#sorry if this is a little more serious than my usual. i want to have the pics of him on my blog yknow
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Chasing Cars | teaser (jjk)
☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?
☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader
☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, some chapters have mature content)
☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff
☆warnings: alcohol consumption, curses
☆word count: 1.1k
☆a/n: teaser time babyyyy!! I hope you guys love it :') thank you to @moonleeai and @jessikahathaway for beta-ing, you guys are the best <3
☆series masterpost
☆add yourself to the taglist here!
☆☆☆☆☆
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol
☆☆☆☆☆
The hour is late. Jungkook is tipsy, far more than he thought he’d get tonight, but then again, Taehyung is not in a better state, and Sera, Jimin’s girlfriend, had to force him to go home before they got too drunk.
They’re all supposed to help Taehyung’s little sister move in tomorrow, Jungkook included.
“Man,” Taehyung lets out, and Jungkook looks away from the game of Smash they’re playing - that he’s majestically losing - to focus on Taehyung.
“What?” he lets out.
“Can’t believe Y/n will be here tomorrow,” Taehyung answers.
“Can’t believe you’re forcing me to live with a girl.”
Taehyung chuckles. “Don’t worry, Y/n is chill.”
Jungkook doesn’t doubt she is, considering how well he gets along with Taehyung, and Taehyung’s made it seem that he gets along well with his sister. He imagines Y/n’s just going to be a mini Taehyung, which frankly could be fun to have around.
But he doesn’t know anything about her other than the fact that she is Taehyung’s little sister.
“You know,” Taehyung adds as the game finishes. “I meant to tell you something.”
Jungkook cocks his pierced eyebrow in question. “Yeah?”
“Just wanted to say that if you touch my sister, you’re fucking dead.”
Jungkook bursts out laughing, shaking his head, but Taehyung remains entirely serious. Like he meant what he just said - could he?
“You’re joking right?” Jungkook asks as his laughter fades away.
“No, I’m dead ass,” Taehyung insists. “You breathe in her direction, and you’re dead.”
“Damn.” Jungkook widens his gaze, and then picks up the beer he’s been slowly drinking since Jimin left. “Understood.”
Hell, Jungkook knows that he sleeps around. Taehyung does the same - he can’t help but understand Taehyung when he says to stay away from his sister. And he thinks it’ll be easy. Y/n’s probably just going to be a clueless baby college kid, and though Jungkook doesn’t mind going for younger, he’ll have plenty of new faces to explore once Frosh week starts next week anyways.
So he promises Taehyung he has nothing to worry about, and they play a couple more games before they head to bed.
Jungkook wakes up early the next morning, the sun shining right in his face the most efficient alarm he’s ever used before. He wants to go to the gym before helping Taehyung’s sister, and though he hates being awake so early, he immediately forces himself to get up lest he falls back asleep.
His workout goes well, and he’s pleasantly sore when he heads back home. He’s lucky - he manages to park not too far from the apartment. He’s walking home, gym bag in one hand and his phone in the other, when Taehyung texts him to ask where he is.
Jungkook types ‘Fuck off’, pressing send as his attention is solely on his phone.
Until said phone flies out of his hand as he collides with a girl he didn’t notice, and Jungkook watches in horror as the device falls in a flower bed.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” you say, and you immediately dive into the flower bed, retrieving Jungkook’s phone.
You hand it to him, and Jungkook just stares at you, mouth agape. He’s aware he’s staring and that he probably looks stupid, but he’s dumbfounded.
You’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and he’s seen a lot.
“Don’t worry about it,” he answers quickly when you cock an eyebrow, your cheeks slowly turning red. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“At least it didn’t break,” you say, and you flash him a quick smile.
It does things to his heart that Jungkook barely comprehends - it’s like his heart is going miles a minute, yet it’s soothing, warm, much like the pavement feels in the summer when the sun has just dipped below the horizon.
“Right, yeah,” Jungkook answers, and his cheeks burn.
His cheeks fucking burn, and he wishes he could just disappear, dive below the ground until you can’t see him anymore. You just keep on smiling, eyes never disconnecting from his, and he wonders if you, too, feel like he does.
Shit, he thinks he might even hear bells in the distance.
You glance away, and it’s like he’s falling forward while not moving at all, and all he can do is pathetically clear his throat, as if that’s going to offer any help.
“I see you’ve met Y/n!” Taehyung yells from behind you, and Jungkook freezes.
Jungkook freezes, and then something burns in his lungs, like he’s under the surface struggling for futile oxygen he knows he won’t find.
You are… Taehyung’s sister.
You’re Y/n.
His best friend’s little sister.
The one thing Jungkook can’t have.
It makes him feel cold, his heart suddenly dropping in the Arctic sea amongst the icebergs.
“We literally ran into each other,” you say, looking back towards your brother.
And Jungkook sees it - your hair is the same shade as Taehyung’s, your face has the same shape. The smile though - your smile is different from Taehyung’s, and maybe that’s why he was fooled.
