#hands in the water. Nocturnality.................

[icharchivist]

ohhhhh my god. ohhhh my god. nocturnality. i think i already jumpscared u abt it so let me dive right in. apologies for the length I may have also gotten a bit Not Normal abt this play to the point I needed a whole day to write this haha... will just go in chronological order (mostly) of how i experienced it bc i think that's the easiest way to represent my thoughts!! first off. the beginning scene where the relatives are talking abt who’s going to take in azuma made me think like ah. wow. he and sakuya… they would mesh. learning that he had an older brother rly took me out tho. that’s tough. i loved that the scene in mankai also opened with him being able to say like… welcome home to people! because it is home, this place. also love how tsumugi like. specifically says that casting tasuku as a co-lead is like… a good support. coming right off of the taichi and tasuku halloween event its so nice bc its like. i feel like a lot of tasukus roles have been abt playing that support and how like, being able to do that is something he treasures? thought it was cute that masumi dropped off the script this time like. when he was like "lol I stole the script from tsuzuru while he wasn’t looking… just kidding. he’s dead as usual so I just wanted to drop it off" i genuinely was like. omg masumi... ur cracking jokes now? good kid. as always the moment one character goes "..." abt smthing (azuma abt the "good night, and sweet dreams" line it always Makes You Think). i was wondering if he was thinking abt his own sleeplessness. or how his like. sleeping profession probably had him say things like that but it was empty. anyways i have more to say on that... around here was where i took a pause to actually. watch nocturnality the play. as you may have already gathered... I enjoyed the play. however!!! for the longest time the ONLY thing i knew abt it was the cover poster. i was convinced both kota and reo were vampires and kota was just like, keeping it secret (you know like a gay metaphor or smthing lol) but ah. that was not the case. I have surveyed my friends though and literally every single one was in agreement abt it being abt homoerotic vampires. one person suggested kota would be a werewolf but thats it.

anyways. nocturnality the play. had to rewind the part where kota was like “you’d be the ultimate wife” and reo's very normal response was “I’ve lived a pretty long life, but I don’t think I’ve ever been someone’s wife before” it rly was like. wow this is so trope-y, like, picking up a stranger from the street who cooks well and you cohabitate before realizing that you are in love etc. also i loved like. theres a lot of subtle things going on here that I feel like don't quite have the time to get expanded upon? like, the vampire hq. theyre fine in daylight. lovely details like how kota's from the countryside and probably a little lonely, how hes moved by reo saying he doesn't have anywhere to go, or the way that it seems to be implied that like the First time kota tells reo he's been having nightmares is because he sees reo covered in blood, which is like. distressing for him and he's worried. very in line with winter's non-confrontation. the subtle distinctions of kota calling reo a friend while others call him a stranger or a freeloader, the way at the end nonomiya is like oh the freeloader finally left and kota is like "he left me behind"... the way that franz says "I'm the same as him" about reo and that kota ISN'T the same as reo... the way their duet song clarifies that like, they ARE the same, though, in like. mirrors of loneliness. the way kota is dueting all those blood-drinking lines in that song still. i think the duet song (which is VERY good) does a greattt job of expanding upon a lot of what the play has to cut for time, and it rly hones in on those like. feelings. the freaking "If I hated you any more than I do, I would have long taken everything from you" line... i'm rambling. yeah i wish we could have seen more of how close kota and reo were in the middle period of him being like. unwell and having nightmares. hence my jumpscare.

back to the event story... it is at this point i have to pause and say i was actually worried about being overhyped about nocturnality. i love everyone in a3 but azuma def faded in the background a bit for me during winters 1st ep...? and I know like, he's one of your favs. i think part of it rly comes down to that like, winter estbalishes two very set dynamics with tsumugi and tasuku and homare and hisoka so azuma is kind of like. the odd one out? and hes got a room of his own, too... I feel like we didn't really get Much of him but that's also part of his character bc he's like, quite guarded. very itaru-ish vibes to me. anyways i say all this because i was like in tears by ch 4 of the event story lmao. there's a not-insignificant chance i was projecting for all of this but i really liked this event story because it wasn't necessarily... obvious? like, the main line of it was pretty clear but there's alllllll these little subtle details, half of which don't get addressed (which makes sense! its in character!) and it made me think abt azuma as a character a lot. this ask is going to be so long omg.

i was so pleasantly surprised when the texting layout popped up. love how tasuku invites him out for a drive like this time and the next time. he just goes with one thing. and i love how its bc like. he heard azuma say he liked the ocean or smthing so hes like. oh well why dont we go there all the time. when azuma asks abt how tasuku must've had a lot of choices post-leaving godza, I thought it was very interesting that he asks "did you come here for tsumugi?" and like... hm. I think its very telling. because azuma's reason, which he deflects in answering at this time, is that he's here because mankai is a place that feels like home and he loves being around the winter troupe. so i think hes instinctively looking for some justification of that feeling, but I think it's also like. i think azuma just wants that kind of thing for himself. someone going out of their way for you. like the way he keeps assuring tasuku that the play will be fine because like of course that's the concern and it's not like it's HIM that could be someone people would concern themselves with, right? ...it made me sad.

I think like, azuma's also so competent at deflecting that sort of yearning from himself, to the point that just looking at him, you wouldn't ever think he's lonely. the game describes azuma as sensual and mysterious, something which he's called often, and I think that description really hits the mark. like azuma carries this ethereal feeling because I think he deliberately acts like a person who could float and live anywhere. you'll never know a thing about him. he could be anyone, because he's not tied to anyone. but i also think he like. desperately wants to be tied down. he doesn't want to run away... he wants to be able to believe that he can capture a sense of belonging. and for sensual like i think azuma is obviously like. very beautiful etc but the i think its a very good choice that out of everyone else in a3, he's kind of the most explicitly touch-starved? what with his whole cuddling/sleeping with others occupations. like it's such a good dynamic. here's someone who is transcendental that wants, probably desperately more than anything, to be tied down by a home and held. i think he's also old enough that he's like, aware of it. this is verging on projection but like it’s really so hard because fundamentally it’s embarrassing! it’s embarrassing to want and desire so openly, to be around other people, especially when you're old enough to be so aware that people are not forever...

ah unrelated but i thought it was very interesting that homare's response to whether he liked acting was like. oh well liking is not really what i care about--it feels meaningful to me! such an in-character outlook, i felt. this was also very itaru-ish of azuma to do, I felt--feeling guilty that his reason for acting wasnt enough. i want so badly for act 2 to come along just so he gets a roommate honestly. like idk. azuma gets to go to practice every day and like see the way tasuku and tsumugi seem to know each other inside and out and see the weird marshmallow deals homare and hisoka have going on and its not that hes Alone or that winter as a whole is Not Close but i do wonder sometimes if hes like oh. i wish i had... more. but winter isn't really blunt about that kind of thing.

the scene where azuma says I’m home at his apartment but no one responds... the way it mirrors the beginning of the event. the way he explcitly was like i should visit my apartment again to get in touch with being as desperately lonely as reo is. the way he is so self-aware of his loneliness but unable to confront it... like it makes me sad. i liked how this event made a not eof how much more direct summer is in comparison lol... theyre really different! the way tasuku invites him out for a drive again and azumas like oh im not around. where i am is a secret. like what a neat way of being like... playful and not revealing anything about yourself bc vulnerability is so terrifying. but the way tasuku comes to the train station to walk with him and says welcome back to him. or the way tsumugi asks if it's difficult acting with tasuku and azuma says I'm sure he's havng a harder time acting with me. he should be frustrated with my acting. like he's too graceful to wallow but I think azuma definitely gives off this vibe of like. oh i have to be Good. i have to nice and pleasant. to make up for the fact that it's me beneath all of this. like when he sees hisoka in his room and says he doesnt have any marshmallows here but hisoka is here for HIM and gives him marshmallows. sighs and says they are a value pack. arisu is a cheapskate. azuma is continually reminded and perhaps tortured by the soft and subtle ways winter loves each other because i don't think he can see himself as Part Of It yet...

to the nicer stuff lol i love the “where are you now?” / “that’s a secret” exchange is basiacally the same as last time only this time tasuku is at his door. i adoreeee how tasukus script notes are abt what “would help azuma out the most” bc. god. thats so good. yeah. i have to bet thats why tsumugi asked azuma if it was hard--i think tasukus very concious nowadays of like, what is the best way to Match with others. oh and FINALLY when azumas like I told you I’d do a good job for the performance and tasuku says “that’s not what I was worried about” yes… yess!!!! “we may be able to pull of the play perfectly fine, but are you fine? it seems like something’s been bothering you.” yes!!!!

also the way azuma's like yes i frow my hair out in the hopes my brother will come back some day its like. AND YOU WANTED TO CUT IT??? AND YOU SAID IT SO CASUALLY??? but ah. thats really azuma. and “since reo welcomes his loneliness, I thought I’d be able to act the part better if I spent time alone again” HE DOESNT WELCOME IT THOUGH!! HE DOESNT LOVE IT!!! i am so glad they r all together now. but yea the way azuma feels like this side of him is weak and miserable even tho it is literally human. the way that even here hes like [laughs] after seeing tasuku try to reach out to me, it doesnt feel as embarrasing anymore like. the way hes still keeping it light. azumas va genuinely recorded the perfect laugh for his character. and i love that the end of this event is just them mostly resolving to be more open with each other. what this event also made me realize is wow.... winter troupe didnt know literally anything abt the tsumugi tasuku debacle OR azumas backstory until now! shows how little they dive into touchy subjects lol... i also totally wrote down sooo many of these dialogue lines bc they're. good. telling. like its so sweet. tasuku just plainly sincerely expressing how he felt, knowing tsumugi had given up on acting and how that felt like a betrayal, and how tsumugis like. well, its fine. since you said you love my acting, it's all fine.

also. “the spring troupe is like a family, the summer troupe like school friends, and the autumn troupe like comrades for the same cause. what does that make us, then?” i have seen this quoted before and thought that the "and winter troupe are married!" was just a fun joke and not the Actual Thing they say basically??? i do love the different configurations of like. relationships that go on in a3 truly. but genuinely i think marriage is actually a great way to describe winter troupe's relationship? like, they're all old enough and had enough various relationships that i feel like. for them its very much like. okay... whatever this is, I'll commit to it, and make it work, and I plan for it to last for a very very very very long time.

anyways I burst out laughing at homares horrible snoring. hisoka how do u live. everyones sleeping sounds r so in character. azuma also seeing that gorgeous lavender sky and realizing how beautiful it looks with like. the rest of the troupe there... it was so good. it makes sense he's never seen it that way, considering he was afraid of waking up to another morning alone. also how he asks tasuku "once I gather the courage to return there, could you come with me? just kidding, of course..." like!! gah. the way he can't yet visit his family's place for fear of being too lonely. the way he asks tasuku becuase he is vulnerable enough to believe in him but also the way he has to couch it in a just kidding. tasuku falling asleep before he can respond, and azuma being at a good enough place where not knowing the answer, just yet, won't terrify him. and he gets to say "good night, and sweet dreams," but unlike reo. he gets to see tasuku when the next day comes, too. he can believe a little harder that he's not an imposition.

now for a little chikage interlude pre-their actual performance. CHIKAGE IM WATCHING YOU. I BET HES WATCHING WINTER. i bet hes whoever sent that "im watching you" message to them!!! i have cottoned on!!! he's been overseas for a long time, he can recognize azuma on sight... i'm still placing my bets on assassin but spy, the more realistic option, is also working. "I’ve really taken a liking to your troupe." and you keep showing up for winter troup stuff in specific.... buying FLOWERS... no clue why they were zinnias bc i dont think thats hisokas or chikages flower but. im 100% sure he knows hisoka. bet pre amnesiac hisoka was like a co-assassin!! and to transition back to the play performance, izumi is like "I’ve always thought this, but he’s really good at acting" abt hisoka and there is me, banging pots and pans together: ITS BECAUSE!!! HES AN ASSASSIN!!!! (more realistically a spy)

nocturnality such a good play tho. the delicate relationship of not daring to overstep despite building smthing so fundamentally important to both of you. the way reo is so like. i cannot demand anything from kota but has been drinking his blood every night… also azuma being like "tasuku said he likes my hair long :)
" yes. but oh my godddd the "...that idiot" adlib TASUKU WHAT A DESTRUCTIVE ADLIB!!! when i first watched the play i was so moved by kota's desperation to stay with reo and when i saw that the ending just had reo gone and kota breaking down from emotion it was... moving, sure, but I wanted kota to retain that desperation. and i feel like this adlib rly brought some determination to the character. the way only someone you are deeply intimte with is someone you can so heart-wrenchingly call an idiot. the way it's an acknowledgment of how kota knows reo is lonely. that it's not just him. the play poster has that one line... "we're the same, you and i. this is our true nature" which is why me and my friends all assumed it would be abt TWO vampires. but it's not, and I think what that phrase means is like. human, vampire, whatever. these are two lonely people who want to love each other. thats what they are mirrors of. each other. they must be the same being in the end. and that's why even though kota has to let this other random vampire save and heal reo he is not going to let him go. or something. how wonderful.

now that I've gone through all the event plays I am gonna have to say that a clockwork heart is my favorite, just for how it mirrors the play and the real events, and the whole mizuno and tsuzuru dynamic is so well done. plus the fact that it gets to re-contextualize romeo and julius (when I got to the scene where mizuno is literally staring at tsuzuru on the balcony something CLICKED for me) is so good. clockwork heart and nocturnality as plays actually have lots of similarities in theming to me, in taht its about a human's bond with soemthing thats human-shaped but seen as unnatural and shouldn't exist. anyways, just a little more 'til act 2.... im excited!

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII orghhhh Nocturnality. Nocturnality….. i'm famously Very Normal about Nocturnality so i'm going to try my best to answer this but. wow. so normal. Just reading through your ask once made me crazy emotional so 😭

Under cut because it already got long enough,

You pinpointing right away that Azuma and Sakuya would mesh…. there's actually a link skill (so, like Taichi and Tasuku have about being Godza people) when you put Azuma, Sakuya, and two others people (whom reasons to be here are for act 2 so i'll keep it at that) in the same group, and it's called "Lone Wolves: I've finally found the place where I belong.". Much to think about!!!!! But yeah definitely Azuma and Sakuya have a lot in common, orphan boys who lost their loving parents and then had to basically deal with relatives not wanting them around so they both became as pleasant and unimposing as possible. Except that for any stories where Winter gets to parallel one of the younger people, it's all about how Winter had to carry this coping so deep into adulthood that now it's too hard to move away from it, while the younglings are allowed to grow while this trauma had taken root sure but not already bloomed into a full. waves at what Azuma pulls yaknow. But god the infos about Azuma's brother too it's just. orhghhh Azuma……..

But yeah so he finally found a home there and you're right on so many points down the line about his loneliness and how much he fits him but i'm trying to go through the ask in order else it'll get messy but orhghhh Nocturnality…

AND YEAH FOR TASUKU YEAH!! he's SO GOOD at Support and he's been SO HAPPY about doing support now. And yeah like, right after the event with Taichi it stands out a lot. I'll just bring back too that a bit before the Halloween event there was the Beach event where Juza was cold toward Muku because he didn't know how to address his guilt, and while it was a team effort, Tasuku especially involved himself and insisted on /supporting Juza/ into showing Muku his feelings via play.

So it's been a pattern but what i find really interesting is that he was upfront about it for both Juza and Taichi but when it came to Azuma, he didn't know how to make it clear. And it all roots back to the fact that they had a major fight in the Winter Chapter. Remember that? During the whole "someone is spying on Mankai" situation, after Azuma temporarely left the company and then came back after his mental breakdown and being told Winter accepted him. Where Azuma just pointed out, hey, maybe Tasuku is the one who leaked out secrets without really realizing it because he was talking to an old friend, and Tasuku got so angry he snapped back that since Azuma was a whore (paraphrasing) perhaps HE'S the one who leaked secrets by talking to his clients. And Azuma was REAAAALLY pissed by this whole thing and when he started to get cold to Tasuku Tasuku started to realize oh shit my anger got the better of me and now this is bad. And this whole situation wasn't really solved by them apologizing to each other, in fact it kept escalating with Azuma also threatening to leave the company again because he was "so unreliable with how much he slept around due to his old job", which freaked Tasuku out. And i think it's important there at this point in Tasuku's journey to remember he was so wounded by being left behind by Tsumugi without knowing why, and blaming himself, that when Azuma started to close in and threaten to leave, Tasuku probably took it the really wrong way. This whole situation was solved with Homare's whole arc, but so, Tasuku and Azuma didn't exactly talk this shit out. They basically made a truce without apologizing and they've been pleasant to one another up until then.

But it's clear imo that Tasuku especially wanted to make it up to Azuma, and it's likely just Azuma had his walls PARTICULIARLY high around Tasuku because he felt betrayed for the one time he considered lowering them. So, I think it's fascinating to compare Tasuku's behavior toward Juza and Taichi, kids he decides to guide no matter what, to toward Azuma, because he genuinely wants to be here for Azuma but he feels the wall Azuma is putting between the two of them, and he feels responsible for it even being here because of how badly this one incident went.

This one incident drives me bonkers because it basically sets up why their dynamic is like that during Nocturnality even more so than just Azuma closing in: it's also because they don't know how to approach each other while by all account they're the duo who, up until now, in Winter, got along the least. And it's why Tasuku is trying so hard to take notes on his script without confronting Azuma about it either, and making things easier for him. Of course, he worries and is just bad at showing it, but Tasuku is also so unsure how to confront him again without making a mess. It's similar to how he felt unable to confront Tsumugi and orrghhhhh Tasuku….

Okay back to your ask,

The Masumi's scene was sO CUTE!!! This is what i mean when i say "Masumi is a good character when they let him do things outside of his obsession with Izumi", this whole bit was aDORABLE. And the implication he's looking out for Tsuzuru is just😭

I like your interpretation on the good night and sweet dreams's line reaction. I'll also rise that i've seen "good night and sweet dreams" used a lot also as something to say to people on their last breath as they die. As in, have a good eternal slumber. I think Tsuzuru isn't so innocent in that choice of line for Reo and Kota. Because in a way it's the immortal creature of the night, an undead, who makes this wishes of all the sweetest dreams to the person he's leaving behind, playing on the words we'd use for the departed but here, reversed as the meaning from Reo is "i want you to keep on living no matter what". Which is even MORE ironical because leaving Kota just leaves Kota in grief and orghhhhh Nocturnality………….

ABOUT THE PLAY THEN…. Honestly this is so fair, and the song goes even more into this interpretation with how they both sing together the drinking blood lines. I think it's mostly because, the Poster is set after Kota learns Reo is a vampire and we know Kota immediately jumped into wanting to be there for Reo no matter what and become a vampire himself. Kota was posing like "yeah i'm a vampire too, or at least i'm trying to convince my vampire boyfriend to turn me" and that's really sexy. But i find it so fun all your friends thought the same LDKJFDLKFJ

god. ReoKota. they're so fucking good. whole fist into my mouth. Like who talks like that; Tsuzuru is that how you see the Winter Troupe. You're always right but sTILL. On all the details you mention it's just so much, but, i'll ask you to put on a pin on the vampire HQ and remember it does exist. I have nothing really to add to everything you mention about the play itself it's just. god. this play is just way too good. But yeah i would have loved to see a bit more of them too, and i'm really glad you took upon you the hard duty of showing it as well. God. these two. I'm obsessed.

and helppp the hype 😭 But i TOTALLY agree and understand where you're coming from. Azuma and Hisoka have been my loves since the first Winter Chapter, but mainly in act 1 i focused on Azuma more, so i was terrified when Nocturnality came along too that i was overhyping it. Instead i cried so hard the whole way through i had to take breaks because of headaches. But i think you're on point with how Azuma feels like the odd one out and i do think it's on purpose, like you mention later, it's the touch starved one, the one who's so desperately yearning for love and connection, who still picked to self isolate. Because he saw the two duos that were arising at the time they picked the rooms and he considered well, he's used to loneliness, he can be lonely again, it's not like he can take place in either of these duos. god. But yeah this event does such a good job at expending on Azuma and giving him the proper room to breath. And i think it's like, when you make a character who's so kind that he looks open, but is actually extremely closed in because he's terrified of this intimacy he's yearning for, it's the kind of things you can only really show via slowburn and subtle details, so it makes Azuma so easy to overlook. But it's why i kept insisting on reading the event stories. I can't imagine jumping into act 2 without all of the character work those events worked so hard to develop, and Azuma especially is getting a lot out of it.

And HHHH THE DRIVING DATES. GOD. Remember how in the first winter chapter when Tasuku asks if anyone can drive Azuma is just "i prefer to be in the passenger seat" and Tasuku just rolls his eyes because his whole troupe is useless, and now he's just, hey, stay with me on the passenger seat? And for the ocean, yeah, i think Azuma brings it up when Hisoka asks them to stop at the beach as he's having memories. Tasuku at this point acts so annoyed at everyone and is focusing on Hisoka and i'm SURE Azuma just said something without really thinking anyone was listening to him, let alone Tasuku. So that's a nice continuity thing of how much Tasuku is paying attention to the people around him. (on a sidenote, this was one of the small reasons that got me pissed at the Winter anime adaptation dLKJDFLD The anime already cut Azuma and Hisoka's arc for the most part, and on the beach scene in question, they adapted it so that Tasuku and Tsumugi stay in the car to have a little gay drama on the side to tease their conflict. me, foaming in the mouth: where is Tasuku worrying about Hisoka. Where is Tasuku picking up the details Azuma drops about himself which serves then to build on Nocturnality. What are you DOING ANIME.) Tasuku is def the friend who hears you offhandedly mention liking something and then he rolls his eyes and then the next time you meet he got it for you. God. This guy.

The convo about Tasuku leaving the God Troupe hhhh god. You're totally right about Azuma asking about Tasuku's reasons. It's just. god, Azuma…. I do genuinely think that like, he admires that Tasuku is here for Tsumugi, he admires this type of love, but he would love someone to love him like that, like you said. I think part of him wished to hear "but i'm also here because i love all of the Winter Troupe, you included" or something that shows Azuma is also a priority in other people's lives. Because despite how nice and sweet Azuma can be, how much he's been a support to anyone, he closes himself in and fades in the background so much he doesn't have strong bonds with anyone or so he thinks and god it hurts. fist in mouth Sorry if i cannot be too coherent about Azuma i'm realizing trying to type all of that that i'm still crying thinking about his arc and goddamn, the line between projecting and relating has truly blurred past comprehention to me.

But god everything you say about Azuma. yeah. yeah… yeah. I think also that, Azuma is so touch starved so he turned to cuddling, but this touch starving is such a manifestation of how he's yearning to be close and intimate with people, and he can comprehend this intimacy on a physical level, but on an emotional level he just cannot make himself vulnerable enough for that. So i think in a way it might make his touch starving even worse because it means, he's getting so close to getting it, he's extending others the intimacy he would love to receive, but he puts himself in a situation where he denies it to himself. So his needs are not fulfilled and in a way i think he probably ends up starving even more, no matter how much he cuddles up at work and stuff. But yeah no i totally 100% agree with you and it's embarassing and it's muffled screaming into hands Azuma……………. And on top of the loneliness, yeah, god. I mean, Azuma basically grew up with the idea of, people will leave your life when you least expect it, so better be ready for it to happen. Better not form close attachement else it will hurt once it's gone. And we know his relatives didn't really want to keep him around so it adds to the fact of just feeling like you cannot form any type of attachement. And he carried that into adulthood and now it's just, he convinced himself loneliness was the only thing he could get. And he could banter up with it by the touching and cuddling, but the loneliness remains.

But yeah omg the Homare bit is so good 😭 and this is the second time you're comparing Azuma and Itaru this is amazing. Let them do more things together!! But i do think you're on point with their guilt over how the reason their acting isn't good enough to them.

"i want act 2 to come along just so he gets a roommate honestly"

THIS WAS ME THE ENTIRE TIME HELPPPP. The moment Azuma said that he had panic attacks at night when he slept alone in the first Winter Chapter i was just "oh my god can the Winter rookie come already you can't leave him alone like that" and i've waited ever since, non stop, for this new chara to show up. Now my feelings for when it happens are REDACTED for spoilers reason but holy shit. Holy shit…. But yeah like Azuma stands out even more so, he's already so lonely and while Winter is a big group and stuff, it's true by act one they're mostly divided by two duos and Azuma on the side. I think Nocturnality changes that around quite a bit, as Tasuku goes out of his way to be here for Azuma and all of Winter are making their efforts to be there for him, but yeah, up until this point, Azuma had all the reasons to feel like the odd one out.

god Azuma coming back to his old flat. fist in mouth fist in mouth f- But yeah it sure works to show how much Winter is very undirect with talking about their feelings. I think it's here from the start but it can easily be seen, esp after Summer and Autumn's fights, as a lack of conflict that they're just this indirect and taking their bad emotions upon themselves. I think the Winter events, especially Nocturnality, and especially Azuma, do a good job showing how much this is just as much of a conflict and possibly just as harmful. I think Azuma is, in the end, surprisingly, the one who therefore makes the situation worse for Winter, because he does have a habit of not talking about what is wrong and, before you know, suddenly he disappeared and you don't know how to approach him without being a little blunt. So out of everyone, it's Azuma's way to just try to make as little fuss and disappear that can make everything about the Winter dynamic more difficult. so i think it's also telling that solving at least part of this issue was with Tasuku, since in a way Tasuku is much more blunt and its his outbrusts that caused Winter to have to face each other and their conflict in previous stories. Unstoppable Force VS Unmovable Object.

" I think azuma definitely gives off this vibe of like. oh i have to be Good. i have to nice and pleasant. to make up for the fact that it's me beneath all of this. "

oroghhhh yeah.. yeah!! Once again i was mentioning earlier, but let's remember that when his parents died Azuma was told clearly by his relatives that he would be a burden to them. I don't think they even made clear if he stayed with some relatives (he must have right? i mean he was just a kid) until he could get a place he could live in alone, but therefore, the comparaison with Sakuya is even more stark in that sense of: he probably had to be good and pleasant and take as little space as possible, not cause any problem, handling everything on his own so his presence isn't a burden, doesn't come noticed as much. And i genuinely feel like there's part of it in the way he behaves there as the lead, of, trying so much to disappear behind being as good and as little of a problem as possible, so perhaps he won't burden anyone by the crime of, you know, being alive and existing. God the Hisoka scene tho Hisooo 😭 he worries so much for Azuma it's so cute. Even if yeah he has to bring it up back to Homare but man. man.

YEAH MAN THAT EXCHANGE IS SO GOOD. AT THE DOOR I MEAN. gOd Tasuku coming forth showing he's both a fantastic theater support AND a good friend support. god.

The hair thing drives me insane too bc it's not even the first time he brings it up, he also mentions eventually cutting it in the backstage of his SR for My Master Mesmerized by Mystery. I think Azuma has been kind of… on a line, basically, on that topic. I feel like if he cut his hair, he would have to face right away that there is no one who could come back to him. I think he holds on to that feeling so much. And a part of him would be betraying what his brother loved just to try to move on. I think cutting his hair would be the worst thing for his mental health, and in a way, he toys with the idea of basically destroying himself because, what if it means he can more easily rebuild himself? I also think it adds to the significance of Azuma being the one to chose to have his hair short in MMMBM. Because he's playing a brother who had to kill his sibling in order to set them free. As such, i feel like, since Azuma was the one who could pick the hairstyle he wanted, this was his way to show how he'd basically give up on any foolish thought of his brother being alive, by all account, killing him in the last way possible. That perhaps it could set them both free. but MMMBM does end with the idea still that the death wasn't the solution and that Azuma's chara ruined his own life and his possibility to bond with other people. As such, i think that the idea is that this would not actually be freeing for him to do so and would instead just make things worse.

But yeah back to the scene itself and yeah god. God that whole scene is so much. I really love how the conflict is solved by all of winter coming together too. While Tasuku does the heavy lifting it's all of Winter that has to extend to Azuma that, no, he has a place with them, and they want him with them. And i love that it means they can open up to each other sobs. The Tasuku and Tsumugi scene was especially soft.

""“the spring troupe is like a family, the summer troupe like school friends, and the autumn troupe like comrades for the same cause. what does that make us, then?” i have seen this quoted before and thought that the "and winter troupe are married!" was just a fun joke and not the Actual Thing they say basically??? ""

SURPRISEEEEE "i can hear the wedding bells!" like okay??? me too??? moment that made me go from shipping duos to "actually Fuyupoly rules". I'm feeling insane. But genuinely Homare going on about how they're soulmates designed to meet each other and how Azuma and Tasuku joke about it at the end and how "yeah perhaps he's right" i'm feeling insane i'm feeling insane im- but i do agree that marriage is what fits them most, it's like, this choice they keep on making to try to make it work. In a way it faces even more how much it's a real work to go through with it. guhhhhh them. them. God i love them so much i'm ghnnnn

So funnily, i think it's one of his base Backstage but Hisoka mentions very early on that he doesn't want any gifts like, pillows or plushies or eyebands because he wants to be able to sleep anywhere in any situation whatsoever. And, like the stray cat he is, we've seen that people have Basically Been Ignoring That (if you can look at his R backstage in the Into the Night- where he basically gets his first real plush and suddenly it's all hell breaks loose) and now Hisoka is just, extremely picky about where he sleeps. In his R Nocturnality backstage you find out Hisoka is going more and more extreme in ways to find sleep. So i figure that: Hisoka would have stand with Homare's snoring at first. But probably not anymore. Not now that he sleeps with plushies and pillows and eyebands and everything. Please save him.

but orghhh the next morning and the way he asks for Tasuku to come with him but Tasuku is already asleep. In my mind rentfree everytime. And this is where Tasuku and Azuma's relationship really changed since, like i mentioned, before this event they were still distant toward one another, and now Azuma trusts Tasuku with the most vulnerable side of himself, even if he still brushes it off a bit. Like god. these two.

" and he gets to say "good night, and sweet dreams," but unlike reo. he gets to see tasuku when the next day comes, too. he can believe a little harder that he's not an imposition. "

CRYING IN THE FUCKING CLUB THANK YOU

Okay let's stop with the man that always make me cry. let's go talk about the man that always make me g- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA muffles screams with hand i'm so normal i'm so normal i'm s- god the fact Chikage's presence in this event is him seeing Azuma in the street at night and immediately realizing it's him and going at Itaru, how come a member of your troupe is out there alone? isn't he in the winter troupe? Why isn't the rest of his troupe with him? And Itaru is just huh, okay, weird you picked it up but alright, and that then Chikage asks if he can come see the next play. Like. Mhmmmmmm. MHMMMM. For the records, a3 is always very careful about the use of its flower languages and Chikage's bouquets all had a specific meaning so far. I won't share them because it's likely it'll spoil a little of his deal, but it's worth coming back to it once you get to know him. (More in the sense of the devs made sense of the bouquet, whenever Chikage knows what the flowers means or not are up to interpretation… or at least to pick up once you've read his deal). Obviously i can't say more but we're getting closer in closer to having an answer and, i, for one, am hype. But god. GODD. I'm not saying anything i'm not saying anything i'm not goes back to yell in my hands that's fine i'm good i'm good i'm,

NOCTURNALITY IS SO GOOD and it does so mcuh to parallel Azuma and Tasuku. ALSO AZUMA THAT TASUKU SAID THAT ABOUT HIS HAIR. back to what i was saying, so far he's associating keeping his hair long with staying afloat, giving himself hope his brother might come back, and cutting it would hurt him right? i think this adds a layer even more so, that, by the hair being a promise that his brother might come back, keeping his hair long is also a promise that he will not always be alone, and that he will have people who'd come back to him. and Tasuku in his silly sleepy ramblings, gave him exactly that. I think in that moment it was a healthier way to move forward how Azuma felt about his hair than to cut it to try to move on: this way, indeed, hair is home, in the sense that someone cares about him enough that he cares about what Azuma would do with his hair. Fucking insane event i swear to god. THE "… THAT IDIOT" ADDLIB, TASUKU YOU KING. You're totally right i think this addlib changes everything and i'll have something very important to say about it a bit later, so, let's see you in a bit. and yess yo'ure totally correct about the thematic of the play and how they mirror each other and hjjjdgfhkdghf ReoKota my beloved. I can"t deal with it.

Okay so here, i have TWO things i need you to watch on top of everything. In case you didn't know so far, the SSR Backstage for the Lead Actor of the Play serves as an Epilogue to the play. It depends exactly play by play how it goes: the ones i'm familiar with for act 1 are only the summer ones and Nocturnality, but for instance, Sardine Search involves Kuro and Shiro accidentally finding themselves in the Mankai backyard and meeting Yuki and Kazunari. Sky's Pirate is the whole of summer talking together about what they would wish the sequel to Sky's Pirate would be, all of them adding a bit of their own flair to it.

Nocturnality's. is. SO important. You need to watch it. this is a threat. Here's the link. it's SO important you need to come back to me when you read it.

Also on another side i really want you to read Tasuku's N for this event because it's genuinely so funny. I love him so much. IT's one of my favorite backstage ever

Okay now back to the ask. Clockwork Heart is a fantastic play and event, i totally feel you there. It's one of my fav of this brunch too because it works so well at recontextualizing Tsuzuru and also Citron, and Mizuno is such a good chara to add to this whole bit. Nocturnality remains my personal fav because i'm soooooooooooo normal, but god.

Tbh like, i keep on insisting people read the events before jumping to act 2, and more often than not i've met a bit of…. resistance? kinda? because the events start out a bit slow. And it was for a reason too, since it was to let some times for the new players to catch up on the main story before dumping all sort of heavy things at them. But therefore i'd say that, while they're very good, i think it's possible to not find the first 3 events that captivating: like they explore the chara, sure, but it's not comparable to the feelings of the main story. Once you reach The Stranger though i think the events don't pull any punches anymore and all of them add so much to the way you read those chara. And frankly the whole bunch of the 3rd plays are so important imo, they give so much insight on everything i can't imagine skipping them. But i generally don't manage to argue that with people who tends to get bored after the first two events and jump to Act 2 and then they get confused while i'm just. no. come back.

