#tension

[batboysanonymous]

A Soft Place to Fall

Azriel x Reader

Summary: When Azriel finds himself drawn to her warmth, her curves, her unapologetic softness, he knew he didn't stand a chance; and once he finally gave in, he'd never crawl back out of her arms, or her bed, again.

Azriel had spent five centuries mastering silence. He could slip through shadows, read a room with one flick of his cold golden eyes, and kill a man before his target ever heard a footstep.

And yet none of it prepared him for you.

None of it protected him from the way your laughter—bright, unfiltered—sank under his skin like sunlight in a place he’d long since left dark. Or the way you walked into a room with curves that refused to be quiet, hips that swayed like they knew his eyes were on them, thighs that whispered promises in the cradle of his dreams.

You were soft where others were sharp. Loud where others tiptoed around his silence. And you were kind to him. Kind. You looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon. Like he was a man.

And gods, he was fucked.

It started with glances.

One night at the River House, your thigh had brushed against his under the table. Just a second. Just a spark. But Azriel had spent the rest of dinner sitting stone-still, sweat between his shoulder blades, trying not to glance down at where the curve of your legs pressed so innocently against his. Like you didn’t know what you were doing.

He knew. Or hoped.

He went home that night and fucked his hand with your name on his tongue.

Over the following weeks, it only got worse.

His shadows told on him. Whispers of you undressing, fingers brushing lotion over your skin. Your voice, singing softly in your room when you thought no one was listening. The bond—Cauldron, the bond—was growing louder, insistent now, humming in his bones every time you walked by.

He began to crave you like blood. And it made him sloppy.

Sparring with Cassian? He caught a glimpse of you stretching on the sidelines and missed a block, got knocked on his ass. Mission debriefing with Rhys? Azriel didn’t hear a word—because you’d walked in wearing a dress that hugged the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips like a sin.

But he couldn’t touch. Not yet.

He didn’t know if you felt it. The bond. The way it pulled on him like a hook in his ribs, dragging him closer to you with every breath. You deserved more than a man who didn’t know how to be soft. A man who burned and bled and broke.

But then… you smiled at him.

That day in the training ring, your face flushed, thighs trembling from the workout, sweat glistening between your breasts—he snapped.

"You alright?" you asked gently, blinking up at him as he stalked toward you, dark and silent.

"No," he said hoarsely. “No, I’m not.”

You looked up at him with that wide-eyed kindness, a little confused, a little wary. “Az…?”

“I need to show you something.”

He didn’t give you time to overthink. Just took your hand and led you through the House—past the halls where his shadows curled and listened, past the tension thrumming in his chest—to the bathing chamber. Quiet. Private.

Sacred.

When the door shut behind you, you stood very still. “Is something wrong?”

Azriel turned to you, heart in his throat. “I think you’re my mate.”

Silence. Thick. Shocking.

You blinked, once. Twice. “You think—?”

“I know,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ve known for months. Since the moment I saw you. The bond—it’s been screaming at me, and I’ve been pretending I can ignore it. But I can’t anymore. Not when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

The bath steamed behind him, sweet with oils and magic. And you—beautiful and wide-eyed and so damn soft—stood before him like a vision.

He raised a scarred hand. Let it hover near your cheek. “Say something. Please.”

You stared at him, lips parted, and then whispered: “Why me?”

Azriel exhaled, voice thick. “Because your laugh sounds like something I want to protect. Because when you walk into a room, I don’t see shadows—I see a future. Because your thighs drive me insane, and when you smile at me, it hurts. And because I would burn the world if you asked.”

Your eyes shimmered.

“Let me show you,” he said. “Please.”

And you nodded.

He undressed you slowly.

Azriel had never gone to war with trembling fingers, but he did now—unlacing the front of your tunic, pushing the fabric down your arms, eyes drinking in every glorious inch you revealed.

Your breasts spilled free first, soft and full and gods, he wanted to mouth at them for hours. Then your waist, the slight dip of your belly, the luscious curve of your hips.

You reached to cover yourself, instinctive.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

And when you dropped your arms, vulnerable and trembling, Azriel fell to his knees like he’d been commanded by the gods themselves.

You gasped as he kissed the inside of your thigh, his voice shaking with reverence. “I’ve dreamed of this. Every damn night.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Azriel worshipped you like a prayer—his tongue seeking, finding, devouring the sweet bundle of nerves that made you moan and buck against his face. He gripped your thighs with reverent hands, spreading you open wider for him, shadows caressing you like a second touch.

When your thighs clamped around his head, he groaned—groaned—like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your slick. “Use me, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You came for him like a breaking wave. Then again. And again. Until your legs shook and your voice was hoarse from moaning his name.

When he finally rose, your eyes were glazed, your lips kiss-bruised from his.

“Bath,” he murmured, lifting you easily into the water.

You curled into him, back to his chest, the warm water cradling you both. His hands never stopped moving—palming your belly under the surface, stroking the curve of your hip, dragging lazy circles along your inner thigh.

“You drive me mad,” he said, lips against your ear.

“I didn’t mean to.”

He smiled. “I think I was waiting for someone like you. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when I said I’m broken. Who would still want me when I got like this—desperate and wild.”

Then he kissed you.

Not fierce. Not possessive. Just full. Devout. Like a man finally drinking water after years of thirst.

Later, as he dried you off with his own hands—slow, careful, utterly in love—he murmured: “You're mine now.”

You smiled up at him. “And you're mine?”

Azriel lowered his head. Rested his brow against your belly.

“I’ve always been yours.”

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[sarotati]

He's so cute 🤏

A Little Closer

Tang Bo x Reader

His mouth felt unbearably dry. The hard surface of the wall was cold on his feverish skin.

“Tang Bo, explain yourself,” you gritted out.

It was too much. The proximity was intoxicating, it made his head spin. And unknowingly, you pressed closer. He was tempted to just break through the wall itself, but then he’d have to deal with his family’s bitching for like, at least a month.

“Can you—” he wheezed, red in the face and trying desperately to avert his gaze. “Can you maybe, just, back up?”

Please, he begged. For my sanity.

A hand grabbed a fistful of the front of his robes, and he nearly cried in frustration. You were going to kill him with this.

“You think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been avoiding me all week? Do I look like an idiot to you or something?”

“No,” he rasped, trying not to look at your inviting lips. The ferocity in your gaze was not turning him on. It wasn’t—damnit.

“Look at me,” you snapped.

And…oh. He was so, utterly fucked.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot angst [18+]

title. let me be free of you

He would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

ᰔ pairing. friends to strangers au - best friend!gojo x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru, your love of a lifetime, tells you he’s engaged to another woman. inspired by the novel & netflix series “one day” created by david nicholls

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, angst, mentions of sex/explicit content, coming of age themes, reader & gojo are in their 30s, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, cheating, lots of mutual pining & longing, bittersweet ending

ᰔ word count. 4.8k

a/n. hellooo! i've had this finished in my wips folder for a long time but never got around to posting it sooo just wanted to let it see the light of day haha. hope you enjoyyy <33

➸ masterlist

“I’m engaged.”

The words leave Gojo’s lips as much less of a confession and more like a blabber, like a toddler desperate to keep conversation going in the face of a disinterested adult. Wasn’t how he expected to share the news of a lifetime to the love of his lifetime, but he hopes it breaks your heart to hear it. 

He watches your eyebrows flatten from the crease that was bothering them before, and then slowly raise into soft arches above your eyes–those damn beautiful eyes that, even when they twinkle with hurt, still make his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recalls for a moment the night the two of you met, drunk and dizzy from drinking out of a shared bottle of Prosecco, which only had half of the liquor left in it to start when he had first found it bleeding out to dry on the grassy lawn at the front of your university. It was graduation night, the last day to celebrate finishing four years of hell, and he had nothing to his name other than a rolled up diploma shoved in the pocket of his suit pants and the charm left in the youth of his smile. He wanted to spend the night with Aiko Rei, which was not a unique desire as most men on campus did, and he had a fair shot of getting into bed with her just like all those times before. But instead he was sitting at the top of a staircase inside the campus’s English literature building, making history in the crisp year of 1986 by being the first man of the robust age of twenty-three to pass up sex with the school’s lady heartthrob for–well, conversation with a sort of ditsy girl that he just met a half hour ago.

“What do you plan to do with your life?” he heard you ask him, a hard enough question to stomach when one is sober, and an impossible question to stomach when one is already trying not to puke flat Prosecco.

“Pardon?” he asked, in hopes to dissuade you from the question. In hopes that you’d get the hint. But you don’t. And he’d soon learn throughout the years of your friendship to come that you never did.

“Your life!” you exclaim, “we’re graduates now! What do you want to do with it?” You pat harshly at his thigh, closer to his groin than to his pocket, most likely because you’re tipsy too, but he realizes you’re referring to the rolled up paper protruding at the pocket. 

Truthfully, Gojo had never thought much about what he wanted to do after graduation. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d make it this far. Not once since he got here, not once since he flunked out of first-year history, not once since his father passed away during his third-year final examinations, and most certainly not after he got caught having “unethical affairs” with his communications professor just two months ago. And yet the esteemed board of scholars decided he was fit for a diploma anyway, and now he’s answering to, effectively, a stranger what he plans to do with said piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” he says to you, “I’ll do whatever.” 

Gojo Satoru could get by with doing whatever. He was good at everything he did. But his teachers and mentors and his own father would always warn him– son, it’s better to be an expert at one than a half-assed show-off in all. Well, they wouldn’t use the expletives, but that’s what it had sounded like in his head.

His dad would’ve liked you. He was always telling him to find a girl that challenges him, asks him the right questions, and pushes him to become a better man, the kind of woman his mother was to his father. Much opposed to the airheaded girls of Gojo’s college campus he would sneak into the house and forget to shoo off before sunrise, an occurrence that happened enough times for the respect in his father’s eyes to dwindle with each woman he’d watch his son dispel from their residence. Until eventually, Gojo started paying rent as punishment.

So, twenty-three year old Gojo, what do you plan to do with your life? Or do you have no idea of anything that extends beyond where you are right now, sitting across this strange girl you’ve just met on the death of your educational youth, at the top of a stairwell lined with passed out, drunk newly grads at nearly 4 in the morning? Right now, he’s eyeing the hem of your dress, the way it’s ridden up slightly but the mesh overskirt still tickles the skin of your thigh. He’s certainly able to picture what’s beyond that fabric, and maybe imagine the color of your panties, but what’s to come for his life? No. As previously mentioned, he never thought he’d get this far.

Gojo is thirty-four now, eleven years since that night the two of you met. And he sits next to you on a garden bench under a pitch black sky with stars speckled across, but only dimly visible. 

It’s been years since he’s seen you. You two had a “falling out” at the cusp of thirty, almost a decade of friendship fizzled away, because of his selfish actions. He couldn’t let you go, but he couldn’t want you the way you wanted him either. He didn’t feel like he deserved to have you. You were too good for him, and he knew it. So he wasted a decade chasing after other women, and in return, he lost the one he knew he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

It’s the night of your college roommate‘s wedding, all gathered here today to celebrate their love, and he knew he’d run into you here. You were the bride’s maiden of honor, and you looked beautiful. With your hair half tied up, a pretty clip twinkling with every movement of your head, and with strands falling down over the smooth curve of your neck, bare skin of your chest tightly covered by the nude fabric of your dress. He was fully lusting after you, and he has been all night, the picture of beauty and grace, and it was wrong. Because, again, he’s–

“You’re engaged?” you finally break through his thoughts, break through the trance that he was lost in by the sea of your eyes. Forever pulling him in like you were a wicked siren for his soul, when all you’ve ever wanted from him was his love.

He shifts a little, the thick fabric of his navy blue suit stretching with the movement as he fidgets with his hands in his lap. He’s sitting close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours, the contrast of his broad masculinity so evident against the feminine curve of your bare arm, the thin strap holding up your dress threatening to fall down the hill. His thumb twitches, because he wants to pull it back up into place for you like a gentleman, but he’s not sure if that’s what his hand would actually do. Because all he really wants to do is peel the dress off of you. 

“Yes,” he says, still tantalized by the glow of your skin under pale moonlight, “engaged.”

“To be married?”

“Well, what other kind of engaged is there?”

“You’re not allowed to get married.”

He snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter, "I turn my back for one moment, and you've gone an got engaged? You're awful!" The strap of your dress falls down over your shoulder, his eyes immediately darting to it. He sees you pull the strap up back into place, and a flit of his eyes to your face reveals to him the slight dusting of an embarrassed pink to your cheeks. 

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you. Distant commotion is heard, likely from the wedding venue as people engage in reception activities and dances and cheers, while the two of you remain in this garden escape, the wall of primly trimmed bushes sheltering you two from having to pretend to be people you’re not amongst a crowd.

“Aiko…” he hears you say beside him, and although the name of the woman that has rolled off your tongue is the name of the woman he’s supposed to love, it only makes him feel sick to his stomach to hear you say her name. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” is all he can manage to say. And he also knows this seemingly lovely woman is probably drunk off her face back at the reception hall, giggling at all the men that approach her from the sight of her flushed face, and he should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness over that, but he can’t seem to muster any. Unlike the grit he had to his jaw an hour ago when he saw you dancing with a man he heard you introduce to your friends as just an “old friend” of yours from college. He felt more anger in that moment than he’d ever felt watching his soon-to-be-wife getting talked up to by the sleazy men twice her age. 

“She must be very rich,” you say. “She looks it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Her family’s very well off,” Gojo says.

“So will you become rich too?” you ask him, “when you marry her.”

His eyes flit to the sky briefly. “Doubt it.”

“How come?”

“The old man doesn’t like me very much. I imagine he’ll cut ties after the wedding.”

“Her father?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Well. I guess it’s not every father’s dream to find out his prim and proper daughter’s been knocked up by the good-for-nothing boyfriend he’s been threatening her to say good riddance to for months now.”

The silence finds the two of you again, but this time haunting and gutting. That was a blabber, if anything. So nonchalantly said, with no emotion or spirit, to the one person in this world who he’s always felt like he can be himself around.

“She’s pregnant?” you say beside him, voice breaking slightly at the end, and he can’t bear to look at you for some reason. Some sort of admission of guilt, but what for? What exactly was he repenting for?

He lets out a small laugh, like the absurdity of the situation finds him all the same. “Yeah.” 

“That–” you start, stiff next to him, before he feels the tension relax but only rigidly, “that’s wonderful, Satoru. I’m–...I’m really happy for you.” You turn your torso to wrap your arms around him, and his lips brush the sweet skin on your forehead as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps one arm around you, a sort of friendly hug as he rubs the skin of your arm soothingly, and his heart aches from the emptiness when you release him. 