Fooled for a few seconds which felt like an eternity.
You walk away then, heading to the open back door of a car. You grab a box, and Jungkook puts his phone in his pocket, eyeing a bag on the backseat.
“Do you want me to bring this in?” he asks.
Only because he wants you to look at him again. His heart flutters in his chest when you do, and he forces it down with a swallow as you nod once.
“Yes, please!”
Jungkook nods too, and he grabs the bag before following you in. His right foot lands on the first step leading to the apartment when Taehyung stops him with a hand on his arm.
Jungkook frowns slightly, meeting his best friend’s gaze.
“I’m serious, JK,” Taehyung says through gritted teeth. “You fucking touch her, you’re dead.”
And Jungkook knows right then and there that he’s fucked. Entirely, thoroughly, immensely fucked.
Because he already wants you, and he hasn’t even talked to you for more than twenty seconds.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures Taehyung, and he hopes Taehyung can’t hear how fake he sounds.
How is he supposed to resist indulging in you when he already knows you’re all he’s ever wanted?
He really is entirely, thoroughly, immensely fucked.
☆☆☆☆☆
Chapter one coming on May 10th, 2024!
What did we think? Are we excited to read?? Let me know here!
All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.
Taglist: (strike-through means dumblr isn't letting me tag you)
@jjkluver7 | @lavender2ari | @srslythis-ismylife | @starlight-1010 | @mggv97
@cookysstuff | @02010802 | @kookieleshgo | @biaswreckersinc | @hera19
@ice | @nightapple | @jungkussyficrecs | @boyfriendtaekook | @montyfbaybee
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#chasing cars teaser#chasing cars#jungkook smut#jungkook angst#jungkook x reader#jungkook x you#jungkook fluff#jungkook#jungkook fic#jjk smut#jjk angst#jjk fluff#jjk x you#jjk x reader#jjk fic#jjk#btswritersclub#jeon jungkook#chasing cars series
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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
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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.
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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
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NSFW!Gladiator/AFAB!reader
Tmi warning but I'm about to start my period and I've been loosing my mind over fictional men. It's like ovulating but WORSE. Mostly over Cable, but @lina-lovebug sent in an ask about gladiator from episode 6 and although I'm definitely going to write it I got distracted while doing research on him and this kinda happened!!! Speaking of which, in your ask you said you were starving for content for him so I figured I go ahead and tag you :) sorry if NSFW isn't your thing.
Anyway, Big, serious men with no humor are making me absolutely feral this week IM NAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSRE UGHHHH For those who don't remember gladiator is, He's the hot purple dude that punched the shit out of the bird lady lol
TWs: MDNI!!! Pnv sex. Name calling. Not degradation tho. Too many positions, too much stamina. Purple alien man doesn't know how to process his feelings for you™
Imagine annoying gladiator with your every being. You just can't help it. Most of the time the stoic man just ignores you outright, never smiling nor even acknowledging you, period.
To be honest, he didn't like how talkative you were. You were always running your mouth about something or other, and when you weren't, you were teasing him. Holding simple and insignificant "victories" over his head due to your origin as a mutated human terran.
On your side, you just wanted him to acknowledge you. You figured he wouldn't be able to ignore you forever. Whatever strange relationship the two of you had, the one thing that seemed to affect him the most was your mutant abilities - or specifically, the parts of your abilities that effect your stamina.
When you realized you had a stamina bar that very much rivaled gladiators own, your teasing had started to take a turn towards something a little more lustful.
You just never expected Gladiator to take you up on your offer to have a friendly little "stamina competition."
You've lost count of how many positions the two of you have gone through. Both of you are panting, sweaty- sticky. Really sticky. Who knows how much time is passed, but neither of you are willing to quit now. Gladiator currently has your knees over his shoulders, pounding into your slick cunt steadily. His hands are holding onto your hips in a tight grip, pulling you onto him each time he bottoms out.
"You are... infuriating. Annoying. Agh- Hah-... Greedy. I've pushed you to the brink, and still, you want more." Kallark says above you, his voice still surprisingly steady in between his moans of pleasure. Your own throat is sore from taunting him in between your own moans and screams of delight.
"I-fuck! I can go as long as you go, pretty boy." You say, smirking at him. Gladiator Scowls at you, face flushed, sweat beading down his forehead. You doubt you look much better, the both of you pushing each other to the farthest limits of your stamina. You let out an embarrassing shriek as Kallark leans forward, bending you in half as he presses your thighs to your chest, hitting the deepest spots inside of you. Kallark's usually steady thrusting begins to become a little more frantic as he starts to reach his umpteenth peak of the day. -but his thrusts become unsteady. Inconsistent. You're finally starting to tire him out, you think.
"Aww, look at that- ah... You're beginning to slip, Kallark." You taunt him. His hand reaches up to cup your face harshly, his grip slightly tighter than normal. He turns your head to face him as his heated gaze pierces your own.