So i'm genuinely glad you enjoyed the events and how much there is into them. they're so so good. And it's true that the thematic are similar in a sense, and i think it's a bit on purpose but i can't really adventure myself too much in details.

BUT YEAH. thank you for sharing your thoughts as always and thank you so much for making me relive this heartshattering experience. It was a blast <333

Take care and see you around :3c

#long post for ts #hands in the water. Nocturnality................. #thank you so much as usual for your messages #and thank you for reminding me just how much this event ruined me #ichareply #aranarumei #ichafantalks a3 #bro you wrote 3.1k words and i wrote 4.8k words we're so normal about Nocturnality in the chat today

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

RATS are NOT your friends at night while you're reading a scary book

#so if you didnt know. rats are nocturnal #so its 2am where i am rn. my room is pitch dark because i have my blinds shut #and im reading a scary book. lots of spooky creatures and body horror and haunted shit #and my rats. are knocking shit over and chewing on things and generally being menaces #or theyll go silent for a minute abd i think theyre chilling and then all of a sudden theyll drop a toy or something #and scare the shit out of me #they use their spooky little hands to climb on the bars of their cage. and they use their spooky little teeth to aggressively eat kibble #and i gave them new toys today. these edible foraging toys that they love #but that means my room is full of the sound of pulling on bars. or the clicking of a water bottle. or chewing. so muvh chewing #and im reading about this dead body come back to life. with like all of her bones broken. killing a guy in the most grotesque way #and its altogether a very bad experience #i was bored for the first 70ish pages but then it got really fucking good and im hooked. but its also terrifying #the rats have gone silent but now my dog is shifting in his kennel outside my room #both are terrifying. why are my rats silent. why is my dog moving. when will he move next #these animals are harassing me. whats next. my sibling's rabbit is going to break in? in roommate's cat will start scratching at the door? #if my landlord is reading this then ignore all of these tags. we only have a dog sir. no rodents or felines or whatever tf a rabbit is here #ah the rats are making sounds again. terrible horrifying sounds #i have to piss but im scared to get out of bed. i think i live here now. in bed. i cant leave #on a somewhat related note i really want to make deviled eggs rn but i have roommates that are trying to sleep #on one hand i miss living alone. on the other it makes me feel safer to have two other people here with me #even if the threat is only my imagination #and my mischievous critters

[slytherinslut0]

Mattheo Riddle. | We Are Done

Info: Mattheo calls things off during a nasty fight where you were only expressing your concern for his safety, putting an end to your months-long complicated fling. When he inevitably gets hurt and finds himself in the hospital wing as a result of his recklessness, you pay him a little visit, eager to get your revenge.

Word count: 5k

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Toxic Behaviours, Sadism, Masochism, Intense Bloodplay, Restraint, Dom!Reader, Sub!Mattheo, Begging, PIV, Sexual Punishment, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation.

A/N: went all the way to the depths of hell for this one☠️

The journey from the bustling opulence of the Great Hall to the clinical confines of the hospital wing unfolded like a protracted soul-search, nearly forty minutes of introspection that could have singlehandedly redefined the word regret.

A seething turmoil churned within, its intensity drawn solely from the arid kindling of memories involving your ex fling, Mattheo Riddle. Despite the passing week of newfound solitude, the inner maelstrom showed no fucking signs of abating.

The recollection of your fleeting intimate moments swarmed you, a ceaseless loop that played out in the theater of your mind--like an unresolved holodrama with seemingly no fucking end.

His imprint stained every fragment of your life; in the solitude of the shower, mental echoes followed the course of water, little rivers reminding you of the ones tracing intricate paths down his sculpted physique. Within the shared space of the common room, the mental tableau featured his fingers engaging in an intimate ballet, leaving the taste of his lips lingering in your mouth as they ever-so-dominantly stifled your lusty sounds.

And somehow, that wasn't even the worst of it. Oh, not even close. It was during the nocturnal realm that the memories unfolded their cruelest chapters.

In the shroud of night, it transcended beyond the mere visual replay of his figure dominating yours, or the sensory exploration of his hands traversing the curves of your body. It wasn't just the recollection of his teeth sinking into your neck that lingered. No, the intricacies of your mind wove a far, far more nuanced tapestry.

Nighttime summoned forth the vivid recollection of the encompassing warmth emanating from his broad chest, the haven discovered within the embrace of his strong arms, and the fragrant allure of his messy hair, intertwining with the visceral memories of each intimate encounter. His burning gaze that had seared into your consciousness was more than a mere look; it was an indelible mark, haunting the very core of your thoughts with the echoes of shared passion.

These were the nocturnal specters that besieged you behind closed lids, engaging in an unwelcome dance as you wrestled with the elusive embrace of sleep. These very memories, like a relentless blacksmith, stoked the inferno within, leaving behind the most acrid, bitter residue on your tongue--a taste of anguish and betrayal.

The haunting question echoed through the corridors of your thoughts: why had he subjected you to this intimate claiming, an emotional prison woven with shared intensity, only to abruptly extinguish it with the cold finality of three, sad little words.

"We are done."

And thus, even after the amount of passing time, all it took was a single sideways glance exchanged between Pansy and Draco during their spirited debate over impending assignments to inspire the catalyst for your abrupt departure. With a forceful clatter, you slammed down your fork and pushed up from the table, commencing a determined march into the unknown.

Their speculative gazes undoubtedly trailed your abrupt exit, but you paid no heed. The entire school was privy to the fact that you and Mattheo were done, seemingly officially this time--terminated by a colossal spat prior to one of his ludicrous nighttime escapades in the forbidden forest. Mattheo's hospitalization, a testament to the recklessness that marked him and his band of fools, left him nursing scratches, cuts, bruises, and a sizable gash on his lower abdomen.

Pansy's calls faded into the periphery as you strode away, your indifference resonating louder than any response could convey. The world around you blurred into inconsequential background noise, drowned out by the burgeoning tangle of spite that commandeered your thoughts. Initially relegated to the forefront, this resentment had now metastasized, occupying every crevice of your headspace.

The recollection of his outburst haunted you, a violent reaction triggered by your attempt to dissuade him from venturing into the forbidden forest. Advising caution, you found yourself confronted with accusations of control and a stifling of his fucking freedom. Hurtful words cascaded from his lips during that argument, culminating before he recklessly endangered himself in the perilous forest. All the moments of vulnerability you shared with him, surrendering yourself without reservation, only to be met with his callousness when you were simply trying to safeguard him.

And as the embers of revenge blazed within, so did the deafening roar for closure. The need to settle the score and the yearning for resolution thrived in the wake of an emotional maelstrom.

‘We are done’ felt insufficient—it couldn't conclude there. You wouldn't fucking allow it.

Approaching the hospital wing doors, a surprising fortitude replaced any expectation of your confidence wilting under the imposing pressure. Strangely, a heightened anger welled within you, as though Mattheo Riddle were the sun, each step forward intensifying the scorching heat enveloping you. With a decisive gesture, you flung the door open, your breath held in suspense as your eyes canvassed the beds. Yet, he remained conspicuously absent, amplifying the frenetic flutter in your heart into an unrestrained whirlwind.

"Miss? May I help you with something?"

You pivoted sharply, eyes ablaze, as if embers sparked from your gaze. "Mr. Riddle. Mattheo. Where is he?"

The nurse swallowed, brows furrowed in confusion, but she cautiously gestured toward the hall, taking a step forward. "We moved him into a private room yesterday. His father requested it. Third door to the left."

Your eyes rolled involuntarily as you turned away,  a silent commentary on the absurdity before you. Suppressing the impulse to scoff required a fucking Herculean effort--of course, his father would demand a private room for him. The bloody entitlement was as predictable as Mattheo's suffocating arrogance.

As your determined march neared its end, you found yourself standing before the designated door, caught in a tumult of fear and fury. Fingers trembled, folding in waves in a futile attempt to expel the excess energy coursing through your veins. This ritual had proved futile throughout the previous week, and it yielded no different results now. A frustrated exhale escaped through your nose as you charged through the doorway, propelled by a relentless surge of emotion.

Mattheo Riddle's vulnerability exceeded all expectations as he lay in his opulent private chamber. Shirtless, his body displayed a cruel artwork of black and blue hues, stretching beyond the healing gash on his abdomen. A chaotic tapestry of scratches adorned his shoulders, arms, neck, and the once flawless canvas of his face, now disrupted by a thin, blistering line over the bridge of his nose. A swallow lodged in your throat as you beheld him, a striking portrait of agony that rendered him almost unrecognizable.

"Why the hell are you here?" He stared at you, expression vacant. "Can't you comprehend simple instructions?"

With a cool, unwavering gaze, you shot back, "And miss the chance to witness your glorious downfall? Not a fucking chance, Riddle."

Mattheo clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply as he adjusted against the sheets. "You're insufferable."

You sneered, advancing with measured steps. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."

Advancing, you scrutinized his form, taking in the mosaic of fresh scars that adorned his skin. Arriving at the bedside, your gaze drifted downward, noting that beneath his waist, he was clad only in boxers. A scant, white sheet was the sole guardian of whatever remained of his dignity.

Mattheo's snarl reverberated in the room. "If you're here to extend your fucking pity, please, spare me."

A sharp retort escaped your lips, your eyes dancing with a hint of amusement. "Oh, I'm not offering pity...though you do present quite the pitiable fucking sight, I'll give you that."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" Mattheo's voice carried an edge, his eyes narrowing with impatience. “I told you, we are done.”

A pregnant pause filled the room as you let his question linger, a mental reel replaying the relentless week of torment he had unleashed upon you. Your gaze lingered on his tousled chocolate curls and once-enticing plush lips, forcing yourself to traverse the memories of months marked by a tumultuous dance between pain and pleasure. The realization hit like a sledgehammer--all those moments, the highs and lows, seemed to have led to an abyss of pure fucking nothingness.

A furrow etched your brow as you looked down at him. "It's unbelievable that I let myself get ensnared into feeling something for you."

"Your feelings were your own choice," he quipped, his head falling back with an air of indifference, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Don't blame me for your poor judgment."

Your frown etched deeper lines on your face, the surge of anger unmistakable. "Regardless, you still manipulated me like a fucking puppet."

"Amusing how complaints disappeared when you were screaming for more every damn night," he retorted, lids fluttering with evident irritation. "Your anger's just a cover for the fact that you'll have to find a new playmate now...have fun chasing those highs, princess, but I promise you'll only end up disappointed."

Your jaw dropped in disbelief, gaze narrowing into a potent mix of anger and hurt. "You're a real fucking prick, you know that?"

Mattheo regarded you with eyes that seemed to hold nothing but emptiness. His silent response coaxed your hands to curl into tight fists, and your chin to tremble with the pressure of boiling blood. You hadn't come here for him to treat you like a mere specter, to act as if you were invisible, as if you were nothing--something you knew you had never been. And still weren't.

"Answer me," you hissed, your voice shaking with a blend of frustration and desperation.

He remained silent, his gaze an unyielding anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions. The void in his pupils became increasingly maddening, an inscrutable abyss that left you grappling with the uncertainty of what the fuck he was even thinking right now.

"Answer me, Riddle." Your demand sliced through the air, a fervent plea for any sign of acknowledgment.

But he remained stubbornly mute.

Your chest surged with frustration, the world momentarily blurring in your escalating anger. "Say something, damn it!"

It was only when the sting of his skin met the back of your hand, and red streaks of blood marked your knuckles, that you realized you had slapped him, reopening the scab on his cheek. Yet, that wasn't the shocking part--though it certainly played a role--what truly stunned you was the quiet, wanton moan that escaped Mattheo's lips, his lids fluttering while his body tensed against the bed. In awe, you gulped.

And then, a peculiar, wicked force stirred within, a voracious entity feeding on the months of torment he had subjected you to. Something that hungered for more.

So, succumbing to its dark allure, you withdrew your hand and unleashed another sharp, resounding slap across his cheek. Blood painted his face, and Mattheo groaned, fingers clutching at the sheets as his hips thrust into the air, his arousal blatantly revealed beneath the fabric. Spellbound, you observed as he collapsed back onto the mattress, his eyes fluttering open, holding a gaze that teetered between vulnerability and desperation.

Between the conflicted expression in his eyes and the pulsating bulge between his legs, the sinister impulse within you deepened, intertwining with a more primal sensation. One unmistakably identified as pure, unbridled lust.

"You fucking like that, don't you?" You breathed, your lips twisting into a sadistic grin.

"Are you trying to hurt me, princess?" Mattheo's intense gaze focused on you, alternating between his increasing arousal and your exasperated expressions. "You'll have to put in more fucking effort than that..."

"Hm." You hummed, grin widening. "If you insist."

You locked on to Mattheo's gaze, feeling empowered by the way his normally stoic expression was now clouded with a burning need. With a coy smile, you swung your knee onto the hospital bed, letting your skirt ride up around your hips and exposing your panties. His brown eyes lingered between your legs, and you could feel the heat of his gaze against your skin as you climbed over him, straddling his strong thighs. He tensed as his eager cock twitched beneath you, silently begging for more.

The power dynamic between you had shifted so drastically in this moment. Mattheo Riddle, famed for his cunning and ruthlessness, was now completely at your fucking mercy. It was an intoxicating feeling, knowing that you had the power to make him feel truly vulnerable.

"So weak," you spat, a wicked grin spreading across your face as you dipped your hips just enough to skim the head of his cock. The sight of his full-body convulsion was mesmerizing, and the shaky breath that left his lips told you everything you needed to know.

You could tell he was still in pain, but there was something else there too--desperation.

"Poor boy," you murmured, running your fingers down the curves of your own figure, taking pleasure in the sensation of your own heat as you slipped your hand between your thighs, caressing yourself. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

Mattheo's eyes fluttered closed, his mouth falling open in a low groan. It was clear he was entranced by the sight of you touching yourself, and the way your words dripped with sinful seduction only added to his lust.

"Yes," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "This is what I want."

"Look at you...so fucking needy..." you clucked your tongue and chuckled, extending out your free hand and running it along the wounded flesh of his chest, digging in with a little more force than you'd intended, judging by the groan that left his lips and the blood that split through the scab. "You're such a pathetic mess, Matty...it's almost too easy to control you like this..."

"Go to hell." His jaw tightened, a vein throbbing in his temple as he recognized the truth in your words. "You don't control fuck all."

"Oh, is that right?" you snarled, leaning forward and pushing your hands into his stomach, pressing down on his wound with added force, now. His face twisted in pain, and he let out a strained grunt. "How about now?"

Your heart was thundering with adrenaline, and while you had undoubtedly expected him to be furious at you for causing him harm, as he met your gaze, you saw something else entirely. There was a desperate need in his eyes, a yearning for more of the pain and pleasure that only you could provide. His lips were parted, his breaths coming in short gasps as he struggled to contain the sensations coursing through him. Despite the pain, there was a sense of longing that tugged at your heartstrings, filling you with a powerful desire for more of this intoxicating mixture.

"More," he whispered, his voice low and husky with need, barely above a breath. "Do it again."

"Oh, I don't fucking think so..." you sneered, your cunt clenching involuntarily at his request. But you were determined to make this man suffer. To humiliate him just as bad as he'd humiliated you, time and time again. "If you want something, you’ll have to ask for it nicely…I want to hear you beg for me."

Mattheo grunted again, bucking his hips, trying to grind back despite the pain of his injuries. Finding that impossible, his hands went to your waist, gliding up and down your thighs as he attempted to move you faster along his member, craning his head forward to get a better view. You scowled and smacked him away.

"I don't recall extending an invitation for your touch," you asserted, a glacial edge to your voice. "Why would I want your hands on me? After everything you've fucking done?"

His fingers balled into fists, exhaling when his head fell back against the pillow. You could feel him aching below you, already entirely fucking anxious to get inside of you. But then, he was still, hungry eyes trained on yours as he waited for your prompt.

"That's better," you purred, and found the next words coming out before you'd even thought them. "Good boy."

Your hips moved sinuously against his, a deliberate motion that left him breathless, his fists tensing against the desire to seize hold of your flesh. The surge of power was intoxicating, a heady blend with the fervor of your overwhelming desire and simmering rage. More than ever, your yearning for him to suffer consumed you. With a wicked grin, you lifted your hand to your lips, sensually running your tongue along the length of your crimson-stained fingers, sucking off the remnants of his blood. The sharp note of copper lit up your palate, sending a delightful shiver through your being.

"Mmm...you taste so good." You met his gaze between the long licks of your digits, his taste coating your mouth. "Wanna try?"

Mattheo remained silent, his gaze tracing the movement of your tongue as he moistened his lower lip. You enveloped one of your fingers with your lips, emitting a soft hum as you sensually cleaned it, gliding it in and out with deliberate slowness. Finally, you withdrew it with a wet pop, eyes rolling in dramatic effect.

Mattheo's jaw constricted, the sinews in his forearms taut from the tension in his fists. "Please..."

But you, unfazed, dipped your fingers back into the trail of blood leaking from his gash, adorning your skin with a bold red hue before returning them to your mouth.

"Mm, not good enough, I’m afraid..." you murmured, eyes twinkling with sadistic satisfaction. "You'll have to do much better than that, big boy..."

A growl echoed in Mattheo's throat while he gripped your thighs, pushing you down onto his swollen cock. His own hips thrust up against you, seeking any friction, any pressure at all from your heat. Frowning, you slapped his hand--and to your amazement, he pulled back, averting his gaze.

"These hands of yours are growing quite fucking insolent," you observed with a sly smile. "It's high time we addressed their rude misbehaviour."

A sinister grin etched across your lips as you shifted, smoothly extracting your wand from its thigh strap. With a deft flick, you summoned restraints, securing Mattheo's wrists to the metal headboard. His lips parted, eyes smouldering with desire, pulsating beneath you as the tightness closed around his wrists. Once finished, another few flicks ensured the door was locked, and the room was cloaked in a silencing charm.

"Much better," you said, tossing your wand aside. The gleam in your eye was almost maniacal as you reveled in the exquisite agony you were causing him, feeling a sense of power and control that you had never experienced before. "How's that feel, hm? Ready to utter those pleas for me, Riddle?"

"You're going to regret this, little witch..."  he spat out through gritted teeth, his gaze locked onto yours. "Nothing you could do to me is worse than the fate that awaits you when I get out of here…your days are fucking numbered."

Involuntarily, you clenched at his threat, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you dipped your fingers back into the pool of blood emanating from his wound--and with a decisive move, you seized his jaw with your free hand, thrusting your bloodied fingers past his teeth before he could voice a protest.

"Now isn't the time for your futile threats, Mattheo," you husked, tilting your head. Your fingers pushed forcefully into his throat, emphasizing your point. "Look how fucking pathetic you are...if only your friends could see you now...big tough guy, bound and gagged by his own bitch…it’s beautiful, really."

Abruptly, you withdrew your fingers, leaning back to assess your handiwork. His wrists were securely bound, a vivid red imprint gracing his skin, while his mouth shimmered with the subtle traces of his own blood. It was a tableau of perfection--humiliating yet exquisitely so. The image of him squirming against the taut restraints, his chest rising and falling with each desperate breath, compelled your hand between your legs. Sliding up your skirt, you explored through the delicate lace of your panties, skimming eagerly over your clit.

"Fuck," you murmured, glimpsing his mouth, “you look perfect like this."

This was retribution, and as you teased yourself while admiring the pathetic sight of him, thoughts buzzed with the torment he'd inflicted--the scalding intensity of his erratic behavior, the icy indifference he wielded, treating you with disdain, unfounded accusations of infidelity, and the frigid distance he maintained. The searing resentment flared as you recollected the havoc he'd wreaked upon your life.

It was months of emotional manipulation. A pattern that was impossible to acclimate to. His cycle of hot and cold, the relentless mistreatment, the baseless accusations, and the moments of aloofness, all preceding his inevitable return, pleading for your affection--this was the culmination of his deeds. More than anything, this was the reckoning he deserved.

"Come on, princess..." he muttered, eyes wide and pleading. "For Godrics sake, please...fucking please..."

A grin creeped across your lips, your heart leaping with excitement. You'd finally fucking broke him.

"There we go, Matty...that wasn't so hard, was it?" You purred, inching backwards along the length of his thighs, reaching out to pull the cover from his waist in an excruciatingly slow fashion, exposing his black briefs. "I love hearing you beg for me...you're being such a good boy..."

Mattheo's response came in the form of an exaggerated huff, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently pleading for your touch to alleviate the burning desire between his legs. Your grin expanded, reveling in the palpable tension.

"You want me to fuck you, Matty? Do you think you fucking deserve that?" You cooed as you caressed his erection through the fabric, glaring at him while he jerked and shook from your touch. It was incredible, watching him trying to thrust into your fist, whimpering, head lolling while you sped your ministrations. "Do you think you fucking deserve me?"

His groan reverberated, his body twitching beneath the firm clasp of your fingers. His lids fluttered, and his head arched back in a nearly imperceptible shake of denial.

"You never fucking deserved me, did you?" Your frustration at his silence echoed in the air as you delivered a sharp crack across his face, prompting a gasp from him. "Fucking answer me, Mattheo!"

"No!" he finally hissed, his knuckles whitening as his entire frame tensed. "Fuck! No! I didn’t…”

"That's right, you didn't…” you laughed, shaking your head. The sinful delight coursing through you at his torment was undeniable. "At least you can finally fucking admit it...a tiny step towards what might pass as progress, I suppose."

As Mattheo huffed, not daring to meet your eyes, you sighed, finally feeling as though some of your anger had dissipated. Not by much, but by enough. Granting him the smallest percentage of mercy, you wrapped your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, freeing his needy, throbbing cock--the length of his smooth heat springing back and slapping against his belly, a low groan leaving the depths of his throat as it did.

You clenched at the sight, the pool of heat in your abdomen expanding throughout your entire body now, your mouth practically watering at the mere vision of him. Just when you thought this whole thing couldn't get anymore perfect. Gods, he was undeniably fucking delicious.

"Tell me what you want, Mattheo..." you said, wrapping your fingers around his cock, slicking the bead of precum around the head, twisting your wrist as you stroked him. "Tell me what you need."

His eyelids pressed together in bliss as he panted, the rhythmic movement of his throat visible with each swallow. In the throes of pleasure, he surrendered himself to the intensity of your touch, the heat enveloping him in a cocoon of sensation.

"You..." was his only reply, head snapping back and forth, thighs tensing, cock twitching. "Please-fuck-"

"You like that?" you purred, biting your lip. "You like when I jerk your cock like this? Hm?"

Mattheo's jaw was slack with desire, his voice laced with breathy need, "yes..."

"Yeah?" You purred, tightening your grip, increasing your pace as you stroked him, leaning down slightly to spit on the tip, slicking your saliva along his shaft. "Who else could make you beg, huh? Who the fuck else can make you this fucking hard?"

"Fuck-" he choked, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, you could tell he was close. "No one-princess-fucking no one..."

"Mhm...that's fucking right, Riddle..." smiling, you threw your head back, your other hand resuming its motion on your clit, teasing yourself as you continued stroking him. "You know you can't fucking live without this...I don't know why you have to make things so goddamn complicated..."

"Fuck," he hissed, sputtering your name, "please, fuck me, please. I fucking need you."

"Shit...you're just spoiling me now," you mewled, your pussy clenching undoubtedly at his words. "Such a good boy...so eager to please me, hm?"

Mattheo released a long, exasperated sigh as you released him, shifting yourself closer. With a swift motion, you shimmied your panties to the side before you aligned his cock with your dripping core--the moan that escaped your throat was deep and lengthy as you sank onto him, feeling every inch of his hard, aching cock stretching you wide, filling you up with ease. Mattheo's body lifted from the bed in response, a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream escaping his chest as you enveloped him to the hilt. Leaning forward, you placed your palms on his stomach, shifting your weight to the heels of your hands as you began to slide up and down his shaft.

"Fuck," you breathed, lids fluttering. "I missed this cock...shit, you feel so good..."

Mattheo's only response was a string of shameless, guttural moans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he surrendered to the potent mix of pleasure and pain. His body writhed beneath yours, his abdominals tightening in response to your movements. You panted heavily, bouncing up and down on his cock, taking pleasure in every inch of him slamming deep into your wet, eager pussy.

With each movement, you drove Mattheo wild with desire, listening to his moans grow louder and more intense with each passing moment.

Having control was entirely different--you were able to drag him into you, squeeze him tight with your walls while you slowed your pace, slam down onto him and make him howl. You watched him struggle below you, realizing he was trapped at his peak--and you were happy about it. This. This was close to what he deserved.

"I fucking hate you," you growled, the depth of your emotion evident in every word. "You embedded yourself into every part of my life and now you want to just fucking end things? Just go back to being fucking strangers? Over nothing?" Your voice cracked, the words flowing from your lips without restraint as you continued to ride him, hips moving in an untamed rhythm. "Why do you always fucking do this to me? Fuck-why?..."

Between his deep groans, his shuddering gasps as his wrists fighting their resistance, he managed to shake his head, his noises only growing louder the harder your rode him.

"I...I'm..." the words were forced through barred teeth, his eyes pleading for mercy. "I'm fucking sorry."

"Are you mine, Mattheo?" Your voice was strained with exertion, sweat growing on your forehead. "Were you ever fucking mine? Or was it all just a big game to you?"

"No,” he stammered, almost wincing. "No!"

Unable to resist the intense sensations coursing through you any longer, you brought your fingers back to your clit, setting a frenzied pace as you massaged the stiff nub with the pads of your fingers. You could feel Mattheo pulsing inside you, could feel his overly urgent need to cum, but right now, all that mattered was your own pleasure. As you worked yourself toward climax, your breaths grew ragged, soft moans escaping your lips as your body responded to your own touch. The pressure inside of you was building with each passing moment, urgent and insistent, and you knew that you wouldn't be able to hold off for much longer.

"Say it," you panted, eyes rolling and body trembling as you slammed down on him again and again. "Tell me who you fucking belong to."

"Fuck-fuck..." he grunted, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Please, princess...you keep squeezing me like that and I'm going to fucking cum-"

"If you want to cum, you'll fucking say it, Mattheo-" you practically moaned, entire body quivering with excitement. "Fuck-say it..."

A string of whimpers slipped past Mattheo's lips, his fists balled so tight it looked almost painful. "Fuck--you! I'm yours, fuck..."

Every word leaving you was a curse, and between every word was a strangled moan, resonating through your throat as you worked your clit fasting, fucking yourself on his cock harder.

"Gods, Matty, I'm going to cum," you moaned. "I'm going to cum on this thick fucking cock-fuck..."

Without being able to hold off any longer, you shattered, your hips jerking and twitching in an erratic rhythm, free hand digging into the flesh of his chest as you clenched and pulsed around him, forcing another onslaught of pleasured whimpers to leave his throat before he too reached his high--the tight heat of your orgasm sending him over the edge, twitching and thrashing beneath you as you continued riding him through your collective highs, not beginning to slow until the aftershocks began to rumble through you.

And after you stalled, you allowed yourself a moment to regain composure before you wearily eased yourself off him, releasing a prolonged breath--with a cautious movement, you reached over and gathered a sampling of your intertwined cum on the pads of your fingers, briskly bringing them up to his lips.

"Taste what I did to you," you murmured with a smirk, relishing in his groan against your flesh. Methodically, you glided your fingers against his bottom teeth, leisurely pulling them from his mouth. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

His breaths lingered in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of his silence, his eyes seemingly unable to leave your form. With deliberate movements, you leaned over, deftly undoing the restraints that bound him. As you meticulously adjusted your appearance back to its usual state, a mask of calm control, your gaze shifted towards the door, a calculated glance.

"May your recovery be swift, Riddle," you uttered with a tone that held a hint of farewell. "Until next time."

#mattheosmut #mattheoriddle #mattheo smut #mattheo x y/n #marcus lopez smut #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #draco malfoy smut #riddlesmut #theo riddle #riddle smut #theo nott smut #tomriddle x reader #tomriddle smut #tomriddlesmut #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle smut #tom riddle #theoriddlesmut #theodorenottsmut #theodore smut #theo nott x reader #theodore nott smut #theodore nott x reader #draco smut #severus snape #severus smut #draco malfoy #severus snape smut #lucius smut

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 8)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

-

Now a nocturnal animal emerges into the daylight hours.

A week becomes two and your shoulders untense. It’s not something you notice at first because you’re used to an ever present strain between your shoulder blades and an ache in your jaw from grinding your teeth at night. Then a fortnight goes by without so much as a missive with your name on it floating across John’s desk or a stranger appearing in town after tracking you down, and you wonder if maybe the world really is big enough to hide in. 

It sure feels that way at times. The woods beyond the bounds of John’s property stretch out farther than the eye can see and even walking it feels like you could disappear into another realm. Old spruces shoot up high into the clouds, and deeper into the woods, huge rock formations grow more and more prominent as you near the mountains. John takes you through the woods on horseback, following the rough trails carved into the dirt by a century of wagons and carts using the same path. The footprints of a different time. 

Up in the trees, birds warble and chirp, talking to one another in songs that you’ve never heard before. A woodpecker drills into the side of a tree. Pinecones snap out of the upper branches and drop to the forest floor. 

There is only a single trail and it’s easy to lose. You grow a bit nervous when John takes you off the trail and deeper into the woods, but he does so with the confidence of a man that knows these woods like the back of his hand. You go quiet when he stops Buttercup to let a herd of deer wander by, the stragglers hurrying to catch up with the group, throwing the two of you nervous glances before they disappear into the thicket. 

“Should we be out this far?” you ask in a whisper, reluctant to disturb the silence. Though the woods are full of animals that bleat, chirp, chatter, and hoot, the sound of your own voice feels preternaturally loud and shrill. 

“We won’t get lost, darlin’. I know my way around,” John reassures you, curling an arm around your waist to hold you to him. These days, you hardly worry about tumbling off the horse. Not with him at your back anyway. 

“That wasn’t really my worry,” you mumble, trailing off.

“Then what’re you getting all worked up about?”

“Aren’t there wolves out here? Or bears?”

He snorts, the sound making you jolt. You don’t topple over because he has such a firm hold around your waist. “They don’t usually come this close to town. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That sounds like something mothers tell their children to stop them crying,” you say flatly. You draw your legs up automatically when John directs Buttercup through a shallow basin, a shortcut back home. It makes you anxious for a moment, but the water barely goes up to her ankles, so you relax when you realize that you’re in no danger of being swept away by the current.

“That doesn’t mean a bear or wolf can’t wander by, but it’s rare.”

“And there it is.”

You can feel the heat of his glower on the back of your head. “We could spend the night out here if you want to see for yourself.”

At that, you shut your mouth. Even if he were to prove his point, you have no interest in camping out in the woods now that you’ve become accustomed to the luxury of a soft bed. Granted that you’re forced to share that same bed, still you’ve never slept half as well as you do these days. You wake up rested after nine hours of blissful shut eye, a sleep so deep that your dreams only come in half-remembered flashes. Often they involve the man you wake up wrapped around, and for that you’re grateful that they remain submerged. 

A new desire has started to burrow its way into the back of your mind in recent days. It starts out as a thought so brief that you hardly notice it before it skitters away. 

And then it lingers. 

You wake up in the middle of the night hot, sweat dripping down the nape of your neck and a fire burning in your loins, a red-hot coil wound around itself, fit to burst. Pulsating. At some point throughout the night, you must have thrown a leg around John’s waist because it rests there now, your hand planted in the middle of his chest and your sex all but rubbing up against his thigh. Under your hand, you can feel his heart pump strong and steady.

You hold very, very still, waiting for him to wake. But John sleeps on, his palm loose where it rests along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the flesh of your backside. 

You can hardly look at him these days without shaking. You’ve come to fixate on the sway of his hips when he walks and the flecks of silver in his beard. The grooves in his weathered hands. The way your head fits in the palm of his hand when he cradles it to his chest. The fond glimmer in his eyes that shines the brightest when he puts his hat on your head and it slips past your eyes, too big for your head. 

When you tip it up in order to see, the folds around his eyes become more pronounced with the force of his smile.

“There you are, bug,” he says, taking the hat off your head to set it back on his and reeling you in for a kiss. 

Bug, love, honey, darling. The constant flux of endearments makes your head spin. John never calls you by the name on your marriage license. It’s like that name means nothing to him, cast away at the first opportunity and replaced by an endless stream of pet names.  

He hasn’t touched your sex since making you come on the porch swing the week before. He pulls you into a chaste embrace at night, the only evidence of his own desire being the stiff shaft nestled against the small of your back in the early morning hours, which he takes care of on his own in the bathroom downstairs after pressing a kiss to your cheek. You feel robbed of something, though you don’t know quite what. 

You’re tempted to offer your help, but you don’t know exactly what that would entail. Inexperience and fear of rejection hold you back, stay your tongue. In the two weeks you’ve been married, he hasn’t once tried to pin you down and rut between your thighs like you expected and dreaded that very first night. 

Now that that time has passed, you don’t know how to initiate that moment again. 

John promises to teach you how to ride a horse. You can’t see a reason to protest, much to your chagrin. Despite your apprehensions, even you can’t deny that it would be a helpful skill. A train only goes one way after all, confined to a single track. A horse has no such laws to obey.

The thought stays nestled at the back of your mind as the days continue on.

You flounder around in the kitchen on the day that John invites his deputies over for supper. You’ve met the big one—Simon—now a small handful of times, each encounter marked by a silence that sucks the air out of the room when he turns his gaze on you and holds it. Perhaps you’ve simply ascribed too much importance to his person, given that every time you’ve seen him, your life has changed irrevocably. His presence is always followed by revelation it seems. The archangel of vicissitude. A harbinger of uncertain times.

The other two are new. John introduces you to them when you bring out the cutlery and crockery to set the table, and you nearly go cross-eyed when they reach across the table at the same time to offer their hands. You go to meet them halfway, but flinch when John brings his hand down on the table with enough force to make the silverware jump.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he apologizes to you first before turning his glare on the other two. “That ain’t proper, boys. You wait for the lady to offer her hand first—you don’t treat a woman like she’s a mutt you’re teaching to shake.”