“Wow…” you say, looking up at him with pretty eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you blink rapidly to process the information, and he wonders if you really are happy for him. He doesn’t want you to be. He wants you to be furious, to tell him off for getting another woman pregnant after leading you on for so many years, maybe he wants you to slap him, or grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him until all he sees is a million of you through dizzy vision like some paradise. He wants you to be mad, because it’d mean that you still care. It’d mean that you still think there’s something here to salvage between the two of you. 

But he’s engaged. And he’s having a baby. What was more final than that?

“So…are you marrying her because of–”

“The wedding is in four weeks,” he cuts you off, but he knows the statement answers your question regardless.

“Satoru…”

He leans off to the side a little to reach into the pocket of his suit pants, and he pulls out what is now a slightly bent envelope and he hands it to you. You take it from him gently, holding it weakly like it was something beyond you. Like something distant and foreign and strange. When all it was, is a wedding invitation. 

“Listen…” he starts.

He sees your eyes dazed as you stare at the lettering on the outside of the envelope.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y/n. And I know the last time we saw each other was–” Hostile. Angry. Disappointing. Ended with you cussing him out on the street and then saying you never want to see him again. “...not ideal, but I still care a lot about you, and, uh, so, it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding.” For fucks sake, even on the brink of losing you forever, he still can’t find the right words to say. “Aiko, she–” He tastes bitter in his mouth, “well, I’ve told her a lot about you, and she’d really love it if you came as well.”

You’re silent as you gently peel back the opening of the letter and then pull out the small card stock invitation. The gold printed letters shine as you inspect it, fingers tracing the patterns of words that profess the Rei family’s intent to wed their daughter to Gojo Satoru. Your Gojo Satoru. Your best friend in this whole wide world. He watches your eyes carefully, but he can’t discern what he finds in them.

“Gojo Satoru…” you drone off, “to be wed. And to be a father.” Years of late night talks of the future, of kids and Christmas and love, with reality seemingly sly on the horizon only to have crept up so abruptly. It was pinched between your fingers right now. That reality.

His shoulders sulk slightly. And when you look up at him again, there’s a sheen of tears in your eyes.

“I can’t come to this,” you whisper, “and you know that, Satoru.”

His heart breaks. A physical pain that twists in his chest so tight at just the sight of seeing you sad. Sad again over the actions of his own. They say you always hurt the one you love, and he had always wondered what sort of evil person would do such a thing, only to find out he’s only ever hurt you this entire time. 

He should’ve kissed you that night the two of you met at graduation. Should’ve shut you up and all your existential questions by pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours. He should’ve taken you to bed and fucked you, and then held you in his arms until you woke up in the morning. Should’ve listened to you talk his ear off about how he’s just like all the other guys, who pretend to care, but only want to have sex and then never to speak to the girl ever again. And he should’ve laid there in bed, nose nuzzled in your hair, taking all the scolding despite having no intent to ever leave you.

Instead, he wasted so much time. Sure, he had your friendship. His best friend for years, but the two of you could’ve been something more. Could’ve spent the years together, instead of writing stained letters or leaving messages on answering machines while the two of you were miles away. He could’ve been waking up with you every morning with the scent of your shampoo on his sheets, instead of clinging to pillows in foreign motel rooms. He could’ve been engaged to you, and he could be whispering sweet nothings in your ear of how much he wishes the baby will have your eyes. 

But his thoughts are lost in fantasy. He is what he’s done, nothing more and nothing less. His eyes fall to your lap, the invitation still held loosely in your hand, and then a droplet of water falls onto it.

“I–” you stutter, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks with a hesitant swipe of your hand, “I need to go.”

You stand up off the bench and he quickly stands up with you, grabbing your wrist to keep you here with him, and you halt but only with you facing away from him. He yanks at your wrist harshly, pulling you into him so his chest is flush to your back, his arms wrapping strongly around you and his nose nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in greedily like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

“Satoru–” you gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at his forearms that are tightly crossed across your collarbone. “What are you doing–” 

“Say it,” he whispers, gruff and impatient, “tell me to do it, and I will.”

“T-Tell you to do what?” you stutter, struggling a little in his hold but he only holds you tighter.

“Tell me to leave her, and I will,” he says, his lips brushing at your ear now, the scent of your perfume maddening to his senses, and one of his hands slowly trails down and the knuckle of his thumb presses into the softness of your breast.

You squirm, a small and soft moan leaving your lips.

“T–” you breathe in harshly, “this is wrong.” 

“I don’t care,” he growls, arms sliding lower to hold you under your breasts, so tightly that your heels lift off the ground. “Just say the word, and I’ll leave everything behind for you. I promise,” he breathes in deep, the desperation making his head hazy, “that I’ll do things right this time. Just you and me–” 

“You’re going to be a father,” you remind him, and he shuts his eyes closed tightly, the responsibility of the word bearing on his shoulders but his desire for you overshadows every shred of sense or dignity or integrity he has left in him, because he felt like he was losing his mind after wanting you for years just to never have you. 

He turns you around in his hold so that you face him, and he crashes his lips to yours, muffling the surprised mmf! that dies in your throat in surprise as his hands hold your waist, relishing in the feeling of satin fabric pulled taut over your curves.

Forbidden, yet a taste that he’ll risk because there was no curse that was worse than the fate of having to pine after you for years.

Ah.

But.

But it was all fantasy, this moment in his head, where he takes you on the freshly cut grass of this garden. 

Something that only briefly flashes through his mind as his warm hand wraps around your wrist, from where he was still seated on the stone bench, and not on his feet holding you like he dreamed for. Like he longed for.

He feels the weight of his arm so heavily, as if it weren’t his own, and he slowly lets go of your wrist.

When he looks up at you, there’s longing in your eyes. A hurt that he didn’t even know he was capable of causing, just for him to realize that you’ve always looked at him that way, and he’s never been keen enough to know it until now. He grew up too late. He took too long.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches in for it, then flips it open and sees his soon-to-be-wife’s name on it. He feels nothing at the sight.

“Hello?” he speaks into the device when he holds it to his ear, and he sees you take a couple steps away, rubbing anxiously at your elbow as you pretend to busy yourself with the study of the lamp. “Yes, I’ll be there soon. I, uh, I’m just with a friend. A couple of friends, actually. We’re having drinks by the pond. Mhm. Yes. I will. Okay, see you soon. I—…I love you too. Bye.” And then he snaps the phone shut. 

“Heading back?” he hears you ask.

He stands. “I’ve got to.”

“Okay.” 

You two walk down the shrubbery of the garden that was arranged like a maze, him a few paces behind you, and he watches the delicate line of your posture as your hand brushes against the green walls of foliage that encase the two of you, the feeling of wanting to touch you and hold you almost suffocating. 

“Hey,” he calls out to you, and he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. You turn around immediately to face him, like his voice was permission to do so.

“Yes?” you ask.

He blinks up at the starry sky, and then looks at you again. The soft cast of distant warm lighting falls over your face, making you appear like a renaissance painting, similar to those that you would point out to him at museums when you two would see each other on holiday back in your early twenties. He could never understand the charm of those paintings, no matter how many times you tried to explain it to him, but seeing you in this light right now, he finally understands the beauty that you saw. 

“I’m, uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck, and then scoffs out a small laugh, “I’m a little drunk right now, but–” He stops himself. What was he trying to say? And was it of conscious mind? “I just need to tell you that…I really regret…not speaking to you. I mean, for letting the silence drag on for years. You’re my–...my best friend. We’re a pair, you know? The two of us. For years, people would ask me where you were. And why they haven’t seen us together at all recently. And it was hard to admit that we hadn’t spoken in years.”

You take the smallest of steps towards him, and look up at him with empty eyes. 

“What I’m trying to say is, is that, well,” he finds himself tripping over his words, “I miss you. And I miss our friendship. And–...I miss having you around.” He glances down at his shoes, polished and reflecting off the moonlight directly above him. He rocks back and forth on his heels ever so slightly. “I know you said that I piss you off to lengths unimaginable to my tiny pea-sized brain, but I can’t help myself, y/n,” he admits, “I think you and I, we’re just meant to always be. In some how, or some way…”

You purse your lips together, gaze shifting lower to eye at the silk of his tie. 

“Can we be friends again?” he asks, the words feeling juvenile on his tongue. Like whispered apologies between children on a playground after shoving one another onto wooden chips, except the wounds he’s left on you run much deeper than a superficial scrape. 

You blink slowly, tilting your head up at him. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

You wipe your palm off on the satin of your dress. “I missed you too, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Your hand finds its way up your arm, until you weakly cup your elbow with your palm and look off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him. “There were so many years where I thought that there was something between us. And maybe I was foolish for thinking that way, that you would ever see me that way–”

“y/n,” he tries to interrupt you. 

“But…the pain of not having you the way I wanted to was much less worse than the pain of not having you at all,” you say, your gaze finally shifting towards him. “But, the thing is, I needed to feel that pain to get over you. I had to.”

His heart stills at those words.

You glance down at the ground now. “I missed being able to tell you things. To laugh, and cry, and argue. I miss humbling your stupid ego. I miss being able to call you at any time, knowing you’d pick up when I needed you.”

His heart aches so much he wants to reach into his chest and hold it.

“The thing is,” you continue, “you would’ve been the first person I would’ve run to to tell them that I lost my best friend.” There were tears shining in your eyes. “But what could I do when you were the one that I had lost? Who could I have turned to then?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and in a swift motion, his arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you to him in an embrace.

You’re stiff in his hold, mechanical and rigid, so contrary to the soft tears you leave behind on the fabric of his sleeve, but slowly and surely, you warm and thaw. Your hands slide up past his shoulders, linking behind his neck. And his head drops to the curve of your neck, swaying you with him slowly as if it were a first dance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for hurting you.”

You breathe out slowly. “Just let me go, Satoru. Let me be free. Let me be free of you.”

He feels the air knock out of his lungs, and the two of you slowly pull your heads away from the embrace to look at one another, although your hands still find a place on his shoulders, and he still holds you close to him by a delicate hold of your waist. 

He wonders if in another life, you two were happy. He wonders if he could ever take back all the decisions he made, and start all over again. On that day the two of you met on that staircase in the west wing of the literature building, he would make a different choice. If he could, he would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you. 

“It’s time for me to go,” you whisper, eyes darting across the features of his face, studying them but with a familiarity that only you know, because you held his entire life in your palm. Your gaze meets his again, faces just inches apart, and the sweet curl of your eyelashes makes him weak in the knees. “It’s time.”

He nods slowly, his own eyes studying your face as well, except it looks foreign to him now. 

It’s all been said and done. There was nothing he could do to right the wrongs, or undo all the pain. He was to be a father now, and his duties were now towards his wife and unborn child. And no longer to the woman he holds in his arms, one he’s sure he will never stop loving for as long as he lives. 

It’s a sweet moment, the two of you gazing at one another. You look so pretty from this angle, looking up at him with the smallest tilt to your head and round searching eyes. His head subconsciously dips down towards yours in the second that he glances at your lips, but he stops himself. And when you make no move to create distance, he finds himself closing it again, until his lips brush against yours ever so softly. And then he captures them in a kiss, firm and unmistaken, finding solace in the way your lips move against his too, unsure yet passionately at the same time. Your fingers ever so slightly dig into his shoulders while his thumbs soothe at the skin of your waist, the two of you savoring the last moments of a kiss that’ll be the sweetest one you’ll ever know.

You pull away first, a small puff of air leaving your lips as you glance downwards. He rests his forehead against yours, never once looking away from your face. And you both breathe slowly, the soul of the chaste kiss entirely vanishing into the air along with all the hope that the two of you had left to make anything of the way you feel about one another. It was a kiss that almost disqualified any level of sin or guilt or wrong, because it was like one you two owed each other, after years of familiarity and longing. It was the goodbye that the two of you deserved.

His hands slowly let go of your waist, and he takes a step back away from you, softly clearing his throat. The distance feels like a galaxy away, and he briefly runs his thumb along his bottom lip, because the ghostly feeling of your lips on his still remains. 

“Shall we head back?” you ask him, prim and proper in posture and eyes widened in a formal gaze.

His lips are parted, and he finds that he’s panting slightly. And then he slowly nods his head. “Yes.”

.

.

.

[the end] 

a/n. i am sooooo freaking obsessed w "one day" by david nicholls and really wanted to write something inspired by it!! the book literally ripped my heart out and stomped on it like there were so many scenes where i just longingly stared out the window because of how shattering it was but dear god i really enjoyed it, and the show was also so dfkjhsfkhs i had sm feels watching it. so yea this was fun to write!! i hope you enjoyedd n thanks so much for reading :)

➸ masterlist

[sweetcalebb]

Zayne finding the hickeys he left ❄️

──★ ˙

The room was quiet, a little too quiet given the fact that a colleague was currently reviewing a post-op complication that spiraled.

Zayne sighed, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. He was listening—or he was trying to, anyway.

But it was hard to focus when just hours earlier you were curled up against his chest, skin-to-skin. You were so tired, barely even half-awake when he accidentally woke you up while getting ready for work and you murmured a soft "good luck."

He shifted in his seat, quickly blinking, as if that might help him concentrate.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was barely noticeable. Probably because Zayne tended to ignore any personal texts at work. So he left it at that.

But then it buzzed again.

He let out a small breath through his nose before discreetly slipping his phone out of his pocket. It was just to silence his notifications, but when he saw your name, he paused.

Two new notifications.

Zayne's gaze drifted up, then back down. He shouldn't be checking his messages right now, but it was you. With a hesitant tap, he opened your messages.

You: Found your love bites

You: [1 image attached]

His breath hitched.

Hickeys.

Four, to be exact.

His eyes roved over the image, his chest suddenly too tight. Zayne was never one for carelessness. He didn't do things like this, especially when those things seemed so juvenile.

But he'd meant those.

Really meant them.

They weren't there for the sake of being there. No, they were deliberate, something he left behind because he wanted you to remember and that was unnerving.

It wasn't him. It wasn't the composed, rational doctor he'd worked so hard to make of himself. But in that moment, he couldn't help himself to the feeling of your skin between his teeth.

You were sweet. A little salty, too. The kind of combination that made it impossible not to go back for more.

He didn't regret it, he was sorry though.

You'd have to cover up your neck for a week. And God help him, something about that thought made his lips curl up with a smile.

It was barely there—just a soft, subtle smile, there nonetheless.

"Zayne."

He blinked, looking up and smoothly sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Yes?" The quiet smile he'd worn just seconds ago had slipped away, almost like it was never there in the first place.

"You're up."

Zayne cleared his throat. "Sorry,” he uttered, standing up and making his way to the front of the conference table, notes in hand.