"Would you- please, stop talking."
By the time the two of you are finally out of breath, you swear that At least an entire 24 hour period has gone by. Hell, maybe even longer. You and gladiator are sprawled out side by side. Your eyes are closed, fading in and out of consciousness as you try (and fail) to collect yourself. You feel weight shift next to you as Kallark rolls onto his side. He's full on against you now, a hand settling on your chest to feel the quick beats of your human heart. It's strange. Not like him. You open your eyes, finding yourself lost in the sight of Kallark. He's looking at you with a mix of fond emotions, and for the first time, it's almost like his brain has stalled. Like a computer stuck in between the loading screen.
"Kallark?” You whisper. He doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.
“You okay there, big guy?" You try again, biting your lip. Kallark's gaze catches the motion, then trailing down to the bruises he's left in your neck- “hickeys” is what he remembers you calling them. He can feel his heart do something strange, and he chooses to look back up at your face instead. Your flushed cheeks. Kiss-swollen lips. Messy hair. He feels a familiar heat as his body reacts to such a lustful sight.
"Vixen. Temptress. I know not what you've done to me. " Kallark finally says, thumb gently pulling your bottom lip away from the pinch of your teeth. You raise an eyebrow at him, not mockingly, just confused. He then reaches up to brush the hair from your face, an action fueled by a much more gentle warmth in his chest.
"...I don't believe you know what you've done, either." He whispers. You can't help but smile at him, especially as you reach up to caress his cheek and he leans into the contact with a sigh.
"Well… we have plenty of time to figure that out together."
#x men 97#x men#x men comics#x men 97 x reader#x men headcannons#x men smut#gladiator#gladiator x reader#kallark x reader#x men kallark#x men gladiator#kallark smut#x men gladiator smut#x men 97 smut
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Seaside Rendezvous
Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x reader
Content: fluff, a little angst, unrequited feelings/ miscommunication, not rlly unrequited
Word Count: 0.6k
A/N: Heyyyyyy….. it’s been a while, huh? life has been busy and difficult and amazing and everything in between, but i just wanted to post something (even if i feel like it’s not my best work😓) i might be more active after like 2 weeks, but it’s also finals season rn :o anyway, miss you guys and miss writing! looking forward to getting back into tumblr, and i hope you enjoy!
It’s a clear and overwhelmingly blue sort of day. You walk along the beach, beneath a cloudless sky, which creates calm waters to push gently foaming waves onto the shoreline. They soak your feet while you amble on, shoes in one hand and a single bag of groceries in the other. And Sanji’s signature blue pinstripe shirt makes him look even more picturesque than usual- a perfect man against a perfect backdrop.
He’s less than an arms distance to your right, with at least 4 bags in each hand, plus a tote under his arm. But you feel there is no point in offering to hold a few, since he had already refused when you initially left the market. That was half an hour ago, and you’ve been merely contemplating your feelings up till now. You’ve always felt something for Sanji, it’s just hard to say what exactly. He flirts so shamelessly and often that understanding your own emotions is nearly impossible. Are they a matter of genuine affection (beyond friendship), or simply flare-ups of lust inspired by how much he seems to want you?
Even if you could know how you truly feel for Sanji, your longtime crew mate and friend, it wouldn’t matter for that very reason. If anything, it might be worse to know how real your affections for him are than it is to continue pushing them to the back of your mind silent, contemplative moments.
But Sanji makes that impossible, too.
“What’s on your mind?”
Your eyes leave the sand to meet his mirth- crinkled eyes. “Nothing, why?”
He manages to shrug beneath the weight of the groceries. “You were being quiet, that’s all.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t be, dearest.”
You avert your eyes before mumbling, “Are you sure you don’t want help with those bags?”
“I don’t need help, but thank you. And,” he smiles a little brighter, “I’d hate to ever burden you, love.”
“Sanji, don’t say things like that.”
“Oh? I thought you enjoyed my terms of endearment for you.”
You shake your head no. “Not if they aren’t serious.”
Sanji’s expression turns from content, to confused, then surprised, while he slowly comes to a stop. Once you’ve notice he’s no longer walking by your side, you turn back in time to see him finally settle on a gleeful smile.
“You’d like it… if you knew I was serious?”
“W-Well… I guess, yeah. Not that I-“
“Because I am serious about you. I always have been, really.”
Now you’re the one who’s confused. “What?”
He rushes to drop the groceries, followed by the tote bag on his shoulder, and approaches you. Sanji guides you to drop your own load, too, before taking your hands in his.
“Would you be mine?”
“Sanji, you’re being ridiculous now…”
“I’m being genuine. Why, you don’t want to?”
“Well I mean, I would if I could, but I can’t. We can’t.” You let go of his hands and pick up your shoes and singular grocery bag, then straighten up and look into his eyes. He smiles sadly, and you just smile back before walking on.
