow twitching in irritation as he stands at the bar motioning to the bartender for yet another martini.

Your hand immediately lands on the comm around your neck, your fingers nimbly pressing on the button, a series of beeps feeding through the comm in his ear. 'Stop drinking so much, you imbecile.'

The smirk that pulls on his lips is instantaneous as he quickly downs the martini without a second thought, his chuckle only causing your lip to twitch from the repressed annoyance.

"I've got this, Master Chief. Stop beeping at me,"

Your response is immediate. 'Don't call me that, dumbass. Eyes on target, get a move on,'

He hums as his eyes trail over the assigned target, he's steps away from the bar with an air of self appointed confidence and you have to give him credit, he doesn't seem out of place amongst the rich and the beautiful, he's devastatingly handsome in his black on black suit, so much so that it irritates you all the more.

'Remember, I need you to be within 2 clicks of the target. The transmitter will send a signal to his phone, I'll let you know when to pull back.' Bucky bumps into a young woman, his hand immediately settling on her waist as he flashes her a charming smile. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." Her eyes instantly flutter, and a flustered giggle pulls from her lips as he slips by her.

'Don't get distracted. After my signal, you'll need to slip into his office and plug in the USB," He discreetly grins to himself as he mocks the series of beeps in his ear back to you. "Bee boop beep, hear you loud and clear. In position. Now do your thing, R2-D2."

You roll your eyes as you activate your transmission, the signal only extending to your assigned target's device.

"You know this could go a whole lot faster if I'm closer, gives me a chance to attain personal details,"

Your hand immediately lands on your comm button, pressing down with no relent, releasing a high-pitched screech in his ear, and he jolts, a curse slipping from between clenched teeth, cupping his ear.

'The last time you did that, you flirted with the target's wife so much, you damn near got yourself shot in the foot,' the sound he releases is nothing short of a devious giggle as he mutters. "True, but she liked it."

The ping sets off, pulling your attention, and you quickly get back to the task at hand.

'Transmission complete, get in there. Also, for the love of god, don't do anything stupid. CO will have our asses.'

A smug look crossed his face as he rounded the edges of the ballroom towards his next objective. "Don't you worry your pretty little head," he simpers, "I'll keep the 'calculated risks' to a minimum."

As he steps into the compound, your hands move promptly, your expression one of exasperation as he slinks forward towards you with a goofy smile.

'I'm going to kill you. Where the hell were you?' His arms wrap around your waist, spinning you around, the action surprising you. You tightly hold onto his shoulders before he quickly settles you back on the ground, his eyes glowing with crackling excitement.

Your mouth falls open in surprise, your eyebrows furrowing with growing suspicion. 'What did you do?' You sign with a sigh, your head tilting. His laughter immediately follows as his hands settle on your shoulders.

"Guess who scored us the jackpot? Yeah, that's right! This guy!" He shakes you back and forth with the enthusiasm of an overly hyped child, and you feel the urge to groan out tiredly.

Bucky is an overachiever. He's down for whatever big score he can get his hands on, and obviously, you're dragged right along no matter how much you try to talk him out of it - a stubborn idiot.

'Let me guess, it's sketchy, but the pay is good?' You look up with an unimpressed look.

"It's in the Mills, Sweet-face! That supersedes all the boring details,"

You could kill him and hang him from the rafters for all the other operatives to see, then come up with the most logical explanation to tell your Case Officer why your partner was disposed of but unfortunately, Bucky was the most valuable espionage agent there is and unluckily enough, he was your problem so it was a no go.

'Fine, but if it's anything like what happened in Dubai, I'm leaving you behind.' You motion with a pout, your hands soon dropping grudgingly.

Bucky makes a sound of victory, a grin spreading onto his face as he sticks out his pinky, extended out towards you.

"Pinky promise and try not to die, Partner."

With a whole lot of mustered up willpower and prayers that you'll survive whatever scenario you'll be put in, you wrap your pinky around his.

The clicking of the keyboard from your work laptop filled the quiet space, your eyes slowly blinking away the tiredness sticking to the corners of your lids. Your lower back starting to ache and a headache beginning to settle in after a long day of browsing through case file after case file, so far it's all minimal details that do nothing to catch your attention.

You look to the side of you, Bucky's draped over the table with his head laying on his arms- soft breaths puffing from between his pouting lips, his eyelashes fluttering as he floats through the throes of sleep. He looked abnormally soft and calm, the complete opposite of his usual wild smile and smug look.

The way his face was fully relaxed, smooth of any crinkling and unrestrained chaos, he was unfairly pretty.

You couldn't help but brush away the curl that fell from the crown of his head in front of his eyes, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he shifted slightly in sleep.