“Ah, sorry, hen,” the one on the left says, his voice a thick Scottish brogue like a purr. He’s possibly the handsomest man you’ve ever met, but there’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes. When he smiles, it curls up in a roguish sort of way that makes you falter, like he’s in on a joke that you aren’t. “Dinnae mean to offend. No’ often we get ta meet such a pretty lady.” 

“Sorry—” the one on the right apologizes in a voice far more earnest than his counterpart’s. “And sorry for him. We think he was raised by wolves.”

“What’s yer excuse then?” the Scot sneers, knocking his knee into the other man’s under the table. “Dinnae see ye waitin’ for her fuckin’ hand like a gentleman—apologies, hen.”

“Christ,” John sighs, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. 

Simon stays silent at the other end of the table, but the whole table jumps when he aims a kick at the Scott’s leg. He hisses and blurts out a word in a language you’ve never heard before, the word unmistakably vitriolic. He clutches at his shin and shoots a nasty look at Simon, though he doesn’t make a move to retaliate. 

“Name’s Kyle. Kyle Garrick,” the other introduces himself, and you finally reach across the table to offer your hand. His hand is warm against yours when he takes it, dark skin burnished in the candlelight. There’s something inviting about him; something about his eyes, so dark that you almost fall into them. Thick lips curl up into a smile. “And this here is Soap.”

You frown. “Soap?”

The man in question runs a hand down his front, emphasizing the cut of his shirt and the way it clings to the muscle of his chest. “‘Cause of how well I clean up.”

Simon barks out a laugh at that. The sound comes so sudden and sharp that it startles you. “You got it ‘cause your mum had to wash out your mouth with soap.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him and you can only stare wide-eyed at the lot of them as they dissolve into bickering and squabbling after that. It’s almost a relief to head back into the kitchen to finish cooking. 

Dinner is a similar messy affair, punctuated by the sound of Soap practically gnawing the meat off the bone. He only apologizes when John barks at him for making a mess, more food on the floor around him than on his plate, but his table manners don’t last very long. John doesn’t seem so much embarrassed on their behalf as annoyed, but it’s an annoyance that comes with an aftertaste of warmth. You can tell without asking that they’ve known each other for years. 

There’s room enough in you for food and envy. Back home you had friends. Never close friends, but acquaintances at least. Maids you could recognize by face. Small talk while ascending single-file up the servants’ staircase. Perhaps little more than that. You’d never been particularly close to any of them, but how could you? You worked from morning ‘till night, up and down the stairs, moving in the shadows. Never making too much noise lest your employers take notice of you. 

Like he did.

You shake it off. That’s no matter now. You’re hundreds of miles away and living under a new name. A married woman, to the county sheriff no less. It only sometimes hurts your heart to think of how lonely you’d been. 

When they leave, you stand at the window and watch as they disappear into the black of the night, Simon at the front of the pack, his torchlight leading the way. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt recedes the farther they get. 

His hands warm your shoulders. You don’t know how long he’s been there, standing behind you while you stared out the window after the boys. All you know is that his hands are warm, and the kiss he presses to the back of your head makes you arch back into him, unconsciously gravitating closer to him. Needing to be near. 

In bed, you curl your fingers against his chest. On a rough exhale, you wake. You dream still of something terrible that happens somewhere else, in another city, in an old life. His heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

John takes you to the local seamstress to have you fitted for a pair of pants and suddenly you’re out of excuses. They fit you comfortably, like a second skin, and you find yourself pulling at the legs at your final fitting as if to stretch out the material. The seamstress nearly jabs you with a pin and glares up at you until you stop fidgeting. 

You come to terms with it when he brings you into the stables and makes you fetch the saddle from where it rests on its stand. It’s heavier than you expected. You stumble back over to where John now has Buttercup standing in the middle of the stable, holding her by the lead fixed to her bridle. 

“I don’t know if—” you start, trepidation climbing up your chest until it grips you by the throat. For as many times as you’ve ridden her, you’ve never done it alone. 

John fixes her lead to a post and walks over to you, taking the saddle from your hands and letting it drop to the ground. He cups your face in both hands to tilt your head up. “Hey, honey. We’re not doing much of anything today, alright? Just a walk around the paddock so you get used to sitting on Buttercup on your own. I’m not gonna smack her ass and send you down the trail at full tilt..”

That gets a laugh out of you. “You promise?”

He smiles. “Promise, darlin’.”

And he keeps it. The only thing you do that day is learn how to tack a horse and how to properly mount and dismount her. The latter part of the lesson is devoted to you trying to find your balance while John leads the two of you around the pen at a leisurely pace. He calms you down when he sees you grow too stiff, stopping to coo and rub your thigh until you gradually relax. It’s heartwarming until Buttercup begins to tense up too for a reason unbeknownst to you and you watch in righteous fury as John calms her down the same way.

John gets you a hat to keep the sun from beating down on you, but there’s little he can do about the soreness between your thighs and the stiffness in your legs the next day. All you can do is hiss and moan in pain, hobbling around the house until he forces you down into a chair and hikes up your dress in order to apply an arnica salve to your inner thighs. 

It’s a relief and an affront at the same time. The duality of man. The salve soothes much of the ache, but you twitch nervously around John for the rest of the day, the memory of him pinning you to the chair and forcibly spreading your thighs haunting you. The lingering ache in your core is just the salt in the wound. 

It rains another day. A light drizzle while the sun is still out.

Every day you sit and you think, will it be today? And then the wash basins are emptied out in the field, the horses are taken out to the paddock, you pin the laundry up on the line to dry, and John presses a farewell kiss to your forehead when he leaves you with Kate and nothing happens. Every inch of you waits for more, anticipates more. Throbs when he leaves you wanting, only a chaste kiss and a squeeze around your waist before he’s off. 

You can feel it coming to a head. An itch you can’t shake. 

That day comes with another ache you can’t shake. 

“Please,” you beg, clasping your hands in front of you. “One day of rest. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t do this anymore, John.”

John snaps the lead in his hands. “Let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

You hang your head low on the march over to the stables, John taking up the rear like he expects you to bolt. An executioner’s walk. The thought of escape has never seemed further away—not even because of its feasibility, but because all you want to do is lie down and rest.

“You can quit your moping,” he says as you tack up Buttercup, a pout on your lips. “Got something special for you today.”

That makes you perk up, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t specify what that is. Anticipation mounts in you when he helps you up onto Buttercup and then climbs up behind you himself. He steers her away from the paddock and towards the trail leading into the woods, the sun at its zenith now, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see.

You’ve ridden this trail before. A week ago, with John at your back as he is now. Through the fields and over the hills until the trees start to number in the tens and then the hundreds, no clear delineation between plain and forest. Simply there and then everywhere.

By now, after hours of sun beating down on the path, the trail is mostly dry, yesterday’s rain long since having sunk into the earth. You think it’d still be a tough hike on foot, but on horseback you cover acres of land at a brisk pace, Buttercup hardly breaking a sweat. You cross paths with a small group traveling by horse and wagon, but John breaks off from the path not too long after that, steering Buttercup deeper into the wilderness, where the only gullies are the ones carved out by years and years of rainfall. 

You only see it when the land begins to dip and you’re forced to hold onto the horn and tighten your thighs around the fenders to keep steady. At the bottom of a hill, a small stream opens up into a larger river, narrowing out at the other end where the land rises again and the water can only trickle over the pebbly riverbed. On the other side, a rocky outcropping cuts the stream off from view.

“Is this where you used to come to bathe?” you ask, recalling an earlier conversation.

John sighs. “Thought I’d take you for a swim as a treat, but if you’d rather just tease me—”

“Well now, let’s not be hasty,” you say, already trying to dismount on your own, eyes glued on the stream glimmering in the sunlight. John chuckles, keeping you pressed to him until he guides Buttercup under a tree for shade and dismounts first, helping you down after him. 

All you want to do is wade in the stream up to your ankles, so that’s what you do. Boots kicked off, Buttercup relaxing in the shade of a tree, John standing by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and watching you tiptoe over the smooth rocks below. You roll up your pant legs, but eventually you feel the ends grow damp as you venture farther out. At its deepest, you would probably sink up to your waist.

“Don’t you want to swim?” John asks from somewhere behind you.

You splash around a bit, kicking your feet through the water. “Hard to do that with clothes—”

When you turn back around to face him, your eyes dart down momentarily at the sight of skin before you squeak and whirl back around, sending up an arc of water. Twice now you’ve seen him naked. 

“You’ve no clothes on,” you state, bluntly enough that it almost sounds stupid. 

You hear the water splash and ripple when he takes his first step in. “Right—you better think about doing the same if you don’t want to ride home soaking wet.”

“I was perfectly fine just getting my feet wet,” you say indignantly.  

“We came out here to swim, not get your feet wet,” John laughs. You stiffen when his hand comes down on your shoulder, conscious of the fact that your husband is standing right behind you, entirely divested of his clothes. “So best get to steppin’.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says pityingly. “Yes, I can.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you make your way back to shore, careful not to allow yourself a glimpse of him. Your boots are stacked beneath the shade of another tree, John’s clothes folded neatly beside them. You strip slowly, attentive to the world around you; though unlikely, it’s not impossible that someone might wander by. Your only consolation is that John is still within sight, though you keep your back to him because in recent days, you’ve developed a hunger for him that even now makes your stomach hurt.  

Though the air is warm, you shiver. When you turn around with your arms crossed over your breasts to hide them from sight, you find John wading in the river up to his waist. You’ve seen him like this once before, the hearty body of a man in his prime. Sturdy and strong. The hair on his chest is darker than that on his head, wet too from the dip he must have taken when your back was turned. His hair is slicked back too, a wet hand combing it back. 

“Come on, darlin’,” he calls, beckoning you forward with his hand.

The water is a cold shock when you step in past your ankles. Ice cold tendrils wrap up your legs, sucking the warmth from you. 

You suck in a soft breath when he pulls you into his arms and heaves you up, big hands gripping under your thighs. Your breasts press against the wet skin of his chest, nipples already pebbled. The river is deeper than you assumed; John pulls you deeper in until it pools around your waist and then your chest. Cold enough that you shiver until John dips his head down and the kiss he presses to your lips melts you from the inside out. 

You can’t escape the intimacy of water-slick skin. When John drags you up his chest, your nipples brush over his and the shudder that passes through you is violent, toe-curling. You know that he can feel the heat of your core even underwater. With your legs wound around his waist, every inch of you is plastered to his front. Even your fingers play with the ends of his hair, arms draped over his shoulders. You can’t look away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, breath hot on your face. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could look anywhere else. 

He reaches down under the water to readjust himself and you gasp when his shaft is suddenly right there, trapped between his belly and your heat. It’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to coitus, his glans nestled between your folds. You’d only have to shift slightly for him to slip right in. The thought makes your breath quicken. 

He doesn’t make a move to take you though, even knowing that he could. How easy it would be. How it’s due to him. Your husband that’s waited a fortnight to take you as his own. John kisses you until each slick pass of his lips grows sloppier, clumsier—his lips barely parting from yours before they’re on you again, rendering you a creature of base needs. 

But his hands don’t shift from your backside where he holds you in place. His fingers dig into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but they don’t move to part your folds to make room for his manhood. You expect him to—practically yearn for it and squeeze him around the neck all the harder when he subverts your expectations, doing no more than letting you grind your heat against the base of his shaft. 

“John—John, please,” you beg, mindless for what. You don’t know what you’re asking for. 

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” he asks into your mouth, stealing your answer with another kiss. 

You fall under the swell of another wave. When the root of his cock glides over your clit, your core clenches on nothing, a sob half-bitten off in your mouth, ripped from your chest. 

It doesn’t matter how close to him you get—he gives you nothing. The heat could very well burn you from the inside out. Cold water caresses your skin as it flows past, but the center of you runs so hot that you hardly notice it. 

When he hikes you higher up against his chest, you clench your fingers in his hair, whining when he takes your nipple into his mouth. Your gasp comes out sharp and hurt when the coarse bristles of his beard rub rough against your breast. He sucks at your breast tender at first, gentle, eyes half-lidded like his mind has gone somewhere else, but there’s a glint in his eye that grows wild and dark, that turns him rough. You don’t know what to do except shake and let him use you how he wants. 

Desperation nips at your heels, urging you up the length of him. If you had more nerve, you’d reach down and grasp him under the water, notch the head of his member against your sex and sink right down on him. You need him like you've never needed anything before. Every part of you aflame, searing hot under the sun at its highest point; right overhead, right on top of you. 

His teeth sink delicately into your areola, tongue lapping over your nipple to soothe the hurt, and suddenly, you break.

“Please—” you gasp, wrenching his mouth away from your breast and whimpering when he resists at first, glaring up at you like he might bite. “Please, John—I can’t take it. I need you.”

His eyes darken, the pupil swallowing everything up. “Need me where, wife? Here?”

A hand dips between your thighs, pointer finger gliding over your sex, plump with blood. So tender that your mouth hangs open on a whine when he touches you. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper, gaze swimming. 

John’s breath comes out in a harsh, ragged pant. Completely undone in a way you’ve never seen before. “Get out, darlin’. I’m taking you home. Gonna give you what you need.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price

[midnightwriter21]

demon slayer hcs: douma & akaza as boyfriends

characters: fem!reader x douma, akaza

warnings: implied death, nsfw themes (no actual smut)

DOUMA

god he’s so fine for what

first off douma has trouble understanding human emotions

and dawg prefers to eat women

so the fact that y’all are dating??

ur special fr fr

you are so spoiled

douma = sugar daddy

u have one of his followers from his cult following u around and taking care of any and everything that u want

u mention seeing something in a store that u liked?

douma will have it before the end of the day

you’re like a little doll to him

he enjoys dressing you up in the cutest outfits, experimenting with different hairstyles, and playing with your makeup

teases the hell outta u

he thinks your reactions are amusing

especially when u do that cute little pout

or the puppy dog eyes

and don’t even get me started on when he makes u upset

he LOVES that shit

he always makes it up to you tho

but let a member of his cult tease you? or make u upset??

there will be hell to pay

he’ll take their head clean off their shoulders right then and there

won’t even bat an eye

so touchy

glued to u

ur sitting in his lap during cult meetings

he’s holding ur hand

he’s got an arm thrown around ur shoulders

he’s running his nails up and down ur arms so he can watch u shiver and get goosebumps

ur mad at him? maybe yelling at him abt something?

not anymore

he’s got his hands on ur face and he’s squishing ur cheeks so u can’t talk

thinks ur expressions are adorable

now douma sounds like a great boyfriend so far

but this man is MEAN

low key only keeps u around because u entertain him

i mean he’s been alive for so long and experienced so much

mans gets bored

BUT!!

if yalls relationship miraculously progresses past this

he’s turning u into a demon

that way u can stay with him forever

and he’ll never get bored of u

how could he when ur the first person to actually make him understand emotions?

especially an emotion as complex as love <3

but his true nature

comes out in the bedroom

dawg is EVIL

100% will make u cry

humiliation!!!

he’s a biter

ofc he is

idk somethin abt seeing his marks on you rly gets him goin

biting down just enough to leave a mark but not to break skin

yeah

id let him step on me

AKAZA

best boyfriend ever

no harm will ever come to u

protective asf

ur nocturnal at this point

bc ain’t no way ur leaving the house without akaza

so u gotta wait til it’s nighttime so he can come with u wherever ur going

such a gentleman ong

he’s holding ur hand to make sure u don’t get separated in crowds

or he has a hand on the small of ur back to guide u while u walk

he’s pulling ur chair out for u to sit down

he’s holding doors open for u

brings u flowers all the time

instead of looking for that blue spider lily for Muzan?

he’s picking u a bouquet of wildflowers

gonna get his ass kicked for that by muzan but oh well

100% the bf that’ll slow dance w u in the rain

with no music

ugh he’s such a romantic

god he loves u so much

and he makes sure u know it

words of affirmation!! all the time!!!

now

he’s a sweetie

but y’all ever heard that one phrase

and it’s like

gentleman in the streets freak in the sheets?

mhm that’s him

dude strong as fuck

and his STAMINA?

babe u are worn out

so many rounds

so many positions

u can’t keep up

ain’t no way i’m sorry

but the aftercare is on point

when he’s done puttin u through the ringer

he’s drawing u a bath

and making sure u drink some water cause u lost a fuck ton of bodily fluids i’m sorry

gross

cuddle bug!!

and the pillow talk!!

he’s the best

i love him sm

#kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #anime #douma #douma x reader #akaza x reader #akaza #douma fluff #akaza fluff #kny #x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer headcanons #upper moons

[sanguineterrain]

im begging you to write a part 2 of vigilante reader because the way you write??? the dynamic between reader and jason??? the sex tension???are chef kiss!!!

thanks very much! part 2 and I couldn't put off the reveal bc I'm just too impatient lol 🫶 but I might write another part post-reveal? maybe? cuz I'm growing attached to these two <3

jason todd x gn!vigilante!reader (nocturne). tw explosions, smoke inhalation, reader passes out, canon typical violence, identity reveal, asshole bruce. jason is in love? jason is in love.

read pt 1 here! | all fics are reblogged to @sanguinelibrary

****

"Go home."

"Bruce, I—"

Bruce looks at you, eyes sharp with fury and... something else. Something older.

The others know how to talk back. You still haven't gained the courage to sass The Batman.

"Go. Home. If you need an escort, I can call Superman."

You take a step back at his coldness.

"Bruce, I know I messed up, letting Hood escape but—"

"Yes, you did. You deliberately disobeyed an order. I told everybody to stand down. He could've killed you."

But he didn't, you don't say. He could've, but he chose not to.

He'd felt safe.

"I had it under control, honestly. He wasn't—it wasn't like the other encounters you've had with him. He wouldn't have hurt me."

That is the wrong thing to say. You realize that after the words leave your mouth and the muscles in Bruce's jaw jump.

"You can't be this naive. I know I wouldn't have chosen someone who's this naive," he says savagely. "You know Hood can't be trusted, and you're defending him to me. We've seen time and again he's rogue. He doesn't make sense and that's exactly why he's dangerous."

"But if you would just listen—"

"Enough," he snaps. "Enough. Go home. I'm suspending you for three weeks."

"Three w—I'm not even injured!" you cry.

"No, but you need the time. You're not thinking clearly. Go. I don't want to see you until next month."

You press your lips together before you say something truly foul. Something about Batman's habit of pushing people away. Something about dead Robins.

You don't let the tears fall until you leave the Cave. This is all Hood's fault. You know it would've been a different conversation if you'd managed to successfully capture him.

You'll take down the Red Hood if it's the last thing you do.

****

It takes you approximately two days to break your suspension.

In your defense, you meant to follow Bruce's orders. You would've stayed put and helped Barbara with research instead.

But not at the expense of civilian lives.

"All units to Canal and Riverview, 10-80. Standby. Do not enter the factory until given clearance from the Bomb Squad."

You turn off the police scanner and stuff it in your drawer. In Gotham, explosions usually come in multiples. If there's one, there's bound to be another. The police are generally inept when it comes to evacuating civilians. You know one of the other Bats are on their way, but you're the closest to the docks.

You glance at your suit. No. If you go as Nocturne, Batman might suspend you indefinitely.

You grab your gas mask and put on a black hoodie and a domino mask. You'll just have to make do.

The marina is blanketed in thick smoke. It makes your eyes water. But in the commotion it causes, you're able to slip past the barriers and help workers out of the factory. It's difficult because without the suit, people don't give you the same trust and respect. But you're anonymous, and that's all that matters.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

You ignore the voice and keep hauling two elderly workers towards the exit. They're barely outside before you turn around, determined to clear every level of the factory.

You're yanked backward by a hand on your hoodie. You nearly lose your footing, but the hand is firm, dragging you towards the pier.

You're spun around and put face to face with a red helmet.

Oh, of all the fucking—

"Let go of me!" you shout, smacking his arm. Hood's grip tightens.

"I will as soon as you stop doing stupid shit. What were you thinking, coming here?"

You pause. Whoops. This isn't how a plain civilian would react to being apprehended by the Red Hood.

And that's definitely not how the Red Hood would react to getting swatted by a random civilian. Shit.

"I was, um, I was thinking I could help," you say haltingly. "P-please don't hurt me, Mr. Hood, I was—"

Hood sighs and lets you go, then tucks his gun into his holster.

"Cut the shit. I know you're Nocturne. I also know that you need some acting lessons because what the hell was that? Mr. Hood?"

A chill washes over you. "I don't know what you mean. Nocturne?"

Hood shakes his head. "I don't have time for this. The building's gonna collapse any second. Stay. Put."

He goes back toward the smoking entrance. Your eye twitches as you follow him.

"Last time I checked, you don't have that kind of authority, Hood."

He turns around and looms over you. "Don't I?"

Anyone else would back down. You might've a week ago. You should, after the tongue lashing Bruce gave you.

But there's no soot on Hood's helmet or vest. He doesn't smell sweet like gasoline or pungent like motor oil.

He was in the factory to help.

Something shifts. Batman is wrong. Batman is more wrong than he's ever been.

Because Hood's not the enemy here. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

You push past Hood. "It'll be faster if we work together."

"Oh, absolutely not. You're not even in your suit."

"As per your request," you say, flashing a plastic smile. "You're welcome."

"Don't get cute with me, you—hey!"

You dart past him and go straight into the factory. Hood shouts your name, which makes you pause, just for a moment.

But revealed identity or not, you need to clear the building. So you pull on your mask and run faster.

Your worst fear is confirmed when you check the upper level: someone was missed in the evacuation. It's a worker, and she's unconscious.

You don't think about how explosions come in pairs in Gotham. Don't think about how long it'll take to get to the exit.

You take off your mask and slide it onto her face. The smoke burns your throat immediately, but you ignore it and lift her in a fireman carry, just as you were taught all those years ago by Robin. He's the one who taught you how to save people without relying on brute strength or height.

You hope he's alright, wherever he is. You hope he's not too upset seeing you rush into a burning building.

That's your last thought when you see the entrance. Your face is covered in sweat and grime. The heat from the fires is exhausting. You can feel your eyes beginning to close.

"There's something seriously wrong with you," a decoded voice says in your ear, and then the woman's weight is lifted from your shoulders.

Hood grabs your hand, the woman over his opposite shoulder, and you make it out just as the second explosion goes off. It knocks you forward.

Hood puts the woman down just in time to catch you. His arm is around your waist, the other hand cradling your head. His gloved thumb touches your mouth, and you feel his dawning realization as he finally sees your mask on the woman.

"Don't tell Ba'man," you slur.

"Jesus fuck—" Hood starts to drag you. You feel lightheaded. He's moving, and you wish he'd stop. "You don't take off your mask. You never take off your mask. We taught you that!"

"She was unconscious, J'y..."

Arms tighten around you. Everything goes dark.

****

You wake up to the smell of scrambling eggs.

For a moment, you just bask in the smell. It smells like Alfred's breakfast scramble. Bacon. Butter. Golden potatoes.

Then you wake up further and realize that you're not in the Manor. You're in your apartment.

So who's cooking?

You get up quietly, slipping out of your room. You pause in front of the full-length mirror.

Honestly, you've looked worse. Your hair needs a wash, and you're in the same clothes you went into the building with, which are now a little charred. But your face is clean of soot, and your throat hurts only a little.

The kitchen sink runs. You slowly creep out into the living room, keeping your breathing even and silent.

The mess of black hair, you recognize. Sort of. You might've mistaken him for Bruce if you didn't know that Bruce has a lifetime ban from kitchens all over the world.

He's too tall to be Dick. Too skilled in the kitchen to be Bruce. Too nice to be Bruce, too—you can't imagine Bruce Wayne making you eggs. Especially when you disobeyed his orders. Again.

The red helmet on the kitchen stool turns your blood to ice.

You grab the letter opener from a drawer and wait a few seconds to see if Hood's heard you. Then you throw the letter opener with near perfect aim at his exposed shoulder.

He catches it without turning.

Your heart skips a beat. Every time you think you might get the drop on him, Hood reminds you just how competent he really is.

A mix of fear, aggravation, and something you don't want to examine too closely swirls in your gut.

"Impressive," he says. "Dami been training you? Mama Al-Ghul spent a lot of time on his knife lessons."

"Why are you in my apartment?"

Hood sets the letter opener down on the counter and turns off the stove. Then he serves the breakfast scramble on two plates, then sprinkles chives over them.

This is the weirdest kidnapping ever.

He sighs, back still facing you.

"You can't tell anyone it's me," he says.

"You make a lot of demands for a guy who just used the last of my eggs."

Hood laughs. It sounds wet. It sounds like grief.

"God, I've missed ya, honeylove."

Your heart pounds. You try to find another weapon, anything. Hood doesn't give you the chance.

He turns around.

The first thing you see is the stark white streak of hair and the curls you once loved. The curls that were near unrecognizable in the casket.

You were right: Batman was wrong.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #jason todd fanfiction #red hood fanfiction #red hood imagine #batman fanfiction #dc fanfic

[flamingpudding]

Fictober23 Prompt: 8 - "Give me that, before anything happens."

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: G

Warnings: -

"Don't touch that." Constantine said without even looking up from the book he was reading through for research. Phantom had joined the Justice League dark only recently and was still in that sort of mentor - glorified babysitting - state. It was just his luck that he lost in the stick draw and had now to 'mentor' the who-knows-how-old-he-truly-is Ghost King.

He should have stuck this job to Zatanna. The 'kid' was curious as a cat and apparently wanted to touch every good damn artifact in the House of Mysteries that Constantine had ever gotten his hands on.

"Don't touch that either." The Brite muttered without looking up, he was so close in figuring out the actual meaning of the curse placed on a good damn church bell that causes everyone who hears it to fall asleep at midnight sharp and wake up at 8 AM later like nothing happened. Behind his back Phantom stuck his tongue out at the man before reaching out to poke the artifact that caught his eye anyway. However the House of Mysteries had other ideas as it reconstructed itself at the right moment and put the artifact further away from Phantom.

The Ghost King pouted, crossing his arms and floated over to where Constantine was pouring over a curse seal. Phantom hummed as he looked over the Brites shoulder grinning. "Oh I didn't know you could use ghost speech for curses!"

"Say what now mate?!" John's head snapped to the side to stare at Phantom who was now floating over his shoulder. "It's in ghost speech? What even is that?"

The Ghost King had the nerve to give him an unimpressed stare that really made the Brite need a smoke, but he had given Zatanna his good damn word not to smoke around the 'kid', so that was a no.

"Ghost speech. The language of the Infinite Realms also known as the Ghost Zone, After Life, Hell, Home of the Damned, and so on and so on." Constantines eye twitched as the Ghost boy shrugged. He let out a suffering sigh and pushed his copie of the curse seal over to Phantom.

"What does it say?" The other blinked for a moment before turning his eyes to the photo. A scratching static white noise filled the Brite's ears and he yelped in pain, covering his ears. The noise instantly stopped and Contantine glared at the Ghost King who sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, I will say it again in English."

Constantine only grumbled something inaudible before motioning for the other to continue.

"You idiots don't sleep enough. Go and get at least eight hours of sleep. If you don't sleep by midnight I will be the one to make you sleep."

"The hell?"

"That's what's written there."

"Don't tell me we have another good damn Sandman problem on our hands." John gripped with one hand at his hair, he really hoped that wasn't it because dear good he did not want to get Batman or one of the other Not Dark heros involved.

"Nah, he goes by Nocturne, he never liked that name some philosophers came up with. But this does go against the agreement I had with him."

Was this how Batman felt when his Robins went against his orders? Or how the mentors of the Yonge Justice feel when the teens sass back? Because Constantine was sticking this ancient kid of a Ghost King onto Zatanna the next change he got.

"You know how to lift that curse then?" Instead of going further into a rabbit hole, Constantine decided it was easier to just find out if the Ghost King can lift a good damn curse he had been working on solving for days now instead of finding out who the hell Nocturne was now.

"Of course I know." Phantom answered easily, floating on his back around the room like he was going with the flow of water. Glowing green eyes going along the shelves where various books and artifacts were thrown on, in no particular order.

"Great. Let's go and fix this then." The man muttered, getting up from his chair and grabbing his coat. "I need a bottle of whiskey after this and a good damn smoke…"

Phantom just followed behind the man ready for his second official job with the Justice League Dark. He grinned happily of finally getting some outside action only to come to a sudden halt as the Brite man whirled around glaring at the Ghost King only inches from his the other.

"Phantom?"

"Yes?" The 'kid' answered nervously.

"Give me that, before anything happens. How often did I tell you NOT to touch anything of the artifacts? Do you even know what that thing does!"

Reluctantly like a reprimanded child the Ghost King handed over a golden plate with a glowing green crystal embedded into it, Constantine remembered it being the leftover part of a demon they had banished. The man narrowed his eyes. "The other one too."

"Fine…" Phantom handed over a crystal zepter, John had picked up from an ancient tomb. "Didn't think you noticed me picking them up, since you didn't say anything before I even touched them."

"Mate, you are forgetting who currently owns this house."

#fictober23 #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #crossover #dcxdp #john constantine #justice league dark #Danny is getting Mentored by the JL Dark #Constantine got the short stick of the draw #He has to take care of Danny for some time #danny is a little shit #and chaos gremlin #Constantine despite knowing Phantom is a ghost king is still sorta rude #the 'kid' joined the JLD John will give enough respect to not cause their dimension harm #Nocturne cursed some humans

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 15

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I became suddenly ill about three days ago and my brain is still quite mushy so I think this has been proofread but there might be some errors here and there I’ll try to iron out once I’m better!! Sorry for any scruples and I hope you enjoy!! 🧡💛

warnings: angst, general depression, violence (self-attempted)

word count: 16,175

-Part 14-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Azriel catches her eye from across the room, weary hazel locking with bright amber that swirls in the faelight of the living room.

His tension is more palpable than usual, the conversation from yesterday with the golden-eyed male only further contributing to the death knell gonging quietly at the back of his mind, creaking through his knees, echoing in each footstep—each breath he takes. Time seems to be dripping by faster, even more so than usual. In the cobwebbed chambers of his mind he’s able to recall a time where days were his chosen measurement, where a twenty-four hour period contained beginning, middle, and end. But as he’d grown older, those chunks had grown with him, his perception of time shifting the more of it he lived through. Soon enough weeks were his days, calculating how much could be done over the period, sleep a small break to be indulged in between work. Then it had shifted to months—twelve to fit everything into, nights morphing into short naps.

Now years feel like days once had, time no longer a steady drip of water from the roof of a dark cell ceiling where he’d been kept locked away from the light, but a steady trickle as it carves its way through stone.

Shadows conceal his absence from the laughter-filled room, removing himself from the uncomfortably bright corner to a place of familiarity, shifting into the darker hallways as he sighs, feet positioned instinctively equidistant, weight spread evenly, fearing one lapse in discipline might bring him back to those days where he knew nothing of fighting, nothing of how to defend himself. To those days where he had to learn relentlessly, practice until his body couldn’t move in desperate attempts to cover the ground he’d lost years to.

Mor enters into the darkness, coming from the yellow-orange light that’s spilling into the blue-purple hallway, heels effortlessly silent upon the floorboards as her nocturnal eyes seek him out. Her features are already serious, easily picking up on his mood despite his efforts to conceal it. The depths of it, at least.

“Az?” Mor asks quietly, expression curious but solemn.

“She’s gone,” he murmurs shortly. Mor’s eyes flash with alarm at the revelation, before her brows tuck together. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where?”

“I don’t know,” he admits grimly. “I paid a visit to one of her friends afternoon yesterday, but he refused to answer anything.”

“What do you mean, she’s gone, Az?” Mor hisses, disbelief sharpening her muffled tone. Azriel grinds his jaw, but relents—this is more important. “I mean, she isn’t at the House of Wind. She left a note saying she would be at Bas’, and would be back but she wasn’t. When I went to get her, she wasn’t there either,” he summarises, expression sombre.

“What else?” Mor asks sternly, the brightness about her having faded faster than a flame extinguished. Azriel licks his lips, bracing himself, before explaining: she has magic but it’s been giving her trouble, she’d wanted to try using it without anyone else knowing and he’d let her, Elain’s vision prophesying his death at her hand.

To Mor’s credit, her features don’t drain entirely of colour, and it takes her no more than a few seconds of heavy silence for her to muster up a response. “What magic?” Mor asks first, keeping her tone quiet but clipped, judgement clear enough she doesn’t need to voice it. And Azriel won’t address it, either. “Her hands could glow a little around the fingertips. We didn’t know what it did, though.”

“And the trouble?”

“It dried her skin out, among other things.” Mor’s lips part, eyes closing briefly as she sighs. “The gloves.” Azriel doesn’t need to provide confirmation for her to have connected the dots.

But then her eyes open, slowly sliding to his, an edge of viciousness underlying their amber cut, one he withstands reluctantly. Mor swallows, jaw tense, watching him. “How long have you known about this?” She asks, lethally softly. Not how long has she had magic, how long has he known. And not told them. “About a fortnight.”

Mor’s eyes gleam with hostility, and his features become stony, walls raising up as she watches him silently. Judgement falling heavy on his shoulders. “Why tell me now?” She asks shortly. She isn’t chewing him out, nor is she outwardly rancorous. Not good a good sign. “Bas won’t tell me where she is,” he replies neutrally, Mor’s eyes flaring as she puts it together. “You want me to ask him.” Azriel nods, despite her already knowing.

She glances at him reproachfully, another look he withstands passively, and then she’s turning sharply on her heel, making back toward the light, back toward the laughter. Silent as a shadow, Azriel catches her upper arm, having to exert surprising force to keep her still. “Where are you going?” He asks coldly.

“Where do you think?” She counters sharply.

“They have enough on their plates,” Azriel mutters. As if on queue, Nyx’s laugher giggles through the halls, a stark contrast to the gloom lurking just beyond the light’s end. Mor snatches her arm away. “You have enough on your plate,” she says lowly, eyes glinting as they cut through him, “we could have made room. You should have told us.” But Azriel stands his ground, not giving an inch. “It was the right call.”

“You have no idea where she is,” Mor counters. “No idea where she is, or what state she might be in. What makes you think that was the right call?”