He knows you don’t mean to hurt his feelings, especially since you seem to barely believe that said feelings for you could be real or serious. But it does hurt a little. Sanji sighs as he picks up his bags. He follows you and watches your hair bounce with your steps.
For now, he’d have to be content with letting his imagination run away with thoughts of loving you.
#fanfic#one piece x reader#one piece#one piece x you#x reader#sanji vinsmoke x reader#sanji x you#sanji oneshot#sanji fluff#sanji angst#vinsmoke sanji#sanji x reader#black leg sanji#vinsmoke sanji x reader
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hate to say it but july kinda sucked
#please let me whine and list all the things that have troubled me this month#first off having to get serious about my master thesis and everything taking so much longer than I want it to (the anxiety. wow)#and mentally preparing to tackle two jobs AND finishing the thesis all at once soon (how......am I gonna do that)#well then ofc my car breaking down and having to spend my last savings on a new one#generally having to spend a shit load of money. all my money. gone within 2 months#wanting to have a big birthday party so badly only for it to get so stressful and Too Much for my introverted perfectionist ass#that I was the first and only one to feel (physically and mentally) sick about four hours in and had to leave my guests on their own#the usual old struggles flaring up again (as in too high expectations towards everything and everyone and myself that leave me disappointed#and on a more irrelevant note lmao: being one of the few people who doesn’t seem to have enjoyed barbenheimer that much?#same for jk’s solo and everything around it it's just not really for me#and thus feeling a little distanced from the fandom and from creating lately...I'll try again this weekend though I'll try#and last but not least my skin is being SO bad again rn that I just want to rip it off my whole body!!!!!!!#yeah! not at all how I wanted july to go! anyways august in a few days let’s move on and hope for the best#SORRY for being negative on here again. there were also nice things. like awi and al and all my other friends.#and birthday gifts and messages. <33
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said goodnight to one of my boys, Jules, the other day - he was a beautiful old man who loved bothering people and I want to share some pics of him being silly :) he loved jumping up to be as in the way of my pc screens when i played games as possible and generally sitting on any unoccupied lap as soon as he saw it. love him lots ❤️
#gutsys cats#he had a terminal condition. he was immensely loved and ill never forget such a beautiful funny animal#ive got lots and lots of pictures of him being silly and even more memories#i just wanted to share some handsome images of him because its what he deserves#i love the one of him sat on top of his brother he would just climb onto him lol#sorry if this is a little more serious than my usual. i want to have the pics of him on my blog yknow#he deserves to be known by everyone as a funny little man who got all the kisses in the world#cats -
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A poll absolutely not born of me being extremely frustrated with the behavior I saw of other drivers on the way home from stargazing nope no personal vendettas here--
#polls#like if im on a long stretch of sparsely populated road#and i see someone get into Eye Danger Range#i might give them a split-second flash because like#i wish there was a more polite way to say ''howdy-doo fellow motorist boy it's been a long trip hasnt it anyhoo#you seem to have forgotten to flip that little lever to save my eyes there but i trust that you meant to thank you and be on your way!''#...and i dont mean that in a passive-aggressive or sarcastic way#and like. usually that gets people to kinda go ''AH SHIT RIGHT SORRY MAN''#happened a couple times tonight - perfectly civil exchange with no injured retinas#but every time theres at least one fucking guy#usually with the brightest sharpest led bulbs you can get in both high and low beams#who just has them BLAZING AWAY LIKE A MIDNIGHT SUN and WILL. NOT. turn the high beams off.#but lately sometimes i notice its not the ONE guy. its SEVERAL guys.#tonight it was MORE GUYS THAN WHO ACTUALLY TURNED THEM DOWN#EVEN AFTER BEING REMINDED!!#i just see more and more of these dickheads#so i gotta wonder#...i actually have a serious hypothesis i want to look into but thats for another post
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lowkey feel like im gonna throw up and idk if thats the anxiety or the chocolate from earlier LOL
#perhapeth a little of both jsdjflsdjf#iti's not like. not a BIG feeling just. JUUST ENOUGH#god idk why im so nervous LOL like damn the fic isnt THAT deep and serious or anything#but it's like. More Serious Than Usual and i DO feel more vulnerable w/this one#got dam started it sept 4 finishing it MAY 12TH WHOOPS#it's not even my longest fic it's like. my average i guess LOL#im like. scared of embarassing myself lol#SORRY im having a therapy session with myself in the tags here I NEED THIS#i guess it's only been like a couple months ish since i last posted a fic so it hasnt even been that long but#in my mind it feels like forever#WHY are my arms shaking GOD i swear im like. nervous but it's not That Bad fljdksfjlksd#i probably sound so dramatic over like. fanfiction lskdfjsd#but man lately i have felt so very insecure about. doing things. and sharing things. being percieved when i make attempts at something#like both in general but extra when it's a personal attempt#and this fic!!!! felt personal!!!! im not fully sure why tbh#but it did#so i had emotional stakes in it. i wanted to do the topic justice and i want to be understood in the way i wrote things#but i didnt wanna spell it out completely either but i dont exactly have faith in myself to make implications clear#and im worried it doesnt work. im worried it ended weird. im worried some stuff didnt fit together. but thats just 2 bad llol#also directors cut: there was gonna be a part about jamil loaning sleepwear like a hoodie and sweatpants to azul#but thats part of what had me stuck for a while. i couldnt figure out hwo to make it work#eventually i decided it didnt fit and i had to cut it#so alas. clothes sharing and hair brushing for another fic one day maybe LOL#ok thats enough baring my soul to the internet for one night good bye lol 🚶♂️🚶♀️🚶♂️🚶♀️
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And then there were three.