Bucky was enigmatic in all the ways that didn't make sense, but to you, all those qualities made him - him. He often got on your nerves and you often threatened to leave him behind but the truth was, you were loyal to him to a fault, all because he stuck by you with no complaint the day you two were assigned as partners.

You were the newest operative, an unconventional agent who, for the life of you, couldn't mesh with every other agent you were paired with. Your silence and stoicism unsettling or impractical for them. You didn't care much for it.

Your trauma stemming from a mission gone wrong that rendered you into a vow of silence.

Their need for your voice further pushing you to close that part of yourself off. Your CIA career going down the drain as a result leading you to where you are now, in an agency that specializes in espionage operatives for hire.

You can still remember that day you met Bucky Barnes, the over-eccentric agent who managed to exhaust every attempt of partnership within the bureau.

His face smudged with black gunpowder and a bloody busted lip that did nothing to dim his beaming smile and those blue eyes as he was introduced to you by your CO.

"I'll be transparent with ya, you're more than likely the 100th person I've been paired with," he's entirely unashamed by that fact as he shakes your hand with the friendliness of a golden retriever with no self preservation.

"No worries, I'll be the best partner you'll ever have!"

And from there came a collaboration of the opposites, two forces that somehow synergized so well together that there was not a doubt about you two being their top agents.

It was exhausting, both the reputation and him, but you couldn't possibly think of it being any other way.

He's your problem and you're his solution.

Fire to gasoline at worst.

Your fingers trace along his jawline, a faint smile on your face as he hums sleepily, leaning into your gentle touch.

You secure a fleece blanket around his shoulders, tucking it around his hunched over figure before settling back into your research.

You hear him before he enters the room.

he sing-songs your name loudly as he dramatically slams the door open, ever the drama queen he was.

As he's passing the threshold, he turns around, moon walking then spinning breaking into doing his little 'dancey dance' right in front of you as you sit on the table with your leg pulled up.

You can't help but roll your eyes at his demonstration, continuing to wipe down your pistol with careful hands.

His little grunts of exertion as he's dancing make you want to throw your rag at his head.

he grins at you with a twinkle in his eye, clearly very pleased with the upcoming topic. "Guess what, Snoopy,"

You sigh, placing your gun beside your thigh and slowly looking up at him, your eyes tracing over him. He's clean shaven and emanating his usual aftershave along with his favorite cologne - he's usually mindful of his looks and hygiene, but this bordered on more effort on his part, like he was looking to impress.

'Don't tell me you harassed the new receptionist,' You sign with a flat look, that exasperation building in your chest as you pinch your nose bridge not caring for the gun grease coating your fingertips.

His laugh is instantaneous. "Come on, I didn't harass her! She was totally into it," he smugly smiles at you, leaning in closer. "So much so, she agreed to a date!"

'You cost us our last receptionist, Barnes,' You respond in kind, your expression mocking his before it falls as you shake your head.

"True, but only because I mentioned the background check and her newest fraudulent tax claims.."

'It's not easy being a receptionist in this economy,' You motion, shrugging as you wipe off the residue from your fingertips.

"Perhaps I came off as too intense?" He hums with a smirk before biting it down, scrunching his nose at you playfully.

'Intense doesn't cover it, more like stalker-ish,' You mirror his smirk, hopping off the table with ease.

"Occupational hazard, Sweet-face," he grins, swiping his finger over your nose bridge, rubbing the grease between his fingers.

You huff in amusement before you smooth down his shirt over his shoulders and slick his hair back with a raised eyebrow, signing. 'Behave out there, Barnes. We prefer to have a receptionist within our midst.'

"No promises, I like to keep you guessing." He says as he tips your chin with his finger before he's moon-walking towards the door bumping into it like an idiot, winking at you on the way out.

This is the 5th time in 10 minutes that Bucky has tugged at your hair, each and every time you smacked his hand away as if he was a pesky gnat, which in your head, he was.

'Why are you being so clingy?' You turn to him abruptly, your signing exuding your exasperation.

He tilts his head, his cheek pressed into his palm.

"Just missed you s'all," He says slyly, making a kissy face tipping towards you, it doesn't take you a second to push him away- your palm pressed against the middle of his face, your distaste clear on your face.

'Kiss me, and you're losing more than just your life.'

He giggles, nipping at your finger in retaliation. "Be still my beating heart, you flirt,"

'Please, shut your face.' Your forehead smacks on to the table with a loud thud, you definitely regret getting him that double shot espresso Red Eye with whip cream and caramel drizzle, he insisted- insisted was too nice of word- more like begged for.

You just hope his caffeine high would crash down on him before your wrath did.

'I need you to focus, you himbo,' Your hand grips his chin firmly, trailing his attention back to you, he grins. 'Our client is coming in. CO arranged a meeting for that big score you somehow attained.'

"Oh hell yeah! First impressions!" His voice muffled from his pursed lips as you squeezed his cheeks in between your fingers, your eyebrows furrowing with a tiny frown.