“You’re questioning my judgement?”

“Yes, I’m fucking questioning your judgement,” she hisses back lowly.

“She told me she didn’t want any of you to know,” he counters coldly, “she’s reclusive anyway, suddenly outing her wouldn’t have done anything helpful.”

The wording seems to strike something in Mor, ire banking, eyes shuttering briefly, before she’s gritting her jaw again. “You should have told us.”

“She barely managed to tell me,” Azriel states, “Elain didn’t even know until the vision that her sister had magic.”

“You know you should have told us.”

“And betrayed her trust when she chose to tell me?” Azriel asks cooly. “You didn’t see how scared she was.”

“Maybe she wasn’t scared of us finding out but of speaking with you.”

Azriel blinks, the only sign of his falter he’ll allow, caught off guard by the accusation. She’s never shown any fear of him before… “She has no reason to be scared of me.” He says finally.

A look of frustration flits through Mor’s amber eyes. “She’s young. This is probably the first time she’s experiencing strong feelings toward someone else,” she says lowly, “surely you can remember what that’s like.” Azriel bristles at the pointed look, the insulting comparison between his past love for Mor and the affection being unwelcomely pushed his way. “She’s infatuated. It happens,” he replies tersely, not taking kindly to the manipulation. “And she went through the war too—she isn’t that unaware. You’re doing her a disservice.”

“The disservice here is you not affording her the care she needs—to the point she’s chosen to run away,” Mor practically spits.

Terse silence stretches between them, sour and resentful.

“We aren’t going to come to an agreement,” Azriel says at last, tone clipped, but both of them know it’s better to move on for now. They can fight it out later, once things are resolved and taken care of. “You speak to Bas first, then we can find out who she’s gone to. She could be anywhere in the Night Court, knowing him.”

“We tell Rhys and Feyre first,” Mor demands lowly. But Azriel shakes his head, “if you want to be the one to tell Feyre her sister is missing and we don’t know where she is, be my guest.”

Silence stretches further, growing tauter by the second, until Mor sighs sharply. “Fine,” she grits out. “Bas first.”

Azriel nods, making to turn around, heading for the door.

“But you are telling Feyre,” Mor hisses lowly. “Whether we find out or not. Tonight.”

Azriel pauses, jaw tightening. But gives a sharp nod.

————

Once again he slinks back to the male’s house, the bright sun lost to winter’s oncoming grip, dark clouds shielding the stars from view.

Despite the silence between them, he can feel Mor’s judgement pressing into him, but he has no time to argue or persuade. After the…discussion, with the male the other day, he’d needed time to plan, regroup his thoughts. Time. Seemingly so sparse, as of late. He could afford little more than twenty-four hours of inaction before a decision would have to be made—he hadn’t come this far by sitting around aimlessly when faced with a hard choice. It seemed the only reasonably way forward would be to acquiesce to the male’s demand, as much as Azriel despised so. It was the smarter option.

The other would have been to lay hands on him, and no matter how urgent the matter was, the male was still a civilian, and untrained for war, at that. Violence was entirely out of the question.

He knocks thrice on the door, sharp and punctuated hits to alert the male of company, before stepping back to allow space for Mor.

Gleaming golden eyes pierce out into the darkness, and Azriel knows he doesn’t miss the hint of smugness in their gilded depths as he marks the presence of another, as he’d requested. To verify his claim that there were indeed urgent matters afoot. Azriel refuses to show even a hint of irritation, keeping his face cold and passive—Bas won’t get the satisfaction of seeing him riled. He’d have to work much harder for that.

“You’re back late,” Bas drawls from the warm glow of his house, once again leaning cockily against the broad wooden frame, ankles crossed, one foot keeping the door held to—away from prying eyes. “And you’ve brought company,” he muses, glancing to Mor at his side. The female steps forward, the yellowy-orange light from inside making her glow as she offers a tight smile. “Bas, correct?” Golden eyes sweep over her analytically, before he nods, shifting slightly. “Mor,” he acknowledges, “she mentioned you, too.” No signs of surprise mar her open expression, kept sealed beneath that deceptive mask she can wear to charm at any time.

“That’s why we came to see you, actually,” Mor begins calmly, straightforward. “I’m of the understanding you know her whereabouts, but are unwilling to disclose them for various reasons.”

“That’s right,” he replies slowly, expression shifting to something more wary. His provocative nature shying away from perceived earnestness. “She doesn’t want any visitors.”

Mor nods her head gently, understanding shimmering faintly in amber eyes, threads of her hair catching the golden glow of inner light, glinting with the motion. “I can understand that, but this is very important,” she says sincerely, worry shining in her face Azriel know she doesn’t have to fake. Still the male remains cautious in the doorway. “Azriel wasn’t lying when he told you this conflicts with Court matters,” Mor begins slowly, and the shadowsinger tamps down on the urge to glance at her warily. Though he knows she won’t reveal anything, there’s no need to offer scraps. “I’m afraid there’s little I can honestly tell you due to their private nature, but nonetheless I would like to speak with you about her. She is a part of our family, and we are deeply concerned about her. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”

Quiet pauses long enough to take a deep breath, before resuming to its consistent noise.

Eventually, Bas nods his head, standing straighter. A grain of tension is released from his shoulders as the male opens his door, yielding to a conversation. He makes to step forward, but sharp golden eyes flick to him, piercing and accusing in their nature. “I’ll speak with Mor, and Mor alone,” he states clearly, an edge of provocation creeping back into his features, though the Shadowsinger doubts its sincerity.

But Mor nods her head, “that’s fine,” she answers, brushing past his side, pulling the cold night air with her, a whisper of icy breath grazing his side as she moves forward, leaving him out in the dark. “Don’t move from here until we’re done,” Mor instructs from over her shoulder once Bas has disappeared from the entrance hall. Azriel nods, understanding the implication.

Listen in from outside.

————

The room she follows Bas into is cozy, well-kept. Clearly lived in.

The pillows of the sofas are slightly worn, slightly faded in colour, waned down to more earthy tones that compliment the pale terracotta of the walls. Fire crackles from the hearth, dried rosemary hung from the ceiling beams, as well as other dried herbs and plants. On the wall are some paintings, mostly stills, but they’re watery around their edges, faded colour bleeding over fine, distinct ink lines.

Bas takes a seat that seems to fit him comfortably, likely one he usually chooses, while Mor opts for one nearby, a quilt thrown over its back, squares of purple, blue, turquoise, and magenta knitted together, and she can make out small patches in the yarn where its been run thin and had to be darned with slightly mismatched thread.

“So,” Bas starts, quieter than she had expected, sitting forward in her chair, attentive. “You’re worried about her. Why?” It’s hard to conceal her frown at such a strange question, but she doesn’t really try to. She doubts she’ll get anywhere through masking her reactions. “She’s part of our family,” Mor replies, “why wouldn’t we be worried about her.” Bas settles deeper into his chair, hands braced on arms, head tilted back into the pillow as he watches her intently. It’s not an expression she’s unfamiliar with, but not one she had expected to encounter here—something wary and deeply protective.

“She doesn’t speak much about any of you,” he hedges slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. “But it’s enough. You aren’t as close knitted as family.” Mor opens her mouth to speak, but he continues. “Even if you try to be,” he says, nodding, “she isn’t easy to get to.” Mor closes her mouth, lips pursing in a tight line. He sighs, shifting in his seat, pushing a thick loc of hair from his face, hooking it over a thoroughly pierced ear. “I believe that you’re concerned about her, and that you truly want to help,” he says heavily, attitude shifted from how he’d been outside, and Mor wonders what Bas might have been told about the Shadowsinger to warrant such ice.

“We do,” she urges sincerely, and Bas nods again, hearing her.

“What I…worry about,” he starts hesitantly, forming the words carefully, considering each one. “I worry you don’t understand her enough to make an informed call,” he settles on, and Mor bristles a little. How long has Bas known her for? Does he know her more than Mor does? “What leads you to that way of thinking?” She asks, keeping the stiffness from her tone.

“I know you don’t see her much,” he replies simply, and again Mor’s lips purse. “She doesn’t enjoy…full, settings. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, though.” He sighs, eyes briefly closing, before reopening with a fresh intensity, sitting upright in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. “Do you know how we met? Me and her?”

Mor’s brow dips, but she answers anyway, curious where he’s going with this. “Through Nesta, right?” Bas nods, something passing through his eyes at the right answer. “Right,” he confirms, “making time to visit those stuffy inns, filled with groping hands—she hates places like that.” Bas sighs again, hand rubbing one side of his face. “I don’t even know if it helped at all, but I know she felt it was all she could do. Even if it was just company, and nothing material. Even if it might not’ve had an overall impact, that was her way of trying to help.”

Mor remains quiet, not seeing what he’s trying to say.

Bas shakes his head, as if telling her to forget about it, again rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t even know if I can speak on her behalf, and I like to think we’re fairly close with one another,” he admits, sighing heavily. “I don’t want to mislead you.”

“So you’ll let me where she’s gone?” Mor asks, concern heavy in her voice, making no effort to conceal her worry. She watches as the pads of his fingers rub over his eyes wearily, as she wonders if this is straining on him more than he’s letting on. “Try to understand her, when she talks,” he requests quietly, eyes still shut, fingers rubbing faintly. “She still confuses me sometimes, and she never shows if it bothers her, but I can’t imagine someone being okay with being misunderstood.”

“Bas,” Mor urges gently, sensing he’s on the verge of telling her whereabouts. “Please tell us where she’s gone. We don’t want her to feel alone.”

Bas doesn’t look up, face still covered by his hands, but Mor can make out the tightness of his brows, torn between his decisions. So close to cracking open.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

Mor blinks, eyes locking with gold as he looks at her through his fingers, fatigue obvious beneath his gaze, the lines more pronounced as the flame casts the shadows of his digits across his features, deepening the half circles that have appeared.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mor asks, biting down on shock, clearing it entirely from her voice. “She didn’t tell me,” he answers quietly.

Silence stretches, and even in the haze and confusion that’s been stirred up she has enough clarity to feel the piercing weight of a glare through a window, heavy and accusing. Tension crackles in her spine, flipping her golden hair over a shoulder, a subtle message to piss off to the shadows that are watching from outside.

She sighs heavily, meeting the golden eyes of the male opposite her, now sat back in his chair as he was before, but his back is slumped, as if containing all that worry had been stretching him taut. Relieved to no longer be the sole barer of her secrets. “Do you—…” Mor eases in a sharp breath, settling the worry and gradually increasing panic that’s tightening around her throat. She swallows, pulling herself together. Recomposing herself. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” She asks calmly. “Anything could help.”

But Bas shakes his head, guilt clear in his golden eyes. “She didn’t give me any hints. But she had a bag with her, so I’m guessing she had somewhere in mind and didn’t just aimlessly wander off.”

Mor nods, getting to her feet, golden eyes tracking her movements. “Thank you for telling me,” she says sincerely, before turning for the door.

“I know that leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone where you’re going seems rash—maybe even a bit stupid,” Bas says after her, voice a little clearer to catch her attention. “But she’s smart. I’d wager it was probably something she’d had in the back of her mind for a while.”

Mor swallows thickly, the possibility not sitting well with her, but nods nonetheless.

“I’ll let you know when we find her.”

————

Azriel waits sullenly in the front garden for Mor to exit the male’s house, darkening the doorstep he’d been instructed to remain in until she was done.

He watches the door open and close, Mor stepping out into the night air, latch clicking softly as it locks behind her, and the two make their way silently at first down the garden path, back into the street before they begin communicating. “That certainly didn’t take long,” he muses lowly, glancing at her sidelong. “I take it you heard everything?” She asks quietly, tension clear in the cold bite of her usually honeyed voice. Azriel gives a brisk nod, and Mor sighs. “What now?”

“There are only so many places she could have gone to,” Azriel replies smoothly, mind already running through the possibilities. Honestly, Bas not knowing almost helps more—it has to be someone she knows. There are only two places she could have possibly run off to, though neither of them seem particularly believable. That being thought, he knows where he’ll check first.

“You have an idea?” Mor asks tightly, a bit of a bite to her question. Azriel nods grimly, “Elain mentioned a fox in her vision,” he explains, “apparently they grow close—enough to make a bargain of some sort, anyway.”

“Elain saw the bargain in her vision?” Mor questions. Azriel nods. “We don’t know if that’s symbolism or not,” she mutters, “we have no idea how accurate they are, either. Nor how soon they’ll come to pass.” Her tone softens toward the end a little, but Azriel isn’t willing to speak about that part of the prophecy yet. That he will be dying. Probably soon, going off how vivid Elain’s descriptions were—as if it were urgent. Impending.

“And you’re sure Elain doesn’t know where she’s gone?” Mor asks, keeping her gaze ahead, brows pulled together in concentration, a glint in her warrior’s eyes. “She might do,” Azriel sighs, “they are close, after all. And the fox…”

“Could be Lucien,” Mor finishes heavily. “You think she’s run to the mortal lands. Back to her home.” Azriel remains silent, keeping pace as they return silently to the River House.

Piercing amber eyes dig into the side of his skull, the intensity of her attention almost startling if he hadn’t had centuries to grow accustomed to it. He senses the question, just as she could sense he was holding something back.

Azriel doesn’t look at her as he speaks, “there’s only one other person the fox might represent.”

Even without visuals, he can hear how her pace nearly falters, then comes to a stop. He pauses with her, at last turning to face the golden haired female. Her skin is paler, even taking the silver of the moon into account. “You think she might have gone to Eris?” She asks, voice thick, but quiet. No more than a breath of wind. “I think it’s one of the two. There’s no one else it could be.”

“She’s only met him once,” Mor snaps lowly, nails digging into her palms. Azriel makes a show of shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s one or the other,” he says calmly, “if she isn’t in the Mortal lands…”

Mor stares at him, amber eyes drained a little. “You really think there’s a chance he could have…taken her?” She practically spits, unable to keep the hiss out of her voice. Because when it comes to that long ago trauma, her only responses to fall back on are fear, or anger. He doubt she’ll allow the vulnerability of fear right now. Not with the tension between them. “I think it’s better to question Elain first to see if she knows anything. If she doesn’t, I’ll make my way down Prythian.”

Mor blinks, realising the situation. She had demanded Azriel be the one to tell Feyre, regardless of whether they find anything or not. But with the new possibility of her having somehow found herself in the Autumn Court…Mor’s throat rolls heavily. She can’t bring herself to go there. Even now, the thought alone…she pushes against the urge to settle her palm over her abdomen. “We question Elain first,” she manages quietly, and Azriel can see how she’s gathering herself back together.

Instinct is the closest it comes to, that feeling she’s somehow run off to the Autumn Court, like a tug toward the unfamiliar land. Surely Elain would have mentioned something to him about a plan for her sister to leave when she’d been telling him about the vision. It’s the option that makes the most sense, for her to have spoken with Elain, and used a tunnel to reach the border quickly. With all the books she’s read in the library…the kind of things they contain, he doesn’t doubt she’d be more than capable of figuring a way to sneak out of the Night Court. To sneak out of Prythian if she set her mind to it.

Mor nods, and Azriel redirects his attention to the street, continuing the pace. “Question Elain,” she murmurs, “then head to Autumn first. If she isn’t there, go to the Lower Lands. Be as quick as possible.” He nods, admittedly relieved he won’t have to yet face Rhys for the mess he’s inadvertently caused.

————

“Eris, I’m tired,” you sigh, hands aching, sitting dejectedly on a tree stump.

As much as you’d protested, he’d dragged you back out into the forest, where everything feels encased in a glass bubble. It’s hard to explain when you think about it, but it’s like being in another world, how easily the trees sweep away and redirect noise. Hairs prickle at the back of your neck as you remember the giant, boar-like creature that had rampaged upon you mere days ago. The sight and smell of steaming blood as skin slid from flesh, melted apart.

“You haven’t even done anything,” he mutters, watching. “Get back up.”

You sigh heavily, reluctantly getting to your feet, then blinking heavily, suddenly crouching down as you press your palms to your eyes, trying to steady yourself from the abrupt dizziness that had ballooned into your head. Lips part as you try to concentrate on your breathing, wishing away the sudden feeling of unevenness beneath your feet. Eventually it passes, a few extra moments spent crouched for good measure, before you slowly stand back up, hand pressing to the side of your head. Cutting whiskey and amber eyes are piercing into you from across the clearing. You scowl back.

“What was that?” He asks, disapprovingly, your scowl deepening at the tone.

“I told you: I’m tired,” you snap, but it lacks the bite you’d wished for, fatigue building into a slow but heavy pulse inside your head, just above and behind your brows. A yawn rises from your chest, and you cover your mouth as it stretches you open, eyes squeezing shut, watering a little before you slump back into your usual posture, no longer pulled taut by your muscles.

His sharp eyes narrow accusingly, and you bristle at the look, trying to summon up the energy to glare at him. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” He asks sharply, and you grimace, knowing he won’t approve of the answer. But you really don’t have the energy to lie, either. “No, I didn’t,” you sigh, “I was feel sick.” Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even attempt to recognise. “You were probably feeling sick from hunger,” he mutters, as if it’s obvious, arms folding over his chest, leaning back against a tree. “Using magic can take up a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You should have—”

“I know the difference,” you hiss, lip twitching up in the beginnings of a snarl, before once again flattening out, and you sit back on the stump, uncaring if it pisses him off. You hope it does.

“Do you?” He muses, a bladed edge to his tone that has your stomach tightening, glancing at him warily from across the clearing. You tense as he pushes off from the tree, then vanishes, and you jump as he appears on your other side, peering down at you, unimpressed. “You know how to tell when your magic is draining you? Because those are some pretty big steps to have made seemingly overnight.” Your lips purse, averting your gaze, sullenly looking away. “That’s what I thought.”

“I know the difference between hungry sickness and—” you falter, but manage to finish the sentence, “…and being unwell.”

Eris pauses, and you want to meet his gaze and glare at him, but your head just feels too heavy on your shoulders, and the general fatigue hasn’t been aided by the light sheen of sweat that’s been layering your body each morning, before you’ve wobbly stumbled to the washroom, clutching your stomach. You’ve yet to actually regurgitate anything though—your one blessing. It’s like those initial months after the Cauldron all over again.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you glare at the ground, irritation growing in your chest. It wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more gentle with his attitude. His demeanour, in general. A curse sits, unspoken, at the tip of your tongue when he grips your jaw, angling your chin upward so he can examine you. Again your lips twitch in a slight snarl, but the energy fails quickly. Amber eyes sweep over your features, and you avert your gaze when his own settle intensely on yours. He releases you after a too-long moment, allowing you your space again, and you glare at him. “What was that for?”

“You look worse than usual,” he answers flatly.

You glare at him resentfully, unable to muster up the laugh you usually would whenever he makes a comment like that. Instead you just feel irritated. His brows narrow further, “how much have you been sleeping recently?” He pushes. You shrug, briefly glancing away.

“A normal amount. I’m fine, just let me sit down, it’s not that big of an issue if I’m not standing, right?”

“Are you coming up for your cycle?”

The bones in your hands creak, groaning with strain and you hiss as pain flares weakly beneath your gloves at your fingertips. You tuck your hands under your arms, trying to soothe their sting as you glare at him. “Do not ask me that,” you snap, legs crossing on the tree stump. You half expect his lips to quirk at the easily given reaction, but his brow dips a little. “You don’t have to give me a direct answer,” he says at last, a touch gentler than before, but still stern. “Just answer if it could be related.”

You hesitate at the tone, jaw still tight with tension, but you swallow thickly. “No,” you manage quietly, “not for another few months, at least.”

“Then as much as you disagree, it would be a good idea to eat first, then see if you improve,” he replies, back to his usual drawl, laced with distaste. Enough to almost have your lips curving a little at their edges. “So we’ll be going back to have lunch right this second,” you muse, glancing up at him, “and you aren’t going to set some stupid challenge for me to fulfil beforehand. Right? Because that would be very impractical.”

His amber eyes glint with something you’ve decided is the closest he’ll get to open amusement, brow raising slightly. “Why waste a good motive?” He counters, “looks like you’re catching on.” You force a groan, if only in attempts to lighten the mood from whatever dark grave it had settled into, and you reluctantly get to your feet, taking it slow incase your head starts swimming again. “What is it this time?” Eris nods to the tree that looks to have been recently cut down, the counterpart to the trunk you’re sat upon. “I want you to try touching the bark,” he instructs, and you look at him quizzically. Seems easy enough.

You watch him questioningly as you stand and make your way over to the tree, putting your hands down.

“Done?” You say slowly, confusion blatant in the furrow of your brows as you stare at him.

Eris stares at you blankly, before raising his palm to cover the lower portion of his features, concealing his mouth. “Using your magic,” he adds disbelievingly, mouth still covered.

You blink, then flush with embarrassment, hand covering your own mouth as laughter bubbles up from your chest. “Oh,” you manage, shoulders shaking lightly, not helped by the matching amusement reflecting in his amber eyes—amusement he’s struggling to conceal. “I thought—” you break off, a smile stretching wide behind your palm, chest stuttering with mirth. “I thought you meant I just had to touch it.” He shakes his head, seemingly beyond speech. “You want to see how the bark reacts when I touch it with my magic,” you clarify, nodding your head, still trying to tamp down the laughter that’s heating your eyes faintly. He confirms with a slight nod of his head, and you take a deep breath, trying to sober up. “I see,” you nod again, at last recovered enough to lower your hands to remove your gloves, a smile still faintly curving your lips. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Why would I ask you to touch a tree?” Eris asks from somewhere at your back, tone almost settled back to his usual drawl, dripping of disapproval. “I’m tired,” you reply, not nearly as practiced as he is at keeping your tone neutral as you glance at him over your shoulder, “you should have clarified better.” Eris shakes his head, before nodding to the tree trunk.

You take in a breath, returning to look at the bark—what would happen if you touched it?

Closing your eyes briefly, you steady out your breaths, inhaling slow and deep, feeling your shoulders lose their tension before reopening your eyes. Focusing on the bark again now that you’re settled. “What should I do?” You ask, not taking your gaze from the tree or your hands.

“Try thinking about different things, exploring how they make you feel,” he replies steadily. How helpful, you think, but leave the comment unvoiced—you’re trying to concentrate. You think about how the light had appeared before, when he’d gotten you to briefly sustain it. It had hurt at first, you’d had the chance to realise, but after the initial rush of pain, the creak of bones and your groaning carpals, it had faded more into a slight tingle, like your fingers had fallen asleep, wrapped in a vague warmth.

You swallow thickly, thinking about the flat-topped ring in your pocket, the absence of weight in your ears, how they correlate. You don’t regret the decision to sell them off, to your slight surprise. More indifferent to the change, if not slightly excited at your choice. Doing something for yourself, on your own, that nobody knew about. It’s nice, having secrets.

“Now press them to the bark,” Eris instructs, and you look down in surprise to spot the faint greenish-gold glow weaving between your fingers—almost like fish slowly weaving throughout water as they struggle upstream, but less frenetic. Slowly, keeping your breathing steady, you press your palms against the bark, palms shaking slightly as the light flickers, almost flinching slightly as it hesitantly makes contact with the new surface.

You jerk away when something lances up your wrist, stinging pain spearing beneath your skin as the tang of copper bursts in the air. The magic extinguishes in an instant, snuffed out with a single recoiling thought, and your breathing loses its pattern as you glance down at your right palm. What looks like a popped blister sits on the heel of your hand, except the liquid that gleams had a red tint to it, mixed with blood. You sigh heavily, left hand holding your right wrist lightly, thumb pressing the flesh just below the blister, watching as blood rises to the surface. The skin around it is flakier than before, a little discoloured, and you spot a mole at the knuckle of your little finger, poking meekly out from the skin, as if worried over being spotted and pulled away.

Eris walks up to your side, glancing down at the bark, the absence of any sort of change. It looks exactly the same. “I guess nothing happened,” you hedge, glancing warily down at the tree, searching for some kind of change.

Eris is quiet, and you at last turn to peer up at him, wondering what he’s thinking. His silence is waring. Amber eyes latch with your own, narrowed and slightly impatient, before the emotion is swiftly wrapped away. “I had hoped to make more progress,” he muses lowly, and you regard him with caution at the hushed tone. His eyes gleam with something you can’t figure out, wariness intensifying as he pulls something from his pocket—a small silk pouch.

You tilt your head, brows furrowed, “what is that?”

His lips sharpen at the edges, and tension coils beneath your skin—that type of expression is never good. “Open it,” he instructs simply, and you cautiously take it from his fingers, eyeing him again before carefully pulling the strings open, tipping the contents out into your palm. You blink as you take in the smooth band of metal, silver and gleaming against the flaws of your skin. “A…ring?” You ask, peering up at him questioningly. He nods, and you suppress your jolt when his fingers brush over your knuckles, plucking the band up and watching you intently as he smoothly slides it down to the base of the pointer finger on your left hand.

His demeanour has noticeably shifted, and your brows narrow further, suspicion roiling in your gut.

“It’ll help with keeping your magic calmer,” he explains lowly, secretively, and you manage a nod, confusion running rampant in your blood stream. “How so?” You ask, glancing down at the band, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist to keep you from moving. “You have a habit of straining yourself to keep the full force of your power from coming out,” he answers, thumb brushing your knuckle, and this time you glare up at him. His mouth only sharpens, amber eyes glinting with something that has the hairs raising at the nape of your neck. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how the Illyrians use siphons—so their raw type of magic doesn’t destroy everything around them?” You nod, tension lessening, again glancing down to the band. “Think of it like that—now you don’t have to waste concentration on keeping it all in check.”

He releases your hand, and you pull it closer to look at the silver, angling your head a little, understanding this must have been what that exchange had been about, when he’d gone down that dim, dark alleyway into the hidden chamber. “So it’s…a magic ring?” You ask, brows scrunched together as you look up at him. He raises a brow, “how astute of you.” You glare, lips curving faintly at the familiar intonation.

You swallow, stepping back a little, nodding your head. “I guess…” you breathe deeply, “as good a time as any.” You pull the flat-topped ring from your own pocket, and extend it toward him. “I saw this the other day in the market,” you say honestly, watching as his expression shifts, brow raising as he opens his palm. “It reminded me of you a little, and I probably won’t see you over the solstice anyway, so might as well give it to you now.”

Eris takes the ring, examining it, the small carving of the fox set in sterling silver. “A rather unique gift,” he muses, making the edges of your mouth curve.

“If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it,” you say, smiling lightly, “I just wanted to get it.” Though to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to despise it, sliding it over the thumb of his right hand—it seems to actually fit.

That viper’s smile returns to his sharpened mouth, eyes glinting again. “I don’t think your family would approve of a gift like this,” he drawls, more clearly than before, causing you to cock your head in question.

Lips fashion themselves into a razor-sharp grin, the expression more vulpine than fae.

“Isn’t that right, Shadowsinger?”

————

Eris raises his gaze to the forest, how the trees had whispered to him, calling out about the figure stalking their movements. Really, the shadowsinger should know not to hunt outside his own territory. The hulking, shadowy figure steps silently out into the clearing, with a quiet that’s been well-earned by the Spymaster of the Night Court.

Powerful wings are pulled to his body in traditional Illyrian fashion, save for the darkness wreathing the gleaming talons at their peaks, cold hazel eyes clashing with Eris’ own. Marking what the Spymaster has come for. It’s proximity to the male he hates viciously, bloodily, gruesomely.

“Shouldn’t you know not to sneak around in the shadows by now?” Eris drawls, hands settling around its shoulders, feeling stone-tight tension beneath his palms. Its magic fading, unable to winnow two people away, so left trapped in the clearing as the male prowls closer.

“Eris,” the Spymaster greets coldly, darkness unspooling upon the ground he treads, coming to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Not close enough for hand-to-hand combat, but too nearby for a proper display of magic. At least he’s smart enough to recognise he’s at a disadvantage in a foreign court—uninvited, at that. “Shouldn’t you know the consequences of displacing a member of Rhys’ court?” The Spymaster questions, lethally quiet.

Tremors flutter beneath Eris’ hands, still gripping her shoulders to keep her in place, and he glances down, only to find her already watching him. If it weren’t for the tremors, she would be as still as death. Her brows lifted and slightly curved, mouth pointed down at the edges. Betrayal stark in her normally bright eyes.

“You’re clearly uninformed,” Eris muses, pulling away from her scared eyes to meet cutting hazel. “This is a perfectly amicable meeting, isn’t it, cygnet?”

The Spymaster’s canines flash at the pet-name, the blatant taunt, the insinuation he’s made that she would choose himself over the Spymaster. That well-concealed wrath suffers a blow when she raises her hands to grip his wrists, nothing demanding about the touch—it’s a weak hold. As if asking for attention.

“Amicable or not,” the Spymaster says, expression stony, “you’ll return her. Unless you want Rhys to know about this abduction?” Eris shrugs, amusement sharpening his mouth as he selects his words carefully, “I’m not her keeper. She will return when she likes.” By the looks of it, the arrow lands, pupils constricting as the Spymaster takes a menacing step closer.

————

Your ears have hollowed out, stomach swallowing your heart. A quiet kind of panic tightening through your chest, pulse spiking. Dread sluicing through the rope holding you taut.

You’re staring up at him, holding on with as much strength as you can manage as a strange emotion rushes through your blood, softening your muscles until you’re struggling to stand, pushing every pleading word you’ve ever read into your eyes, silently begging for him to do something. To keep you from facing him on your own.

You know how easy it is for him to shatter you.

Amber eyes lower to yours, walls risen against Azriel’s presence, and your fingers stutter over the cuffs of his tunic, before the last of your strength drains. They’re glinting again with that challenge, and in the very back of your mind you can understand he’s using this as just another training exercise, but it’s hard to focus on through the ringing in your ears, that strange quiet that’s so loud it drowns out every other thought, like a thousand whispers hissing instructions too swiftly, too viciously for you to make them out, coming together in a swirling spiral that’s pulling you under.

Eris’ mouth is moving, eyes peering at something behind you, but you’re fine not hearing. Would prefer to fade from the world, to slip away quietly, unnoticed and un-missed. But then amber again returns to you, and with it sound comes crashing in too. “Pack up,” Eris orders, and you blink, his hands tightening on your shoulders as he feels the slight sway of your body.

“She’ll take a while,” Eris drawls, glancing back at the Shadowsinger—your stomach lurches—who remains a heavy presence at your back. “You may be unwelcome, but let’s not waste this opportunity. Using your General’s absence as an excuse not to meet has lost its worth. You will suffice.”

————

You feel half-awake as you pack your things, watching from some far away place as you fold clothes meticulously, with much more care than you usually would, taking your time gathering the few items you brought.

Clothes, an empty blue box, the thickly bound volume. A thin wooden box about the length of your arm, a note attached atop.

Use it wisely.

You pack the box in your bag, recognising the elegant script.

————

Azriel had followed silently, concealed within Eris’s shadow as he’d strode through the stretching hallways, leading the way to his own chambers, where they will be able to speak freely and most importantly, privately. Tension had simmered beneath his war-roughened skin the entire time, disliking even having to blend his shadows with the heirling’s, but it’s an intimacy he’s forced to yield.

The room Eris takes him to is big, to say the least, and open, with a large bed against a wall, a wooden chest at its foot, his desk adjacent so natural light fills the cavernous room—one that’s above ground. It’s here he emerges from shadow, filling space just beside the large wooden chest, an unlit fire quite a way to his left. Eris takes his time walking around the desk, sitting down comfortably, having the nerve to look relaxed—prick.

“So,” Eris begins, and Azriel bites against the urge to grind his teeth at the smug tone. “She ran away from you. Took her long enough.”

“How long have you been planning this?” Azriel asks coldly, completing a triple check of the room, making sure there’s no one else around. “You act like it was my idea,” the autumn heir drawls, successfully snaring his attention, something foul rising at the back of his throat at the implication. Likely the confirmation he needs that she had indeed left of her own volition. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You want me to believe she came all this way on a hope that you’d provide temporary asylum?” Azriel asks, rooting deeper. “She has a smart head on her shoulders,” Eris drawls, amusement glinting in sharp, amber eyes, “she knows how to bargain.”

His blood ices over, skin turning cold at the wording, demeanour plunging as his shadows deepen. “You made a bargain with her?” Azriel growls, pulse spiking. If a bargain has already been made… But Eris waves his hand, enough of a light dismissal for Azriel to figure she hasn’t mentioned Elain’s vision to him. One small ray of light amongst the storming thunder clouds she’s already brought upon herself.

“Do you find it so unbelievable that she might be capable of making arrangements on her own? Why do you assume I had any hand in it?” Eris drawls, making that glittering rage sharpen into razor-tipped icicles, poised to carve and slice. “You’re a conniving bastard,” Azriel says lowly, violence glinting in his hazel eyes, “she wouldn’t have come to you without some prompting.”

“You think I tricked her?” Eris muses, a trace of humour in his tone, Azriel’s brows narrowing with detestation. “What would I get out of that, unless she was complicit? I have no way of forcing her magic out of her, she has to want that on her own—as much as that might irritate Rhys.”

Loathing simmers in Azriel’s chest, but he remains quiet, allowing Eris to talk so he can gather as much information as he can from both sides. So he can compare her side with his later.

“I’m sure after Nesta Archeron, Rhys would be eager to find out what other weapons he might have at his disposal.”

“She isn’t a weapon,” Azriel snarls lowly, fury held back by straining iron manacles.

“But she could become one,” Eris counters, tone shifting to something more serious, and Azriel stiffens. “The timing’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Her magic only now coming through? After two years?”

“That’s not for you to speculate on.”

“Even without an alliance, it is a matter of concern,” Eris growls, brows narrowing as ire blazes in his eyes, glowing like freshly forged steel. “Why doesn’t she know anything?”

Azriel growls in warning, violence itching at his fingers, fists aching to slam down. Sparks crackle in the air, his own intentions seemingly reflected in the male before him. “You don’t have the luxury to ignore this pathway,” Eris growls lowly, “choosing to turn a blind eye would be damning.”

“She has her own problems to deal with,” Azriel snarls lowly, “you do not get to make that call.”