Eddie munson x pregnant!reader
Summary: you and Eddie find out you're pregnant.
Warnings: fluff, talks of pregnancy, pulling out, condoms etc. Talks of sex. Kissing.
WC: 2.5k
A/n not proofread. I'm posting because it's been rotting away in my drafts. Sorry if this isn't good. I don't even remember what it's about.
18+ minors dni
"This can't be real..." You whispered to yourself as you stared blankly at the piece of plastic in your hands. Staring at two little pink lines.
Two little tiny pink lines telling you you're pregnant. How? You and Eddie have always been careful. You used protection every single time you had sex.
You've had scares in the past where your periods were weeks late. But when you ended up being over a month late this time around. You decided it was time to take a test. You had a gut feeling you might have been pregnant.
You were exhausted more so than usual. Extremely sensitive and had nausea every morning and evening. Were you surprised? No. Shocked? Yes. There was a little part of you hoping you were wrong. A baby right now just wasn't in yours and Eddie's plan.
You've only been dating for almost two years now. While having a family with him is something you do want. Getting a head start right now just wasn't ideal. You only just moved in together this past summer.
Now that you hold this little test strip in your shaking hands, you know you'll have to break the news to your boyfriend eventually. He's out in the living room watching The Golden Girls. A show you never would have guessed was his favorite. You heard his laughter echoing around the trailer during the cheesecake episode.
Was he going to be mad? Would he scream and yell at you? Blame this all on you? You thought to yourself. You felt like you were going to throw up out of nervousness.
No. Eddie wouldn't be upset with you over something like this. He isn't that type of person. No matter how others viewed him to be. He isn't like that. You can't even remember a time he raised his voice to you. You soothed yourself down, taking deep breaths.
Opening up the bathroom door, you make your way over to him.
"Hey baby, come watch." He pats the cushion next to him.
You swallow hard. "Uh, can we turn this off for a sec?"
Eddie looks up, noticing there was something very wrong with you.
"Uh, sure." He grabbed the remote, switching the tv off.
"Well, there isn't any better way to tell you this, so I'm just gonna say......I'm pregnant." You blurted out.
Eddie laughed at first. "Pregnant. Okay." He takes a sip of his beer. His laughter quickly died when you saw the serious and very scared look on your face.
"You took a test?" He gulped.
"Yeah, just a few minutes ago." You swallow another lump in your throat.
You immediately start to panic again, "We're always careful. I don't know how this happened."
Eddie stands to quickly be by your side. He hasn't really had time to process what you just told him. His immediate focus right now is calming you down.
We're careful...WE'RE ALWAYS CAREFUL!" You shouted. Your face is growing hot, and you feel like you could pass out any moment.
"You always wear a condom you fuckin' keep them in your wallet for christ sake"
"I know, baby, but I mean those things don't always work," Eddie reassured you softly, rubbing your back.
"We're always careful." You repeated again.
"Well, let's think back to when we weren't careful." He's trying to help put the pieces together. There had to have been a time when you both were so caught up in each that he didn't put on a condom or something.
"When was there a time I didn't at least wear one?"
"I dunno." You tap your fingers against your forehead. While Eddie guides you to sit down on the couch. "There had to have been a night - where - we..." You trailed off.
"My parents," you gasped loudly, snapping your fingers together.
His brows shoot up, and his eyes widen. He suddenly remembers that night very, very well. But he pulled out. He knows he did.
"When we stayed the night because of the storm" You continued on. The memory of that night flooding back to you. That was it. Eddie had promised to pull out right before he finished - yet obviously didn't do it in enough time.
There was something in the air that day. You couldn't pinpoint what it was. You had told Eddie to behave, but at dinner, you were the one misbehaving. Teasing him a little. Trying to get a rise out of him. You didn't think he was still going to be worked up even after it was time for bed. You were wrong. Very wrong.
"Huh," Eddie sounded utterly perplexed. He moves to sit down next to you. trying to bring you any amount of comfort he can offer.
"Huh what?" You repeated back to him. Why wasn't he as freaked out like you?