You release him from your grasp, your signing stern. 'I need you to be sane,' You poke the middle of his forehead, his head lightly bobbling from the movement. 'No crazy expositions and unnecessary rants again.'

The slow crawl of a smile slips onto his face as he pinches your cheek. "Sweet-face, you're cute when you worry,"

Your face is blank as you resist the urge to sigh. He's so infuriating- but the fondness that warms your chest overruled that fact more than you'd like to admit.

"We're a 5 star duo, we've never disappointed," his face falls into something softer, a flicker of reassurance in his blue eyes "I wouldn't let you down, Y/n."

You huff out of your nose, the corner of your lips tugging in a sideways smile. 'I don't doubt you, Bucky.'

His chest deflates subtly, your eyes immediately catching it - you're suddenly all too aware of your rising heartbeat. He truly valued your opinion of him.

You mattered to him.

He clears his throat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck before he tugs at your hair again. "Then it's a good thing you have faith in my pro no-bono method."

And the moment is dead.

'I hate the pro no-bono method!'

The thing you dreaded most other than Bucky's shenanigans was his first impressions. It always ended poorly on your behalf.

Whilst you tried to maintain a point of professionalism and poise, Bucky was the pin to that outlook each and every time.

You have no idea how your CO could bear to go through these meetings. You were barely surviving them without,

A. Wanting to jump through the nearest window despite being 30 floors high and,

B. Wanting to kick Bucky down the first elevator shaft you come across, but you supposed those were the trials and tribulations of being acquainted with the one and only Bucky Barnes.

The mischievous smile that threatened to break out across his face pulled an exhaustion that emerged from deep within your bones - the feeling appearing as an ache did when the cold winds picked up outside.

'Bucky, please. You look like you're holding back an aneurysm,"

His eyes were glued to the double doors with a strange excitable intensity, awaiting the honored client, but the quick glance over let you know he knew exactly what you signed.

"Hush, Gromit. I'm trying to focus here."

An indignant huff escapes your lips involuntarily, your lips falling into a frown as you glare at the side of his face, only causing him to smirk as he feels your gaze on him.

'You're insufferable, Barnes.'

You turn away, not bothering to see if he caught what you said, walking over to your CO's desk and roughly flipping open the client's file, your eyes scanning over the general information.

It was interesting enough.

Son of a corrupt CEO, in need of experienced espionage operatives to steal valuable asset information. Highly dangerous, could potentially end in shed blood.

Okay.. Typical Friday night.

"Glare any harder and you'll set the file on fire," He hums teasingly, his hands landing on the desk leaning towards you with a coquet smile- no doubt his way of distracting you from your grumpy mood before your scheduled meeting.

You supposed he was sweet for the thought, but you can see through him too well. He was only trying to soften the metaphorical blow to your ego once he transitioned into his characteristic 'first impressions'.

Your eyebrow twitches in response.

He blows you a kiss.

Right on schedule, your CO and client walk right through those double doors with the swagger of men who wanted to get down to business, and you could respect it, but you knew it wouldn't last long.

Your CO throws a pointed look at Bucky, his arms crossing and his lips pulled into a disapproving frown- he can feel the chaos that stirred up in the blue eyed man as soon as they walked into the room.

"Mr. Wells, I'd like to introduce you to our most elite members, Bucky Barnes and Y/n L/n." He gestures with a tight smile.

Bucky's contemptuous smile almost tempts you to smile slightly yourself- Perhaps you two had every reason to be boastful in your work.

You make your way around the desk, standing behind Bucky, nodding your head in greeting.

"What's good, man. We're the lowly souls at your disposal," Bucky simpers, a shit eating grin leveling his face.

Your head immediately snaps to stare at the side of his face, your mouth slightly parted in dismay.

Mr. Wells laughs in response, his brow raising in amusement. "Nice one, appreciate it."

You almost sigh in relief that Mr. Wells took Bucky's words with a grain of salt - 10 different scenarios flashed before your eyes from the idiot's comment alone.

Your eyes trail warily over to the trio as they slip into standard talk of the mission, you lean against the front of the desk with your arms crossed, listening into the more important details, trying to drown out Bucky's incessant side comments.

He's so lucky he had a cute face, or otherwise, his life would be on hard-mode from his cheeky mouth alone.

You couldn't help but disassociate as you stare in their direction, only snapping out of it when their conversation catches your attention at the mention of you.

"Does she do that a lot?.. Stare like that?" Mr. Wells asks curiously, his gaze shifting to Bucky.

Bucky grin hooks the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I like calling her 'Silent but Deadly'."

"Like.. a far-?"

"Yeah." Bucky cuts him off while shrugging, and you don't even give him a moment to revel in his amusement as you slap the back of his head, his head jeering forward by the force.