“I will make the call if Rhys doesn’t,” Eris snarls back, canines flashing viciously, “she could use some toughening up.”

“You don’t know enough to make an informed choice,” Azriel mutters coldly.

“Then Rhys had better hurry up. It’s not as though he’s unaccustomed to having to make decisions like this. What’s taking him so long?”

Azriel keeps still, features neutral, refusing to let even a hint of emotion appear in his blank expression.

Eris’ eyes narrow, sensing he’s being denied information. Vulpine senses picking up on a weak spot. Unnervingly keen. Then he blinks, leaning back in his chair, torso losing tension. “You haven’t told him.” Despite the utter neutrality, Azriel knows he’s figured it out. The heirling nods, a cynical curve to his sharpened mouth. “She didn’t give the impression she’d willingly display her failures to you.”

“They aren’t failures,” Azriel mutters, ice burning in his eyes as he watches Eris with a glacial look.

“No? Because the control over her magic was pretty pathetic to me,” Eris replies lowly.

Azriel snarls, low and threatening, shadows concentrating into a darkness worthy of the Night Court’s Spymaster, deep and deadly as they writhe in warning. “I didn’t realise she had you so tightly wrapped around her flaky little finger,” Eris croons, and darkness rears back, preparing to strike, when three quiet taps are landed to the door, meagre and unimposing.

————

You peek your head into his chambers, bag slung over your shoulder as you pause on the threshold.

Tension is blatant in Azriel’s shoulders, wings slightly flared, an icy emotion tucked between the stern set of his brows, shadows darker—more frenetic—than they usually are. Looking over to Eris, you can see how he’s leaned back in his chair, that taunting glint in his naturally piercing gaze, and you can guess fairly easily the conversation they were having was not a friendly one—even without the aid of body language.

Maybe they were discussing Court matters.

“I—…Should I wait out—”

“Come in,” Eris orders, cutting you off, and your brows narrow a little at the tone, before softening out again, remembering who else is present. You shut the door behind yourself, turning your back to them to make sure it clicks shut quietly, then walking further into the room, stood a little distance from Azriel, not wanting to encroach on his space while he’s surely furious with you. At the very least immensely disappointed.

“Took you long enough,” Eris drawls, bringing your attention away from Azriel to meet his cutting gaze. Well, your eyes meet his. It’s practically impossible to not focus on the male at your right. You’re not sure if you're imagining the displeasure rippling from him, but you can only hope Eris hasn’t intentionally stirred things up. You know you won’t be able to protect yourself against whatever words he has for you after your abrupt departure.

“You haven’t left any tatters behind?” Eris asks, and a slight scowl dips your brows.

“I have everything,” you reply, readjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder.

“Excellent. Then you can leave.”

You blink at the abrupt dismissal, glancing at him warily. “Weren’t you discussing something?” You ask Eris hesitantly, cautious about prodding where you aren’t welcome. “We were,” Eris replies, a viper’s smile on his sharp lips, amber eyes cutting to the male at your right. “But it appears your Spymaster doesn’t think you’re trustworthy enough.” It’s obviously a manipulation of truth, but that doesn’t make it easy to hear, heart hollowing out, spine losing a bit of rigidity.

“And who could blame him,” Eris continues, “you haven’t exactly been particularly honest with him, have you, cygnet?”

Your lips purse, averting your eyes from both of them, peering at the floorboards to your left, shame tightening around your throat. “Seems logical enough,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice steady. You’d rather vanish right then and there, wiped clean from memory and existence than allow a tremor into your voice.

You’ve gotten yourself into this situation. Self-pity won’t fix anything.

“Then that is that,” Eris muses, pulling you from your thoughts. Azriel shifts, not saying another word to either of you as he makes for the door, and you glance at Eris a little longer, searching for a way back. He quirks a taunting brow, resting his jaw on his right hand, the flat-topped band of sterling silver catching the light with the motion. Your thumb brushes the ring on your own finger, before you turn, making for the door where Azriel’s waiting to take you back.

Back to the Night Court.

Back to Velaris.

Back to your family.

Back to be judged.

————

It was unnerving how alone you’d felt on the way out of the palace. Even knowing he was present, slipping through shadows, you couldn’t sense a single thing, and on more than one occasion had glanced around, worriedly trying to find him—but nothing.

It wasn’t until you passed the walls, heading out into the forest again that he emerged—silent and looming—unable to hear his footsteps even when he was right beside you. Unnervingly ghost-like.

You wait for him to speak, to say whatever it is that’ll inevitably bring tears to your skin, but he’s completely silent, leading the way. Knowing you’ll follow behind. Knowing you won’t speak to him until he initiates.

You’d been brought here by winnowing, but he makes no move to wrap either of you in his shadows, and a small part of you whispers that he wouldn’t want you to contaminate them. You try to ignore that part, but even the quietest voice will be heard over silence. Instead the tales spin deeper, that he hadn’t even wanted to retrieve you, content to have you out of the way, out of the Night Court, away from his home. At least that way there’d be no chance of his prophesied death coming to pass.

He’d be safe, and you wouldn’t be bothering him.

Wouldn’t be bothering any of them.

He walks deeper into the forest, silent and steadfast, while you watch as his boots tread through the fallen leaves, not daring to look any higher in case it disgusts him further. You have no concept of how long you follow after him for—long enough your feet begin to ache lightly, but you push through it—silently waiting for the conversation to start. For the first question to be asked. For the first blow to be landed.

Azriel doesn’t stop when you try to shift your bag to the other shoulder, your right one aching, and something in your stomach drops when your pace slows but his remains constant, so you hurriedly finish the switch, and make an effort to catch up, careful not to trip. Hunger gnaws at your bones, but you keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt his pace. It’s not until your stomach audibly protests that he comes to a pause, glancing over his shoulder to you, and you swiftly duck your head, averting your eyes from his painfully familiar hazel set. Breaths deepening as you come to a stop with him.

“When did you eat last?” He asks. The first words he’s said to you.

“Yesterday,” you answer quietly, pressure tight across your chest as you try to keep your breaths quiet but even. “Do you have food on you?” He asks. You nod. You’d wrapped up a pastry from breakfast, it being the only thing you’d be able to savour. Even years later, the habit of not wasting food still remains prominent.

His boots shift, turning to face forward as he begins walking again. You follow silently, seeing no point in nodding or replying. It’s not like you’re going to do anything else. “There’s a clearing up here. You can eat there.”

Azriel pauses beside a particularly large oak tree, and you swallow, and you habitually consider where the least offensive place to sit would be. So you’re nicely out of his way. The ground is muddy, so you’re forced to follow beside his footsteps to the oak, setting as silently as you can on one large branch that’s gnarled and shoved through the earth to curl into a large seat.

Your pulse spikes, wondering if this will be where you have the one-sided discussion, perching the bag on your legs, searching through for the little pastry. It’s made harder by your bare hands, how every piece of fabric seems to bite at your skin with each brush, piercing painfully as you search, until you spot the orange scarf, pulling it out to find the pastry wrapped in a napkin.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel like you’re wasting time.

You peer at the pastry in your hands, not particularly keen on eating it. You’re close enough to nausea as is, and don’t want to tempt fate with giving your stomach something to regurgitate. But it would be weird to put it away now, so you’ll just have to take small bites. Hope that you can stomach it. A few minutes pass, but you’ve hardly made a noticeable dent in the food, guilt weighing on your bones, pausing between each mouthful to peer around the clearing dully.

Your fingers fumble a little when Azriel moves, settling on the root beside you, your muscles stitching themselves taut, and you hastily shift yourself tighter so he has his space. Almost dropping the pastry in your stuttering movements.

He’s quiet for a bit, and you swallow thickly, attempting to focus on the food before you so as not to stare, but internally you can feel the beats passing, heart ticking tighter…tighter…

“Why did you leave?” He asks quietly.

You still, able to feel the narrow wooden box digging into your thighs. Pausing as the tension abates a little, like how you imagine it would feel to watch an arrow loose from a bow, watching it arc in the sky, then slowly plummet down, seeking out its target. The breath that would breathe out in relief once it embedded itself in flesh, those few, stretching moments at last having come to an end, and one can relax into the clarity of the pain. The certainty of the wound.

“I wanted to get out,” you mumble thickly, keeping the shake from your voice.

“So you went to him?” Azriel asks. You head lowers a little in sorrow.

Where else were you supposed to go?

“You could have asked to be taken somewhere,” he says quietly, and guilt tightens itself around your throat. Is there any way to explain to him why you’d left when you hardly understand it yourself? It had been a crescendo of nerves, of bottled up worries tightening with pressure, like air being blown into a brown paper bag until it burst. Is there any way to tell him you’d like to be able to ask things of him, but in truth you’d rather be slowly pulled apart by pressure than worry him with pointless tasks that only serve your benefit? How can you ever hope to speak with him honestly, when your very heart seems to be the thing warning you away—that same heart that wants to press into him, to beg and cry for forgiveness and reassurance.

“At least have the decency to answer,” he says quietly when you don’t respond, and you feel the small tremor that shudders up your throat, fearing the oncoming disaster. “I wanted to go on my own,” you get out, words softer than a whisper.

He’s quiet, and you wonder if that’s the end of the discussion for now.

But, “did you think at all about what the consequences would be from going to him?” He asks, gaze ahead, but attention pressing down on you. “Or did you forget you have people around you, that your actions impact.”

Your grip loosens on the pastry, choosing to wrap it back up in the napkin, fingers shaking slightly. A lump rising in your throat.

“Answer,” he murmurs, promptingly.

“I just wanted to go,” you whisper hoarsely, fingers wringing together. “I thought—… I thought it would be better if I was fur—… If I was gone.”

“Are you going to tell Mor where you went?” He questions softly. “Or did you not think about that part either?”

“I made progress,” you try, raising your gaze to his. “I can summon it, if I concentrate.”

His lips remain unmoving, but his eyes…gods, his eyes. You betrayed her, you know. All of them.

Breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away. Unable to face him. It. Any of it.

“Why is it so bad?” You ask quietly. “All I did was leave for a little under a week. I was trying to get better.”

“Stop. Lying,” he mutters lowly, blood freezing in your veins, fingers wringing together. Silence ticks by, and you wonder if he can hear the humiliatingly loud pulse of your heart, erratic and stumbling as it usually does around him. You don’t think he’s ever so obviously shown what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling.

Why is this the first way you see it?

Why is this the first time he allows it?

“Just tell me what you want,” you ask quietly, voice faltering as you stare at him helplessly. “You’re never happy with anything I do,” you manage, trembling with growing turmoil, “so please, just tell me what you want, and put me out of my misery.”

He exhales harshly, leaning back into the trunk, lips tugged down at the corners, reproach tucked between his brows, so rarely softened by charm anymore. At least not while you’re around. Almost never when you’re around.

“I don’t feel I should have to tell you how you fucked up here,” he replies lowly, and you push back on the flinch at the crude wording. “You made a bad choice.”

“Imagine how much worse the others were,” you reply lowly, a hint of resentment—not directed at him—present in your tone. He stiffens at your side, then his gaze slides slowly over to you, lethal and condemning, but it’s like you can’t look away. You physically can’t duck your head, or shy away. “You’re really joking at a time like this?”

You meet his eyes fully, presently, taking him in against the darkening sky, winter sun already on the way out for the day, the chill more than prominent, but you don’t dare reach for the scarf in your bag. “Tell me what you want,” you repeat softly, no louder than a last breath on dying lips.

“I want you to be honest,” he replies, brows narrowing, “for once, apparently.”

“About what?”

“Why you went to him.” He nearly spits, unable to entirely keep his ire at bay, something passing behind his eyes.

You’re quiet. Silent.

Then you lean back into the trunk of the tree, head tilting back into the rough bark, hands settling numbly in your lap. Shoulders slope, and you peer up into the grey sky, gloomy and heavy with unshed tears. Thick and thunderous. Fitting for the storm that’s on its way.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper, hardly a breath from your lips, a prayer whisked away by the static air. He’s silent, and your throat closes up. “Azriel,” your murmur, swallowing thickly. “Please.”

Moments tick by, stretching and warping as your heart thumps heavily in your chest, utterly bewitched, utterly at his mercy. It’s exhausting.

He sighs, and you try not to stiffen as he glances over to you, feeling that familiar prickle of skin as lovely hazel settles on you. A few warm rays making it through the dim clouds before being frozen off by the icy breeze. Winter’s most definitely on its way.

“I won’t be angry,” he murmurs softly. “Just…talk to me. Like you used to.”

Your arms fold over your chest, closing in on yourself, feet pressing together as you hunch over the bag in your lap, peering at the muddy ground. The smell of parchment rises from your memories, dusty and familiar, but lacking the warmth of nostalgia. Like the bitterness of a tea left to steep for too long, so it dries out your throat, eyes watering from its ticklish bite.

“I couldn’t do it on my own,” you admit quietly. Fingers brushing your knuckles. Raw and flaky.

The thoughts swirl in the back of your mind, ready to roar and rage, becoming so loud they’re deafening, suddenly cutting quiet so fast you have no desire to understand what it means when the waters draw back. What it means when the sea itself shrinks away, leaving a barren and washed-up beach.

“But, the idea of trying in front of you…any of you…and then falling flat at such a small hurdle…” You look to your left, away from him, pulling tighter into yourself. Can anything good come of this kind of honestly? With him?

“I don’t have much anymore, Azriel,” you breathe lowly, struggling silently with the humiliating vulnerability. How bare you are, just waiting for steel to pierce your skin. Like tossing yourself over a cliff and hoping the jagged rocks far below will soften your fall.

“I just wanted to keep my dignity. The scraps left of it after…what happened…”

Your toes curl in your shoes, feet crossed, feeling as though your heart is trying to cave in on itself, swallowed by a vacuum suctioning you back down with the force of a flooded spring river.

“So it was better to fail in front of Eris?”

“But I don’t owe him success,” you argue uselessly, eyes squeezing shut in attempts to keep the tears at bay as your head falls into your hands. “I don’t—…I don’t owe him anything.”

“You don’t owe us anything either,” he replies.

“I owe my entire life to you,” you nearly hiss, spine curving in as your brows cramp together, jaw wound so tight you feel like a tooth might crack beneath the intense pressure, nails pressing into the soft skin of your brow.

“Feyre was the one who saved the three of you,” he reminds quietly, slowly, but you’re shaking your head. Staring down into your lap, tension rippling so clearly from your bunched up form Azriel considers laying a hand on your trembling shoulder as if to pull you from a trance. “No. I know, but…” Your fingers press into your eyes, unable to articulate what you can feel in your stomach. “If she hadn’t gone to Night,” you breathe heavily, shakily, “if she hadn’t gone here, we’d still be back there, entirely human, and I—… I wasn’t going to last much longer there.”

Azriel pauses at your side, taking on the information silently. “You were ill?” He asks softly—he’d had no idea about that. Your shoulders shake, and he can’t tell if it’s with laughter or muffled sobs. Maybe a little of both.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “I don’t know enough about medicine to say, but I…” You shake your head again, and he’s able to sense that’s as much as he’ll get. It’s been over two years, and this is the first he’s hearing of it even in vague detail—he knows this isn’t something he can press.

“It doesn’t matter now,” you say with rueful conviction, palms pushing wetness from your cheeks, spine straightening before collapsing back against the trunk. Tired and exhausted. “We’re out. I don’t need to do anything now.”

Azriel’s brow furrows. “You’re content to stay in your room and rot away?”

You rest your head in your hands, leaning over the bag, staring down into its contents. What else is there?

“You could spend time with your family, for starters,” he replies and you aren’t sure if you imagine the note of impatience in his voice. “Your sisters worry about you a lot. It’s not good for you to be up in that room all the time.”

“Well it seems every time I come out of that room I somehow end up getting in your way.”

“Is that what this is about?” He asks abruptly, and your lips press together, lower one curving over. “I thought we sorted that out,” he says quietly, calming the sharpness of his tone, hearing it even in his own ears, glancing over your hunched figure. “We did,” you reply, muffled by your arms, voice turning watery as you ease in a short breath. “We did.”

A beat passes, then tension stutters in your chest as he gently lays his palm over your shoulder. “Please just talk to me,” he says softly, and you struggle to keep your breaths even as your lungs shudder beneath that touch. After spending so long wanting it…craving it…convinced feeling how gentle his touch could be over and against your skin would fix everything…even temporarily… You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “If not me, then Elain, or Feyre, or Nesta,” he pauses, “…Bas.”

You aren’t paying much attention, though, thankful for the way your mind melts beneath the warmth of his palm. How heat is sinking into your skin, slowly spreading through your shoulder as your muscles thaw. Pressure is lessened, and the tension that had been stitching the tendon taut loosens, allowing breath the ease in and out of your lungs with tiring relief. You could deflate with fatigue. Just turn limp and boneless, better for absorbing impact than having it crack against you.

“Just talk with us some more so this doesn’t happen again,” he urges quietly. “Come down to the river house—you know Feyre keeps your room open—or join us for dinner. At least try. If that doesn’t work, we can find something else.”

You don’t reply. Just remain tucked away from the world. Content to remain within your small shell as long as you can keep that warmth on your shoulder.

The pressure lightens, and your heart hides away as his hand slips from your shoulder, leaving your skin starkly cold with the absence of his presence.

“I’m sorry for what I…for how things transpired. Between…us,” Azriel murmurs, unsure how much to say, to not bring up past pains, especially if they aren’t as healed as you’ve led him to believe. He’s starting to become unsure what to believe about you—he hadn’t ever considered you might run from them. How bad things might have become to force you into that position. Are things that bad?

“I’m sorry, too,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse, and Azriel listens attentively. “I shouldn’t have told you how I felt, in the library. I shouldn’t have made my feelings your problem.”

“They aren’t,” he says softly, but you shake your head as if you haven’t heard him.

“I’m sorry.”

————

He tries speaking twice more on the way back, but the conversations lead nowhere, no longer flourishing as they had, once upon a time. So long in the past they feel coloured by age. Turned stiff and yellow at the edges.

He tries slowing his pace so she’ll walk at his side, but she just drops further back, silently pressing between his footsteps as she trails, head kept down to remain focused on taking one step at a time. The shadow that is cast across her face from the down-tilted angle of her head is deeper than he would have expected.

When he hears her shifting the bag across her shoulders for the third time, he quietly plies the straps from her hands, relieving her of the physical weight. She makes no obvious protest, aside from the stiffening of her body at his approach, but he can spot the relief when he takes the bag. Moving it to his own shoulder, he can make out what feels like a wooden box, the kind made to keep a weapon from being damaged. The thought gives rise to instinctive alarm.

Why might she have a weapon in her bag?

His shadows subtly shift at his back, rising secretively to examine her. Questions begin rising to his mind: unkind, unfair questions that are habitual in his line of work. He tries to shake them off, but they remain firmly rooted in his mind, burrowing deeper with each stride that has the narrow box digging into his side, as if already trying to burrow into his flesh.

How did she know Eris would take her in? How could she possibly guarantee making the trek across Prythian over night would pay off? It’s an absurd risk to take, regardless of circumstance. He can think of answers to those questions, but they don’t sit well with him. An answer to why she might be so familiar with Eris supposing they’ve spoken less than a handful of times. A certainty she must have possessed to take the risk that isn’t one she would have from that little contact. And if she’s hiding how much contact she might’ve had with him…

She was already hiding her magic from them…then there’s the prophecy too. Bas, and the illness. Why were these things she hadn’t mentioned? He can understand the recent silence, but why not before…? Regardless of immediate relevance, it shows she’s prone to secret-keeping.

Azriel eases in a steadying breath, descending into a calm, cold mental state. Sinking into indifferent objectivity.

She isn’t stupid. Far from it, having spent so much time in the library, where there’s all kinds of information just ripe for the picking. And Eris isn’t stupid, either. If he saw a weak spot, he’d go for it. And if Eris went for her, would she be able to resist something she was unable to see for what it truly was?

Azriel’s skin goes a little cold, reminded of the prophecy.

He will die, and it will be by her hand.

He supposes he can only control how much impact it will have on those around him. If Eris has managed to wrap her up in some slow-moving scheme…but that’s just speculation. Still, his instincts are telling him something is wrong with the narrow wooden box, one that must have come from Eris. A box fashioned like those to hold weapons. From Eris. To the female who will kill him.

He should ask her what it is.

Azriel would’ve shaken his head if those habits hadn’t been crushed out of him centuries ago. He can’t just ask her if she’s planning to kill him.

But it would allow a chance for her to explain what’s in the weapon case.

But it would alert her to his knowing about the blade inside her bag. She’d wanted to hide her magic from the start, and earlier she’d mentioned she’d gotten further…how much further? If it’s magic any similar to Nesta’s, it would be unwise to have a confrontation here, alone. Still within Autumn Court territory.

But it would be more dangerous to bring her back to Velaris. To bring her back into the beating heart of the Night Court where her detonation would be fatal.

Azriel blinks, and returns back into the waning light of day—it’ll soon be night.

What can he do, really? If he’s destined to die….who is he to try and get in the way of the Mother? Would he kill her to save his own life? Is that what he would do in order to live a little longer, before a new threat looms to end him? He wants to kill her no more than he desires his own death.

But if it came down to it…what would he choose?

His shadows observe her silently, as they had been throughout his internal struggle. He focuses on what he can see, discarding the lens of suspicion that’s been embedded in him as Spymaster, centuries of limited trust having an impact on his mind.

All he sees is a young woman walking through a dark forest, following him off the pathway.

Internally, he sighs—there always seems to be a constant flow of problems as of late, and peace seems to be persistently remaining just out of reach. A few more years, and then there will be peace; a few more political aggressions to navigate, and then they can rest; just one more person to heal, and then they can be happy. When will the peace truly arrive, though? Is it all wishful thinking? An imagined utopia that will make every sin he’s committed acceptable? Is it just his mind finding more excuses to justify the things he’s done in the name of protecting his family and court?

She’s just one more disturbance, keeping peace from settling.

Azriel swallows, thinking heavily. Even if she was out of the way, there would still be everything else to deal with. Will this problem be the last one, or will a new threat fall in to fill the space of the old one? Hasn’t it been long enough, by now? Hasn’t he done enough?

Shadows check on her again, her head hanging silently, those once bright eyes dull and dark as they follow numbly in his footsteps. The female with whom he’d spent so many afternoons with discussing things in the library…where is she? Is he at fault for her disappearance?

Closing his eyes briefly to relieve the ache that’s been slowly building just below his brows, he allows himself to ponder.

Is it pointless to try and salvage their relationship?

Would it be better if she did kill him?

————

The storm clouds have gathered, full and swollen with rain and thunder. No lightening though. Lightening would suggest some kind of magnificence, and there’s nothing magnificent about the cool temperature of your blood, nor the dull buzz in the back of your mind. The overwhelming grey of your surroundings as you emerge from the tunnel.

The air is drier in the Night Court, you vaguely realise. No dampness nor humidity that you’d grown subconsciously accustomed to from less than a week’s stay in Autumn. A small break of sunshine between the dismay grey you’d all grown so accustomed to for the first few months of the year, back when you were human. Weak, fallible humans, but simpler. Quiet and peaceful, even if that silence was from the constant prowl of starvation. It had been easier to bear.

You don’t wait to see if Azriel will try to speak again once he’s flown the both of you back up to the House of Wind, silently turning your back to trace the familiar halls of the House, moving without awareness, muscle memory guiding you down the corridors, past the tables littered with napkins and cutlery, past the shelves displaying pale crockery and silver chalices, past the chest with a few discarded daggers atop, arrowheads littered haphazardly across the surface as if someone had cast them down carelessly.

The room is greyer than you remember, too tidy to be a lived in space, but it has those reminders—the gifts you were given, and you absently touch your earlobe, squeezing it between your finger and thumb.

Azriel pauses at the threshold, taking the bag off his shoulder. Does he know you sold the earrings? Those pretty, pretty earrings? Probably some of the nicest things you could have believed to be your own.

They must be getting tired by now. All of them.

Blonde hair and sparkling eyes pass dully through your mind, and your heart dies a little more, understanding how you’ve ruined the small blessing. There’s no coming back from what you’ve done—not without significant work, at least, and you’re so tired. In your bones, in your eyes, in your mind. You’ve lived through a lot, but thanks to immortality, you have no choice but to live through more. A body being dragged through the mud, carried towards a grave that was never dug.

Azriel’s mouth is moving, has been moving since he removed the bag from his shoulder, but you haven’t been hearing. Mind too tired and numb to manage focus, grasping only basic colours and lines.

He’s looking at you, and you’re looking back, but not into his eyes. His words pass through your mind meaninglessly, and you wonder if you’re real. A strange pressure is wrapping its tingling fingers around your skull, squeezing like you’re wearing a hat that’s a little too tight. It will take a lot of work to fix what you’ve done. A lot of work you can’t manage. A debt that deepens faster than you can repay it. A sink draining faster than you can fill it. Blood cooling faster than you can stop it.

Maybe it would be better to let it cool, for a while.

————

Azriel doesn’t feel comfortable leaving her in the House alone, with that dull look in her eyes.

He had planned to fly back down to the River House, to let Rhys and Feyre know she was back, and she was safe, to give her some space maybe for an hour or so to let her get her bearings again. Not too long alone, though. That look hadn’t been bright. Instead he ends up slumping into one of the boney, wooden chairs in the kitchen, the House already brewing two cups of tea. He reaches out for Rhys, mentally feeling for the hidden bridge kept open. He finds it almost immediately, and an icy wind slams into him in greeting. Cold, swift, and perfectly telling to his brother’s current temperament.

You’re back.

Azriel bites back on the cringe at the ice in his High Lord’s voice—belying fury. He should have put together Rhys would be furious for Feyre, too, for stirring up this kind of stress for his mate.

She’s with me. How is Feyre?

More furious than I am, though I doubt she’ll show you.

There’s a pause, and Azriel steadies himself.

How is she?

It would be good for her to have company. Preferably in the River House, but if not, then having people up here. This time Azriel pauses, before adding, I think the ward on her room should be removed. So she’ll be able to hear that people are around, should she need them.

He’s met with silence, and Azriel wonders if Rhys is repeating the message back to Feyre, or if he’s simply that furious. A small part of him feels resentment at the constant speculation, that if the matter had been left between him and her then it wouldn’t have gotten so blown out of proportion.

We’ll be up in ten minutes, comes the clipped reply, before the mental bridge is severed. Leaving Azriel no choice but to wait in silence. It will likely be Rhys and Feyre coming up then—knowing she isn’t ready to see all of them so suddenly, though they’ve yet to learn where she’s been.

Feyre will go and speak to her sister.

And Rhys will be the one to speak to him.

What a mess.

The tea has a few minutes left of brewing, and he wonders if the House will demand he be the one to take the mug to her, or if it will be delivered on its own. He’s not sure she would appreciate being disturbed right now.

As if his thoughts summoned her however, he hears quiet footsteps out in one of the hallways, reaching his sharp ears even through the closed doors and secure walls. He listens carefully, but she seems to just be pacing around, not coming toward him, or even really going in any particular direction. They pause, the silence heavy, and Azriel pays full attention. Another minute passes, then another, and another, but he couldn’t have missed those familiar footfalls.

After a fourth minute, he hears them again, ever so slightly heavier than before, and then they cut off abruptly. Sound sliced in two as she closes the door to her room.

Azriel glances over to the brewing tea, then blinks when he realises the House has set it on the table within reach. Just one cup, made with milk and sugar—not the way he likes it.

Looking over to the countertop, his mug remains steeping, steam trailing up from the hot liquid. The House seems to be demanding he take her the tea now.

Azriel shifts in his chair. It isn’t a good idea to disturb her again. He’s trying to give her at least these few minutes to herself, before Feyre arrives with Rhys—and that’s a conversation that might very well stretch hours. There’s a lot to discuss, after all. She’ll need her energy, and he’s probably the last person she wants to—

The mug slams down on the table before him, hot liquid spilling over with the force that it was dropped onto the surface.

He stiffens, watching the mug tensely as if the House might spill it onto his lap. The liquid ripples in the mug, splashing from side to side for longer than it should, before reluctantly calming.

Blowing out a breath, Azriel wraps his hand around the mug’s handle, reluctantly standing from the kitchen table.

If the House is being so adamant about giving her the cup, then he supposes he’ll just have to follow.

He still finds it a little strange, how the House came alive after Nesta lived inside it.

————

Silence hums in your ears, so quiet.

You’ve caused them so much trouble. Irreparably ruined your ties to the people you hadn’t wanted to hinder.

Silently, quietly, you move the bag to your bed, able to even hear the stretch of fabric as you raise it from the unnaturally clean floorboards. Opening it, you begin pulling the first thing you see out—the orange scarf form Autumn that has some small crumbs tucked between its folds, smelling faintly of pastry and something damp. One piece at a time, you make the slow trek to and form the wardrobe, feet unfeeling as they tread numbly across the smooth grain of the wood, mindlessly repeating the to and fro, the mechanical movements of unaware motion, folding fabric and hiding it away.

Your fingers bump the box, surprised by the hard collision, having expected to find more fabric, but are instead confronted by the narrow, wooden box. Use it wisely, written on the note in a neat and elegant script. Raising it from the bag, you sit down, hands resting over the surface before slipping your fingers into the indentations for ease of opening, cracking it open to find what’s inside. Eyes ease across the narrow length of wood tucked inside, the softly flared end for it to whistle through the sky.

The world disappears around you as you fall into thought, suctioned inwards by a gentle riptide as you dissolve into your mind. Imagining the blank look in Mor’s eyes when she finds out what you’ve done to her, the wall that will rise up as she sections you off from her life, rightly so, brings a quiet kind of sadness into your chest. A longing that has been numbed and dulled, desaturated by hopelessness. Imagining the dinners, voices chatting merrily around you but never at you, the way she won’t look at you. They are all immortal, and their disgust will reflect their lifespan.

You’ll be stuck. Endlessly dragging you feet after them in attempts to make amends. Stumbling and fumbling carelessly trying to make reparations, but smashing more pieces in your frantic hurry to clean the mess you’ve made. Gazing up from the pit of a well as the icy water slowly drains in, the small pin-prick of daylight so far above there’s no hope even trying to scale the wall. It would be more honourable to drown.

To wipe yourself from memory.

It would be better, you understand. To snuff out your own dwindling light, than force the trouble on them of bearing your sputtering flame.

You walk out into the hallway, quietly, silently. Passing the table with napkins and cutlery set, past the shelves with crockery and cups, past the chest with dull steel and blunt arrowheads. Passing further along, until you pause before the large mirror that’s mounted on the wall. You peer dully into the reflection, deciding to look upon and assign shape to name for what’s been causing all these problems. To see what they think of when burdens are mentioned, to understand where the impatience is directed.

You peer higher, the reflection skewed as you meet your own eyes in the blade’s polished steel, held above the mirror’s frame.

Time warps, and you look through the drawers. A few daggers, some unused sketchbooks, a piece of yellow wool, a ball of string. You check the second draw. Some folded napkins, more arrowheads, a shard of porcelain, a thimble, a discarded marble. You check the third draw. Some salts, spices, dried leaves, matching Illyrian blades, pots of ink, a copper coin. You check the fourth draw. Crisp bedsheets, off-white pillowcases, a dented metal mug, a small container of some kind, one arrowhead, a crossbow.

You return to your room with the ball of string and the empty crossbow.

Swallowed in the silence of the bedroom, hidden behind the wards.

The snare is easy to set up, directions still vivid in your mind and for a few short moments, you allow yourself to settle into the certainty of following through with those instructions. Encountering a bit of trouble with how to keep the tension of the string with no earth, but your mind works quickly, weighing the string taut with the one book from your shelf, and a square box containing a mechanical universe. Making sure the string is just tight enough so the faintest touch will snap the tension loose.

You glance at the string on the floor, eyes catching on the small painting on your desk.

You slot the arrow into the crossbow with a satisfying click.

The ash stings your fingertips.

You stand with your back to the door, facing the crossbow head on. Your heart bleeds a little, tears at last dripping slowly down your cheeks, but it will be better this way. Easing in a deep breath, you relax into that feeling deep in your chest that’s telling you this is the right thing to do. It was always going to happen, there was never a path you could have taken that wouldn’t have lead you to this one way or another. It’s a feeling almost like relief: there’s finally a way out.

One perfect, swift, execution. An ash arrow to your heart, splitting the muscle and ending its relentless beat. Your breathing increases to a stuttering pulse before calming, and you swallow, glancing to the windows. You know you’ll cause a mess.

Fingers open the latch to the window, fresh air gently rolling in, and your breathing stutters again. You’ll be irrevocably gone.

Peering about the bedroom, one you hadn’t felt was truly your own, but had stayed long enough to begin putting down roots—the bookmark laying beneath the pendant on the desk beside the painting, the jigsaw still wrapped in a bow beneath the bed, the sealed nail polish and briefly used lip tint within the cupboard. Sobs shudder through your chest strangely.

A part of you doesn’t want to leave yet.

A small, human part, that still fears solitude despite your chosen loneliness.

You step toward the book, body caving in, heart collapsing in on itself, the emotive feeling similar to the convulsions you’ve experienced after vomiting. A vacuum hidden inside of your chest, finally imploding. You should end it now.

The door creaks behind you, and you flinch from terror at someone witnessing your vulnerability.

Hazel eyes meet your own, at once scanning the room out of habit, and those lovely eyes widen as you recoil on instinct, foot knocking into the book.

————

Given the pleasure of time, he had been allowed to ponder the impossible question: to choose between his death and her own, each equally impossible. How is anyone to make a choice like that?

But, caught in between precious moments, there’s no time for thought or debate. It’s easy to declare gallantry, to flippantly comfort a companion with those easy words—I’d take an arrow for you.—but it’s an entirely different matter when the arrow is whistling straight toward them.

And yet before the mug has even hit the floor, he feels the familiar, burning pain as the arrow pierces through his flesh, slicing him open as the wrongness bleeds into him, swiftly poisoning his blood, draining the inherent magic from his body.