"Jus' the fact that I got you pregnant on a pull out couch is fucking ironic" He was in disbelief. Absolute disbelief. He knew pulling out wasn't his strong suit, but he never thought from just that one time would get you pregnant.
Was Eddie upset you were pregnant? No. Not at all. Having kids with you was something he always saw in your future together. How could he be so stupid, though? He thought. The one time he doesn't use a condom and you get knocked up.
"Are you--are you joking right now?" Your mouth hangs open. "Don't joke, please don't joke."
"Hey, hey, it's okay. Everything will be okay. " He pulls you to him. Your head lays flat against his chest. He was trying to be supportive, but on the inside he's freaking out. When he freaks out, he makes dumb jokes to lighten the mood. Something he knows he shouldn't have done, but it's too late now.
"Sooooo at yours parents place it was then." He draws out leaning forward to rest a hand under his chin.
"I guess." You murmured.
Eddie smiles fondly to himself. He most definitely remembered that day. That night, most importantly.
"....well," He perks up, jumping up to stand. He was trying to be as optimistic as possible. Truthfully, on the inside, he was freaking out. If you weren't sitting there in front of him right now, he would probably be pissing himself. Eddie knows you would be an amazing mother to his children. He most definitely knows he would be a great father, too. A complete contrast to how his father was.
"Time to make some calls." He was already heading for the phone when you panicked, running over to stop him. "We can't not yet--i need to see a doctor first."
"To make sure I am...I mean I know I am, but I need confirmation,"you further explained. Eddie just stood there listening to you and agreed as he silently nodded his head.
"Okay, well, after we see the doctor, who are we telling first? Your parents or my parent?" He was so eager to tell everyone. He was terrified, but the more he thought about it, the more excited he became. A tiny little version of you and him mashed together, running around.
"We'll tell Wayne first." You said matter of factly. You loved your parents, but you were closer to his uncle. He was like a second father to you, and you couldn't imagine anyone else knowing before him.
Eddie smiles and leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth.
"You scared?" He whispered leaning his forehead against yours.
...a-a little, but we'll be fine." You whispered back. The longer it sinks in that you're pregnant, the panic seems to fade. Eddie wasn't angry with you. He was scared you could tell but that's to be expected.
"Don't be scared, baby. We're doing this together." He reassured before kissing your lips softly again. "M'gonna take care of you both."
It's been three weeks since you took your pregnancy test and had your doctor's visit. They confirmed you were, in fact, expecting. Two months, to be exact. You were greatfull you got pregnant in the winter. Oversized sweaters and hoodies were your best friends. Now, it was time to break the news to everyone.
Eddie and you had already agreed. Wayne was going to be the first to know. You had everything planned out. You had told Eddie to call his uncle and ask if he wanted to go out for dinner. Knowing Wayne, he wasn't going to pass up on an opportunity to spend time with either of you.
You wanted to surprise him with a gift. You know Wayne has a green thumb. He loves to garden. He brags about how he has the best tomatoes in Indiana. So you took Eddie shopping for the perfect gift to give to him as a cute way to tell him you and his nephew are having a baby. You hope he'll catch on and figure out he's going to be a grandpa when he opens his present. It's a little onesie with "Home grown" embroidered on the front with little veggies.
"I like this one." You pointed at the cute little outfit on the hanger.
Eddie chuckled,reading the front. "Wayne's gonna love it. Hell won't be surprised if he tried wearing it." He joked, picking up the tiny shirt off the rack.
You giggled, "I can't wait to tell him."
"Me too, I can't keep my mouth shut for much longer." He mumbled, smirking at some of the funny sayings scribbled on the baby clothes.
The longer you came to terms with the fact that you're pregnant, your stress eased up. Sure, you were still scared, but you had Eddie and your friends. Plus your family. You reassured yourself almost daily that you'd be fine and to enjoy your pregnancy. Every single article of clothing you saw you bought. Didn't matter the color or size. If it was cute, you picked it up.
Eddie was a nervous wreck in the beginning but concealed it well. Mostly because he knew he needed to be there for you. he was also excited, too. He couldn't wait to share his hobbies with his little one. Read them bedtime stories. Sing to them at night before bed. Teach them to play an instrument or two. He looked forward to showing up to the PTA meetings in his battle vest with his sweet "mini me" on his hip.
Eddie knew he was going to be a good dad. He promised you and the baby still in your tummy every night he'd protect the both of you. He couldn't keep his hands off your belly. You weren't far along in your pregnancy, but Eddie was constantly hoping he could feel a little kick.
"We should do the dinner today." Eddie mentioned holding a handful of baby clothes.
"He might wanna to do it tomorrow since he's off."
"I'll call'em when we get home and ask. he can't say no to me." You agreed. It's true Wayne can't say no to you. Which you will take advantage of.
Later on that day after you and Eddie arrived home. You put Wayne's surprise in a little gift bag with a note attached to it.