You should've been long gone by now. Erased from his mind. He had a presentation for God's sake. But you were still there. Making his cheeks warm and his stomach turn.

<3

It'd been a long day.

Zayne stood outside your door now, one hand inches away from your door—debating whether to knock or not—and a small plastic bag with medical supplies in the other hand.

It was late. The smell of hospital still clung to his skin—clean, but not laundry clean. Sterile clean. Like gloves, soap, and a hint of antiseptic.

Zayne took a small breath, finally knocking against your door. He waited, his hand falling to his side. He didn't even tell you he was coming, just texted that he'd get back to you later.

Now he was here, uncharacteristically... nervous? It was hard to tell for what though. To see you maybe? Or maybe, to see the evidence of what you did to him?

Who knew.

His thoughts quickly melted away when you finally opened the door, looking just as soft as you did this morning. You were wearing a loose shirt you'd stolen from him a little bit ago, pj pants, and some fuzzy socks.

How were you always so... what was the word?—endearing?

Your eyes widened a fraction, raking over his form. "Zayne? What are you doing here? You didn't tell me you were coming."

"I know," Zayne answered, his gaze shifting to the bruises on your neck.

He inhaled sharply.

A quiet warmth bloomed in his chest. It was unbidden, unwelcome. But it was there, no matter how hard he tried to will it away.

He liked them too much.

Way too much.

Zayne cleared his throat quietly before holding the bag out. "I brought this for you."

You glanced down, taking the bag and pulling away from the door to let him in. "What is it?"

"Look inside."

You slowly closed the door behind him, then peeked into the small plastic bag. There was some sort of cream, a few instant cold packs, and a thin cloth.

You glanced back up. "Is this...?"

"For the hickeys." Zayne nodded, his voice quieter now.

You let out an airy laugh. "Zayne.. You didn't have to."

"No, but I wanted to." He gently brought his hand to the underside of your arm. "I'm the one who left them." His eyes drifted back to the purple marks, his chest tightening again.

He looked at you again. Waiting.

You smiled. "It's not a big deal. I can do it."

Zayne's grip on your arm tightened just slightly, almost like a silent plea. "Let me help you."

You hesitated for a second. You didn't mind the hickeys, so why was Zayne making such a big deal about it?

Still, it was hard to even think about rejecting his offer when he looked at you like that—with that odd mix of pleading and guilt and something else you couldn't place.

Eventually, you gave in with a sigh. "Fine."

"Thank you." Zayne guided you back to your couch, taking the cold pack and cloth out.

"It's not a magic fix," he murmured, squeezing the bag and shaking it lightly as he sat down beside you. "But it'll help." He wrapped the pack in the small cloth, then gently pressed it to your neck.

You hummed. "Thank you, Zayne."

He shook his head. "Don't thank me. I gave you these.."

He paused, the word just on the tip of his tongue. Why was this so hard to say? He was a doctor, not some boy who just learned how to leave a mark.

"Hickeys," he finished, his voice quiet.

For a moment, you said nothing. Just watched him, taking in the little furrow of his brows and the hard line of his lips.

Was he always so cute when he was guilty?

"You're cute," you blurted.

Zayne paused, his eyes snapping to yours briefly before going back to your neck. "I'm applying first aid."

"Mm. Cute." You smiled.

Zayne paused again, his lips twitching with a gentle smile. You made it impossible not to mirror the small gesture. How could he when you looked at him like that?

So sweet and soft.

For a brief—very brief—moment, he almost wished he wasn't trying to get rid of your hickeys right now. Wished he'd let them last a little longer.

Just almost.

a/n: sorry this one was longer 😔

[happy74827]

A New Moon

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Despite his gut telling him he shouldn’t, Dexter can’t help but fall deeper into the trap of his own emotions. And the more time he spends with you, the more he starts to realize what exactly those emotions are. {GIF Creds: beautifulguycollector}

WC: 2889

Category: Slight Lime/Spice, Friends to Lovers + Forbidden Love (if you squint) Tropes

Gotta keep this fandom alive somehow 🥲 (also… why are titles so hard to write? That and the synopsis are harder to write than the actual fic)

『••✎••』

You were too good for him. Plain and simple. You were a smart, beautiful, hard-working woman who had goals and dreams. He was a cold-blooded killer. Not to say that he hadn't been there for you, though. The two of you had been friends since… well, a while. A long while.

He couldn't quite pinpoint the moment he started to notice the changes in your relationship. It was a slow, subtle buildup, and the first time you called him your friend, Dexter thought nothing of it. The second time, it made him pause, but not enough for him to consider what the implications of you saying that to him could mean.

But when you said it again and again and again, he realized the meaning behind your words, the affection they held. Dexter couldn't say that he was particularly close to many people. There were a select few he'd consider his friends, but he wasn’t emotionally invested in any of them. And he didn't think he was invested in you, either.

But maybe he was.

Debs was different, and it made him question how much he was supposed to care about someone. But that was his sister, the one person in the world who loved him unconditionally. That reason alone made his relationship with Deb unique. He was sure of that.

The same went with Brian—his brother, as it turned out. And Harrison, his son. Dexter felt things for those people, but they were different. Those were family, the people he was genetically tied to. Of course, he would care about them.

But you weren't family, and yet he still cared about you. It was a different kind of caring. And it was confusing. Dexter had convinced himself for years that he was a high-functioning sociopath, but lately…

Lately, he was beginning to question if that was true. Simple glances from you could bring an unwelcome smile to his lips. And when he heard the sound of your voice, he could feel his chest getting warm. It was a nice feeling, something he'd only experienced briefly with Rita, but then, that relationship was different too.

It was hard to put his finger on it, but being with you was just… easy. And it didn't feel like work. There was no pretending. Dexter didn't have to act when he was around you. He didn't need to try to be someone he wasn't. It was the real him.

It was terrifying.

Because now, as he sat on your couch, watching as you moved gracefully around your small apartment, the feeling was back, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

He should have been home with Harrison, but the little boy was staying over at Debra’s tonight, so he didn't have any responsibilities. The passenger within him didn’t see it as a problem either, considering he’d just recently “disposed" his latest target.

It was nice, Dexter decided, to relax every once in a while. Work and family didn't give him a lot of opportunities to do so, and now that the two were temporarily taken care of, he felt he deserved to be lazy for a bit.

You didn’t have a TV in your living room, so the two of you settled for movies. Dexter didn’t really have a preference for them. He could watch a comedy, action, drama, or horror and not feel strongly for or against any of them.

Apparently, you didn't mind what he watched either because he could see the spark of excitement in your eyes when you pulled out the case for one of the worst comedy films Dexter had ever seen.

He'd seen it before. Not with you, one of the movies Vince shoved down his throat when he planned a night out with him, Angel, and Quinn.

It wasn't his favorite, not by a long shot, but the grin on your face and the way you eagerly skipped to the DVD player, set the disk inside, and closed the hatch made him bite his tongue.

Dexter had learned a long time ago that you were a very expressive person. And even though most of the time your feelings weren't displayed on your face, your eyes told another story. Such opposites to his own, Dexter often found himself fascinated by the light they held.

You had a passion for life that was rare, and it drew him in. It was a quality he lacked, and he could see it in everything you did. Whether it was talking about the newest book you read or making coffee, you put all of yourself into your actions.

It was something that Dexter had never understood. How could you have such a strong sense of self? Didn't it get tiring, having to live up to a standard of being so… so good?

But then again, you'd always been better than him. He might’ve been smarter in some regards, but what was intelligence if it didn't come from a place of morality? You were better, purer than him. He knew it, and everyone else did, too, even if they weren’t aware of how pure he wasn’t

That's why this was so wrong. This thing that had been going on for the past couple of months between the two of you. The subtle touches, the longing stares, the late-night calls. It was all wrong.

You were similar to Rita in some ways. You were kind and compassionate, always looking for the good in others. You had a knack for taking care of people, whether they needed it or not.

Dexter could tell that was your nature, and it was one of the things that initially attracted him to you. All the things he lacked, you had. But that didn't mean that you could replace Rita. He didn’t want you to.

And that was the difference. While he may have found qualities in you that resembled the ones he'd found in Rita, you were not her. Rita was gone, and it was his fault. She didn’t deserve to die, and yet she did. She deserved to grow old, to see Harrison grow up.

She deserved better.

The same went for you. You didn’t deserve a monster like him. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he should stay away. It was for the best of both of you.

And yet he was here. On your couch, watching a shitty movie and drinking the beer you'd offered him. Because, despite his efforts, he couldn't keep his distance from you.

He should've known. When it came to you, Dexter didn't have a choice.

His gaze drifted over to your form as you sat down beside him. You were smiling, your eyes bright and focused on the television. A lock of hair fell across your face, and you pushed it back, the sleeve of your hoodie falling down slightly.

Dexter had never been so tempted to reach out and touch someone in his life.

It was a feeling that had been creeping up on him the last few weeks, and now, sitting with you, watching a bad movie, it was at an all-time high. He'd never craved intimacy. But there was something about you, a pull that he couldn't deny.

It gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. Reminded him of that need with Lila. God, Lila. What a mess that had turned out to be. Another thing to add to his growing list of mistakes.

And yet, the longer he stared, the more he found himself leaning forward. He didn’t register what he was doing until his lips were a hair width away from yours.

You froze but didn't move away. The only indication that you were startled was the widening of your eyes. They bored into his, unflinching. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He was scared. Scared? Yes. That was what he was feeling. Why? He didn't know. Fear was new. It was a feeling reserved for Deb and sometimes his son, but even then, it was different.

But as Dexter gazed at you, so close and so beautiful, the fear melted away. It was replaced by a warmth that he was quickly becoming familiar with. It made his body thrum and his blood rush. It made him feel alive.

You were the first one to make a move. Well, not really a move, just the smallest shift forward, and then you were breathing the same air as him. You weren't kissing. You were just… waiting. Waiting for him to make the final move.

It was like an unspoken rule between the two of you, the power dynamic. He was the dominant one, and you were the submissive. You had never fought against it. You were a people pleaser, and he knew that.

It was one of the reasons he knew this was wrong. Because he couldn't stop, and you would never ask him to. Even now, as he hesitated, you waited patiently. You trusted him.

Why did you have to trust him? Why couldn't you be more selfish, more like him?

But deep down, Dexter knew that it wasn't your nature. You couldn't change, not any more than he could.

So, after another agonizing second, he closed the distance between you.

It was gentle, the way his lips pressed against yours. A stark contrast to the usual forcefulness he applied when taking his victims. No, with you, he was careful. Almost timid.

Your lips were soft and smooth, and the kiss was sweet. Nothing more than a simple caress. Dexter didn’t expect the tingling sensation it would cause, but the slight brush of your mouth sent shivers down his spine.

The kiss was short and chaste, but it was enough to leave him feeling dizzy. The heat spread through him, from the tips of his toes all the way to his cheeks.

Dexter pulled back, and you stared at him. His breath hitched in his throat at the look in your eyes. There was something there, something that mirrored his own emotions.

Was it possible? Was he really capable of such intense emotion?

Maybe he was.

You didn’t move. It was like time had stopped, and the only sound that could be heard was his own uneven breathing. That, and the movie playing in the background, which was forgotten as soon as your lips touched.

The urge to reach out and grab you was there. He could feel the need deep in his bones, in his soul. But instead, Dexter sat, staring. Staring into the eyes of the woman who had somehow managed to break down all the walls he'd spent his life building.

You didn't speak. There was nothing to say. No words could describe the feelings that had surfaced between the two of you. So, instead, you smiled. A simple, beautiful smile that had him feeling weak.

He could have stayed there forever, just looking at you, taking in the beauty that was you. It was a new experience for him, and it was nice.

“Debra is going to be pissed," you finally said, breaking the silence. “I’ll be bullied into telling her every detail."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, his lips curled up in amusement. It was true. Eventually, she’ll figure it out. Maybe she already knew but was waiting for confirmation. Debra was good at figuring out things, even if it wasn’t the most obvious answer.

His sister was good at a lot of things, like being a detective. And, apparently, being an interfering matchmaking nuisance.

At least she wouldn’t call you the things she called Lila.

The thought made him chuckle, and you looked at him in confusion, but it would have to stay a mystery to you. For what was life without a few private jokes between siblings, right?

You didn’t press for answers, though. You did what you’ve always done and waited for him—waited for him as if it was his turn in Chess.

And he did the only thing he could think to do. He kissed you again. And again. And again. And again. Until he had you pinned beneath him, your arms around his neck, and your breath coming out in heavy gasps.

The kisses were still innocent, just as you were. But he could feel the passion behind them, the hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that. It had been a long, long time.

But the longer he kissed you, the more the heat grew, and soon, he was lost in the sensation. Your hands found their way into his hair, and you tugged at the strands. His heart was racing, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.

It was exhilarating.

Your lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and the innocence was gone. Replaced by a desire that left him trembling. The feeling of your tongue against his, the taste of you on his lips, the smell of your shampoo mixed with your unique scent—it was all intoxicating.

The movie continued to play in the background, forgotten as you pulled him closer. The warmth in his chest intensified, and Dexter didn't fight it. Instead, he embraced it. He gave in to his emotions and let himself feel.

He didn’t go too far; he knew you weren't ready for that yet. The craving was there, and it was strong, but the moment wasn’t right. Instead, he satisfied himself by touching your skin, mapping out every inch of it, memorizing the way it felt under his fingertips.

And, when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, he held onto you, refusing to let go. His eyes searched yours, searching for something. Anything. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

He mostly saw fear, anger, and some regret when he had them pinned down beneath him. Of course, that was usually the case with his victims. Fear, anger, and regret were normal emotions—a reaction to being trapped by their own demise.

Having someone look up at him with emotions on the other side of the spectrum was different. Not a bad different, just... different.

Rita had been the first to look at him like that. Lumen did, too, once upon a time. And Lila, well, her emotions were never consistent.

But you? You looked up at him with an expression that was all too familiar and yet not quite the same. Your eyes were full of affection and desire, yes. But they were also filled with something else. Something he couldn't place.

Something he couldn’t understand.

"Dex,” your voice was so soft, a whisper. He almost didn’t hear it, and yet, he felt it. He felt the way his name rolled off your tongue, and it was like music to his ears.

"Yeah?" he whispered back. He didn’t know why he did that; it wasn't like the two of you were speaking in a library or something. Maybe it was the way the light danced in your eyes, the way the colors reflected off the white walls, casting an ethereal glow.

"I didn’t expect you to be… like this," you murmured. You ran a finger over his cheek, down to his jawline. He swallowed thickly. He could feel his pulse quicken.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Not bad," you replied. Your lips curved up, and his eyes were drawn to them. They were red and swollen from kissing, and it was such a contrast to the pale skin of your face.