A choked laugh tears from his mouth as he cradles the back of his head. "See?"

Your glare is searing as you lift your hand up again in a threatening manner, and Bucky giggles boyishly, putting his hand up in surrender.

That metaphorical blow to your ego was enough for you to commit both treachery and homicide. He's so lucky that he had a cute face.

Okay, this isn't anything like a typical Friday night.

You figured that this would be harder than the standardized ops you were usually sent on, but you never thought you would be up against a small militia of men that Mr. Wells' father had on guard.

The drive that sat in your pocket felt as if it was burning a hole against your thigh as you pressed against your hiding spot away from the men's scanning eyes.

You had been separated from Bucky, and you felt as if you were gonna throw up your heart from anxiety as you clutched the fabric of your shirt tightly.

Your comms have been intercepted, and you couldn't risk using them. you just wanted to find Bucky more than anything. The thought of him in need of your help caused your breathing to pick a more panicked pace and a flustered haze encompassed over your brain.

You needed to move forward.

There was no way in hell you would be leaving this place without him.

You ran up the hall, hiding behind a wall when you peeped two men running up the staircase, their voices carrying with rugged urgency. "He's up on the renovated floor! Trap him in!"

Your mind raced as you thought back to map layout of the building. The renovated floor is the 21st floor.

You slammed your shoulder into the stairwell door, immediately pointing your gun in the men's direction as you determined their positions from their loud footsteps.

Your bullet made its way into the first man's leg, he yelled out in pain, his gun slipping from his hand and down into the endless spiral of stairs. The second man runs back down in an attempt to save his partner but you're quick to make a head-shot and run up in a hurry, shooting the first man without a second to spare as you pass him.

You can hear the commotion from the renovation floor, the gunfire and screams bouncing off the stairwell walls with a vengeance, and you ignore it as best as you could - steeling your emotions.

You don't bother with stealth as you roll into the hall, staying low to avoid the bullets sent your way, you shoot up from your low position- landing each shot with practiced precision.

You run forward toward the end of the long hall, a choked breath trying to rip from your chest as you hear yells from the boardroom.

You quickly reload, throwing your empty cartridge to the side as you slam into the room.

Your world slows as you pass the threshold, watching your partner lose his footing as he falls through the broken window behind him as he dodges the knife swinging toward him.

"BUCKY!"

Three shots resonated through the air.

Your voice rang through the air, and it seemed all else was drowned out as he heard you call out his name.

His arm ached with the burning pain as he held onto the ledge of the building, glass digging into the delicate skin of his fingers, piercing them with the promise of scarring in the near future. He could feel his right arm tremble viciously as he threw his other arm up in an attempt to pull himself up. Blood dribbled down his skin in red rivulets.

What shook him most right at this moment is that while he feared falling to his death, he was dreading dying without seeing you one last time.

He wanted to see you. He bit his lower lip hard, hard enough that he tasted iron. He wanted you more than anything right now.. so much so he heard what he thought was your voice as he fell..

Did he imagine you calling out his name?

That question quickly died out when you urgently grabbed his forearm using all the strength you could possibly muster, your eyes glassy, and your expression so desperate as you clutched onto him to pull him into safety.

He could hear the panic-stricken pace of your breathing. He's seen you like this once before and it destroyed him as it did before, and as he's pulled over the ledge, his chest both somehow constricted and expanded as he instantly pushed himself into your space.

You're here. He's so relieved and grateful that you're once again here for him.

"You're an angel, both physically and vocally." He says breathlessly as he grabs the back of your head, pressing a hurried kiss to your forehead.

He knew the humorous compliment after a near death experience was certainly a choice, but he didn't worry about it as he knew that you could see right through him. You always did.

When you two were safe and sound, he would properly handle it. You weren't the only one who could feel the remnants of dark doubt that hung over the two of you.

Your lips pull back in a relieved smile as you grip onto his shoulders, an exhaustion radiating off you as you shakily tilt your head.

Bucky quickly pulls you behind him, ducking behind cover as he hears the oncoming footsteps of men stomping their way down the hall. His hand grazing over his flash bomb and double-checking his ammunition in his gun.

You settle next to him, your expression schooling itself immediately with practiced ease, your hand pulling back the hammer of your pistol, emptying itself of the hollow shells.

"Bucky.." His head whips back in your direction, breathless as he awaits your next words.

You stick out your pinky. "You promised." Your voice is low and shaky from disuse.

There's a dazed look in his eyes - as if all other surrounding sound didn't matter to him but your voice.

The quintessence of all that was worthy of reverence.

'Oh fuck.' Crosses his mind within a split second.

He doesn't hesitate to wrap his pinky around yours, pulling your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles with vigor.

"I promised."

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #james barnes #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #james buchanan barnes #reader insert #fanfic #fanfiction

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