————

You stare up into wide hazel eyes, agony etched across his delicate features, the very tip of the arrow lightly piercing your skin from where it’s shot straight through him, caught in his flesh.

He groans lowly, his weight falling more heavily on your shoulders where his hands had grabbed you to switch your positions, and you’re helpless as his knees give out from pain, dragging you down with him as he collides with the ground.

Horror pounds through your body, heart beating a thousand times a second until it’s risen into your throat, hands shaking violently as you try to hold him steady, stinging with the burning heat of blood from his side.

Mother murder you.

“Az,” you stammer hoarsely, staring at his twisted features, brow furrowed deeply, breathing ragged as it puffs against your skin. The familiar scent of blood filtrates through your system, undiluted and metallic, and he’s dying he’s dying he’s dying—

His hand weakly grasps the back of your neck, grabbing your attention as your hands fumble, trembling with uncertainty and despair, fingertips beginning to sizzle as panic floods your veins, tossed into the rapids, utterly out of control as your mind unravels, regret stabbing through your heart.

His lips are moving but your ears are ringing, itches burning at your skin, a streaking noise piercing through your head like the screaming from those bloody fields. He’s speaking and you try to read his lips, but your eyes aren’t focusing, tears blurring your vision as sobs heave in and out of your chest, burning at your throat and lungs. You had tried to stop it! You were so close to preventing it!

Your hand settles on his cheek, already feeling cool beneath your burning, burning, glowing—

Feyre and Rhys, his lips form, and you shake. Eyes scanning his features frenetically. His own flick to the door, and you understand them to be here? You stare at him helplessly, hopelessly—it won’t matter how you scream or cry for them, not even if you bled your throat raw. The ward against noise that you’d been so thankful for, that Feyre had given in attempts to help, to remedy a wrong.

Something so small, yet so immoveable. Impossible to defeat. Felled by your own, stupid need—

He’s going to die.

Neither you nor Azriel have a second to prepare as the power wells up inside of you with the force of a damn broken loose, that internal wall shattering entirely, blown to bits as you feel the staggering pressure swallow your brain, crushing in intensity at the rapid division of cells, splitting atoms colliding as the explosion blows you apart.

Brilliant green light detonates, silence settling for a second before the noise crushes back down, the room blown to pieces.

The ground shakes beneath you, floorboards cracking and splintering as a hole is torn through the side of the House, tearing through the wards as the noise thunders above the city, sweeping across Prythian with the force of the Cauldron that had torn down the Wall.

One final surge of magic before the life is taken from his body.

Pain lacerates through your figure as something fundamental cracks open inside of you, all at once draining the agony that had beens steadily building up, all of it gushing out, skin resplendent with a sickening golden-green light, radiating your flesh.

Then you collapse, falling into the pool of steadily cooling blood surrounding Azriel’s body.

The prophecy having come to fulfilment.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel fic #cbmthy #can’t bring myself to hate you

[wynnyfryd]

Since you asked so nicely…and I’m nothing if not a giver… Steve very seriously saying to Eddie “That’s rich coming from the guy who tried to kill me less than two hours ago” in whatever scenario your Big Brain can come up with (ily ur amazing btw)

“Can’t believe you let a twelve year old drive off with your car,” Eddie snorts as he tosses another bottle cap into the hole in the floor of the boathouse.

“Can you stop that?” Steve clips. He doesn’t understand why Eddie’s bothering to do it, anyway. It’s too fucking dark to see the caps once they hit the water, but the steady plunk plunk plunk is starting to drive him a little nuts. Eddie is starting to drive him a little nuts.

You have to stay with him, Steve.

No one else is strong enough to protect him if someone comes looking for him, Steve.

Goddamn horseshit, is what it is.

Without Eddie’s little game of toss, the boathouse is… really creepy, actually. All creaking wood and nocturnal animal noises and Eddie’s shaky, rattling breaths.

“She’s fourteen,” Steve says to fill the silence he regrets asking for.

“Huh?”

“Max. She’s fourteen, not twelve.”

Eddie scoffs, lets his head drop again, hiding behind a curtain of hair. He brings a strand up to his mouth, mumbles, “Like that makes it any better.”

Okay, you know what? Steve doesn’t need this. He just does not need this. Not from the fully grown drug-dealing goth weirdo he’s being forced to babysit.

Seriously, who is Eddie Munson to go questioning his judgement when he’s trying to do the guy a fucking favor?

“That’s rich coming from the guy who tried to kill me less than two hours ago,” he bites, rubbing at the spot on his neck where the jagged glass pressed in.

“Oh, fuck off, man,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I didn’t try to fuckin’- I wouldn’t… w-wouldn’t-”

Oh, no. Goddammit.

Eddie’s eyes go all wide and wet, his lip quivering around the word ‘kill,’ and Steve can just hear his mother tutting about his lack of decorum. The boy just witnessed a murder, Steven.

“Shit, man, Eddie, I’m-”

Eddie makes this sound — this pathetic thing, stuttering and damp, like mildew in his lungs, and his cheeks burn red as a tear tips over his lashes. Shit.

Shit.

“Hey,” Steve tries, reaching out to clap a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, but Eddie rears back, voice cracking as he snaps, “Don’t touch me!”

Eyes hot. Breath wet and heaving.

Steve’s gonna get decked for this.

“I’m- just… Just come here, man,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around Eddie, pulling him in, and Eddie folds like crumpled paper, collapses into Steve’s side and sobs, shaking them both so violently that Steve scoots them back a little from the edge of the hole in the floor just to be safe. He wraps Eddie up with both arms, and Eddie slumps down into his lap, and they’re-

Jesus. They’re cuddling. Steve Harrington is cuddling with Eddie Munson. What the fuck. What the fuck?

“You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, rocking them gently and brushing damp curls out of Eddie’s eyes, because, like. Might as well, right? This is already so weird.

#steddie #steddie drabble #always the goddamn babysitter #and then they kiss or something idk #love youuuuuuuu #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #my writing #prompt fill

[draeisgrayte]

Moonlit Monsters | Muzan x FEM!reader

SYNOPSIS: Reader is having a nice night time dip in the lake not too far from her village, when a mysterious man appears on the shore (omg it's like that one story in the Bible) anyway- the man stakes claim to the shadowy heart of reader.

CONTAINS: smut, female naked, one mention of a boner, claws, teeth, blood kink, oral sex (fem!receiving), kissing, a bit of wounding, outdoor sex (almost?), dirty talk

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

A/N: A little drabble I just had to get out of my system. I'll have a lot of free time coming up so I'm trying to get some of the shorter ideas I've had out of the way so I can crank out those longer fics. I hope you enjoy!

Moonbeams create a sky of their own on the water’s surface—the liquid forms around your naked body, welcoming you into the environment with ripples from your movement. There was a strong waterfall about 20 feet from your current spot in the lake creating small waves that would lap at the shore. The waterfall, a celestial cascade of liquid silver, descends gracefully from the heights above, its sound a lullaby that resonates through the night. The surrounding nature seems to hold its breath as if joining the observer in silent admiration of the nocturnal spectacle. Trees guarded this oasis with ancient splendor. You felt safe. That was until you heard the foliage rustle behind you. 

“You’re quite a pretty thing.” A smooth voice sneers. Your brows knit together as you turn in the water. There’s a figure leaning against one of the trees – face shaded by the lack of light. 

“I’m afraid this lake is already taken.” You call to the shore. You can’t see, but you swear their lips lift in a devious grin. 

They shift forward, still within the shadows. “And here I was hoping you’d invite me in.” The voice is deep, deeper than a woman's. You’d assume this was a man leering at you – like they usually did – but there was something off about this one. He carried himself in a way that made you think twice about crossing him. “What’da you say, Nightshine?”

A nickname, already? He moved quickly. “What if you’re dangerous?” An elegant laugh rumbles out of the man. His next move is at the speed of light as he almost teleports behind you. A chill runs through your body as his hands grip your shoulders. Claws dig into the tender skin, pricking blood. They also prick a low desire in the core of your stomach. 

“There is no if, my sweet, but you already knew that.” He purrs into the shell of your ear. Your body fills with heat at the way his hot breath makes your nipples stiffen. The prospect of what he was about to do excited you in a way that probably should be looked at by the village healer, but that was if you lived past this evening. 

“What do you plan on doing to me?” You question, stupidly, perhaps. A delighted hum vibrates from him, his fingers trailing down your arms. 

“I’m feeling a bit peckish after my last meal. I think you’ll be a delicious dessert.” The point of his sharp fingernails traces a swirling pattern on your collarbone. Without a moment's hesitation, the span of his hand wraps around the base of your throat, pushing your head to where it was resting on his shoulder. You could almost make out the shape of his face before thick curly locks fell in front of his face. You don’t miss the glint of pointed teeth in his lecherous grin. You notice he smells like the city, with aromas of food and women imprinted on the clothes he wears. There was a secondary scent, one that was pungent enough to make your nose crinkle. It was coppery and meaty, it didn’t mix with the first smells. The latter felt like part of him as if he carried the waft of blood on his body. 

His nose drags up the length of your jugular, stopping when he meets your ear lobe – licking the spot with hunger you could feel radiate off of him. His hand on your throat squeezes tighter as he slips it under your jaw. As he turns your head to face him he covers your eyes with his free hand. Your senses felt like they were on fire, everything making your ears perk up. “If your eyes meet mine,” He pauses, hot breath spreading over your exposed face. He must’ve moved closer to you. You can almost feel his proximity with the slight movement of his lips. “I will snap this pretty neck of yours.”

Soft, feverous lips meet yours. Feasting on the moan that escapes your mouth as his hand slides to the back of your neck, keeping you pressed to him. “Fuck you taste divine.” He growls, clamping down on your hair. Your yelp cracks into a gaspy moan as he bends his head to suck on the junction of your shoulder. The creatures of the night had always enticed you, even as a young girl you explored the forest in hopes the shadows the chief warned you about would appear. 

When he was kissing you this man tasted like fresh blood. A fact that should’ve made you run, but something told you that you wouldn’t make it very far. In the meantime he’d made his way down your body, scraping a claw down your abdomen. It stung with an exhilarating pain, making you press your thighs together. He clicks his tongue, pressing the muscle to the wound he’d created and licking up the blood that spilled from it. A whiney moan tumbles into the open when he takes your stiff nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it with dexterity that even the warriors of your village would be envious. 

“M-more I need more,” You pant out, reaching down to grip his cheeks. They’re soft, and sunken in as he sucks on your hard peaks. A chuckle vibrates his mouth and the sensation makes you nearly scream. 

He lets go of your breast with a loud pop that echoes around the lake valley. His mouth is on yours, feeding you that same taste as before. It makes your knees weaken to the point he wraps an arm around your back, supporting you against his own body. He breaks from the kiss, the shadows only allowing you to see his mouth which turns up in a smirk. “I thought I was the hungry one, but it turns out you were ready to feast on me my little siren.” 

A warmth spreads over your body, your gaze falling to the reflective water you both stand in. “Who are you?” You find yourself asking, expecting the man to not respond. There’s a long pause before he wraps his massive hands under your thighs, pushing lightly so you’ll allow him to pick you up. He brings you around his waist, the hard planes of his chest exposed from where his clothing had parted slightly. 

“The monster your mother warned you about.” He responds, splashing through the water, toward the shore. Your heart pounds in your chest and chills run up your exposed back as the water drips to the ground. 

“I was hoping you’d say that.” You whisper, finding your back aggressively pressed into the trunk of a tree. 

“Is that so?” He chuckles, kissing at your neck. You try to bite back the moans, but he nips at the splotchy skin he left from earlier, eliciting a garbled whine from your lips. 

“Oh heavens,” You cry out, gripping his shoulders. Another laugh, this one more devious than the last graces your ears. 

“No my sweet, the things I’m about to do to you will not be heavenly.” He huffs, lowering your body slightly to where you can feel something hard press into the apex of your thighs. 

“Then stop talking and take me already,” Exasperated from his teasing tongue your mouth turns down in a frown. 

He pulls you away from the tree, slamming you rather roughly into a large boulder near the shoreline. The wind is knocked out of you with his action. He slides you upon the boulder, grasping at the plush skin of your thighs. “Hold on darling.” He mumbles and before you have much time to regain any form of thought his tongue plunges into the place no one else has ever touched. A scream of pleasure rolls from your throat, the movement against the sensitive bud making you squirm. It felt so good like you were becoming a piece of glass about to explode. 

“Ngh–yes, oh my – f’eels so good.” Garbled nonsense sputters from your mouth as the man works the folds of your wet cunt like a master. A moan shakes from his throat, sending shockwaves through your nerves. 

“P-please, h–ugh–harder.” He listens well, sliding one of his clawed fingers into your throbbing pussy. You squirm from the intense amount of pleasure. With just one finger it felt like he was stretching you out, but through the slight sting, your walls still clenched around his finger. “That feels so good, ha,”

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking on it while he moved his finger slowly in and out of you. You start to shake, an overwhelming feeling radiating through your entire being. Just as you feel the crest of whatever sensation that was he releases your abused clit, grinning up from between your legs. “Such a good girl,” He hisses, but a wash of realization crashes any pleasure you once felt as his red irises stare back at you. Illuminated in the moonlight a short gasp escapes your lips. You want to explain, it was an accident of course, but if the last thing you got to see was his eyes, you could die happy. His eyes glow with an ethereal gleam, his free hand clawing into your outer thigh. You let out a small cry as blood rushes forth. He lifts your leg, turning the axis of your hips to reveal the gash of flesh he tore into. He brings his teeth to the surface, sinking into the tender skin. You hiss in pain but the calming stare of his eyes brings you to a sense of euphoria. His tongue dances around, lapping up the copper liquid with appreciation. 

He lifts from your bloodied thigh, red painting his mouth as he smirks at you. “You are mine, little siren, you belong to me. You belong to the Demon King.”

#smut fanfiction #smut #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer headcanons #demon slayer muzan #kny muzan #muzan kibutsuji #muzan x reader #kimetsu no yaiba muzan #muzan kny #muzan smut #kny smut #demon slayer smut

[yns-world]

lion & lioness

title: lion & lioness

pairing: erik killmonger x fem!reader

summary: erik takes the heart-shaped herb and sees his lost lover.

word count: 1k

warnings: reader death

a/n: i’m now taking requests for killmonger so feel free to send in your requests <3

As the new king of Wakanda, it is ritual for Erik to drink the essence of the heart-shaped herb and to speak with his ancestors. But as the searing power of the herb ran through his veins, he felt himself arriving at a place other than his childhood home. 

When he opened his eyes, Erik found himself at the edge of a lake, in a forest that he recognizes. The creatures of the night sang their songs-- crickets and insects chirped, the nocturnal birds trilled, and the wind lapped at the lake water. The night was full of life under the illuminating light of the full moon. 

Erik craned his head back to take in the sight of the moon. A soft breeze blew past Erik, and a scent caressed his nose-- a familiar scent. 

A moment later, Y/N materialized a few feet in front of him, wearing a sheer gown made of white silk. 

“My King.” Y/N beckoned, with a proud smile on her face. Erik’s eyes filled with a mix of love and heartbreak. He broke the distance and pounced on her, wrapping his arms around her in a bone-crushing embrace. 

His tears were seeping through her translucent gown, and Y/N ached at the sight of his pain. 

Y/N pulled back just enough to see his face. When she cupped his cheeks with her hands, he noticed that they were not cold, but they held the same warmth that they always did when she was still with him. This fact only made him cry more. 

“You’ve come so far, N’Jadaka. You’ve done it.” 

It was true, their whole lives were spent fighting for this one moment-- the moment where Erik was crowned king of Wakanda; where he was revered as the true Black Panther. 

But before he was the Black Panther, they were Lion & Lioness. Hearts and souls bound as one.  

“I need you by my side.” Desperation laced Erik’s voice, his eyes pleading with her.

“As long as the moon is out, I am with you.” She momentarily took her eyes off him to gaze up at the moon, and the moon reflected in her wide eyes. 

Erik’s expression shifted from one of despair to one of bitterness.

This was injustice-- his whole life was an act of injustice-- and Erik swore to avenge each and every action done to him, starting with burning the sacred garden of the heart-shaped herb.

Y/N knew that face, she knew exactly what it meant when Erik’s eyebrows furrowed and his usual scowl deepened.

“If you burn those flowers, you cut off our connection.” 

Immediately, Erik felt a moment of pain that he would feel if he did burn those flowers-- it was scorching pain, like someone took a rod of fire and ran it through his chest before dragging it down his torso and cutting him in half. But that was only the start of the pain, what came next was indescribably worse.

After the initial wave of hell, he was left hollow. He was an empty shell of a man.

He did not remember happiness. He could not recall love. 

He couldn’t even remember the original reason for why he became king in the first place. 

In that single, simulated moment, Erik was no longer himself. He was merely a ghost. 

The feeling washed over him as quickly as it came and he was brought back to the present-- his arms around Y/N as she stared into his eyes, experiencing every emotion with him. 

Erik was silent, but he knew better than to burn those flowers. He wouldn’t dare cut off a connection like theirs.

“Secondly, your heir…” Y/N’s words trailed off and she brought a hand to her stomach. Erik’s eyes followed her hand and was stunned. He gently kneeled in front of her, and placed his hand over her stomach. He pressed a kiss on the baby bump.

He then got back up, asking how many months she had left.

“Soon.” Y/N smiled a bit wider when she saw Erik’s impatient expression. 

Before he could get another word in, Y/N gave Erik a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“Good luck, N’Jadaka. Your story is only beginning.”

---

Erik’s body shot up, his chest heaving as he attempted to regulate his breathing. 

---

Months would pass since that night and there was a significant shift in Erik’s ruling. What was once a war-hungry dog, has now turned into a protector of his nation. 

But recently, something has been eating away at Erik. A gnawing feeling was twisting and churning every moment he was alone. He was restless at night and was suffering from insomnia. 

It was another night in a string of sleepless-nights, but this time he was called to the window. Erik looked up at the indigo sky, a full moon gazed back at him.

Tonight was one year since Y/N’s passing. 

Erik closed his eyes and bowed his head towards the moon. 

“Rest easy, my Queen.”

When he opened his eyes, he witnessed a shooting star race across the sky-- it flew across the moon and seemed to be inching closer and closer towards the castle.

Erik’s body acted before his brain could catch up and he bolted down to the castle entrance.

Outside the entrance sat a baby wrapped in white silk. Erik picked up the swaddled baby and recognized the texture of the cloth immediately-- it was the same cloth Y/N wore when he last saw her. 

Holding up the baby in the moonlight, Erik was able to see the striking resemblance to Y/N.

As he was admiring the baby, a name was whispered in his ear.

Leona. 

And that was what the heir to the Wakandan throne was called. 

Leona Stevens; Lion at heart; born of royal blood. 

The next day, the royal courts would rejoice at this news. The elders were not appalled by the appearance of this heir, they were rather fascinated that they have lived long enough to see this phenomenon happen in front of their very eyes. 

Kings come and go, but nothing could ever dispute Erik’s bloodright of being king since he has been gifted by the gods with an heir. 

Leona’s birth would be celebrated for the next week. She would be revered as the Snow Leopard, for her rare birth and the even rarer occurrence of having an heir blessed by Bast herself.

“Leona!” Wakanda chanted. “Daughter of King N’Jadaka and Queen Y/N; Princess Leona, the Snow Leopard!”

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[sprout-fics]

Rotes Mädchen: Chapter 5

(Werewolf! König x Red Riding Hood! Reader)

(Art by the lovely @zwienzixes)

(Masterlist)

Word count: 5.6k Rating: PG-13 Tags: Werewolf! König, Fairytale AU, Monster Hunters TF141, Traditional German Fairytale setting, World Building/Lore, F! Reader, Sexual tension, Slow burn, Domesticity, Literal sleeping together, Bed sharing, Angst/Comfort, Fluff Warnings: Sexual harassment by unnamed characters

In the days that follow, you begin to feel your heart unfurl.

You wake before König most mornings, pad on bare feet to the hearth with its still glowing embers and allow fire to blossom under your hands. The infant flames ward off the growing chill of dawn, light against the planes of your face until they crackle against the logs. It's the sound of splintering wood and bubbling steam from the kettle that often wakes König, who refuses to draw from bed. Instead, he tucks himself closer into the covers, growls at the thought of wakefulness and dozes a little longer. You find it oddly endearing, and it makes sense, given his seemingly nocturnal nature and with the both of you spending long hours into the night talking about all manner of things.

"I've always loved the stars." He tells you one late evening, while you perch in the loft with him, a shawl draped over your shoulders and legs dangling over the edge. He gazes up at the beams of the cabin as if he can see the sky beyond. "I learned when I was a boy to navigate by the sky. I know the winter constellations- see?" He leans over to you, shoulders bumping and raising a hand to trace invisible paths beyond the ceiling. "There's der Wasserman, the water bearer- and der Widder, the ram."

You smile, lean further into him as if you can somehow see the heavens beyond his gaze. He smells like ferns, of damp soil and pine. It floats through your thoughts, holds you cradled against his side until your eyes grow heavy to the sound of his voice.

When you wake the next morning, you find yourself in your bed, one of his blankets tucked around your shoulders, and the faint memory of being aloft in his arms.

The blanket smells like him.

König stays inside during the daytime lest he be seen by your neighbors. You venture out on most days, relishing the sunlight on his behalf. There's always work to be done in the village, and for you, who lives alone, that goes thrice fold. You hike up your skirt as you chop wood for the stove, dig through damp earth for mushrooms and roots to trade for meat, gather apples from the wild orchards, let bread dough rise above the hearth so the scent fills the cottage. Normally the things that feel mundane, perhaps even a hindrance, are now tinted with a soft sense of joy- knowing that once they are finished you return home to him and his company.

There's a tenderness in your heart that you fail to notice at first. It blooms like soft spring flowers, hides the gentle pale of its petals until sunlight washes over it. The air you breathe feels lighter, scented with rosemary hanging from the rafters, filling your lungs in a way that is wholly unfamiliar and yet so welcome. It feels much like the sound of his voice, the brief glancing touches he seems almost afraid to offer. When you meet his stare, the green of his eyes feels like a misty springtime meadow.

König is gentle with you in a way no one else has ever been. He's a touch shy, but in a way that's blessedly endearing. He calls you by soft names, Fraulein, Liebchen, and your favorite: Rotty- a play on your red cloak. He drapes it around you one morning, tying the ribbon with fumbling fingers as his eyes dart from yours to the lopsided bow. When you smile at the sound of his voice, his eyes alight with joy that bleeds into your soul. The companionship between you two comes as naturally as breathing, two lonely souls gently entwining themselves against the growing November frost to keep warm the slow filling of your hearts.

You can't deny the glances you steal when he isn't looking, watching the way he stretches so his just too-small shirt rides up the planes of his stomach or the reach of his muscular arms as he climbs the ladder to the loft. You thought his build was wiry at first, the way he was hunched in his cave, frightened and scared. Yet the more König shares your meals with you the more he fills out, adding bulk to the broadness of his shoulders and thighs.

"See something you like, fraulein?" He asks playfully when he catches you ogling him one evening as the fire glows warmly against his skin. You only return the humor in his voice with your grin.

"I like you." You reply and laugh when he splutters. Yet then he rubs the back of his neck and turns, and the moment is lost.

There's a strangeness between you two that falls in the silence. You lay awake in your bed at night, listening to him snore softly in the loft, and feel your face warm when you wonder what it would be like to fall asleep in his arms. You remember the way he relaxed into your embrace when you looped your arms around him from behind on the night he told you of his mother, wishing he would draw you closer into him in the same way you wanted him. You want to feel the warmth of him bleed into you, chase away the distant ache of your heart as he whispers your name in the darkness.

You...might want him.

Yet, you aren't sure if König wants you.

It goes beyond his shyness. There seems to be a hesitancy to König sometimes that you can't fully understand. Every time he draws closer, lets his voice grow a touch softer, and you think maybe he'll reach out and touch you, he withdraws. Almost as if he doesn't trust himself, as if he won't allow himself. There’s secrets in him that wind around his heart like brambles. You want to reach out in the space he's left absent, tell him to come closer. Yet König seems to know that he might prick your fingers, draw red from the pad of your thumb like the same curse that befell Aurora.

He seems haunted by something you can't see, something that makes him toss and turn on some nights, muttering in his sleep. Yet by the time you climb up to the loft to try to wake him, he's settled once more into stillness, and his nightmares remain a mystery. Come morning his eyes are full of warmth, and the affection in them is sometimes so profound you have to avert your gaze as your face warms under his stare.

You wish he would tell you the things he is hiding, hope that it fills the unknowable distance between you so you can indulge in the feeling of his embrace. Maybe if he tells you, he’ll allow himself to harbor affections for you in the same way you do for him. You wonder, sometimes, if you'll ever get to know the things concealed by the brambles of his heart. Maybe if you push too hard he'll leave you, and you'll be alone again.

You wish...he would stay.

-----

When you arrive at Laswell's, the mood is sour.

You enter into a quiet scene, one filled only by the hushed discussions around Laswell's table and the crackling hearth beside it. They seem not to notice you as you enter and close the door behind you. You eye your companions uneasily, instantly able to discern the low, roiling tone of frustration and restlessness that permeates the cottage.

Price is leaning back in his chair at the table, arms crossed, brow furrowed, having not even lit his pipe- a tell-tale sign of uneasiness. Beside him, Soap leans into his hands with a similar expression, listening to whatever hushed words Laswell is saying to them. Gaz casts them anxious looks from where he crouches near the hearth, tending the flames. You feel the atmosphere press heavily down on your shoulders, stale the air in your lungs as you perch nervously by the heavy oak door.

It's Ghost who notices you, dark eyes flicking up to yours with a quiet greeting. It seems to startle the rest of them from their reverie, eyes turning towards you as you approach with a tender, anxious smile.

"Red." Laswell breathes, and the flintiness fades from her stare into something more familiar. "Please, come sit."

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should interrupt what seems to be a serious discussion. Yet there seems to be a relief in the expressions of your friends, so you settle on the chair Laswell has kicked out with her foot for you, depositing a basket of goods atop the table.

"What's all this?" Soap asks, quick to rifle through the contents of the basket, pulling aside the cloth atop it with eager fingers.

"Some bread, jam, dried fruit, a little bit of lamb." You supply, grinning as Soap's eyes light up happily. The announcement seems to dispel the growing air of anxiousness in the cabin with a sigh of gratitude. "I figured it's a lot to feed four hungry witchers. I'd rather you not eat Kate out of house and home."

Gaz strides over as well, plucking a glass jar of jam from Soap's hands and examining it with a broad grin. He turns it over in his hands a few times before his gaze alights upon you, eyes relieved and appreciative.

"I haven't had blackberry jam in ages." He conveys softly, a touch tender but more than pleased. "Usually we're eating on the run- rabbits, squirrels, boar if we're lucky."

"Snakes too." Soap tells you over a mouthful of bread, wasting no time in devouring some of the food. You think you might hear his stomach growl. "Ghost won' eat em. Can't blame him, they're a little gamey."

"I hate snakes." Ghost offers lowly with a mild sneer, though he too draws closer to the table, plucking a few dried apples and pocketing them for later.

"This was very sweet of you, Red." Price offers from where he sits, face relaxed from his previous scowl. His words are soft, reassuring, and seem to seep away the remnants of taut unrest from the room. You feel your shoulders relax, smiling in return at his friendly, beholden gaze.

"Did you walk here by yourself?" Laswell asks, and you turn to her to see her concerned gaze flicker across her gray eyes.

The unspokenness of the threat that continues to linger in the woods weighs heavy on her words. You needn't be reminded. The entire journey over here, despite the brightness of daylight dappling through the canopy above, was fraught with memories of a massive black shadow in the woods. Even now you can't shake the memory of glowing eyes at the periphery of a haloed lantern, gleaming in the darkness, watching.

"It's still bright out." You explain, shaking off the thought. "I'll be back before dark too. I promise."

Kate looks a little unconvinced, and though she opens her mouth to speak, she's interrupted by a grunt of disapproval from Soap as Gaz tries to wrestle a roll out of his hands. The two bicker for a moment before Laswell sighs, levies them with a stern look and gentle reminder of "Boys." that has both witchers instantly obey and duck their heads in apology.

"Let them eat, Kate." Price sighs, rubbing a hand over his face wearily. "They'll need their strength."

That seems to pass through the group like an electric current, summoning the bright flash of eyes and coiled muscles in response to Price's words. You blink at the return of this tense atmosphere, slide your eyes to Laswell's pinched expression. She catches your gaze, holds your stare for a long moment.

"The full moon is the night after tomorrow." Kate confesses quietly, and her hands reach between you to settle upon yours in your lap. You look from them to her face, your expression open with concern.

"But-" You manage, realization drawing across your thoughts. "You haven't found the wolf."

Somehow, it's Ghost's eyes you land upon in the room of averted gazes. The masked witcher refuses to look away for a few moments, and you think that if you peer past the mask you can see the tightness of his brow in frustration.

"There's been no sign of it." Gaz confesses quietly. "Not since that night."

That night, weeks ago now, the one where you had met them for the very first time. The one where you had allowed yourself a single look over your shoulder to see the mammoth, ragged shadow that seemed to blot out the light of the moon. It had gazed after you, your red cape fluttering behind you as Price rode off into the darkness, feeling the glowing stare of it chasing behind your thoughts.

"You injured it." You breathe, remembering Price at your door soon after. "Maybe...maybe you killed it?"

Price shakes his head, lips a thin line. "We would have found the body by now."

"T-then maybe you chased it off." You try, voice a little firmer now. "Maybe it got injured and retreated up to the mountains."

It's Soap who offers you a quiet, concerned gaze, having placed down his food. "Even if that were true, lass, it will come back. The thing needs blood, it needs to eat."

You feel an icy wave of dread wash over you, one that's not warmed by the crackling hearth at your back. Gaz nudges his friend a touch harshly, scowling.

"Don't scare her." Gaz warns quietly, and Soap levies a glancing frown at him.

"Not tryin’ tae scare her." He retorts, rubbing the spot on his arm. "She needs to know."

You swallow. Your throat feels dry.

"Know...what?" You venture quietly, and Soap turns to you once more, eyes softening as he takes in your frightened gaze. Yet it's Price who responds to your query.

"Your village." Price offers solemnly, and all eyes in the room draw to his hunched posture, his darkened gaze. "Many may die."

Devastating silence.

You stare at Price, your horror written clear across your face. The cabin suddenly feels too small, too thin, the perimeter of the woods pressing closer in on you. Suffocating. When you breathe, it isn't the familiar smell of dried herbs and bubbling stew. No, you swallow and taste the phantom scent of blood.

"W-what do you mean?" You manage, voice very small, wavering with fright.

Price stares at you grimly, and there's a faint concern to his stare that is shielded by the grave nature of his words.

"A wolf of this size may not stop at slaughtering livestock." He explains, voice low in prophetic warning. "We've seen what a monster like this can do. Even if you board your windows, lock your doors, paint the hinges with wolfsbane, it may not be enough to stop it."

A vision washes over you as you stare at the captain, eyes bright with fear. Your thoughts play the image of a massive, snarling beast destroying the walls and doors of houses, of snatching your neighbors from their homes and crushing them between its jaws as red seeps into the earth below a heavy, full moon. Screams slice through the air, and even with arrows lodged in the creature's back it only snarls, cuts through flesh with gigantic, glinting claws.

None will be safe.

"Red." Laswell presses forward, tone urgent. "Please. Come stay here. I know you don't want to leave your home, but it isn't safe. We can protect you. I don't-"

Laswell swallows, oddly emotional. Her gray eyes alight with a sudden insistency that plucks at your ribs. "I can't lose another friend." She whispers, feather light like graveyard mist. "Please."

Your face falls, mouth snapping shut as you regard your friend.

Gently, the soft smell of ferns, of earth and musk washes across your senses, draws you back through the winding forest paths and up the steps of your cottage. There, it's a familiar voice, gentle and pleased that greets you, that skims across your skin and leaves glowing captivation in its wake. His soft words wind around your thoughts, draw you closer to him, into the sensation of your arms wrapped around him while he whispers a question to the starlit sky, and to you.

“Would you ever leave?”

“…Yes.”

You can't leave him.

It's not that König needs you, you realize, but that you need him.

The realization thunders inside your chest hard enough to make you jolt, blink until your eyes focus once more on the woman in front of you. Kate's face is ashen with concern, and you swallow under the intensity of her stare, hands trembling.

Maybe, you think, maybe you can find a way to protect him, to keep you both safe, to bring him to your new friends without the promise of his destruction. If you can do that, if you can keep him until dawn rises on the third day-

"Just one more day." You whisper, even as the waxing moon inches closer towards fullness with every heartbeat.

"Just one more day."

-------

Your words linger in the back of your mind as you meander in the direction of the village. It's not dark, not yet, but the sunlight is fading beyond the trees, hiding behind the hills. The dimness nestled in the shadow of the valley slowly falls as a curtain over the forest and the creatures within it.

Price had once more offered you an escort back to the village, but you'd gently refused him. You need the time alone to think, and between the crowdedness of Kate's cottage and your sheltered guest back at your own, the woods offered a welcome respite from the tumult of your thoughts.

The threat of the wolf, of the monster you saw that night murmurs inside your chest with a heavy, consuming dread. Your dreams continue to be plagued by the beast, offering visions of your red cape snagged in brambles as you race through the darkened, misty woods. The wolf chases you, the earth thundering under your feet as you flee. When you stumble, fall, the creature halts to raise his fanged muzzle to the heavy yellow moon, howling a cursed abraxas before his glinting eyes fall upon you once more.

It's been several weeks now since that night, but the fear the monster presents has yet to fade. Now, in the imminent promise of the carnage to come, you huddle into yourself, look to the trees and wonder if these woods will be the same as they once were once all is over.

You're terrified, of course. For yourself, yes, but for your friends, fit to fight as they are. Soap's story of his young, brawny squad mates falling one by one to a werewolf's claws ripples across the vision of all of them, and you try not to imagine them befalling the same fate. The image of your tiny, unassuming village devastated by the wrath of a singular behemoth feels less like a nightmare and more like an imminent prophecy.