"You think I'm not bad?" he said, raising his brows. "I'm flattered."

You shook your head. "You know what I mean," you said. "I just meant that you're different than how you come off. I didn’t think you'd be so... bold.”

He snorted.

Bold.

If you only knew.

"I guess I'm full of surprises," he said, smirking. You rolled your eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder, only for him to catch it and press a kiss to the back of your hand. It was something he picked up from a movie once, and it seemed to be a pretty romantic gesture. And by the look on your face, it seemed to be appreciated.

You didn't say anything else. You didn't have to. There was nothing else to say. The two of you simply enjoyed each other's company, content to just be together. The movie might've been a failure, but the night wasn’t.

And when Dexter finally left, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Not the type of relief he felt after a successful kill, but the type of relief one feels after a burden is lifted off their shoulders. The type of relief one gets when they are finally honest with themselves.

Rita was gone. Lumen was gone. And although his guilt and shame were still there, his self-loathing and fear were slowly starting to fade away. It wasn't gone, it was never going to be, but it was a start.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

A new moon.

Yes, tonight was the night that changed everything. Tonight, Dexter Morgan learned that maybe he was more than the monster he thought he was.

[merelylillies]

⋆ ﾟ.☁︎｡⋅ ───────────────｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

Note: ‘‘Starting to get the hang of it...might still be bad. Brace yourself I guess? Also not proofread so fingers crossed.,,

・・・・・​​⟢

Fandom: Hoyoverse's Genshin Impact

Pairing: (Fem.)Reader x Xiao || Alatus >>Mentioned: Malipo Kinich

Content Warnings: (NSFW) Kissing, Needy/Desperate vibes, Jealousy, Praise, Handjob (giving).

✦・・・・・​​・・・・・​​・・・・・​​・・・・・​​✦

The one time you left Paimon behind you felt surprisingly deprived of her usual chatter as you made your way up onto the cobblestone path. Though you supposed it was all well and good, she was with Xiangling, not only safe but with the company of endless food. Surely she won't complain by the time you pick her up tomorrow. Although as of right now, the atmosphere felt empty, the only noise being your heeled boots clacking onto the wooden platform of the open-air elevator. It had been a while since you last visited Wangshu Inn.

With everything that had happened between Fontaine and Natlan, it's fair to say a moment's rest has been few and far between. With the latter, upon meeting some of the tribes' people had you then suddenly grown homesick. The Malipo name bearer having played tricks on your eyes one too many times from behind. His tousled, dark blue strands with sharp cuts flooded nostalgia through your blood countless times, before you were inevitably met with green irises instead of the gold you so cherished. Lost in thought you'd barely registered the platform had reached the terrace with a clunk. Looking around, most of the guests had early turned in for the night, the moon hanging high in the sky and the air perfectly still if not for a small breeze. Walking off the elevator and rounding the entrance to the front desk, Verr Goldet was busying herself petting the inn's cat perched on the counter. She turned at the sound of footsteps with a clear look of surprise that melted into a welcoming smile.

"Welcome back Traveler," she spoke softly. Nodding in greeting you glanced around, eyes landing on the staircase leading to the upper terrace. Upon catching this Verr smiled almost knowingly.

“He's been waiting a long time you know?" she said cryptically.

“Oh." was all you managed to get out.

"Take this on my behalf will you?" she asks with an amused look before handing you a delicate plate with a decorated portion of Almond Tofu.

“Xiangling sent in a letter earlier when you departed from the harbor. I had Yanxiao make it before clocking out.".

“Thank you." you responded almost dumbfounded before taking the plate from her hands.

She nodded before turning back around to scribble away in her log book, leaving you to stare down at the dish before ultimately turning to make your way up the final flight of stairs. As you made it to the top of the stairs, building up your courage to call his name you stopped just short of the archway. To your surprise, the man was already there. Sitting balanced on the railing of the terrace, with one leg bent into his chest, the other dangling down towards the void. The Adeptus' back was to you, allowing you to gaze over the back of his hair, your brain almost warning you it's just another hopeful illusion. As your silence goes on, he turns his head in your direction, glowing yellow peering into you like daggers. Everything stilled for a little while, the two of you just staring at one another without making a move. Gods you had missed him.

“Hi Xiao." you offered, breaking the silence. He continues to look at you, then suddenly shifts, disappearing into thin air before reappearing a couple of steps away from you, standing stiffly. Swallowing your doubt, you walk closer holding the Tofu out to him.

“Yanxiao made this for you-" you suddenly stop at his expression, as he stares at you with a perplexed look, confusion mixed with upset and then switching to weariness.

“Xiao, what's wrong?" you ask concerned, eyes checking over his figure before feeling gloved fingers slide on top of yours holding up the plate.

Looking up at him, his eyes seemed to roam across your face frantically, and then finally settle on your eyes, gazing into them intensely. His other hand comes to your shoulder, gently holding you, before tightening his grip firmly once he knew for a fact you were actually standing before him. He seemed to be physically relieved at your presence. You were actually here. In front of him. Without another second wasted he pulled you into him, plate long forgotten on the floor. The embrace was rigid, but he pulled you in so tightly as if he were scared to even consider letting go.

A few beats pass by before he shifts his arms, his hands that were clutching at your back now trailing down near your waist. He continues to hold you there, pressed up against him, his head hovering above your shoulder, dark strands tickling your ear.

“Where have you been.” It sounded more like a statement than a question, an accusation almost.

Hesitating with your response you swallowed a bit nervous. “I was traveling to the other nations- I’ve been to Fontaine and Nat-”.

“You took so long.” He breathed out, almost a whisper.

“You worried me.” He started. “I started thinking you might’ve been stubborn again and refused to call upon me.” His voice turned stern again, despite the softness of his low volume.

“Xiao..”.

“Traveler..May I be selfish?”, He pulls back enough to look at you, his forehead grazing your own.

Nodding slowly at him, your eyes lock onto his, seeing the underlying passion and yearning and admiration that he hid deep within himself.

Before you could say anything else he closed the distance between you.

The kiss was soft at first but as you kissed him back, reciprocating his movements with practiced ease, he started leaning back, shrinking into himself more. This was experience he continued to lack even with the many times you’d shared kisses. Kissing and any physical intimacy was a foreign concept to him, so he couldn’t help the small noises that escape him as you didn’t let up on his lips.

It was almost embarrassing how worked up he started getting, the harsh persona faltering the more you pressed forward and the longer the kiss continued. He felt breathless. For all his training he suddenly couldn’t calm his racing heart and his shortness of air.

You let up for a few seconds, letting him fill his lungs before diving back in immediately after his first gasp.

“Aah-mm” The hum leaves him involuntarily. Xiao had never wanted to be the vocal type, but novelty to these sensations made it hard for him to surprise himself.

Could you just- Archons above. Give him a second- Suddenly, despite his rare initiation, he feels out of his depth.

Adepti are trained to have endless patience and composure. So dear Seven, what the FUCK. He was feeling things he shouldn’t, thoughts crossing his mind he would berate himself later for. But as you kept moving forward, hands mimicking his own, wrapping onto his own waist, all trace of thought was gone from his mind.

You felt yourself turn light as a feather for a moment before realizing you had changed settings. He had teleported you inside. Now in a beautifully decorated chamber, the furniture adorned with untouched, long-settled dust. This must be the room Verr keeps for him.

As your turned your focus back to Xiao the boy looked beyond unrecognizable. The usual scowl on his face replaced with an unreadable expression. His pale skin blushed over with red. The tips of his hair standing up a little wilder than normal. But most of all, his eyes. Oh his eyes.. They held you with their stare, glossed by the warm, dim light of a bedside lantern.

Xiao’s brain seemed to spontaneously re-wire itself as he shifted his footing. Walking over to him, you started kissing him again, firmly and with so much emotion from you missing him, leaving behind the slow gentle pecks from earlier.

He fell into your rhythm, not once fighting to control the kiss. Walking him backwards until the back of his knees hit the mattress, making him fall down with you straddling him. Almost grinning against his lips you opened your eyes to look at him. His unfocused, widened gaze and his half open mouth, lips turned more vibrant with friction.

As you settled above him your hand moving up to his waist before your hand grazes over the front of his pants, a hitch of his breath escaping in response. Surprised at the sound, your eyes trail down to his trousers only to be met with a more prominent bulge.

Oh. Oh.. oh.

He couldn’t meet your gaze, his forearm moving atop his face shielding his eyes.

“You missed me that much?”

“It’s an uncontrollable aspect of the male human body. Something you should well be aware of. Your own kind’s shortcomings.” He replies with a hoarse voice, trying to keep his tone steady and even.

“Oh I wouldn’t say shortcomings..” You reply smugly before shifting your palm down onto him.

“A-ah-” He cuts himself off with a hiss of a breath.

As your hand continues grinding onto him his breaths pick up again, chest stuttering with his small gasps. Brows visibly furrowing, as the arm shielding his face twitches in place with small trembles.

“You- m-mm-” He attempts.

“I what?” You tease back.

And he’s really trying. Rex Lapis knows he’s trying to hold it in. Not seem so..so.. needy. And he doesn’t want to beg. That’s pathetic and unbecoming of an illuminated beast, an immortal, weapon of war..

“You look so pretty Xiao”, You whisper, caressing his soft hair, fingers trailing down his jawline, “I missed you so.”

Curse Celestial-

“Please.”

You don’t even get to respond to his sudden plea before others pour in.

“Please. I-I desire your- hahatouch. Ah. You. Please.” His arm strongly planted over his eyes.

Smiling down at his shaky form, you dip your hands past his waistband and loosen the sash holding his pants. The fabric dips down his slim hips, his usually cold skin, burning to the touch.

Finally wrapping a hand around him he gasps louder, this time a high pitched moan fully tumbling out of his lips.

“Ha- Aa-ah fuck -mmmmh”

You give him a tentative slow stroke up before reaching the tip, thumbing at it while watching his reaction. His first bawling against his own palm, the less human features of his hands peaking out from their usual concealment. Nails sharpening and veins becoming more visible, running down his arm.

“Yes-ah just like that— AAah-” His fingers twitch as you repeat the motion, dragging your thumb slowly against the slit.

As you speed up your motions his back begins arching slightly, lifting off the mattress as his pitch heightens with breathlessness and an almost whiny undertone. Your hand tightening around him and squeezing him just how he needed and god it feels good.

And he’s basically never done this before, and so he’s already getting embarrassingly close. His heart feels like it’s in his throat with the way he feels unable to utter out anything more than pleasurable moans. Your hand picks up the pace, and he bites his lip, sharp canines almost piercing his already kissed raw, red lips. His arm barely staying still from the stimulation, shudders running their course throughout his body. Finally falling to the side, his arm yanks at the bedding, his eyes scrunched up in pleasure as his eyebrows knit together. His entire face is blushed heavily, not to mention the almost visible pants of hot air escaping his mouth with little to no restraint from him.

“I’m- I..”

“Hm? Does it feel nice Xiao?” You boldly inquired boldly.

“Is this what you desired? What you fantasized while waiting for me? Imagining me so desperately?”

He was so sensitive and he has been wanting you all this time- having to wait so long and he was pent up and you knew that- and-

“Fuck- ah-Aa-hah..Please I’m almost.. Ah-” His voice breaks on his last plea, feeling too out of it to care.

Without much else he comes undone into your hand, letting out a small mewl that resembles a whimper.

You move to hover over him closer to his face and he opens his eyes to look up at you dazed but with determination in his eyes.

“Ah-a-Again….” He huffs.

“Hah-h please.”

[smokesandsonatas]

I just want to see the Octavinelle trio get surprised, tongue-tied and amused because the reader is cunning.

Characters: Azul, Jade, and Floyd.

Warnings: None, just the old contract signing the Octavinelle way. First person pov. Mostly in Azul's pov. Tension (?).

Not beta read.

Shrimp Cocktail.

Apparently, it does not take a lot to amuse the Octavinelle trio. Or the story where you took a deal with Azul and it went unexpectedly.

They should learn not to underestimate Shrimpy.

Azul had always underestimated you. In his eyes, you were a mere human—a dimwitted fish floundering in the waters of Night Raven College. You lacked the cunning and intelligence of Jade, who could manipulate any situation with a few well-placed words, and you weren’t a lazy smartass like Floyd, who could memorize an entire book but discard it just as easily if he found it dull and boring. With your easy-going nature, you seemed like the perfect prey.

Well, you are the perfect prey.

Here you are, sitting in Azul’s office at the Mostro Lounge, the twins flanking you in chairs beside you. Floyd lounged with a lazy grin, manspreading on the sofa, while Jade sat, poised like a gentleman, a smirk barely concealed behind his gloved hand. Grim had been left behind at the ramshackle dorm, leaving you alone in the scammer's den. Azul could barely contain his amusement—you had just fallen into his trap, one he fully intended to exploit. You sat quietly in front of him, your face poised with a neutral expression. To Azul and the twins, you looked kind, naive—perhaps even a little stupid. They think you are an airhead. Their excitement was barely contained. They got you right where they wanted you to be. Here in Mostro Lounge, with no one but them watching over you like predators waiting to pounce and choke their prey.

"You're here for the favor of us providing Grim with food three times a day, seven days a week, for the duration of your absence with Professor Trein as the school's official photographer at an event outside Night Raven College," Azul began, his voice dripping with the saccharine politeness he used to mask his true intentions. "In exchange, you agreed that you will work for fourteen days, regular shifts, without any compensation for Mostro Lounge. I expect you to fully commit to your duties."

You nodded, hands neatly placed on your lap, a small smile on your lips. "Yes, that’s exactly it."

Jade’s grin widened slightly. You were so naive, so predictable. Pathetic, really—but there was something endearing about your earnestness. Everyone in Octavinelle liked this about you—how you walked into traps with your eyes wide open, never realizing until it was too late. You really are a shrimp, through and through. No sense of survival, no sense of fear.

Jade could feel his twin looking earnestly in you, their expression one of amusement.

You will never survive in the ocean.

"Very well then, Prefect," Azul continued, practically trembling with excitement as he handed you a golden scroll, a quill magically appearing in his gloved hand. "Sign this contract, and the favor you ask shall be yours."

You took the pen, hovering it just above the dotted line. Azul’s eyes gleamed with anticipation—just a few more minutes—seconds, and you’d be bound by his terms, forced into two weeks of unpaid labor. The satisfaction was almost too much to bear. You would be working without compensation, and Azul could even charge you for any drinks or food you will consume during your shifts!

Azul had also noticed that whenever you work, customers come flocking in! Is it because you're the famed Ramshackle dormleader? He can only suspect so. He might also have you gather more customers—all for free, technically, you are working free to him anyway.