Picking up the phone, you began dialing his number patiently, waiting for him to pick up. He should be home by now. You thought. "Hey Wayne, it's me, your favorite. I was wondering if you wanted to go out to dinner with me and Eddie tonight instead of tomorrow? "
Eddie leaned closer over in the wooden chair sat by the dining room table. He scoffs when he heard you get extatic on the other end. Knowing full well, his uncle said yes.
"You will? Okay, we'll pick you up at five o'clock sharp."
"Favorite, huh?" He crossed his arms with a smirk.
"You know it." You playfully mess up his hair as you run to your bedroom to get ready.
"Yeah, well, I've known him longer... I have seniority over him!" Eddie yelled out, teasing you.
He gets up from his chair, making his way to your shared bedroom. He stands there leaning in the doorway. Admiring you getting undressed in front of him. Taking in every curve on your figure.
Eddie moves to wrap his arms around you from behind. Pulling your back tight to his chest. His nose buried in the crook of your neck. You smiled softly, melting into his arms.
"Ya know, I was reading that baby book you bought it said something about sex helping induce labor." He whispered seductively in your ear. His lips trailing light kisses down your neck.
You turned your head."...Eddie, that's not until months from now." You let out a breathy laugh.
"Yeah, but just think about how well prepared you'll be when the time comes - kid is just gonna slide right out." Eddie argued. You know half of him is joking, and the other half is completely serious.
"Get dressed, babe. we leave in thirty minutes." You peel yourself from his tight grasp.
"Offer still stands." He holds up his hands in surrender.
Fifteen minutes went by, and there was a loud knock at your front door. His uncle had driven over so you all could ride together. After much bickering from Wayne, you all packed in Eddie's van.
Wayne refused to let Eddie drive, so it was you and him upfront with your boyfriend sulking in the backseat. Mumbling to himself about how he's not that bad and how everyone else just drives slow.
You noticed Eddie's uncle looking at the small gift bag you made up for him. His eyes kept wandering over to guess who it was for and what was inside.
Once all three of you pulled up in front of the new local diner in Hawkins. You three gathered in and let the hostess walk you over to your table. You and Eddie sat next to each other in a booth, leaving wayne alone across from you. The waitress comes over taking everyone's orders. After she left, you figured it was the perfect time to give it to him.
You look up at Eddie, nudging his side to grab his attention. His uncle just got done scolding him over his breaks needing change.
"So uh, we got you a present," Eddie coughed. He doesn't think he can handle more lectures from the man who practically raised him.
But he straightened up his back, preparing for anything.
"Yep here you go hope you like it." You picked up the bad next to you and placing it front of him.
"For me?" Wayne grabbed it and started taking the tissue paper out. "It ain't ma' birthday yet."
He laughs when he pulls out the tiniest little shirt he's ever seen. "Home grown, that's cute...I don't think it's gonna fit me though darlin-."
He cuts his sentence, short eyes growing wider by the second. You and Eddie look over at each other, smiling from ear to ear.
"Is this what I think it is?." Wayne questioned with tears threatening to spill over his lashes.
"Yep we're having a baby." Eddie moved to wrap an arm over your shoulder and pulling into his side.
"We wanted to tell you first." You choked back a sob.
Wayne still gathering his thoughts. He's holding the small onesie in his hand like he's already holding your newborn baby.
"I-I'm gonna be a grandpa?" Wayne wiped at his eyes. His was starting to become overwhelmed.
Here come the tears from Eddie now. His eyes swelling up and nose turning red. He's never seen Wayne this over come with emotions before. The only time he's ever seen him like that is when his dad started his usual mess. That was always just out of anger and frustrations mostly. This was pure joy and happiness. Wayne has always wanted the best for his nephew.
"We're thinking of naming them, Ozzy." Eddie tried to joke and lighten the mood.
Wayne couldn't say anything but only shake his head at nephew. He cleared his throat, grabbing napkins from the dispenser on the table.
"We are not." You spoke up, wiping your eyes.
Your food finally came, and the waitress gave all three of you a concerned look. A table full of adults bawling their eyes out is a cause of concern. Especially in this town. It was only when she noticed the tiny onesie folded up neatly beside wayne on the table, did her worry look drop. She mumbled a soft aww and set everyone's food down.
"Congratulations to all of you." She said with a warm smile.
The rest of the night went on like normal. Except now instead of Wayne fussing at Eddie for not eating healthy. He was doing that to both of you. Telling you how you need to order seconds because you're eating for two. Informing Eddie how the trailer needs to be baby proofed immediately. The only thing left to do was tell your parents next and his friends. You can only assume which of the two is going to freak out the most.
You leaned over and whispered to Edde, "You wanna tell Dustin next ooooor-?"
He side eyed you. " We're telling your parents next - if it makes you feel better, I'll be on the phone so they can yell at me instead."
"Deal?" Eddie leaned back in the booth, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. He was busy focusing on Wayne's ranting and your concerns about telling your parents.
You sighed, dreading that phone call, but knowing it needs to be done. "deal."