As you look down the streets just as you meet the edge of town, you try not to imagine them streaked with blood and ash, houses torn asunder and the mangled corpses of your neighbors strewn across the lanes. You feel powerless to stop it, knowing the fate that awaits you all, but unable to protect anyone. Not even yourself.

Not even him.

Your house glows with warm, welcoming lantern light in the distance, smoke curling from the chimney with the gentle whisper of birch across your senses. You know the sound of the voice that will greet you, know the soft skim of his fingers and the unblinking interest in his eyes he never speaks. You know you'll both talk long into the evening as you always do, laugh over steaming mugs of cider until your eyes droop heavy and he offers a ginger murmur of "Sleep, Rotty."

You want these evenings to go on forever, you think. Your home is no longer the hollow, empty thing it once was. It feels warm, full, embraced in a tender touch that soothes the lonely fringes of your soul. The presence of him feels so much like the pine scented cradle of the woods around you, something that holds you safe, ensconced in protection. It whispers words to you that you can't understand, but you know in your heart all the same.

Home.

A home about to be ravaged, destroyed, and perhaps him with it.

He asked you once before in a desperate plea not to tell the witchers of his presence, too afraid they might see a leper like him as something not human- a threat. You've worked hard to earn his trust, relish in the gift of it bestowed in chuckled laughter and fleeting touches. To betray it, to tell Laswell that as much she wants to protect you, you need to protect someone too, to reveal him to the people who may very well want to hurt him-

You pause just beyond the stone fence of your yard, look up at the small slope leading to your front door, and once more feel your chest ache with terrible indecision.

You can protect him, you think in a silent, daring hope. You can protect him just a little longer from them.

As your hand lands on the wooden gate to your garden there's a voice that calls out behind you, and you freeze.

You can't make out the words, slurred and unintelligible as they are, but it's the tone that makes you pause, your startled expression peeking from under your red hood.

A man stumbles his way towards you. You recognize him. He's one of the hunters' sons, a lanky, young fellow with large, boyish ears and scruffy dark hair. He's smiled at you before, but the intentions behind his eyes had seemed anything but gentle. The night you, Soap, and Gaz rode through the town square you think you might have seen him, silent as the accusation of your impurity rang hollow against your curled form.

He's holding something in his hand, and you shy away from him as he approaches, untrusting of the staggered sway of his feet and sinister sprawl of his lips. Your stomach roils with acute awareness, skin suddenly cold beyond the chill of sunset.

"Guten Abend." He greets casually, slurring his words. He leans on the corner post of your fence as you try and subtly shift towards your front door, senses awash with danger. "You looked so lonely walking home, fraulein. May I keep you company?"

"No." You respond quickly, voice flat. You scowl at him, trying to clearly display your steadfast disinterest, but the waver of your voice fails to conceal your fright. He seizes on it, straightens and takes a step towards you. It only makes you take a noticeable step back. "Please leave."

The hunter’s son frowns at that, pauses to raise the bottle in his hand to his lips. The wine inside runs a red rivulet down his chin. Yet the ire in his expression is gone in a moment, replaced once more by his ill-intentioned grin.

"It's almost the full moon." He croons, straightening and running one hand over the fence posts as he saunters towards you. You slip inside the gate as he does, chastising yourself for never fixing the latch. Your frowning disposition has taken on a skittish anxiety now as he tries to close the distance, instincts blaring with alarm as he continues. “It's dangerous to be here alone, by yourself."

I'm not. You almost say, jaw snapping shut before you can reveal the presence of König inside.

"I can protect you." He goes on, resting a heavy hand on your gate you'd closed behind you, and your skin prickles at the brazen encroachment on your territory, hands shaking at your sides. "I can keep you safe from the wolf."

"I don't need your help." You bite back, hackles rising now at the threat this man poses to you. Though you tremble where you stand you still plant your feet, raise your voice in an effort to ward him away from you and your home. "You need to leave."

The ire returns in the form of a sneer, and before you can stop him the man swings the gate wide and makes towards you with a growl. You skid on your feet for a moment before racing up the hill to your door, making it inside moments before his fist pounds on the wood. When he tries for the handle you’re quick to latch it, preventing him from entering. It does nothing to calm his temper, and he shoves at the door with your back pressed to it.

"You think you're better than us!" He yells abruptly from beyond the threshold, and you tremble as you desperately press yourself to the door, feeling it shake under his blows. "You're nothing more than a common whore! You and that witch have seduced those men, we can tell!"

Witch.

The accusation pulses through you like an axe to wood, bludgeoning your fragile nerves and making your hands rise to your mouth to contain a shuddering cry of despair. It’s a curse, a jinx meant only for ruin. Once you’ve been accused to the village of such a thing, no amount of protest could ever prove your innocence. Laswell, even with her gray-eyed wisdom, wouldn’t be able to escape.

Neither would you.

He’s cursed you both.

"I bet you're a witch too! Just like her!” He bellows, kicking the base of the door so hard you squeak a shrill, high sound choked in your throat. “You probably brought the wolf here yourselves to kill us all!!"

You can barely hold yourself upright, terrified beyond measure as the door trembles. The earth rolls underneath your feet, shuddering along with your form. Fear, dread, realization bubbles as a deadly potion inside your veins, making your whole body tremble and sway unsteadily. The drum of your heartbeat is fit to burst, the thrum in your ears thunderous, nearly blocking out the man’s voice.

“Do you hear me?! You’ll be the death of us all!!”

A shadow looms over you, falling across your figure and blotting out the warm haze of lantern light. You whimper on instinct, mind discerning just another threat as the body above you leans to brace his wide palms on the door. He leans to keep it from shaking at your back, green eyes watching you shake and shiver, hands pressed to your mouth to silence your cries.

"Don't listen." König tells you, loud enough for only you to hear. His voice is gentle, a startling juxtaposition to the man on the other side of your door. You cling to it desperately, trying to find an anchor amidst the fear and confusion of this sudden assault even as the man yells and pounds at the door. König remains silent, still, pressing his weight against it to try and keep it from trembling. His eyes look down at you even as tears threaten your own, feeling so much like a little girl lost in the woods with no way to escape.

At last, your accuser grows tired, hurls a few remaining curses at you before you hear him stumble down your garden and back towards the main road. You listen to him leave, take several long minutes to be entirely sure of his absence before finally unleashing a trembling, shaking breath of relief.

König waits a long moment before he removes his palms braced above you, no longer crowding you with his massive frame. Yet he doesn’t move away from you just yet, lingers before you even as you breathe into your palms, watery gaze cast to the floor. It’s only once his hand catches your chin, tilts you up to his masked gaze that he speaks.

“Rotty.” He whispers, that beloved nickname he’s bestowed upon you, now spoken with such tender hushed concern. “Are you alright?”

Your lip trembles as you look up at him, face warm with mortification, fear, and anger all rolled into one. Your eyes threaten tears, and through them you can see the soft, worried light of his gaze onto you. He holds you as if you’re something fragile, threatening to break apart should he dare touch you. Yet the warmth of him is undeniable, a flickering hearth that draws you closer. You desperately want to bask like springtime flowers under the dappled sunlight of his stare.

Like home. Your mind offers again, unbidden, and the thought is enough to finally make the tears overspill. A sob cracks your throat, the desperation of loneliness bubbling up in a cry before you can stop it, sending you hurtling into his chest.

You fall into him, arms stretching to wrap as far around the trunk of his form as they’ll go. König jolts at the unexpected touch, coiling in surprise. His hands flutter uncertainly over you, as if he’s not entirely sure where to put them. You think perhaps he’ll pull away, will gently pry himself from you with a hushed apology. He’s constantly like that, allowing himself to dance closer to your flickering flame, only to pull away once more into the shadows. So, your arms fasten around him, fists gripping at the fabric of his shirt in a silent bid to keep him there just a little longer.

Slowly, he eases, allows himself to unwind with a barely audible exhale. His hands descend to your shoulders, soothe downwards to your back, pressing you closer into him as you shudder. You drink in the scent of him, moss and rosemary that floats down from the rafters, of damp soil that coats your fingertips in a beloved embrace. There’s a part of you in this moment that thinks perhaps you’ve known him all your life, have been wandering these woods in search of him without knowing it ever since you were a child- lost and lonely…

…and now found.

“It’s alright, Schatz.” He murmurs in a hushed reassurance, buoying you against him as you desperately try to contain your sobs. His hands grip at you as if he’s trying to memorize the press of your figure against his, as if it will be the last time he will ever hold you. It summons a fresh bout of tears to your eyes, throat thick with a gasping sob as you nestle further into his chest.

“They can’t hurt you.” He goes on, and his voice takes on a dangerous intonation, the semblance of growl reverberating against your wet cheek. You feel his nails dig into your shoulder for the briefest of moments, as if suddenly sharpened by his anger, only to relax less than a heartbeat later. The meaning of his words is left unsaid but echoes in the scarce space between you all the same.

“I won’t let them.”

He allows you several long minutes of your shoulders trembling under his palms before he gently slides his arms around you, bending to cradle an arm beneath your legs. He lifts you to him, and you go without protest, looping your arms around his shoulders and tucking your chin under his jaw. He’s gentle as he moves, careful of where he steps and oddly different from his typical clumsy nature. After a few moments he slowly descends, releasing you so you gingerly slide into your bed.

Yet when he tries to carefully remove your arms around his shoulders you make a whimpering sound of protest, webbing your fingers together in an unbreakable hold.

“Please.” You whisper, throat hoarse from crying, afraid he’ll refuse you. “Stay.”

König pauses, until he releases his inhibitions with a soft exhale. “Of course, Rotty.” He murmurs, and moves to arrange himself beside you in bed, hauling you back into his embrace and curling around you protectively.

The last of your sobs abate, but the fear and worry there remains behind. You cling to König as if that will keep him by your side, protecting you from the curse about to befall your beloved valley in the shadow of the monster. You wind yourself around him like ivy, desperately trying to never part from him, keep him nestled in the hollow of your heart as long as you’re allowed. His deep, even breaths whisper across your skin, feeling like the barest whisper of a breeze through aspen trees.

“I’ll keep you safe.” He vows in a sacred whisper to you, an oath you shut your eyes against, wanting it desperately to be true. His arms close around with a sudden ferocity so fervent it steals the air from your chest. “I’ll protect you, Rotty. I won’t let them touch you.”

You stay silent, allowing the meaning of his words to wash over you. The secrets between you remain unspoken, and as desperately as you want to understand them you settle for this instead- the heat of him, the curl of his body around yours, the press of his hand in your hair, the arm settled heavy across your form that shelters you from the world. You try to memorize it, try to imbue it into the repository of your memories so that if you survive the imminent cataclysm you’ll continue to remember him.

One more day, you remind yourself with a silenced whisper. One more day here, with him. With us.

You send a prayer up to the heavens that after all of this is over you’ll both walk into the woods hand in hand, having found each other after a lifetime of wandering the fern lined paths.

The moon grows heavy in your thoughts.

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#konig x reader #konig x you #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x f! reader #my writing #my fic #fic: rotes madchen

[toxicanonymity]

night walks: soaked

3.6k / creepy!joel miller x f!reader / night walks

Warnings:  I8+ mdni, alcohol, dirty talk, grinding, jacking off, oral F receiving, unsafe P in V sex, creampie, angst. very brief ass play. drug references. impaired editing. Shoutouts: various anons & night walks asks and Qs including @selfproclaimed-moviecritic and @missannwinchester. Picks up from Morning After. Floor plan here. Can read alone I think.

A loud clap of thunder startles you awake.  You sit up in Joel’s bed, untangling yourself from the sheets.  Joel’s not there.  There’s music coming from the other side of the basement, and the clink of weights.  You look around for your clothes and remember they’re out there scattered around the couch.  Great.  You get out of bed, wrap the sheet around you, and sheepishly emerge from his bedroom.  Joel counts down from five as he finishes bench pressing then racks the weight.  He’s shirtless.  He sits up and wipes his brow.  He does a double-take when he sees you walk in, then looks you up and down with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Lookin’ good,” he says. 

You gather your clothes from around the couch and say “Just getting dressed.” Your phone is dead.  “What time is it?” 

“Hell if I know.  Look perfect to me, pumpkin.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you. “Real life goddess.”  Lightning flashes outside. 

You sit down with your clothes in your hands and look away as he watches you get dressed. You’re too tired to care and your head hurts. There’s a loud clap of thunder as you pull your tank top on.  Joel picks up his water bottle and takes a swig, then puts it down and stands up to stretch.  You pull your sweatpants on under the bed sheet.  He walks around the couch and you do your best not to ogle his glistening body, dressed only in shorts.  You start putting on your shoes and the fridge opens behind you.

“Hair of the dog?” Glass bottles slide out and clink against each other.

“Nah, I gotta go.” 

“In this mess?” he asks as thunder rumbles. The blinds are pulled up on one window now and it looks pitch black outside. “Didn’t ya walk here? Gonna get soaked.”

He comes back with two beers and hands you one.  He also brings cold pizza.

“Seriously, what time is it?”

He looks back to the kitchenette.  “Four somethin’.” Shit, no wonder you’re hungry. 

“Thanks.”  You bite into a slice of pizza first, then take a sip of your beer. 

“Attagirl. Let’s watch somethin’ while this clears up, hmm?”  He turns on Netflix.  His recently watched list is mostly action movies and nature documentaries.

You slide your shoes back off and ask, “You like animals?” You’re wondering if it’s his own Netflix history or someone else’s. 

“Hell yeah, who doesn’t?” 

You raise your eyes in surprise and nod. “Got a favorite?” Thunder crashes. 

His face gets serious and he exhales like it’s a really difficult question.  “Well shit, can’t pick just one.  But big cats are cool as hell. D’you know leopards are basically nocturnal?” 

He hands you the remote control.  Not really caring what you watch, you idly click on the #1 trending: You. 

“Oh, not this creep again,” he says and leans back with an exaggerated eye roll. “Addicting, though, ain’t it?”  He looks at you, takes a sip of beer, and rests his hand on his inner thigh.  You put on Narcos.

You watch a few episodes and have a couple of beers as it storms outside.  At some point, you bring your legs up on the couch and he coaxes your feet in his lap.  He massages your feet.  You don’t talk much, and when you do, it’s nothing serious.  But it’s still the most talking you’ve ever done.   You mostly discuss different shows and the neighborhood. 

“Why haven’t I seen ya at the pool before?” he asks. 

“First summer here,” you say.  

“Wanna go sometime?” 

“I dunno,” you say. “Don’t like the sun much.” 

“Oh hell no, not in the day,” he laughs. “They don’t lock the gate at night.”  He winks at you and gives your foot a squeeze, running his other hand up your calf to massage it. He lowers his voice and adds, “We could go any night ya want.” 

-

There’s a long moment of silence. He takes a deep breath as he kneads your calf and watches you watch TV.  His face darkens.  You have to assume you’re both thinking about the same thing - the pool at night.  Joel scoots closer to you on the couch and pulls your calves into his lap.  His cock hardens against your leg through his thin sweatshorts. Then he gently bends your closest knee to make room for himself.  He gets between your legs and slowly lunges toward you, laying the bulge in his shorts against the crotch of your pants. 

“Any night ya want,” he repeats, then brings his mouth to your neck.  He kisses and lightly sucks your delicate skin and gently presses his hard length against you.  Then he kisses you on the mouth.  He tastes like beer. He puts his forearms down either side of you and slowly thrusts against you.  He kisses you on the neck again, then murmurs, “my turn,” behind your ear.  “Show ya what this mouth can do.”  You have flashbacks to the blow job you gave him the night before. 

Joel makes his way down your body and hooks his fingers into your sweatpants.  As he brings the waistband down, he kisses the crease of your thigh and you squirm uncomfortably. “I’ll take your word for it,” you say somewhat cruelly as he plants a wet kiss just above your mound.  The truth is you already know, from the restaurant bathroom.

He pauses.  “What’samatter, pumpkin?” 

“I just feel so dirty,” you admit. 

He smirks and opens his mouth to say something predictable, but you cut him off. 

“Physically dirty. I need a shower.” 

He pauses. 

“So take one,” he offers. He sits back and extends his hand to help you up. You hesitate and he raises his eyebrows at you. “Why not? We got time. Shit, I could use one, too.”  

You swallow hesitantly. Showering with him?  Far too intimate.  First you end up in his bed, then his shower, all in the same 24 hours?

He seems to read your mind and clarifies, “Ladies first.” The storm isn’t letting up. You don't have anything to lose and definitely need a shower.

-

The back of his bathroom has a frosted window and a free-standing shower with no door and a drain on the floor. The ceramic tiles of the wall are dark peach with one row of black just below the window.  The ledge of the window holds the  soap, body wash, and shampoo.  

“Faucet's kinda weird,” he says.  “I’ll get it started.”  Your eyes scan his bare back as he turns on the shower for you, standing out of the way of the water but getting lightly sprayed by tiny droplets.  The water is loud.  He has a couple of small tattoos you don’t remember seeing before.  They look abstract from what you can tell, but they’re faded and the lines are blurred from age. 

“Guessin’ you like it hot,” he says and turns the dial.  He gets a towel and hangs it on a hook for you.  

“Thanks.” You stand there awkwardly waiting for him to leave.

“Mmm hmm.” He hesitates by the door to his bedroom, a few feet away from you with his arms crossed. He checks you out, then uncrosses his arms and abruptly steps forward into your space.  He grabs your ass and pulls you into him, your hips meeting his.  He grinds himself into you again, sending a fresh pang of desire through you.  He kisses your mouth, then your neck, and sucks your earlobe. He grabs the hem of your shirt from behind and takes it off, discarding your tank top.  Then he slides his palms into your pants, leaving his thumbs hooked outside your waistband.  He takes your pants down, dropping them to the floor as he grabs your bare ass cheeks and pulls you harder into him, his clothed hardness pressing into your naked front. 

Steam billows over from the water.  He goes to check the temp, his tented shorts getting sprayed again.  His back muscles are a sight to behold.  They flex gracefully under his skin with every movement.  He must spend half his time working out.   He checks the water and mutters, “Alllriiight.” You step toward the water.  He turns and looks. “God damn, pumpkin,” he says as he shamelessly observes your naked body head on. 

“Shut up,” you whisper to the ground and cross your arms.  Lightning flashes outside. Your parents always told you not to shower in a storm.  It’s exciting, somehow.  "I'll be quick," you say.  

"Take your time," he mutters and slowly walks backwards, palming himself as he takes in your form again.  You watch over your shoulder as he disappears into his bedroom. You imagine he’s about to jack off.  If you’re honest with yourself, you’d rather he wait for you. 

-

You turn down the heat a little and examine his array of products in the frosted window, briefly distracted by the silhouette of your reflection. You soap up your body, starting with your shoulders and back, probably using way too much shower gel.  You close your eyes and inhale deeply as your hands slide over your body and your nostrils fill with Joel’s aroma.

You open your eyes to see two silhouettes in the reflection and your breath hitches as they combine into one. Joel’s strong arms wrap around you from behind. He wordlessly gropes a soapy breast and presses his naked, rock-hard length into your back side, sliding his other hand across and down your stomach for leverage.  He grunts, “Mm” as he presses his cock against you. His voice is low and smooth as he mutters, “Filthy, aren’t we?”

His hands slide down your waist to your thighs.  His stiff cock shifting against you makes you weak in the knees.  He presses it against you again. It swells and you moan softly.  

“Yeahh, that’s my dirty girl." 

You start to warn him, “Joel-” He bends his knees, putting his hands on your hips.   “Don’t let me fall,” you say. you're still covered in lather.

As he slowly stands up straight again, he drags his hands and cock up your slippery body and runs his closed mouth up your neck to the back of your ear.  “Nothin’ wild in here, baby,” he murmurs. "We’ll get clean together. . . ‘fore we get real dirty.”  His voice echoes low and sexy. You breathe a sigh of relief. Knowing the perils of getting soap somewhere you wouldn't want to.

He plants a kiss on your jaw and uses his hand to bring your mouth toward his. You turn around to face him. His lips press into yours as his arms wrap around you again, your tits pressing into his chest.  He looks a lot different with his hair somewhat wet.  Sexy in a new way.  He reaches his long arms down and squeezes both your thighs below your ass, then slides his hand up your crack and grabs a cheek with an, “mm” into your mouth. 

You drape your arms around his neck.  He works his hands up your back, massaging what’s left of the lather into you, and slides his hands through your underarms on the way to your breasts.  Your nipples pucker under his palms as he massages your breasts from the front and watches a small trail of bubbles slide down between them. “Fuck me,” he breathes.  He looks up at your eyes, then turns you around again.  

He brings you you both directly under the water again.  He rinses your back, then gets your breasts again from behind, pressing gently against your ass with his cock as stiff as ever.  “You’re gorgeous, pumpkin.”

“Thanks,” you whisper and begin to rinse your own body.  The sight of your own hands gliding across your skin is something he has to see.  You turn to face him and he’s covered with your lather, from his light chest hair down past his happy trail to his slippery cock. He watches you darkly, and begins to slowly stroke his raging erection.  You reach down and grab it.  His lips part.  

“You’re always ready, aren’t you?” you ask. 

“For you? Hell yeah.” 

You stroke him gently, assuming he would stop you if it was a bad idea. He doesn't.  His grunts and sighs echo off the tile. “All yours, baby,” he murmurs.  He puts his hands around your waist and watches as his hips thrust into your fist. When he’s about to come, he says, “Guess anywhere goes?” taking his cock from you.  He points it at your stomach.

To hell with it. You kneel down. “Tits,” you say.  

“Fuck yeah, baby.”  He breathes audibly and you watch tension spread across his face.  Then he shoots a huge load all over your chest with a long groan that echoes and makes you ache for him.  

He helps you to your feet.  “Still need my head between those legs, baby.”

“Do you mind if I, uh-” you look down at the cum on your chest.

“Sure, pumpkin.”  He quickly washes and rinses himself, and gives you a light slap on the ass as he steps out to let you finish bathing. 

-

You dry off, wipe the mirror with your hand, and use his mouthwash.  Then you step into his bedroom with a towel wrapped around you, tucked under your armpits.  His hair is fluffier again.  He has on pj pants but still no shirt. He sits down on the edge of the bed and looks up at you, captivated.  He murmurs, "c'mere," and spreads his knees.  You stand between his knees and he unfastens your towel, letting it drop around your feet.  “So fuckin’ hot,” he whispers, his eyelids heavy as though hypnotized by your body. “How ya keep your hands off yourself, hmm? Body like this.”

He takes your breast in his mouth and closes his eyes as he sucks at your nipple and palms the other one.  He moans, "Mm," into your mouth.  He releases your breast and gently pulls you by the hamstrings toward his lap.  You straddle him. Your naked cunt dampens his pants as you meet his warm package, already semi-hard again. 

Fuck, it’s all you want. You can’t get enough of it. Watching him jack off only made you want it more. 

He lies back on the bed, taking you with him then rolls over so he’s on top of you.  He slowly kisses his way down your naked body, his lips brushing away the remaining water droplets in your cleavage and belly button.  Between your legs, it's even slicker than before the shower.

He slides off the bed and kneels on the floor at the foot of it.  He pulls you by your thighs so his head is right between your naked legs. “God damn, you got the juiciest pussy,” he whispers right to it.  He plants his nose at your entrance then drags it upward, slickening your clit before digging into your cunt with his tongue and lips.  He moans and grunts as he devours you.  When he thrusts his tongue into you, all you can think about is his cock and how bad you want it.  

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Joel,” you say. 

He looks up at you from between your legs but doesn’t stop.  He knows you’re enjoying it, why should he?

“Stop,” you say.  “Come up here.” 

He knows what you want.  You can see it in his eyes.  He rests his head on your inner thigh and asks with puppy dog eyes, “Why? Don’t like it?” He knows you do. 

“It’s not what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I think you know what I want.”  Your hips lift and your legs try to lift him toward you by his underarms.

“Hell yeah, I do,” he says and palms himself.  “But lemme hear it, baby.  Just this once.” He plants a kiss on your clit and swirls his tongue, looking up at you.  

You sigh.  “I want your cock.”

“Damn right,” he says and takes his pants off.  He takes his time making his way back up your body.  Far too much time when you’re desperate to be filled. 

“Jesus, give it to me,” you beg. 

“Ohh, I’ll give it to ya,” he says.  He reaches down and fingers you, then nudges your asshole, using your slick to push the top section of one digit inside.  

You gasp. 

“Ya like that?” he asks. 

You moan softly.  “God, I just want you inside me,” you beg. 

“Yeah, baby.” He removes his fingers and uses his other hand to drag the head of his cock through your slick. 

“Now,” you whisper and grab his wrist, stopping him with the head of his cock at your entrance. 

“Yeah, baby.”  

He presses forward and nestles his cock for entry.  “Yeah,” you nod.  "Now."

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes. 

When your bodies are aligned, the clean skin of his stomach against yours is a feeling you didn’t realize you needed so badly. 

He shoves his length into you with a grunt.  You moan softly as your body accepts him, then you bite your lip.   

“Don’t hold back on me now, sugar,” he murmurs, staring down at you darkly. “Tell me what ya want.” 

“Fuck me,” you say. 

He smirks and backs up enough to slam into you again, watching your mouth fall open with his girth.  He retreats once again and slowly fills you to the brim. Too slowly.  Then he slams into you again and slowly backs up. You moan unrestrained and wrap your legs around him, using all your leg strength to pull him closer into you.  

“Fuck me, really fuck me,” you beg him, “Faster,” you say. 

“Think about it all the time, don’t ya,” he says as he continues fucking you slowly. 

You nod. 

“Hell yeah,” he says as he moves his hips and buries his cock inside you, accelerating but barely. 

“All the time,” you say, and he speeds up a little more. “Fuck me,” you beg him.

“Yeah, I’ll fuck ya,” he whispers, and finally he does.  

He rails you at a perfect rhythm. He watches your tits bounce, occasionally dipping his head for a taste of your skin. He plants his mouth on your neck and marks you. It barely takes any time at all until your spine is arching and he’s saying “yeah, come for me, baby.” 

As you see stars and flutter around him, he says, “God damn you look hot when you come on this cock."  He fucks you through it and doesn't stop. "So damn hot," he repeats. A minute later he bottoms out with a shudder and pulses into you. It isn’t as much as usual given that he just emptied himself in the shower but his stamina sure is impressive for his age. He rolls over and lies on his back next to you.  

“That’s where it’s at, baby,” he pants.  “All about communication.”  He goes to the bathroom and washes up then pulls on his pajama pants.  He goes back out to the couch while you get dressed again.  You're too physically satisfied to feel bad about asking for it.

-

When you join him on the couch, he’s gotten the weed box out and he’s rolling a joint.  

“Not for me,” you say.  “I should really go.”  

“Still rainin’,” he says.  

“Barely,” you shrug. 

He looks at you and nods.  “Alright, pumpkin.  ‘Least lemme give you a ride.” He squeezes your thigh and stands up. 

-

He stops his car in front of your house and your aunt comes to the window then walks away.  Joel sees her and sighs.  

“What?” you ask him. 

“Nothin’. See ya around, pumpkin.”  You go around to the basement entry.

Your Aunt knocks on the basement door soon after you’re inside. 

“Was that Joel Miller dropping you off?” she asks. 

“Why?” you ask. Her eyes fall on your neck and you cover it casually.

“Oh, honey,” she says.  Then she  just shakes her head.  “That man is trouble. He’s probably shagged half the neighborhood.” 

It’s just gossip, but your heart still drops. “He was giving me a ride.”

She looks at you skeptically.  “A ride from the back of the neighborhood?”

You don’t have an answer. “How do you know that for sure about him?”

She puffs out her cheeks and exhales.  “Guess I don’t.  Ask anyone, though. He’s got them coming and going at all hours.” 

You swallow, waiting for her to say something else, then say, “We’re just friends.  Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Just be careful, honey.” She starts to go back up the stairs then comes back down. "Actually yeah, there's someone your uncle wants introduce you to. Real nice boy he works with."

"Uh - okay," you stammer.

"Great," she nods, "I'll tell him." Then she finally leaves you alone.

-

You have a lot of questions you don’t want to ask.  You know Joel’s not a good guy.  The last thing you should do is get more entangled with him.  You're not thinking with a clear head and you know it. 

You lay down on your bed, exhausted, and plug in your phone.  When it turns on, it chimes with a text from a new number.  The text on your lock screen says “Hate me ‘cause they ain’t me.”  You roll your eyes and crack a a smile. Sounds like Joel knew what your aunt would say to you.  At least he’s aware of his reputation? Is that a good thing?  How does he have your number?

You open the text, trying to think of what to say.  There’s an earlier message from him. It's from overnight - a topless photo of you.  You remember now - he said you should see how hot you looked.  You posed for him and gave him your number to send it.  

-

Thank you so much for reading and engaging!

-

All Joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy @str84pedro @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl @feministfanboi @gracieispunk @prettypartyfavor 

NW: @tehweeana@ele-meno-p@swedishscumfuck

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #dark!joel miller #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut #night walks!joel #toxicanonymity ☠️ #nightwalks☠️ #joel miller x you #creepy!joel miller #pervy!joel miller

[taevbears]

To Be Loved - 04

There may be something there that wasn't there before.

⤑ pairing: namjoon x reader (a bit of reader x ot7) ⤑ genre: hybrid au, romance, hurt/comfort ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 6.7k ⤑ warnings: the boys are still kinda mean and very guarded around the reader, slow burn, very brief mentions of toxic relationships and bullying, mentions of physical abuse, implied violence, Epik High name drop lol, cliffhanger ending ⤑ note: first post of 2024! hope you guys had a great start to the new year. this story is just about wrapping up now, but i'm also ready to move onto new projects that i want to release this year. hope you guys enjoy, and comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated! :)

Chapters 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 (End)

When it rains, your life is at a standstill. Time moves so slowly, so seamlessly, the days start to blur together. The grey skies, the endless rain, the muddy roads, and the thick fog that surrounds the gloomy forest. They are a constant that you can’t escape from.

The old manor, tucked away in the deep forest – far from any traveling paths and roads – appears to be stuck in time. And you feel like you’re stuck with it.

How long has it been since you arrived at the manor? A few days? A week? Two weeks?

With a sigh, you look away from the water gently knocking against your window and muster the courage to get out of bed. Cold air strikes you once you’ve come out of your blanket cocoon, and you try not to shudder as you walk barefoot around your bedroom.

By now, you’ve memorized what parts of the floor creak loudly, and you’re careful to avoid those areas, only crossing them slowly and quietly if necessary. Still, even if you’ve successfully finished your morning routine without a sound, he waits by your door.

“Little human, are you sure you’re not afraid of us?”

You catch your breath, but only for a second. Every morning, the bear hybrid waits in front of your bedroom as you’re waking up with a grumpy but determined look on his face. As if he absolutely refuses to go to bed until you answer his question.

“Good morning,” you start, blinking at him as you calm yourself down. He arches an eyebrow at you. “No, I’m not afraid of you.”

Taehyung holds your gaze, reading your face, looking for any subtle tell that you’re not being honest with him. You steel yourself as best as you can under the intensity of his stare, focusing on one of the moles on his pretty face.

Then, when satisfied, he nods his head. His mouth forms into a straight line, making his cheeks rise a bit in what you think might be a smile. Then, he saunters off down the hallway without another word.

You release the breath you’ve been holding.

The first time Taehyung did this was the morning after Namjoon showed you his private garden in the greenhouse. He scared the shit out of you, leaning against the doorframe as soon as you opened the door, just like when you had first met him. And he seemed to doubt you when you had stuttered out that you, in fact, don’t find him to be terrifying.

“I should get used to this,” you mumble to yourself, closing the door behind you.

Breakfast seems to depend on who is awake to make it. Sometimes, Seokjin is up in the early morning and has already started cooking by the time you and the other hybrids come down the stairs. Sometimes, Yoongi already has it prepared before his nocturnal instincts kick in and makes him want to sleep all day. Sometimes, it’s Hoseok and Jimin in the kitchen together, but one of them dances and entertains the other, riling up contagious giggles and distractions from the task at hand.

“Can I help with anything?” you offer when you see the two together.

Hoseok visibly flinches when he hears your voice, still a bit nervous when you’re around. But at least he doesn’t avoid you anymore. It’s as if he’s accepted that you’re inevitably stuck with each other. At least, until the storm passes.

“No, no, you’re a guest,” Jimin reminds you, flapping his black wing to shoo you away. “Just pull up a chair and relax. We’ll have this ready shortly.”

With that said, the two turn back to their tasks. Jimin tends to the fish he’s frying over a pan and Hoseok diligently cuts some vegetables. No resumed laughter or conversations while you awkwardly linger with uncertainty.

You know they mean well. You know that Namjoon had talked to them about treating you nicely while you’re staying with them. But you’re starting to feel like a burden. Restless. Useless. They don’t let you lift a finger with any of the house chores, even if you want to help out to show your consideration and appreciation.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind,” you try again.

Jimin’s shoulders tense a bit. You think he’s starting to get irritated. He doesn’t look at you as he repeats, “It’s fine. You’re a guest.”

It’s not until after you leave the kitchen when you hear their voices chatting again.

If anyone were to look for you, they’d find you in the old manor’s library.

There, they’d see you uncovering the written secrets and adventures within its vast collections of stories. You spend most of your day there, wrestling with a blanket as you switch from one comfortable position to another on the large sofa, so engulfed with your book that you don’t pay attention to anything else.

Not the way that time fleetingly drifts from morning to the late afternoon.

Not the way the sound of rain and the rumble of thunder begin to lull you to sleep.

Not the pair of glowing eyes that catches you napping mid-story, blanket slipping off you and onto the floor.

The next thing you know, you wake up to find that the book you’ve been reading has been placed on the table, the corner of the page turned to hold your place. The blanket that was partially covering you is now completely pulled over you, snuggly tucking you in beneath its warmth.

Someone was taking care of you while you were asleep. But as you look around, you see no one else in the room.

Sometimes, Jungkook drags you out of the library and brings you into the gaming room instead. There are a variety of board games, puzzles, and video games to play together, and all of them are addictively fun. No doubt, this is easily one of Jungkook’s favorite parts of the manor.