Azul raised an eyebrow when he saw you set the pen down and lean back, that small smile on your lips widening into something sharper, more calculating.

Azul frowned.

"Azul," you began, your voice light and casual, but with an edge that made the room’s atmosphere shift. The twins noticed it too. Jade’s eyes narrowed slightly yet the smirk remains in his lips, and Floyd’s grin widened a little more as they both watched you closely—their eyes glued to you as a clear sign of their newfound interest.

Azul blinked, thrown off by your sudden change in demeanor. "Is something wrong, Prefect?"

"Not at all," you replied smoothly. "I’ve just been thinking about our arrangement. Fourteen days of unpaid work for three meals a day for Grim. It sounds like a fair trade, but then I realized something interesting."

Azul’s hand twitched slightly as he tried to maintain his composure. The contract is perfect in his eyes, all will favour him, how could it not be perfect? "And what might that be?"

You leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. "Well, the contract is almost perfect. Almost. But there’s one tiny detail that caught my attention—the meals for Grim. You’ve agreed to provide them three times a day, seven days a week, but the contract doesn’t specify the quality of those meals, does it?"

Azul’s smirk faltered, it is common sense that Grim will be given tuna in cans, isn't it? "The meals will be adequate, and his favourite tuna—"

"Ah, ‘adequate,’" you interrupted, your tone almost playful. "That could mean anything, really. Some stale bread, leftover scraps—technically, that would fulfill the contract, wouldn’t it?" You giggle, a sound so sweet it almost had the twins—in their fascination, to stand up and hover behind you. You heard a thud, no doubt it was the twins. Jade’s eyes narrowed, yet his smirk remains, replaced by a look of intrigued and amusement. Floyd sat up straight, fully intending to be by your side yet his uniform was immediately yanked down by Jade, stopping him from interfering. Floyd almost let out a hiss at his twin, though eventually he relents.

"But here’s where things get interesting," you continued, voice dropping to a near sweet tone that Azul use. "If Grim receives such ‘adequate’ meals, he might not be satisfied. A can of tuna alone won't cut it, he needs meat. A properly cooked, healthy meat seeing as he is a carnivore. He could get hungry, irritated—perhaps even cause trouble." You pout—a gesture which distracted Azul for a second as his eyes fell on your lips—appearing as meek as possible, "And as his caretaker, his henchman, I’d be worried. Distracted. And a distracted worker is an inefficient worker."

You locked your eyes against Azul's blue ones.

Azul’s eyes widened as he began to see where you were leading him. He blinked in intrigued and a mix of irritation and amusement.

"And," you pressed on, now leaning on the table, merely inches away from Azul's face. "if Grim were to get sick or cause problems because of poor nutrition, it wouldn’t just be a problem for me." You roll the scroll and use it to poke Azul's chest. "It would be a problem for Mostro Lounge. After all, you’re responsible for providing his meals, for almost a week at that. Any disruption he causes would reflect poorly on your business, wouldn’t it?"

Azul’s mind raced as he tried to find a loophole, but you had him cornered. Refusing your amendment meant sticking to a contract that could end up causing more trouble than it was worth. Agreeing to it, however, would mean committing to a higher standard of care for Grim, cutting into his profits. Twenty-one cans of tuna is not a big expense for him, but if you're to insist on nutritious meals... Well, that would cost him much more than what he intended to provide for your gremlin of a cat.

A simple overlooked in his part really, perhaps it is his fault for thinking you're one of those anemones that will blindly agree to anything without reading the fine print.

Finally, Azul forced a smile. "What do you propose, Prefect?"

You smiled sweetly, as if this were all a friendly discussion. "I propose that the meals provided for Grim meet a specific standard. Balanced, nutritious, and satisfying. A mix of tuna and properly cooked meat. A steak even. That way, Grim stays in good condition, I stay focused on my task outside of Night Raven College, and Mostro Lounge continues to run smoothly." You smiled at Azul as you lean at the table—mere inches away from his face, the octomerman can practically inhale your scent, have you always smelled this good?

"I also propose that I won't do overtime during my shifts for fourteen days, though I will not get paid, I would love it if my meals and drinks are free of charge—all within the time of my shift, of course."

You smiled sweetly at Azul—the way you don't break eye contact. It's exhilarating. It's making him sweat under his dorm uniform. "It’s in everyone’s best interest, don’t you think?"

Azul hesitated. This was not the agreement he had envisioned. His meticulously designed scheme had been dismantled by your shrewd maneuvering. We're you secretly a trickster? Appearing naive and helpless yet you are the one who catches people in your trap of being a false prey.

With a begrudging sigh, he conceded, "Very well, I’ll agree to the contract your propose. The meals provided for Grim will meet the specified standards, and you shall have the favours you asked during the course of your shift at Mostro Lounge."

You picked up the pen again, a triumphant glint in your eyes as you prepared to finalize the deal. A sweet, sweet, smile on your lips. "Thank you, Azul. I’m so glad we could come to an agreement."

As you signed the contract, Azul's sense of triumph morphed into a tumult of frustration and begrudging admiration. It's disgusting, your body language appeals to him—he knows it appeals to the twins too, given how Floyd is laughing right now, with Jade snickering beside him. You're one of the first—if not the first who had successfully turned the tables on him. It is not even a heavy contract, just an agreement for food and yet, Azul concedes to your demands. Though he suppose it is not bad, since he will see you everyday for almost two weeks. What had seemed like a one-sided victory for him had morphed into a more balanced exchange. You had come into his office alone, seemingly naive, and yet you had outmaneuvered him with words that unsettled him deeply, yet amused him greatly—jellyfishes swimming on his stomach. Perhaps during that time for your compensation he will invite you to his office so he can give you a proper assessment.

Heh, not bad at all.

Jade and Floyd had their mismatched eyes glued on your form, as you stand. Admiring the sway of your hips as you walk outside the room where nobody ever comes out as victorious as you are. You, a small shrimp, had greatly amused the twins. Unfortunately for you, Floyd hates being bored and Jade loves unpredictability—both qualities you tickled the moment you succesfully negotiated a deal with none-other-than Azul Ashengrotto.

As you left the room, Floyd let out a low, almost purring chuckle—how dare you Shrimpy? His blood is now pumping in excitement because of you. "Hehe, Shrimpy’s got some real bite, huh? This is gonna be interesting."

Jade’s gaze followed you with a newfound intensity. "Indeed. The prefect is far more dangerous than they appear. Heh, perhaps they relish the game, much like we do."

Azul was left staring at the contract, his frustration intertwined with a growing, unsettling admiration. You weren’t the dimwitted fish he had thought you were. No, you were a tempest—a captivating, unpredictable force in the waters of Octavinelle. The way you had twisted the terms of the agreement had left him both disturbed and intrigued. Your brilliance was both unsettling and exhilarating, making him realize that you were a much more dangerous fish than he had ever anticipated.

A shiver of something dark and obsessive crept into his thoughts. You had managed to turn a simple negotiation into a display of strategic dominance, leaving him with a dangerous mix of respect and a growing, unsettling fascination. The twins are no better, Jade glues you into his memory, the way you answer casually—it is attractive. Floyd is well, Floyd. He might visit you later and compliment you for outsmarting Azul!

Hehe, who would've thought you are a predator in your own right? Perhaps the shrimp cocktail is a dish best served cold after all.

[steemyart]

farcille

[albically]

They’re plotting…

[batboysanonymous]

Surrender

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had spent centuries in the dark, wrapped in silence and solitude, convinced that touch, real, unguarded touch, was not meant for him. Then he met you.

Azriel had never been touched without reason.

Every brush of skin against his had been purposeful, wounds being stitched, a sword being passed, a hand yanking him out of the wreckage of war. Even among the people who called him brother, who claimed to love him, touch had always been a rare thing. A clap on the shoulder from Cassian after a battle. A quick squeeze of his forearm from Rhysand before a mission.

It had never been more than that. Never just because.

So the first time you touched him, it had nearly unraveled him.

It had been so casual. Unthinking. The kind of touch people gave without realizing they were giving it. You had been standing beside him in the House of Wind’s training ring, sweat still damp on your brow, laughing at something Cassian had said. And as you turned toward Azriel, still grinning, you reached out—just a small thing, a fleeting press of your fingers against his wrist, your thumb brushing over his pulse like it was natural, like it was nothing.

It was everything.

Azriel had gone still. So still it was a wonder his body hadn’t shattered from the force of it. His heartbeat had slammed against his ribs, his throat tightening as his mind scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.

You had touched him.

Not because you had to. Not because you needed something from him. Not because he was bleeding out or being dragged from the wreckage of a battlefield.

You had touched him because you wanted to.

And that terrified him.

Because the moment it happened, the moment your fingers met his skin, Azriel knew—he would want more.

It only got worse after that.

Because you kept doing it. And worse, you didn’t seem to realize what you were doing to him.

The way your hand found his forearm when you spoke to him, grounding him in the moment. The way you brushed your fingers over his back when you passed him in the halls. The way you linked your pinky with his beneath the dinner table when the conversation turned too dark.

Azriel wasn’t used to it.

Gods, he wasn’t used to it.

For centuries, he had believed he did not need touch, that it was something other people craved—people who were not made of knives and shadow. He had convinced himself he was fine without it, that his body did not miss something it had never truly had.

He had been wrong.

Because now that he had it, now that he had you, he didn’t know how to go without it.

It was a sickness, the way he hungered for it. The way he would find himself inching closer to you when you were near, his body gravitating toward yours like you were the sun and he was something desperate for warmth. The way his hands would twitch at his sides when you hugged Cassian, when you looped your arm through Feyre’s—jealousy, raw and sharp, at the way they could take your touch for granted, while he still ached at the very idea of asking for more.

Because that was the worst part—he didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t know how to reach for something he had spent centuries pretending he didn’t want.

So he suffered in silence. Let himself drown in the feeling of your hands against his skin, your fingers brushing his, your body pressed against his when you leaned into him without hesitation.

He let himself starve, even as the feast was right in front of him.

One night, as the city slept and Velaris shimmered beneath the moon, you found him standing alone on the balcony of the House of Wind.

You had been looking for him, he could tell by the way you didn’t hesitate, by the way you stepped into his space as if you belonged there.

"Az," you murmured.

He turned, shadows curling at his feet. "Couldn’t sleep?"

You shook your head. "I could ask you the same."

His lips twitched, but he said nothing.

For a moment, there was only silence. Only the sound of the wind through the cliffs, the distant murmur of the Sidra below. And then—then, you reached for him.

Not just a brush of fingers this time. Not just a fleeting, casual touch.

You placed your hand against his chest, right over his heart, and stayed.

Azriel stopped breathing.

"Az," you whispered, your voice softer now. "Why do you always let me touch you, but you never touch me back?"

His hands clenched at his sides. "Because I don’t know how to stop."

The words left him before he could think better of them. Before he could bury them beneath his usual silence.

You exhaled, something flickering in your eyes. And then, to his utter ruin, you reached for his hand.

Not just to hold it. Not just to offer comfort.

You brought his palm up, pressed it against your own chest, against the steady, steady beat of your heart.

"Then don’t," you said simply.

Azriel made a sound, a broken, desperate thing. His fingers curled against you, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt, as if memorizing the shape of you beneath his touch.

"I don’t know how to ask for it," he admitted, voice barely more than a breath.

You smiled, something unbearably soft. "Then don’t ask."

And you leaned forward, wrapping yourself around him.

Azriel broke.

His arms came around you fast, crushing, as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on. His face pressed against your hair, his shadows curling around your waist, twining with you like they knew. Like they had been waiting for this moment just as long as he had.

You held him just as tightly, your fingers tracing slow, soothing circles against his back, grounding him, anchoring him.

"I’ve got you," you whispered. "Always."

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling the scent of you, the warmth of you, the realness of you in his arms.

And for the first time in his long, long life, he allowed himself to believe it.

Taglist: @willowpains, @masbt1218, @antonia002, @bookishcait, @fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, @buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff,  @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch,  @okaytrashpanda, @mariaxliliana, @kksbookstuff, @marina468, @tele86, @raccoonworld

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[lifenconcepts]

hot take but. Before people were fucking about with terms and stuff, old movies had WAYY more deep platonic connections that could be mistaken for romance and stuff. Not that they had romantic or sexual tension but like.. people nowadays look at two characters glance at eachother and think ‘wow. They should fuck’ but a room of guys would stare at some guy tenderly holding another guy on tv because he had a nightmare and think ‘wow. What a very sweet moment with absolutely no other connotations other than deep respect and sincerity.’

just think that’s neat.

[elumish]

I think one of the biggest and most overlooked things to keep in mind when writing is: is how/what I am writing accomplishing what I am trying to accomplish?

Part of why so many writing "rules" don't work for everyone is that they're assuming you're trying to accomplish things that you're not trying to accomplish.

This way of thinking is applicable at every level and every step of your writing process.

Is this plot structure telling the story I want to be telling?

Does this scene evoke the emotion I am hoping to evoke?

Does this sentence mean what I intend it to mean, in a way that is likely to be read with that meaning by most readers?

If something in a story is jarring, for example, it's probably because that piece isn't accomplishing what you're otherwise trying to accomplish in the story.

When I talked about finding epithets jarring in a close third person POV, it's because what epithets do (provide distance from the character) inherently conflicts with what the point of view was intending (intimacy with the POV character).

If a scene or moment is jarring or just feels wrong in a book, it may be because it doesn't match the tone you are otherwise trying to cultivate, it breaks or escalates the tension in a way that you aren't intending, or it has a different narrative feeling than you are intending with the book.

Even down to the grammatical level, you can get away with breaking a lot of grammar rules if you can accomplish what you want to accomplish with the sentence. Is it coherent? Does it have the meaning you intend? Does it have the clarity or ambiguity that you are intending? Does it fit the tone that you are going for?

The same idea holds for the message/implication level. If you are implying or stating something in your story, is it what you mean to be implying or stating? If you are mimicking or subverting stereotypes, is it in a way that accomplishes what you are trying to accomplish?

[bookshelftreasures]

The Bargain

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Genre: Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Light Angst

Summary: During a high-stakes negotiation, you and Azriel are forced to pose as a mated couple to win the trust of a powerful court. But when he kisses you in public, it doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

Word Count: 1,077

Warnings: Mentions of deception, romantic and sexual tension

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

Azriel stood beside you, his shadows curling possessively around your wrist as the Lord of Autumn Court scrutinized the two of you with cool, assessing eyes. The entire room smelled of embers and dying leaves, the air thick with unspoken challenges.

“You expect me to trust you?” the Lord sneered, sipping from his goblet of wine. “The Night Court, the infamous spymaster, and his…” He let his gaze flicker to you, unimpressed.

Azriel didn’t so much as blink, but his shadows darkened. “My mate,” he said smoothly, his voice devoid of hesitation. “And the only reason I’m entertaining this conversation at all.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Mate?

That hadn’t been part of the plan.

The Autumn Lord’s eyes narrowed, looking between the two of you like a predator sniffing out weakness. “Your mate?”

Azriel’s hand found yours, his calloused fingers threading through your own with practiced ease, like he’d done it a thousand times. His thumb brushed over your skin, once. A silent trust me.

You forced a smirk onto your lips, playing along. “Is that a problem?” you purred, tilting your head like you were amused by the skepticism. “I’d think you of all people would know how powerful a mated bond can be.”

The Lord’s expression tightened just slightly, and you knew you’d struck a nerve.

Azriel pulled you closer, his body heat a stark contrast to the cool shadows that always clung to him. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “He’s watching for a crack. Don’t give him one.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for your breath to ghost over Azriel’s cheek. If this bargain was going to work, it needed to be convincing.

So you reached up, resting your free hand on his chest—right over the steady, unshaken beat of his heart.

And then you kissed him.

It was meant to be quick. A brush of lips, a show of devotion, nothing more. But Azriel—silent, unreadable, controlled Azriel—didn’t let you pull away so easily. His hand slid to your waist, fingers tightening as he deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate. The kind of kiss that told the room there was no question, no lie.

Your head spun. You barely registered the approving hum of the Autumn Lord.

When Azriel finally pulled back, his lips hovered over yours, his breathing steady despite the way yours was anything but.

“You’re both dismissed,” the Lord said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll consider your offer.”

Azriel nodded, murmuring a quiet my Lord before tugging you from the room, his grip firm on your hand. You didn’t speak until you were far enough down the winding halls, shadows pooling around the corners of the stone.

You yanked your hand free. “What the hell was that?”

Azriel, ever composed, simply looked at you. “A necessary deception.”

“A mate bond?” You huffed, crossing your arms. “I thought we were pretending to be courting, not mated.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His hazel eyes studied your face, as if gauging something unspoken. “Would it have been so unbelievable?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Azriel took a slow step closer, his shadows curling over your shoulder this time, lighter, lingering. “You kissed me back.”

"You're the one who didn't let me pull away," you countered, pulse racing. "I may have started it, but you sure as hell made it something else entirely."

His lips twitched. “Do you regret it?”

His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze shifted—something that made your stomach flip.

“Would you rather I hadn’t?” he asked, voice low, unreadable.

You swallowed hard. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?” He took another step, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Tell me to forget it, and I will.” His voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath it, something almost… vulnerable. “Tell me it meant nothing, and I’ll let it go.”

Your throat went dry. Because you knew what he was asking, what he was really saying.

If you told him it was a lie, he would believe you. Even if he knew better.

You opened your mouth—to say what, you weren’t sure—but Azriel exhaled sharply, as if giving up before you even spoke.

“Forget it,” he muttered, stepping back. The distance was instant, suffocating. “It was a means to an end.”

Something in you snapped.

“Bullshit.”

Azriel stilled.

Your heart thundered as you took a step forward, closing the space he’d tried to put between you. “You didn’t have to hold me like that. You didn’t have to kiss me like that.” Your voice wavered, but you didn’t back down. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything to you, and I’ll walk away. Right now.”

Silence.

His jaw clenched. His wings flared slightly, shadows restless at his feet.

And then—Azriel moved.

One moment there was space between you. The next, you were caged between his arms as he backed you against the cold stone wall, his chest pressed to yours, his hands braced beside your head.

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice raw, quiet. “I can’t tell you that.”

Your breath caught.

Azriel’s fingers brushed along your jaw, tilting your chin up. His shadows wrapped around your waist, curling, anchoring. “I don’t want to pretend.” His hazel eyes burned into yours. “Not anymore.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until it escaped in a shaky exhale.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. His fingers tightened slightly, as if bracing himself. And then—

Azriel kissed you.

Not for a ruse, not for an audience, not as part of some deception.

This was for you.

And it was everything.

The world faded. The only thing that existed was the warmth of his body, the way his lips claimed yours with quiet desperation, the way his hands slid to your waist, gripping like he had no intention of letting go this time.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven. “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you,” he murmured.

You smiled, tracing a finger over his chest. “You have a terrible way of communicating, Shadowsinger.”

A soft chuckle rumbled through him. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You grinned. “Damn right, you will.”

Azriel kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world.

And for the first time, neither of you had to pretend.

[cirruslush]

1. Repressed Emotions

You’ve had the biggest crush on your brother’s best friend ever since he started coming around. But lately, it’s not just a crush anymore. He’s grown into a man, and what you feel for him now runs deeper—more passionate, more lustful.

You’ve known Hamzah since before you really understood what it meant to want someone. He was your brother’s best friend—the kid who used to steal the last slice of pizza and smirk like it was his right . The boy who used to ruffle your hair like you were some kind of puppy, then laugh when you tried to swat him away. The boy who grew into a man far too quickly, all broad shoulders and low laughs ,eyes that lingered too long when he thought no one was watching.

And now, he was living in your house.

-

-

Your parents had left for Europe, and your brother, had turned your home into a bachelor’s playground.

Hamzah was over every day—scratch that—he was staying over. His duffel bag lived by the couch, his shoes piled next to your brother’s, and every night you’d hear the low murmur of their video games and banter, long past midnight. For a week, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just noise.

But that wasn’t the case.

-

-

⤷ 3:48 AM

The walls were thin. Too thin for whatever chaos was going on behind your brother’s bedroom door. Laughter, thumping bass from some game soundtrack, and that familiar, piney, earthy scent that smoked cannabis leaves behind. A crash—was that a chair?

You threw your blanket off, and started padding down the hallway, barefoot and irritated, your sleep shirt clinging to your thighs. You banged once, sharp and hard, on the wood. Surprisingly, the music volume not even lowering itself.

The door opened almost immediately.

It was Hamzah.

He leaned against the frame, shirtless—of course—and grinning like the devil himself had taught him how.

“Well, well. Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

You crossed your arms. “Are you guys serious right now?”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging down your frame before flicking back up. “What? Missed us already?” he teased

“Hamzah.”

“Ooh..scary look you got on your face. Pretty hot”

Your cheeks heated. He was joking. He had to be. But there was something different in his tone, just beneath the surface.

“Just—keep it down.”

“Will try” he said, but didn’t move. “You know, you could always join us . Just once. Might be fun.”

You gave him a look that screamed absolutely not and turned on your heel. Behind you, he chuckled low, like he knew something you didn’t

-

-

⤷ Two Days Later

You woke up thirsty. Restless. Again.

The apartment was quiet for once, bathed in that eerie stillness that only came late at night.

The laughter coming from your brother’s room was quieter this time—muffled and broken up with long silences, probably another one of those intense games your brother and Hamzah would get sucked into for hours.

You didn’t even bother putting on pants. Just the same oversized t-shirt. You wouldn’t be staying at the kitchen for long anyways.

No lights were on. Just the silver-blue glow of moonlight seeping through the windows.

The hallway was dark, cool.

You dragged yourself through it barefoot, rubbing at your eyes, not expecting—

“Shit—”

You slammed into someone the second you rounded the corner.

Hands grabbing your waist instantly, steadying you. Firm and familiar

You looked up, and there he was again.

Backlit by the silver glow of the moon pouring in through the kitchen window. His hair was messy—tousled from hours on the couch. Shadows kissing his jaw in just the right places and his eyes, even darker than before under the dim moonlight.

He didn’t let go.

“You always this clumsy,” he asked, “or is it just when I’m around?”

You huffed a breath, trying to sound annoyed—but it came out breathless instead. “It was dark.”

He grinned, low and lazy. “Didn’t seem to stop you from finding me.”

You didn’t respond. Suddenly hyperaware of how warm his hands were. How close you were. “Why are you always in the kitchen anyway?”

He shrugged. “that’s the second time I’m running into you here today” His fingers flexing slightly on your waist. Like he forgot they were there—or even better—didn’t care that they still were.

“I wanted water.”

“Mm,” he said, glancing down at your bare legs, the way your shirt stopped far too early. “Sure it’s not the attention?”

You scowled, trying to pull back, but he didn’t move. Just enough resistance to make you feel like you’d need to really try if you wanted to leave.

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered.

“I’ve been called worse.”

He finally let go, taking a slow step back, and the absence of his hands was somehow worse than the weight of them.

You went to the counter, trying to focus on the glass in your hand, your breathing, anything.

But you could feel him right behind you. His presence leaving the atmosphere heavy.

He leaned on the other side of the counter, watching you carefully.

“You always walk around like that?” he asked casually. His arm sneakily, wrapping around your waist again.

You paused, crossing your arms, more to cover the way your body betrayed you out of modesty. The glass in your hand nearly slipping.

“Like what?” the saliva in your mouth, nearly flooding. “It’s just a T-shirt” You gulped harshly.

The moonlight caught in his eyes, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe properly. His hands still on your waist, his thumb moving—just slightly—dragging along the hem of your t-shirt like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. A whisper of a touch, but it lit you up from the inside out.

You glanced toward the fridge, like it could grow legs any time now and save you.

“Right,” he said. This time there was something in his voice—mocking. Teasing. He let go of your waist slowly, the drag of his fingers intentional, like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“You should go back to sleep,” you said, voice quieter than you intended.

“You should stop wearing that shirt,” he replied, eyes dragging over it again, this time slower.

“It’s a problem,” he said under his breath. Almost as if he was talking to himself “but hey, your house, right?”

“You’re so—” You turned to snap something back, but he was closer than you thought. Not touching. Just there, admiring. You had to look up at him.

His face was unreadable now—calm, maybe even bored. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t a big deal.

That made it worse.

He then took a small step forward—closing the small remaining space between you. Letting himself almost sink in your body. Carefully, he put his hand out, placing it next to your thigh, to the counter

“W-what are you doing?” you asked quietly, kind of flustered. Sweat drops forming on your forhead.

Hamzah blinked innocently.

Soon, a nasty smirk forming on his face.

“Just getting water.” he said.

Opening the faucet behind you, letting the water forcefully fill his glass

And just like that. He turned his body away, and walked out—laughing—quietly, slow, dark..Like the air wasn’t still charged, like he hadn’t just lit a fuse and walked away from the fire.

Leaving you in the kitchen with your heart pounding and your whole body, already on fire. Your skin remembering the feeling of his big hands, his voice curling around your spine like smoke and your mouth as dry as a dessert.

Still thirsty—But not for water.

You slipped back to your room in silence, but sleep never came.

It was only you, and your thoughts.

-

-

⤷ The next morning.

You came into the kitchen late, half-hoping he wouldn’t be there.

He was.

Of course he was.

Sitting at the table like he owned it, like this wasn’t your house. Shirtless again—because apparently that was his default now—one leg stretched out, the other bouncing lazily. His phone in hand, head tilted slightly, hair a little damp like he’d just come from the shower. A mug of coffee sat untouched in front of him, steam still rising from his body.

He didn’t look up.

But you felt him notice you.

That awareness. That shift in the air. Like gravity shifted.

You ignored it—or at least—tried to.

You walked past him with studied indifference, reached into the cupboard for cereal like you didn’t still feel the echo of last night—his voice behind you, the nearness, the unspoken heat.

“You sleep okay?” he asked casually, like it was a throwaway question.

“Fine.”

“Dream about me?”

You turned slowly, cereal box in hands, giving him the flattest look you could muster. “Are you ever serious?”

Finally, he looked up.

And there it was—that same look that had been driving you crazy for years. Playful on the surface, but underneath? That lazy, low-burning interest he never voiced.

That challenge.

“Not around you,” he said simply.

You stared at him. The tension tightened.

He tilted his head, eyes trailing deliberately down to your collarbone, where the edge of your sleep shirt gaped. Exposing the fact that you were indeed bra-less.

You swiftly turned back to the counter—after only realizing yourself—hands a little too tight on the coffee mug.

“I need caffeine before this conversation,” you muttered.

“Could’ve asked me to make it for you.”

“You’re not that charming.”

“No?” His voice dipped, low and slow. “You seemed pretty charmed last night.”

Your fingers froze around the handle of the coffee pot.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

You didn’t turn, just stared down at the counter, the silence hanging too thick.

“You like messing with me,” you said finally.

“Not messing.”

His voice was closer now.

Right behind you.

You didn’t even hear him move.

“Just testing limits.”

You turned, and there he was—again. Always there. Close enough that the space between you practically suffocating. Close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

“What kind of limits?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

“You tell me.” he leaned in.

You didn’t move. Didn’t stop him.

His hand brushed your hip—just a whisper of contact, but it made your stomach twist. His other hand came up, slow, like he was waiting for you to pull away. To push him off of you.

But you didn’t.

Fingers grazed your jaw, tilted your chin up.

It was soft. Way too soft for how sharp the tension had been.

And then—he kissed you.

Fucking finally.

It was warm and unhurried, but not sweet. There was heat behind it—coiled, restrained. Like he’d been thinking about this just as long as you had. His fingers stayed gentle on your face—his mouth was anything but that. It was possessive. Raw

And you—

You kissed him back.

Harder than you meant to.

You stepped forward without thinking, backing him into the table. He let out a soft grunt of surprise, smiling against your mouth. His hand dropped from your jaw to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he wanted more, like this was just the start—

CREAK.

You both froze.

The sound was faint, but unmistakable—the creak of a bedroom door upstairs.

Your brother.

Your eyes widened. Hamzah pulled back a fraction of an inch, breathing shallow, eyes still on you.

Neither of you said a word.

You stepped back, fast. Heart racing.

His lips were swollen. His hair was a mess. And he was still looking at you. A look like, you’d just slapped him across the face

You grabbed your coffee mug, turning on your heel without another word.

“Morning,” your brother’s voice called down from the stairs.

You didn’t answer. You just walked off, head high, coffee clutched tight, hoping he couldn’t hear your pulse in your throat.

Behind you, you heard the scrape of a chair, the clink of Hamzah picking up his coffee.

“Yo,” he said to your brother, calm as ever. “You sleep okay?”

But his eyes never left the hallway where you’d disappeared.

Not once.

And the smirk he wore while sipping his coffee?

Smug. Possessive. Like he knew something your brother didn’t.

And he was enjoying it.

-

-

4:16 AM

The house was dead quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your skin.

You’d woken up in a cold sweat again. Your shirt clung to your back, your heart pounding like it was still trying to outrun the nightmare. You blinked into the darkness, disoriented, the weight of the dream still sitting heavy in your chest.

Then—a knock.

Sharp. Twice. Muffled against the wood of your door.