It also happens to be Seokjin’s favorite spot as well.

You see the wolf hybrid sitting straight on the couch, face stoic as he mutters under his breath, thick eyebrows drawn together in concentration as his fingers rapidly fidgets with the buttons and joysticks of the controller. His pointy ears twitch slightly when he hears you and Jungkook come in, but he doesn’t look away from the screen, too focused on what his character is doing.

Jungkook pulls out a puzzle for you two to do together, dumping all the tiny pieces onto the table. The two of you work in relative silence to put it together, but a question keeps lingering in your mind.

“Hey Jungkook, have you been tucking me in when I nap?”

From your peripheral vision, Seokjin’s ear swivels toward you. The movement of his hands still as a red flush starts to color the back of his neck.

“No,” he replies, a bit surprised. “Why?”

You frown a little. If not Jungkook, then who?

“No reason.”

On the rare occasion you’re not in the library or with Jungkook, you find yourself wanting to stretch out your legs and wander around the old manor.

There’s a timeless charm about it all. You imagine the previous owners lived like kings and queens here, throwing extravagant and lavish parties and banquets. An orchestra of music lively plays from the grand ballroom, and an incredible feast is on display with the finest plates and utensils. You imagine the guests dressed in their best suits and ball gowns, a variety of rich colors filling into the manor to dance the night away.

As you explore bits of the manor, you feel a pair of eyes watch you from the shadows. The same pair of resentful, glowing eyes that have been quietly observing you ever since you found yourself here.

You can always tell when he’s nearby. The room gets quieter. You become self-aware of each breath you take, the way your body tenses under the penetrating gaze, of the nervous flutter in your heart as every fiber of your being tells you to run.

And usually, you would. The moment you feel the discomfort crawling beneath your skin, you listen to your instincts and walk right back out of the room you entered.

But today, you face the shadows of the room. The panther hybrid that silently eyes you in the darkness.

You told Taehyung this morning that you weren’t afraid of them, right? And cutting through this room is the fastest way to get to where you want to go.

With a brave face, you lower your gaze from the panther and bow slightly in greeting. “Hello, Yoongi. I’m just passing through.”

In the darkness, the pair of eyes widens a bit. It’s the first time you’ve talked to him since you arrived at the manor. The first time you even acknowledged him.

Had your gaze lingered a little longer, perhaps you would’ve seen it. But you briskly walk across the room to exit, muttering an apology beneath your breath for disturbing him.

By evening, after leisure activities and daily housework around the manor are done, everyone is gathered for dinner. Each night is something a little different: hot stews and soups, rice bowls and stir-fry with vegetables and protein, marinated meat and seafood. There’s always plenty of side dishes as well, and always something to satiate each of the hybrid's cravings for certain food.

For the first few nights, there’s still an awkward tension in the air as you and Jungkook sit with the pack. Everyone's a little quieter, shifting glances with each other in wordless conversations. You feel like the elephant in the room, hard to be unnoticed and yet something no one really wants to address.

Except Namjoon.

Across the table, Namjoon would ask you how your day was, looking at you as if you’re the only person in the room with him. He’d ask about the books you read that day, what your favorite parts are, if you’ve seen the movie adaptation. And one of the hybrids – namely Jimin, Taehyung, or Jungkook – would comment how they didn’t realize there was a book version and ask about the differences from the original.

If you mentioned a game with Jungkook that you played that day, Namjoon would proudly state that he’s quite good at puzzles and riddles, and challenges you to a round next time. And the other hybrids – Seokjin, Yoongi, and Hoseok this time – would roll their eyes and grumble about how he is undefeated.

Even if you tell him that you slept most of the day and did absolutely nothing productive, Namjoon would still smile and tell you that rest is important. That he’s happy you feel comfortable sleeping well in the manor. He’d ask you if you had any good dreams, and listen to them even if it’s just the most mundane thing you could barely remember.

And you can’t help but think about how Kangdae never asks you questions like this.

Kangdae never bothered to ask about your day, how you’ve been, what you’re up to. So much of your relationship with him revolved around what he wants, what his plans are. It didn’t matter how you felt about them, as long as he got his way.

Yet, Namjoon seems to want to know everything about you. Your hobbies, your interests, what you like to do throughout the day, what you dream of.

It’s… different from what you’re used to. But it’s not entirely unwelcome either.

Like Taehyung, Namjoon has a question to ask you. Every night after dinner, as the other hybrids begin to clear away their plates and put their leftovers away, Namjoon comes up to you and inquires, “Would you like to spend the evening with me?”

Shyly, as your heart seems to flutter each time he does, you answer, “Of course.”

Stuck in the manor, and with the ongoing storm still strong, your options are rather limited. 

Sometimes, he takes you to his greenhouse again where you can see the slow progress of his little garden. Sometimes, you’d take him up on his challenge and try to beat him in a puzzle or game. Sometimes, it’s a quiet evening where the two of you are reading books side by side, or watching a movie until you end up falling asleep, and you’d wake to find his arm protectively around you, holding you close. Sometimes, the night is full of laughter and chatter as the two of you share a bottle of wine by the fireplace and talk for hours about life, music, art, and whatever comes to mind, and realizing that he’s such an easy person to talk to.

Despite the circumstances, you enjoy hanging out with him. A lot more than you ever thought you would.

There’s something sweet and kind about Namjoon. He’s incredibly smart and humble, his down-to-earth personality helps him see the beauty of life, art, and passion in ways that are almost philosophical. He has very admirable traits that unveils the more you get to know him, yet he still keeps his certain secrets close to his heart about what creature he is and where he goes when he isn’t in the manor. Admittedly, he has many physical traits that you find attractive as well, from the deep dimples on his cheeks whenever he smiles to the bulge of muscles in his arms and chest.

It feels strange and new, a feeling you’ve never felt with anyone before. A feeling that you can’t quite place whenever you feel Namjoon’s pretty eyes on you or when he’d accidentally brush his hand against yours.

While the days seem to move slowly, almost in a standstill, time flies quickly when you’re with Namjoon. Before you know it, hours passed, and he is already escorting you to your room in the east wing.

“Good night, Namjoon,” you tell him once you’re inside the room, leaning against the doorway as you face him.

“Sweet dreams,” he replies, smiling at you in a way that makes his eyes form crescents and the dimples stretch along his cheek with his grin.

There’s a moment that lingers. One that feels like the night has ended too soon, and this is a chance for either of you to say something more. To not let the moment pass.

Just as he’s beginning to walk away, you call out to him. “Namjoon?”

“Yes?”

Would you like to spend the evening with me?

The bold question nearly comes out of your mouth, and you feel your face heat up when you realize what you’re about to ask him. Instead, you merely say, “Thank you. I had a nice time with you.”

His face softens a bit as he tells you, “Me too. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Another day rises, gloomy as always. But for once, you don’t let the constant rain damper your spirits.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve been here a little while now. Perhaps it’s also because you have no idea when the rain will let you go. Perhaps it’s because you simply want to change things up from the dark and dreary. But if you’re going to be stuck in a manor with a bunch of hybrids, you might as well make the most of it. Right?

“Good morning, Taehyung,” you greet him the moment you open your bedroom door. He looks taken aback, as if you wouldn’t suspect he’d come to your door like he does every morning. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” He blinks at you, still confused. Maybe even a bit suspicious. The sleepiness that’s usually on his face isn’t present this time. “Are you all right?”

“I am,” you reply easily, giving him a polite, friendly smile. You’re about to head down for breakfast when you turn to face the bear hybrid again. “Thanks for always checking on me, by the way.”

Taehyung smiles a little to himself. He’s still a bit guarded around you, just as all the other hybrids. But to both of you, it’s a small start to change. “Sure. No problem.”

In the kitchen, you hear Hoseok and Jimin before you even see them. The two of them are in charge of breakfast again, singing a song they both know and shaking their hips as they stir and cut.

“Need any help?” you offer again, still in a good mood after talking to Taehyung.

Jimin barely glances at you. “We got it. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” you try again. “I can make a decent kimchi fried rice.”

“It’s true,” your number one supporter – Jungkook – pipes up, seemingly summoned by the chance to readily defend your honor and your cooking. “I tried it. It’s so good.”

You smile fondly at the bunny hybrid, and without thinking, you begin to pet his back affectionately. A mistake you instantly regret.

At your touch, Jungkook immediately tenses. His eyes are scared wide as he stares back at you, and you quickly draw your hand back.

Stupid, you scold yourself. His owner was physically abusive. Of course he wouldn’t feel comfortable with you just touching him. “I-I’m so sorry, Jungkook. I didn’t— I should’ve realized—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” he insists, his voice soft. “It feels nice. I’m just… not used to it.”

Hoseok and Jimin are quiet as they watch the exchange between you two. All three hybrids note the guilt and distress on your face, and sense that you genuinely feel bad. Even as Jungkook takes your hands and brings them to his face and chest, trying to cheer you up, claiming that he knows that you won’t ever hurt him.

You’d never hurt any of them.

In fact, in the days that you and Jungkook have been in the manor, it’s clear that the two of you at least care about each other. From the little things like when you ask him how he slept the night before, or when Jungkook shares some of his food with you. To the obvious things like when Jungkook’s eyes would sparkle with fondness whenever he talks about you, or how you’re always looking out for him even when you seem busy reading a book.

Perhaps there’s some truth in Jungkook’s story from the first dinner together. Perhaps you aren’t like the other humans after all.

It makes you rather odd, peculiar to the rest of the hybrids. A beauty, but a funny girl.

Jimin ruffles his feathers a bit, as if he seems a bit confused about something. Then, after a bit of hesitation, he asks, “You said you can cook kimchi fried rice? What else can you make?”

It isn’t long until the kitchen fills with the aromas of your meal. You’ve been here long enough to know what each of them prefer as well, and with the three hybrids helping you finish making breakfast, you can’t help but feel proud of the abundance set on the table before you.

“Enjoy the meal, guys. I’ll see if the others want to join us,” you decide as the three hybrids already take their seats around the table. They nod their heads and express their appreciation, but the hunger in their eyes makes them impatient as they start to fill their plates with food.

By that time, Taehyung is probably fast asleep and you don’t want to bother him. You’re trusting that Jimin or Hoseok would save some food for him later. You also don’t have any idea where Namjoon would be, but you suspect that Seokjin would be in the gaming room like he usually is.

Just as you’re crossing the threshold leading to the gaming room, you feel him.

Eyes watching you from the shadows.

Normally, this is when you run. When your fight-or-flight instincts kick in and you turn back from the room as quickly as you entered. When you’d flee to another room as if he’d chase you out.

This time, you try to address the guarded presence in the room.

“Yoongi?”

There’s no answer. But if you were to see him, you’d see his ear twitch at the sound of his name. The gaze feels more intense, making your skin crawl, but you don’t let it scare you.

“I helped Hoseok and Jimin with breakfast today,” you continue and wait to see if he’d respond back. He doesn’t. Still, you meekly add on, “I wasn’t sure what you like. We saved some for you and the others. If you try it, I hope you like it.”

You take the following silence as your cue to leave, scurrying across to get into the game room. You feel uncertain if engaging in small talk with the leopard hybrid will change his impression of you at all.

Until later on, when you return to the kitchen, you see that his share is missing from their refrigerator. And Taehyung and Seokjin are sitting together eating their shares.

“Jimin told me that you made this,” the bear hybrid says when he sees you. “It’s good, right Seokjin-hyung?”

The wolf hybrid chokes a little in surprise, as if he’s just finding out now that the food he’s eating was made by you. It’s nearly devoured, but Seokjin coolly replies, “It’s not bad.”

You smile a little at this, feeling a bit proud of yourself. “Then, I’ll make something more delicious for you guys next time.”

“It’s nice what you did for everyone,” Namjoon tells you later that day, after dinner and during another evening date with him. He pours you a glass of whiskey, and you smile and take it from him. Congratulations are in order for finally getting the other hybrids to warm up to you.

“It’s the least I could do,” you tell him honestly, taking a sip and letting the liquor burn your throat a little. You grimace a bit, swirling the golden liquid in your glass. “You’ve all been nothing but kind to me.”

Your eyes are fixed on the alcohol, but you can see Namjoon staring at you from your peripheral vision. It’s such a softened look, almost endeared. You try to tell yourself the warmth on your face is from the whiskey and nothing else.

“I hope this means you’ll consider staying after the rain,” he nearly whispers. He doesn’t hide that you’re more than welcomed to. That, for whatever reason, he wants you to stay with him for a long time.

Perhaps a few days ago, you’d easily decline. You didn’t want to burden any of them for overstaying. You didn’t think it was even possible to be amicable with them.

But today proved you wrong. Today felt like a change to something new. Something that just wasn’t there before.

You take another sip of the whiskey and state, “I’ll think about it.”

Staying in the manor has been on your mind lately.

Day by day, it feels like time continues to move too slowly. The rain seems to come and go now, but it’s still too dangerous for you to leave the old manor on the chance that the storm will pick up again soon. Or that you might end up getting lost in the dense woods. Or any other excuse that seems like a bad idea to leave.

So, you stay.

You stay until Taehyung no longer questions if you’re afraid of them every morning.

It’s become a routine at this point.

Every day, the sleepy, handsome face of the bear hybrid is the first thing you see when you open the door to your bedroom. “Good morning, little human. How did you sleep?”

And you smile back at him, genuinely happy to see him. “Morning, Taehyung. I slept fine, thanks for asking.”

“That’s good,” he responds, nodding a bit to himself before he starts to head to his room. You’re not sure how long he waits for you to wake up, or why he still insists on checking on you before he turns in for bed, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

“I hope you sleep well,” you tell him before he goes. And Taehyung just looks back at you and smiles.

You stay until Jimin no longer sees you as a guest in his home.

To your insistence, Jimin starts to see you helping around the manor more. Without anyone asking, he sees that you’d fix snacks for everyone in the afternoon, cutting up fruits or spreading tuna mix on crackers. He sees you dusting around the east corridor on days when it rains, tending to Namjoon’s flowers as they begin to bloom and grow, and folding laundry with Jungkook.

You’re really starting to make yourself at home here.

Jimin preens his black feathers, neatly fixing his wing as you’re sweeping around with a broom and dustpan. He doesn’t think you’re even paying attention to him until he hears you murmur, “They’re so pretty.”

“What is?”

“Your feathers,” you tell him with a shy smile. “They’re a really unique color.”

“Oh.” He feels his chest puff up a bit, swelling with happiness. In the shelter he ran away from, and even the lake where he was born, he was always the odd one out – the ugly duckling of the group. Hearing you compliment him makes his heart stir as he quietly mutters, “Thank you.”

You stay as Hoseok begins to realize you’re not a threat to them.

It takes a while, but slowly, eventually, Hoseok no longer flinches or looks at you with terror when you’re near him. Where he even tries to make small talk with you at the dinner table, or when he’s with another hybrid. Seeing how gentle you are with Jungkook – and these days, to the others – seems to assure him that you’re not an enemy to him or his pack.

At the library, Hoseok sees you and Jungkook together. It isn’t unusual to find you here, but Jungkook must’ve wanted to spend time with you.

In his bunny form, Jungkook falls asleep on your lap. His little body is comfortably stretched out as you absently scratch his head and behind his ears, and then massage his back. He’s practically melting at your touch, whiskers twitching with content.

Jungkook is completely safe with you. Despite his past with his previous owner and the horrors he had to face before he met you, he’s let his guard down with you.

Perhaps that’s why Hoseok finally musters up the courage to approach you. “I saw the movie for this, but I think I like the book better so far.”

You look up at him and smile. “Oh, that’s a good one! I like the book better too.”

He returns your smile, still a bit nervous, but eventually, he sits next to you. Neither of you say a word as you quietly read your books together. But the implication of it all, the wordless comfort of being around each other’s presence, is more than enough.

You stay as Yoongi starts to respond back to you.

Shortly after you and Hoseok spend the afternoon reading together, the leopard hybrid jumps down and reveals himself before you. He regards you with cautious eyes still, and you’re frozen in your spot, not sure what to expect.

Then, as if he’s the nervous one, he breaks eye contact with you. “I didn’t know you listened to Epik High.”

You blink at him, but then remember you’re wearing their merch shirt. “Oh, I do! I went to their concert a couple years ago!”

He looks surprised. “I didn’t take you as the type to listen to hip-hop.”

You smirk a little at his reaction. “Namjoon didn’t tell you? I met him when he was still an underground rapper.”

You stay as Seokjin shows you a different side to him.

On the day when it was so cold that the rain turned into snow, you and Jungkook decided to have a snowball fight in the courtyard. The other hybrids could hear you screaming and laughing from inside the manor as the bunny hybrid chases you around, cackling like a madman as he carries mounds of snow in his hand. 

When you see Jimin and Taehyung, you run to them for help, trying to hide behind them. The two look a little unsure of what to do until you peek out from behind Taehyung and hurl a snowball at Jungkook’s shoulder.

Hoseok laughs at the three of you split up with Jimin and Taehyung catching on quick. Yoongi and Namjoon watch by the doorway with amusement as you play with the youngest hybrids.

But as Seokjin watches, his tail is wagging and his pointed ears are perked with interest. His big eyes follow the snowballs being thrown, and his body lunges a bit, as if ready to catch them before he forcibly stops himself.

Hoseok notices and bends down to gather the snow on the ground, forming them into a ball. “Hyung, let’s show these kids how it’s done.”

You’re a bit startled when you come face to face with the wolf hybrid, not expecting him to join the fight. He’s in his wolf form, bigger than any dog you’ve encountered, and much more intimidating had it not been for the playful way Seokjin stretches out his front paws and raises his butt, wagging his tail as he eyes the ball of snow in your hands. When you throw it, Seokjin immediately takes off and bites the snow in midair, ruining your surprise attack.

Jungkook laughs when he sees this. “Wow, Jin-hyung, you’re so mean!”

And then gets hit in the face with a snowball by Hoseok.

You stay because Namjoon asks you to.

An awful flu has you bedridden for a couple weeks after the big snowball fight. Despite how many extra blankets are over your body, you’re still shivering beneath them. You’re coughing and sneezing until your chest and throat aches and you can’t breathe properly through your nose. All you can eat are liquids because solid food makes you nauseous.

Jungkook is so worried about you, he’s standing by your bedside with tears in his eyes, telling you not to die on him.

And you, a blob beneath several blankets – voice hoarse and completely congested, feeling like this illness has you fighting through hell and back – try to assure him as best as you can that you’ll be fine.

Surprisingly, all the hybrids step up to take care of you.

Seokjin cooks you chicken noodle soup, Yoongi brews you ginger tea with honey and lemon, Taehyung leaves plenty of water by your nightstand to keep you hydrated, Hoseok often places a cool, damp washcloth on your burning forehead to reduce your fever, Jungkook makes sure your bed is comfortable by adding on more blankets and pillows from his bed to yours, and Jimin shoos away the other hybrids when they want to check on you so you could rest properly.

At some point, Namjoon must have gone into your room as well.

After dozing off, you open your eyes to see a smerlado flower on your nightstand, resting on top of a book and a note. In Namjoon’s handwriting, he writes that he just finished reading the book and thought you’d like it. And as you flip open the pages, you see sticky notes and tabs of Namjoon’s thoughts and comments as he was reading through it.

Your mood instantly lifts as you read through them, smiling and laughing at some, itching to add your own thoughts into others. You keep hoping to turn the page and see another comment from him, even if it’s just a note that says to remind him about a particular paragraph later since he has more to say than what he could write. And only part-way through the story, you ask Jimin to get you a pen and some paper so you could write Namjoon back.

For a little while, it goes on like this. Little handwritten letters shared between you and Namjoon, especially when it still hurts to talk and you keep sleeping on and off all day. It becomes one of the things you look forward to the most, receiving a letter from him, even more so than the book he pairs with it to keep you entertained while you’re in bed.

The rain has stopped. The snow has stopped. And honestly, once you recover from this flu, you could technically leave the manor and the hybrids behind. Night falls and the moon is so bright. The stars look beautiful without the clouds masking their lights.

“What are you thinking about?” Namjoon quietly asks, visiting you for the evening as he always does. Even when you’re sick in bed, he’s adamant about courting you. He reads your notes, and you watch the dimples on his cheeks form when he comes across something funny or endearing. He brings you tea, flowers, more books, and puzzles, but spends most of his evenings just talking to you. Even as you doze off, he watches over you, comfortable with your presence as you feel his fingers linger by your face and lips.

Tonight, as you look at him, you think he looks handsome under the moonlight. Tall, strong, and the indigo colors of his eyes look magical as his gaze falls on you.

“The storm stopped, but…” you trail off, a wave of emotion hitting you so suddenly. You think about how the hybrids are just starting to warm up to you, how Jungkook is right at home here, how this was your goal from the very start and you can’t imagine parting ways from any of them now.

Namjoon doesn’t need you to finish your sentence. His hand finds yours, warm and big, yet it holds yours so gently. “Then stay. This is your home now, too.”

You decide to stay because you want to.

Six months have passed since you and Jungkook first arrived at the old manor. Dinners have been livelier after the snowball fight. The hybrids have gotten used to you being around, regarding you with warm smiles whenever they see you. 

And you feel safe when you’re with them. You feel at home.

On a clear and starry night, after Yoongi casually mentions that the old owners of the manor seemed to have hosted balls and parties long ago, you and the hybrids decide to dress up and throw your own party for fun. Remnants of this are found in the attic, the servant quarters, and even the grand ballroom itself.

It’s in a closet where you find a beautiful ball gown. It feels like it’s been made for you the way it perfectly fits your body, the shade of yellow complimenting your skin tone, and the exquisite details that make the dress sparkle. There’s a giddiness in you as you go all out, fixing your hair and makeup for the first time in ages.

When Jungkook first sees you, his mouth falls open in surprise.

You start to feel a bit self-conscious when he doesn’t say anything. “I look silly, don’t I?”

“No! Not at all!” he quickly assures you with a laugh. “You look beautiful.”

As you wait in the east wing, Jungkook hops off ahead to inform the others that you’re ready. Music begins to play from the ballroom, and you take a deep breath in.

Tonight, you feel nervous, and you’re not entirely sure why. Every night, for the past six months, you’ve spent your evenings after dinner with Namjoon.

This time, it shouldn’t feel any different, except it does.

Careful of the steps, you slowly make your descent down the stairs. Once you’re at the middle landing, that’s when you see him.

Namjoon is also dressed up tonight, but he looks like a prince straight out of a fairytale story. As he steps down the stairs from the west wing to meet you, he stares at you in awe. Then, with a charming smile, he extends his arm toward you and asks, “Shall we?”

You smile back shyly and wrap your arm around his. Then, together, the two of you walk down the rest of the steps that lead to the ballroom.

It’s enchanting, the way the chandeliers glow and sparkle above you. Yoongi is on the piano and Taehyung on the violin. Seokjin and Jungkook are dancing together, giggling and goofing around, and Hoseok and Jimin are sitting together with an open bottle of champagne shared between them. 

You feel their gazes on you and Namjoon the moment you two enter. Even Yoongi and Taehyung momentarily stop playing as they look at you.

“Don’t mind them,” Namjoon whispers when he sees that you’re getting a little anxious from the attention. He takes one of your hands in his as his other hand holds your waist. “Just keep your eyes on me.”

Hoseok waves for the music to start again, and a romantic tune fills the ballroom. You and Namjoon start to dance together. It’s a bit clumsy at first. Namjoon winces every time he nearly steps on your feet and mumbles embarrassed apologies. But you smile and assure him that it’s okay, almost feeling like no one else is in the room except you and him.

After a while, Yoongi changes it from live music to songs from his playlist, still keeping the romantic atmosphere as Taehyung and Jimin dance together, and Hoseok stares at the leopard hybrid with eyes begging for a dance as well. You’d think Jungkook would want to cut in to dance with you at one point, but he still seems to be having fun with Seokjin and they copy each other’s silly dance moves.

“I’m going to step out for some fresh air,” you tell Namjoon, and he nods his head, saying he’ll go with you.

While the party continues inside, the two of you enter the balcony where the cold, night air hits your skin and makes you shiver. You feel his hand on the small of your back, rubbing you gently to keep you warm. And it works. You feel the heat on your face as the peaceful, beautiful night surrounds you two.

There’s a serious look in his eyes, as if he’s contemplating something, before he asks you, “Are you happy here? With me?”

“I am,” you reply honestly. You can’t thank Namjoon enough for taking you and Jungkook in that night of the storm, despite almost hurting one of his packmates. You can imagine a life without him and the other hybrids now either.

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. You miss your family, and every now and then, you wonder how they’re doing. How much has changed in that small, provincial town since you left. You even think about Kangdae sometimes, though you’re certain he must be with another girl. They must all think you’re long gone by now. “I don’t think I will, though. I like being with you. And the others, of course.”

Namjoon smiles gently. “Then, I’m glad you stayed.”

“Me too.” You mean it, too. Your eyes meet Namjoon’s, and you can’t help but think of how pretty they are. How attractive he is. How you’re so tempted to just move a little closer and just—

“I have a confession to make.”

You feel your heart race. “What is it?”

“I think – I knew – from the moment I met you,” Namjoon begins, his voice soft. The strokes of his thumb on your back feel more intimate as his gaze falls on your lips. “You’re the one. You’re my—”

A commotion interrupts from below.

You hear Seokjin barking and snarling angrily, followed by the deep, rumbling growls from Taehyung and Yoongi. Voices are shouting. People you don’t recognize.

Everything seems to move in slow motion as you and Namjoon look over the balcony to see flashlights waving in the premise of the manor. Some of the hybrids are out there in their animal forms, warning the group of intruders to back away.

“Namjoon,” Hoseok interrupts, coming to the balcony with urgency in his eyes. “It’s the humans. They’re—”

A gunshot fires.

Your blood runs cold as the deadly sound rings in your ear.

And, to your horror, you hear a voice that you do recognize, shouting your name.

“Babe, I know you’re there!” Kangdae yells, looking up at you from where he stands. “Come down here and say hello! Or I’ll shoot your darling pets one by one.”

Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reviews are greatly appreciated!

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#to be loved #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #hybrid namjoon #hybrid namjoon x reader #hybrid namjoon x you #bts namjoon x reader #bts namjoon x you #hybrid bts #bts fic #bts hybrid fic #bts hybrid au #bts hybrid x reader #bts hybrid x you

[diorcities]

⠀   ⠀ ── 𖥻 🍭‧₊˚⊹ nct dream on your period !

suggestive. mdni. library

haechan can sleep with you for hours, as long as you need it. the pain gives you no rest, and you try to confront it in silence to not overwhelm the boy sleeping next to you. between dreams, you have heard him wake up occasionally to check that you are better, and you have not thought about anything other than pretending to be asleep so that he gets some rest. so you are there, staring at the ceiling as a blaze of pain collapses you and grips your insides. you doze and doze until you finally fall into the arms of morpheus; the pain has subsided a bit since you last woke up.

you stretch, feeling your muscles stiff and exhausted from a terrible nap, but feeling that you can finally find some sleep: the pain has almost completely disappeared. the sun's rays have been extinguished by the thin curtains of the alcove and you hear the small cooing of nocturnal animals below haechan's soft snoring. maybe that's why you don't notice it at first; your hand goes to your belly and you bump into something.

haechan's hand rests peacefully on your stomach, giving off a sweet body heat. you hear him stirring between dreams before his two brown orbs greet you warmly. “better?” your hand intertwines with his. “better.”

jisung would make you the most delicious teas in the world while you showered with hot water. he knows how bad you feel when your period is about to come, so he would make you your favorite pajamas and together while listening to music. he would make you sleep on his chest while caressing your lower back to somehow relieve your menstrual pains, whisper sweet things in your ear or simply sing to you in an attempt to divert your attention to him. “you know what i read somewhere?” you hear his voice ask as you are about to fall asleep. you hum in response, “making love helps.”

“ji, dear. i think it only applies to headaches.” “oh,” he would say, stubbornly. “i'm sure i read it somewhere, i'll look it up for you.”

mark buys you pads when your period is three days early. she'd probably try to buy them in your favorite color, even if it's just the wrapper. he'd be on the phone with you while reciting in whispers the details of the towel package, and at this point, you don't know who's more embarrassed between the two of you.

“mark, honey, can you hurry up?”

“oh, shit, yes, baby. on my way,” he says he's about to pay but actually asks a salesgirl for help because he doesn't understand entirely about wings and no wings. he'd probably spend hours looking at the rack to buy the perfect towels, see the details on the packaging having a vague idea of the ones he's seen you buy. then when he came home, you know he'll make you tell him how proud you are of him for doing it without help, nevertheless, you ask him to hurry up next time because your ass is frozen from waiting so long.

jeno knows when you're in pain, and he finds himself in a conjunction of what's the best thing he can do in situations like that. it's obviously hard to know for sure what to do when he'll never be able to experience what you're feeling. “talk to me,” he whispers softly, hovering over your body but without touching you, fearing that he could make the situation worse by looking at your body contorted in the least painless position you found for your cramps. “let me die.” also, it doesn't help the drama you possess without alteration at times like those.

he leaves the room for a whole ten minutes and you think «damn he did let me die» but then he returns. you are filled with gentle kisses while a warm compress is deposited in your stomach. “is it too hot?” he wants to know, looking at you with worried doe eyes. suddenly you're out of speech at the sweet gesture, feeling flustered and warm by it even tho he surely did the same on other occasions. “too hot.” you think out loud, causing jeno to check the compress. “you sure?” he asks, receiving a pretty stunned “uh-huh” from you.

he peeks at you, and it all seems to fit in his head. a big smile appears on his lips when he leans to kiss you as he decides to play along. “should we try another method?”

taking hot showers with renjun is always fun. without worrying about anything since the bathroom is always dark except for scented candles on the countertop. having long, tender kissing sessions while his soft hands caress your waist, back pressing the tiles from the wall. hands brushing his wet hair out of his hair. smiling in each other's mouths, before you feel something warm go down your crotch. “okay! we need to stop.” because you've never tried doing it while on your period, and asking renjun would be pretty embarrassing. however, he only moves his kisses to your neck, “If you need me, just say it.”

he lets you go as he hums a melody, feeling him lather his hair. going silent out of nowhere before he whines softly, “something's wrong?” you ask him, trying to focus your eyes on his dark silhouette. “it got into my eye!”

jaemin would be so kind and understanding when he sees you start to cry after you have said something rude to him. he knows you are in a vulnerable and emotional moment, so he empathizes completely with you even when he cannot and will not be able to experience what you are going through. you are so upset and in a bad mood, that you don't register when you raise your voice in response to him. you immediately regret doing so, which makes you more irritated; you regret being in this state and regret yelling at your boyfriend when all he wants to do is to help.

you cover your face in grief. “sorry, sorry.” hiccups attack you as you try to hide the terrible state of your riotous emotions. you register no sound other than your disconsolate sobs, and you think jaemin has gone and finally tired of you, which causes you to cry more. little do you know that jaemin is suffering his own internal battle. he knows you don't like to show your sensitive side, should he go away and leave you alone? it must be hard to have colic and have to put up with his nonsense questions, should he apologize? would it make any difference?

so the best he can think to do is to hold you in his arms as he rocks you in his embrace, whispering that there is nothing to apologize for every time you apologize.

chenle doesn't cringe when she sees the dark spot on the sheets, and you sleeping peacefully, oblivious. but he knows how embarrassed you'll be once you wake up, so he gets to work. you once told him how much you craved gummy bears when you were on your period and ever since then, he has had bags and bags of gummy bears in the cupboard. he would remove you from your dreams for a good reason, suggest you shower together and then eat candy while watching a movie.

even when he keeps you from noticing, it's almost impossible; there's a similar stain on the pants you stole from his closet. the embarrassment eats you alive as chenle tries to downplay it. he doesn't budge when you try to take charge, instead, he KICKS you out of his room and tells you to pick a movie while he takes care of the situation. after he's done with the room, he walks into the living room and sits next to you while a weary sigh leaves his lips. “what did my pretty bloody mary pick out for us?.”

#nct dream fluff #nct dream suggestive #haechan fluff #mark fluff #jeno fluff #jaemin fluff #jisung fluff #renjun fluff #chenle fluff #nct dream reactions #♡dream

[justcressida]

BRİDE OF THE WATER GOD

Cried out little Tethys with all the fountains flowing from her throat.

She lamented the titanic of nocturnal care and beautification. The cries of a mother who sacrificed her young daughter mingled with Nyx's star-studded night.

Oceanos placed his hands on his wife's arms as if comforting. Love wasn't always salvation.

A cute grimace. Floor-length veil. A wedding dress that covers her immortal body with secluded lace. The long wavy hair was tied into a bun on the head of the goddess, who was too beautiful to touch.

Anyone who looked at the stage could tell that this was the perfect wedding. Poseidon, the daughter of the most powerful Water Gods of their time and the newly appointed Water God.

What kind of man would come to his own wedding with a trident? It was more than a wedding, it was a threat. The fact that the bride looked like a lifeless doll with her expressionless face was just the beginning.

The War of the Titans ended with the defeat of the powerful ancestors, and Tethys and Okeanos, who remained neutral throughout the war, were able to escape it. Was it really a salvation?

No one was talking about it, but everyone who looked at the scene where the bride and groom performed their divinity knew.

Poseidon's arrogance and anger were never hidden. As usual, he handled things his own way. There was no trace of love or hate in his eyes. Pure superiority.

Tethys, the mother of heaven, and her equally lovely daughter were falling victim to the Water God.

There was never a trace of love, affection and happiness at this wedding.

The ancient Kingdom of Water, the fallen Gods of Water, the traces and beginnings of creation. Water plays with you, water tricks, water drives you crazy.

It's just one of the myths left behind after Ragnarok with the fall of the Gods. Although the rest of humanity questioned the fate of the Gods, the first of the 13 Valkyres, Brunhilde, never told the end of the myth that began with the tragedy.

#record of ragnarok x reader #ror x reader #snv x reader #ror poseidon #ror poseidon x reader #snv poseidon #snv poseidon x reader