You flinched.

Your brother?

Unlikely. He could sleep through a fire alarm.

You sat up slowly, dread giving way to confusion—until you heard it:

“Take your time, sweetheart.”

That voice.

Low, cocky. Half amusement, half challenge.

It was Hamzah.

You stilled. Your heart started a different kind of race now.

Did he wake up because of the noise? Or… was he already awake?

Your mind flashed back to the morning—his mouth, his hands, the heat in his eyes right before your brother’s door creaked and shattered the moment. You hadn’t spoken since. You’d avoided him, like the coward you are.

But now he was here. At your door. At your worst hour. Not being able to escape him.

Something about that made your stomach twist.

Would opening the door be giving in?

Maybe. But was that such a bad thing?

Surrendering didn’t sound half as bad now.

You didn’t give yourself time to hesitate. Fingers curled around the knob, and you pulled.

Hamzah stood there, shirt wrinkled, revealing his happy trail. Sweat drops riding low on his hips and his blonde tips messy, like he’d run a hand through them a thousand times. He looked like he belonged in every bad decision you’d ever made.

Stepping forward, his eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. Down your bare legs, the same oversized shirt hanging off your shoulder, the faint flush on your cheeks—He didn’t bother hiding it.

The door clicked shut behind him

He didn’t say a word.

No smirks. No jokes.

Just a slow, deliberate turn to face you, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

He moved toward you without speaking—silent, intense, like a predator that had finally cornered something it had been hunting for years. Every step felt heavier than the last, until he was standing right in front of you again.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Say something,” you whispered, voice barely there.

“I warned you,” he said. Calm. Even. Dead serious. “Told you I wasn’t messing around tonight.”

Your pulse spiked. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t—not when he was looking at you like that. Like he owned you already and was just giving you a head start before claiming what was his.

He reached for your jaw, fingers tilting your face up—not gently, not rough either. Just enough to remind you that you were his to move. His thumb brushed along your bottom lip, and his gaze dropped there for a second, fixated.

“You opened the door like you were ready” he muttered. “So don’t look at me like that now.”

“I am.” you said—too fast maybe.

Too honest.

His mouth twitched at the corners, forming into a smile—subtly showing off of his sharp canines.

But there was nothing kind in it. Just hunger.

“Then show me.”

You didn’t even get the chance to answer.

His hands were on your waist, dragging you into him, lips crashing onto yours again—harder this time. It was different now. No more teasing, no testing limits. This was full control, no hesitation.

You gasped, and he took that opening like an invitation—tongue claiming your mouth with brutal precision. He kissed like he had something to prove. Like he knew exactly what you wanted and had no plans to let you leave without getting it.

You barely noticed when he started walking you backwards—until the back of your knees hit the bed, and he shoved you down with one hand, still standing above you.

You blinked up at him, dazed, panting, lips red and swollen.

He looked at you like you were the best mistake he’d ever made.

“Stay there.”

You didn’t move.

He reached for the hem of his shirt—like he’d even needed it in the first place—and yanked it off in one motion, tossing it somewhere behind him. Every inch of him was lean, carved muscle and sharp lines. Not too perfect. Just real. Solid. Like he was built to ruin someone.

And right now, that someone was you.

He climbed over you slowly, knees framing your hips, hands planted beside your head.

“You scared?” he murmured, face inches from yours.

“No,” you breathed, even though your heart was pounding like it was trying to escape your chest.

His eyes flicked down to your neck, your chest rising and falling too fast beneath the thin fabric of your shirt. He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw—barely—his voice low. Brutal.

“You should be.”

His mouth finally found your throat, kissing a slow, long, bruising path downward. His hands skimmed along your thighs, parting them with no hesitation, settling between them like he belonged there. You felt his weight press into you, anchoring you in place, and god—it was too much and not enough at the same time.

“Look at you,” he said against your skin. “Acting all shy now. After provoking me all this time.”

You whined, fingers clutching at his shoulders. He caught your wrists, roughly placing them above your head with one hand.

“Hands stay here.”

You obeyed. Instinctively.

He smiled. That same wicked grin, but darker now. More possessive.

“You’re learning.”

His other hand slid under your shirt, dragging upward, slow and torturous. He took his time, watching your reactions the entire time, soaking in every little twitch, every breath you tried—and failed—to steady.

You didn’t know where to look—his eyes, his mouth, the flex of muscle every time he moved, like he was built to do this.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse now, like he was hanging on by a thread.

“I want this,” you whispered, lips parted, flushed.

He hovered just over your mouth, not kissing you yet.

“Say my name.”

You whimpered. “Hamzah…please”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, rough and passionate, like he needed to stamp himself into your memory. Your hands stayed above your head like he told you, even when your whole body was trembling beneath his.

And when he finally let go of your wrist, his hand didn’t leave—it slid down your arm, slowly, deliberately, until his fingers laced with yours.

The softest touch he’d given you all night.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

“Too late to change your mind now,” he muttered.

You smiled, “was never gonna.”

His other hand slowly reaching for the waistband of your shorts—not taking them off—only sliding it under, making you go insane, more and more by seconds.

A soft whine escaped your lips—quickly covering them with your hand—as he teasingly rubbed your clothed clit in a slow circular motion.

“Sensitive,” he murmured, tongue brushing over the marks he’d just left. “Didn’t think I’d get you like this so fast.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. “You’re cocky.”

“You love it.”

He was right. You did.

It was maddening.

He slipped your panties to the side, dragging his fingers, painfully slow along the line of your wet folds. Restrained, soft moans leaving your mouth.

Hamzah seemed to get more fascinated by the fact that you were trying so hard to remain calm and silent. He wanted to hear your voice. Even if that meant getting caught

He slid one finger inside you, slowly pumping it in and out, doing that one circular motion every time—searching for your g-spot while also making sure not to hurt you.

“Oh- fuck Hamzah” a moan slipped. Your high forming rapidly. Your head falling deeper onto your pillow as your hands met with his, desperately trying to slow him down

And then he knew.

He knew that was it—your sweet spot.

Purposely picking up the pace, he added another finger. Making a mess out of you as he hit the same. exact. spot. every time

“At this point, you’re going to cut my fingers off.” he teased. Pointing how hard you were wrapping your walls around his fingers.

Instinctively you bit back the noise rising in your throat as the knot on your stomach was sluggishly untying itself. Him teasing you even when you’re about to orgasm definitely was the cherry on top of the cake.

You clenched your fists into the sheets beneath you. Silently moaning—as much as you could. Your whole body shivered, soon enough, your cum dripping on his fingers.

Hamzah let out a soft, low, laugh

He was enjoying this.

Too much.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

He smiled against your cheek. “You’ll hate me more tomorrow.”

He kissed you once more—lazy, lingering, cruel in how good it felt—and then finally pulled away. Slow. Reluctant. Like it physically pained him to stop.

And maybe it did.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, back to you, running a hand through his outgrown buzz, chest rising and falling with restraint. You sat up behind him, dazed, hair a mess, lips bruised, body aching for more.

He glanced back over his shoulder.

“T-shirt looks better off of you than I thought it would.”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it without looking.Smirking.

“Get some sleep, princess,” he said as he stood, already backing toward the door, shirt still forgotten somewhere on your floor. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And just like that—

He was gone.

Leaving you hot, breathless, and completely wrecked—without ever taking anything at all.

────୨ৎ────

✎ a/n: gotta love me a power top 😙

Originally this was supposed to be smaller but i just wanted to add more and more tension. Bear with me ❤️ HOPE YOU ENJOYED THAT!

[birdiewritessometimes]

you are my favorite writer and I’m begging on my knees for more Theo fics because your last one ate so hard im in love with it🫶🏼🫶🏼 I don’t really have any ideas besides the reader who wears prescribed glasses (I don’t really see any glasses readers as someone who has to wear glasses), a hufflepuff or Ravenclaw and it being really soft and fluffy

Take all the time you need no rush! ㅤᵕ̈ ♡

Pack of Cigarettes

A/N: Thank you sososososososo much <3 This really made my day (month hah aim so bad) and I’m so so so so sorry you had to wait so long, school was busting my ass and them Christmas came and the holidays are just stressfull! And girl I feel you, I have glasses myself! I’m sorry this will be filled with clichés just as usual (I can’t help myself). Also I’m just saying but the astronomy tower is just their hang out, that’s just how it is. Also also I included a funny bonus scene at the end that didn’t really fit in the fic but that I loveeeed soooo enjoy that too hihihi

Summary: Theodore has formed a crush on one of the most closed off people but maybe dropping his cigarettes on purpose with help him to talk to her.

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Hufflepuff!reader

Themes/warnings: Sort of shy reader!, fluff, some tension, longing, kissing.

Word count: 4500 -ish

Please do not copy or translate my work!

The grounds were covered in a thick layer of snow. It was a clear day. Cold winds whipping the windows of the library where you were currently sitting, studying. It was a Saturday in the beginning of January. The term had just started and yet you had homework stacked up to your ears. The NEWT-classes were really kicking your butt. There were few students in the library at this hour, most were still enjoying their breakfast in the great hall. You were sitting by the window, occasionally looking out at the snow covered quidditch-pitch as you were finishing your week’s homework. The occasional cracks and snaps of the fire filling the otherwise silent library, casting an over all calmness over you as you ruffled through the pages of the various books you needed for your homework.

The sound of the door pulled you out of your bubble of concentration. Theodore Nott walked in with his friends. Your eyes raked over his figure as he walked with his friend, Mattheo Riddle, an air of easy confidence around the pair. Your eyes traced the outline of his large hoodie, the perfect fit of his jeans, back up to the perfectly messy mop of hair that sat on his head. You felt your heartbeat increase as Mattheo nudged his friend while looking at you with a smirk, Theodores eyes snapped to yours making you blush as you quickly glanced down into your book again. You glanced down at your clothes, mentally thanking yourself for choosing both cute and comfortable clothes today. Only cursing yourself for choosing your glasses rather than your lenses. You usually wore your contact lenses during the weeks, it being more convenient than your glasses that got dirty all the time, but during weekends you opted for your glasses since your lenses made your eyes dry.

Theodore and his friends sat down by a table just a couple away from yours, giving you a perfect view of the group of troublemakers. You shifted your concertation back at the transfiguration homework before you. You did however steal glances at Theodore from time to time. You had the most painful crush on the boy but never had the courage to talk to him. It was no secret that half of the female population of Hogwarts crushed on the troublemaking boys in Slytherin, so you tried to push your feelings away, only letting yourself admire him from afar.

As you were scribbling down the answers to the questions of the work sheet you heard a soft thud near you. Looking up you saw the retreating back of the tall Italian boy with fluffy hair. Looking down at the wooden floor you saw a pack of cigarettes. Frowning slightly, you bent down to pick them up. It was no secret that Theodore and his friends smoked so you assumed that they were his. Looking back over at him you saw how he was opening a book that you assumed he got when he walked past you. Gulping you realised that you probably should go over to him and give them back. Your heartbeat increased at the mere thought of it. Taking a deep breath, you gathered what little courage you had and stood up. The pack of cigarettes in your hands. You saw how Mattheo nudged Theodore when he noticed your approach. Theodores eyes snapped to yours making you blush. You had no idea why your cheeks felt the need to burn up whenever Theodore Nott was involved and right now you cursed yourself for your blush.

“Excuse me.” You said softly when you reached the table. The others, Lorenzo Berkshire and Blaise Zabini, were also looking at you now, a curious look in their eyes. “I think you dropped this.” You said, your voice quiet as you stretched out your hand with the pack of cigarettes to Theodore. He looked at you surprised but made no move to take them. It wasn’t until Mattheo elbowed him in the ribs that he responded.

“Right, sorry bella,” you assumed the nickname just slipped out, but it made you blush none the less, “thank you.” He said, flashing you a small smile before he reached for the pack. His fingers grazed yours as he took it from your much smaller hand. You felt your breath hitch at the contact but willed yourself to breath normally.

“You’re welcome.” You said quickly before you turned around and hurried back to your spot. Your heart was beating so rapidly you were sure that they could hear it if you stayed any longer.

The clock chimed as the pointers hit the number twelve you gathered the books you had borrowed to put them back in their right places before lunch. You noted that you had collected a rather big pile as you struggled to carry them all. Your eyes quickly darted involuntary in Theodore’s direction to see him and his friends gathering their things. With a breath you picked up the pile and started to head towards the large wooden bookshelves. As you were standing on the tips of your toes, trying to shimmy a book into its place by the very tips of your fingers, a large hand came from behind you and slid the book into its place. You let out a startled gasp as you turned around to see the very boy you were crushing on. Your eyes raked his face, now that he was closer. Tired eyes that seemed to have a glint of mischief in them. They were the most gorgeous steely blue. Your eyes travelled to his soft brown hair, thick and practically inviting you to run your fingers through it. His scent enveloped you like a hug of warmth, a touch of citrus and the smell of cigarettes lingered. It didn’t bother you though, like it did most people.

“Quite the stack of books you got there, bella.” His gravelly voice pulled you out of your shameless staring, his thick Italian accent more attractive now than earlier. The nickname made the familiar heat of a blush rise to your cheeks. You opened your mouth as to say something, but no sound came out. Embarrassed you closed your mouth quickly and looked away. You heard how he let out a chuckle at your embarrassed state.

“Come on, bella. Let me help you.” He stated as he casually grabbed the heavy pile of books in your arms, carrying it with ease. You willed your pulse to slow back down to normal as you slowly walked along the shelves, putting back the books. You took the ones who belonged on the lower shelves and Theodore took the ones that belonged to the higher ones. By the time you put away the last book you found yourself so far back in the library that you couldn’t see the seating area. You turned your body to look up at the boy after you had put away the very last book.

“Thank you, Theodore.” You spoke, your voice soft as you were relieved that you finally found your voice around him. His lips curled into a small smile as he stared at your face. Your stupid heart quickened again from the way he was looking at you. Heat, that it so often did around him, rose again to your cheeks as you broke eye contact.

“I like your glasses, they suit you.” He murmured making you look up at him, your eyes wide. You have never been complimented for your glasses before. Your hand shot up to correct your glasses, a nervous habit you developed as your eyes widened.

“Really?” You wanted to slap yourself for the hopeful tone in your voice, but Theodore just smiled and nodded. He stepped closer to you, invading your space and effectively caging you in between himself and the bookshelf behind you. Hot air surrounded you as he leaned in so that his lips were nearly grazing the shell of your ear, his warm breaths hitting your neck as he exhaled. You heart was nearly hammering out of your chest.

“I think you should wear them more often.” He mumbled in your ear before leaning back and turning to look you in your eyes. You were so close to his face now that your noses almost touched. You saw how his lips curled into a smirk. You let your mind wander to how it would feel to have his lips on yours. Would they be soft and gentle, or rushed and demanding? You found yourself realising that it didn’t matter much, you would happily take whatever he was willing to give you. Your eyes travelled back up to meet his steely blue ones, and you felt your breath hitch with the intensity of his look. A smirk still plastered on his face.

“I’ll see you later, bella.” He said through his smirk, the mischievous glint in his eyes as he stepped away from you, letting the cold air surround you once again. You were sure your face was beet red as you watched his retreating form. He looked back at you once more, sending you a wink before rounding a bookshelf. When you couldn’t see him anymore you let out a big breath you didn’t know you were holding. Feeling hot all over you quickly decided to grab a snack from the kitchens and resume your studying in the Hufflepuff common room. Far away from Theodore Nott and the effect he had on you.

The start of the week came sooner than you would’ve liked, but you had at least finished all your homework. You were feeling tired as you got ready for the day ahead. As you were preparing to put your lenses in your glasses caught your eye. Your heart quickened as you thought about the encounter that happened Saturday. Should you use your glasses today? He will know it’s because he said so. But so what? The thoughts swivelled in your head as you stood there looking at your glasses. In one giant breath you picked up your glasses and put them on. Hurrying out of your dorm before you could change your mind.

The day went by pretty normally. Zacharias Smith had actually complimented you about your glasses. It made you smile, although it didn’t make you feel any of the things Theodore had made you feel, it was still nice to get complimented. You were on your way to dinner when you bumped into something, or rather someone. Because someone caught you around the waist so you wouldn’t fall from the impact. Looking up you were met with the steely blue eyes of Theodore. He was smirking down at you, his large hand splayed against your ribcage. You felt a blush dust your cheeks at the proximity.

“Be careful bella.” He smirked and leaned down so his mouth was close to your ear yet again “I like the glasses.” He murmured before he let you go. A cold instantly spreading through you at his absence. He gave you a wink before stepping around you to continue on his way. The encounter made the butterflies in your stomach go wild, making it hard to eat. Your thoughts were constantly drifting towards your encounters with Theodore, making a blush spread on your cheeks and butterflies flutter in your stomach every time.

You would run into Theodore more often around the castle after the encounter before dinner, if it wasn’t in the corridors he would casually plop down in the seat next to yours during the classes you shared. The first time this happened you had almost jumped out of your own seat. He had startled you as he took the seat your best friend usually sat in.

“This seat free?” He had asked innocently and just at that moment your friend had walked in and gave you a knowing smile before sitting down next to Zacharias. You had only nodded at Theodore before you went back to get ready to take notes. During the classes you shared you noticed that Theodore rarely took notes, he usually just sat, leaned back into the chair, his legs spread more widely than any human could need, his knee usually gently grazed your own. Even if he didn’t take notes, he usually could answer the questions the teachers directed at him.

Now you were slowly warming up to him, even though your butterflies wouldn’t calm down around him. You would greet each other in the corridors, and you would say hi to his friends in the classes your shared. You noticed that you were slowly being more and more open to them and less nervous.

It was a weekend morning, and you were sitting at the Hufflepuff table in the great hall eating breakfast. Your friends were still asleep in their dorms. You were reading the Daily Prophet as you munched on some toast with marmalade when Theodore, Mattheo, Blaise and Lorenzo casually sat down around you. You looked up from the article you were reading in chock at the boys.

“Morning, bella.” Theodore smirked as he reached for some bread. The others murmured their various greetings as well before they helped themselves to some breakfast. You stared at them, unable to wrap your head around what was going on.

“What are you doing?” You asked them in surprise.

“Eating breakfast.” Mattheo shrugged from beside you making you snort.

“We thought you would like some company, bella.” Theodore said nonchalantly as he refilled your juice jug. A small smile broke out your face as you thanked him softly. He gave you a soft smile back before the five of you fell into easy conversation. You really started to feel more comfortable around them as they sat there, joking around, talking over each other and being general chaos.

A couple of days later you found yourself sitting in the library, the school-day had ended, and you decided to catch up on schoolwork as you waited for dinner. You were sitting at one of the tables in the very back of the library, next to one of the windows where you could easily see the glittering snow-covered grounds. You had decided to wear your contact lenses today, not feeling like cleaning your glasses all throughout the day. Your hair was down, neatly tucked behind your ears as you poured over the homework you had gotten from Professor Slughorn in potions. You were so deep in concentration that you almost shrieked when Theodore plopped down in the seat beside you. You had a hand over your chest, as to calm your racing heart.

“Theo, you scared me.” You mumbled, as you tucked a strand of hair that had fallen out of place back behind your ear. You turned to the side to look into his blue eyes. A smirk plastered on his face.

“Well, you would’ve heard me if you weren’t so focused on your…” his eyes travelled to your potions homework “homework, seriously y/n? We got that today?” He then questioned in mock offense.

“Well, I prefer to be on time, Theo.” You said pointedly. You had grown more confident around him and his friends since the time you shared breakfast together. Your crush on the boy beside you had not calmed one bit, however. Your feelings only grew stronger with the attention and the friendliness he had showed you. You were however unsure on his feelings towards you.

“Bella, it wouldn’t kill you to relax some time…” He trailed of as his eyes scanned your face; he was frowning slightly making your heart beat in worry. Did you have something on your face? Did he think you were ugly? Insecurities and anxious thoughts swivelled around in your head at his frown.

“What’s wrong?” You asked after gathering the courage. Anxiety rising in your throat.

“Where’s your glasses?” He asked. Your anxiety deflated as a balloon. Relief washed over you, calming your nerves, and a small laugh bubbled past your lips.

“Wh-what?” You asked between giggles.

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” He asked again, eyebrows furrowed this time. He looked like a confused puppy the way he was tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Sometimes I’m too lazy?” You said amusedly, although it sounded more like a question.

“I like your glasses…” He mumbled under his breath. His comment made your heart flutter, but not as much as it did when he lifted his eyes to look at your face again. He was looking at you with an intensity you hadn’t experienced before. His eyes travelled across your face; it was almost like he was mapping out your features. There was still a frown on his face, but his eyes had softened. You felt your heartbeat increase again, the air around you now thick. You hadn’t noticed how close he was until it was too late. You could now see the darker greyish circle around the outer border of his iris. You could make out the individual lashes around his eyes. Your eyes travelled down and noticed a small scar on his cheek. A thin slightly pinker line no longer than a centimetre sitting there on his cheek. You had never seen it before. Before you could stop yourself, your fingers had reached out to trace the scar. You didn’t say anything, neither did Theodore, as you gently let your fingers graze his skin. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, seemingly enjoying your touch.

“Do you know how amazing you are?” His voice was hoarse as he muttered the question, his eyes still shut, your fingers still moving to trace his face.

“What?” You let out, almost breathless. Theodore nodded, his eyes fluttering open to look you in your eyes.

“Yeah, you’re nice, smart and beautiful.” He said it so easily, almost like a shrug as he leaned more into your touch. Your heart hammered in your chest as a blush rose on your cheeks.

“You think I’m beautiful?” You asked timidly. He let out a chuckle, although it did little to ease the tension.

“Haven’t you noticed?” He then asked to which you shook your head.

“Bella, everything about you is beautiful, you’re beautiful in your uniform, in your casual clothes, with your glasses, without your glasses, when your hair is like this,” he let his hand rake through your hair, “when it’s up,” you felt your blush increase, “and don’t get me started on that, it almost brings me to my knees.” He said as his thumb gently traced your hot cheek. Your pulse was thundering in your veins at his confession. Your hand had halted its movements as he was speaking. His other hand engulfed it as it was hovering awkwardly by his face. He moved to his lips and pressed a kiss to your pulse point on your wrist. Your breath hitched at his contact.

“There’s a reason I always call you bella, and go out of my way to speak to you, you know,” he mumbled against the delicate skin on your wrist, “it’s because you’re so god damned beautiful,” he said before kissing your wrist again, “and nice,”  and again, “and smart, too smart for me,” and again.

“Theo.” It came out more like a breath rather than an actual word. It almost didn’t feel real but when his eyes snapped up to yours again you knew it was. Before you had the chance to react his large hands found your waist and you were dragged into his lap. His eyes were so intense that it felt like someone punched the air out of your lungs.

“I love it when you call me that.” He whispered, one of his hands moving up from your waist to your cheek. His other hand was gripping the soft flesh of your waist almost like a lifeline. You let out a breath that sounded like a gasp.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked and you nodded absentmindedly, your mind to busy making sure you were breathing and not fainting. His hand moved to grip the hair at the nape of your neck.

“I need to hear you say it.” He said, sounding almost strained. Your hands had moved up to hold onto his shoulders. His skin emitting warmth through his school dress shirt.

“Kiss me, Theo.” It didn’t sound like your voice; it sounded distant but none of that mattered when you felt his surprisingly soft lips on yours. He moved slowly, gently, almost like he was savouring the moment. His fingers gripped your waist even harder, like he was holding himself back. Your fingers moved from his strong shoulders to his soft hair. The strands tangled in your fingers as they moved to the nape of his neck, gently tugging on the hair there. Theodore let out a groan into your mouth as he pulled you even closer to his body. After some time, you pulled away for air. An intense blush spreading across your cheeks when your eyes met Theodore’s. He was smiling at you, a soft, genuine smile.

“Go on a date with me.” He said breathlessly. You let out a breathy giggle.

“Don’t you think we’re doing this backwards?” You asked, gesturing to the non-existent distance between your body. He shrugged confidently, his signature smirk stretching on his lips. His relaxed air seemed to seep into your body, making you relax completely in his grasp.

“Yeah, but my girl deserves a perfect first date.” He said, his voice confident and nonchalant at the same time making you let out a giggle.

“Your girl?” You asked, your brow raised in question, but he just merely shrugged.

“I didn’t hear you ask me to be your girl.” You teased with a laugh. He rolled his eyes jokingly before looking into your eyes with a soft, gentle look.

“Bella, will you be my girl?” He then asked, his voice so genuine and soft. You felt a smile spread on your face as you snaked your arms around his neck again.

“I would love to, Theo.” You said softly.

“Thank merlin I dropped my cigarettes that day, I would’ve never had the balls to speak to you otherwise.” Theodore let out in a sigh before he pulled you to him for another kiss.

“What does that mean?” You asked in between kisses.

“Don’t mind that now, bella.” He murmured before kissing you again, with much more intensity this time, but not before you let out happy giggles, making him smile against your lips.

Bonus scene:

You had been studying in the common room when you started to feel very stuffy, deciding that a walk through the castle would help with the antsy feeling. You had changed out of your school uniform, now sporting a pair of yoga pants and a large sweater. Your hair up in a ponytail and your glasses rested on your nose as you were strolling through the trophy room. When you walked around the corner that led out into the corridor you bumped into someone. With an “oof” you fell to the cold stone floor. A dull ache spread through your butt and hip as you rubbed it mumbling an “ouch” under your breath.

“Shit, fuck, sorry y/n.” A voice said above you as a large hand wrapped around your upper arm to help you up. When you looked up your eyes met the steely blue ones of Theodore as he steadied you with both his hands on your arms. The person who had spoken was his best friend, with whom you had bumped into. You tore your gaze from Theodore as you looked at Mattheo who was looking at you apologetically as he rubbed the back of his neck. You cracked a small smile at the ‘guilty school-boy’-look he had going on.

“It’s okay, don’t worry.” You said, the smile still playing on your lips. Your eyes gazed over the other two boys standing there, Lorenzo and Blaise, a small smile still on your lips until Theodore pulled your attention back to him with a gentle squeeze on your arm.

“Are you okay?” He asked gently, looking at you with puppy-dog eyes. His look made your breath hitch again before you managed a smile at him and nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You said softly and just as Theodore was about to answer something else caught your attention. It was Lorenzo and Blaise… acting out your interaction with Theodore… rather dramatically.

“My love, are you okay?” Blaise let out with a poor attempt at an Italian accent, burning passion in his voice as he violently grabbed Lorenzo, turning the boy to him, his other hand clutching his chest. Lorenzo, ever the actor, dramatically put the back of his hand on his forehead, feigning exhaustion as he leaned back into Blaise.

“Oh yes, I’m so okay.” He somewhat gasped dramatically as Blaise put on a pained expression. You were in total shock, you could feel the blush violently rise on your cheeks, and you didn’t dare glance back at Theodore who stood somewhat behind you. Your eyes did however catch Mattheo’s. One look. One look was all it took for you and Mattheo to absolutely lose it. Mattheo was absolutely howling with laughter, clutching his stomach as he doubled over. You were laughing so hard tears streamed down your face as you hid it in part embarrassment behind your hands. You saw how Mattheo had to sit down on the floor, his legs not being able to keep him up as he laughed at the complete idiocy of his two friends. You soon joined him on the floor when you saw how Lorenzo and Blaise continued to act like a doting pair in love. Blaise had now moved onto fussing over Lorenzo’s sweater. You were sure you were now beet red in the face. But you had to admit that it was nice that it was due to another reason than just embarrassment.

When the two of you had calmed down a bit you dared to look back at Theodore who was positively trying to murder his friends with his eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks. You had to admit that he was cute with the blush. Your eyes met Mattheo’s again, and it took every ounce of self-control your body possessed to not start laughing again. Your eyes drifted back to Lorenzo and Blaise who were now taking the bow for their excellent performance, making you giggle again before looking up at Theodore.

“Come on Theodore, it was funny.” You said as you held your hand out for him to help you up. You didn’t know where this newfound confidence came from, but you didn’t question it as you were smiling broadly up at the boy before you. His large, warm hand wrapped around your own as he hoisted you up on your feet. Your back was turned to Lorenzo and Blaise, but you saw how Theodore sent them a glare that effectively meant “don’t fucking start”.

“I’m glad you enjoy the comedic abilities of my friends.” He muttered to you, his cheeks still the faintest shade of pink. You let out a giggle when you looked up at the tall boy before you.

[mister0ctopus]

apart-mental issues [MASTERLIST]

mini-series [JJK] - completed

Pairings: Neighbor JK x Reader

Summary: Just a compilation of your awkward and embarrassing encounters with your next-door neighbor, Jungkook.

Ratings: 18+ ONLY! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Warnings: Explicit language, Mature Contents

Au/Genre: Mini Series, Neighbors au, Enemies (kinda) to friends to ?, Smut, Fluff

a/n: inspired by when i moved to my new apartment and my next door neighbor wasnt jungkook :(

SERIES CHAPTERS:

apart-mental issues part 1

apart-mental issues part 2

apart-mental issues part 3

apart-mental issues part 4 (FINAL)

🐙 MAIN MASTERLIST

🐙 send me an ask or feedback