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#joseph quinn#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson x reader fluff#eddie munson x you#eddie munson comfort#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x f!reader#eddie munson x fem!reader fluff#dad!eddie munson#eddie munson x pregnant!reader
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Hi Jade! I’ve been on my criminal minds rerun and it made me come up with this Spencer request if you’re taking them right now! Something along the lines of the reader and Spencer being together and she becomes pregnant but he pieces it together before she does!
tysm for requesting! hope this is ok♡ 1k
cw fem!reader has a positive attitude towards her pregnancy. vaguely adult theme
"I really don't think I can go," you say, flopping down on the bed.
Spencer laughs and shakes out the shirt in his hands, hoping the creases from the dryer will iron themselves before dinner tonight. "You always say that."
"I really mean it this time. I miss Hotch, I do, and I'm glad he's out of WITSEC, but thinking about the restaurant is making me queasy."
"Really? I looked it up, it's a nice place. They have their Grade A, it should be spotless in there. I'm pretty sure they almost got a Michelin star."
You groan, turning onto your side. "I looked too. The entire menu is seafood," you whine.
"What's wrong with that?" Spencer asks, giving you a quizzical look.
"The smell." You rub your nose against his pillow and sigh. "I don't feel good. Didn't rough me up in my sleep, did you?"
"I would never do that," he says, putting the last of the laundry aside to sit by your hip. His hand rests naturally against the slight curve of your side, fingertips pushing the hem of your shirt up enough to steal a glance at your back.
He wouldn't say this aloud and it doesn't matter, but you've gained a little weight recently. Actually, it does matter in that he thinks it's adorable, but he knows that telling your partner they've gained weight is a faux pas. He likes it, anyhow. It's happy weight.
Things are so serious now but they don't feel serious. There's no solemness in your relationship, just comfort. He's putting on weight in tandem.
"You really don't want to go?" Spencer asks. The earlier he lets Hotch know the better.
You wrap an arm around your stomach. "Sorry, Spence. I'm so sorry, I've felt sick all day and I think it'll just be a repeat of yesterday morning." You puked before breakfast, the smell of eggs too much to bear.
Spencer feels it click into place then and there. The weight, the puking, your changing taste. Your sore chest and lower back, your sensitivity.
He pushes you gently, a hand on your hip to encourage you down. Careful, he lays down next to you, propping his head on the pillow as he brings hand up to hold you. He can't know for sure… but if you're pregnant as he suspects, it fits. And more than that, it's insane. He doesn't know how to handle this besides wrapping you up in his arms. He'll keep you forever, if he can.
"Don't be sorry," he says, his voice faraway. You relax completely in his arms, sliding your leg over his to lock him in. "Does your back still hurt?"
"My chest, Spence," you lament, "it feels like I'm winded. I think I'm coming down with something. Maybe you shouldn't be near me."
"In that case, I'm staying right here."
You laugh softly, the warmth of it a circle on his shoulder. "I can call Hotch myself and say sorry. I'll feel better in a few days, and we'll reschedule, and I'll pay even if he tries to."
Spencer draws a line up your back. Now or never.
He steels his nerves, the beginning of a hypothesis hesitating on his tongue. Your symptoms in addition to your irregular period and your regular sex lives points toward pregnancy. How does he say that? How should he say it? Should he even bring it up? Perhaps he should wait until you discover it yourself. And you aren't definitely pregnant, it's just a possibility. Maybe you're simply sick—
"Hey, earth to handsome," you whisper, cupping his cheek in your soft palm. You smile as he snaps out of his thoughts. "Hey. I lost you for a few seconds, where'd you go?"
"Nowhere. I'm here."
Your smile gets impossibly fond. It's not dissimilar to how you usually look at him. "Are you okay?"
"Fine. I love you."
"I love you," you say.
There's something about you now, this gaussian blur to you. Sunlight seeps in lazily through the blinds thick as honey, a golden kiss to your skin where you lay face to face with him, and your I love you makes him want to cry. This is all ridiculous and amazing and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to make his mouth move into the right words.
"What is it?" you ask. You know him better than anyone.
"I think you're pregnant." Spencer winces, though he can't beat his smile into submission. "I mean. You could be pregnant."
"Why do you think that?" you ask, visibly startled.
"Your sensitivity to strong smells, your soreness, your late period, to name the more obvious. That's not factoring in your worsening low iron lately, and your headaches." You make a strange sound he doesn't like. "What?" he asks worriedly.
"I'm late," you say into yourself, looking past him as you puzzle it over.
"It's a good thing, if you are. I mean, it's an amazing thing if you want it to be. I'm saying everything wrong. It's only amazing if you want it to be, I want it to be. But I'm on your side no matter what." He grimaces into his hands, rubbing his face with both palms.
You sit as he panics. He clicks his neck looking up, racing to follow you, alarmed as you shimmy down the bed toward the ensuite bathroom.
"What are you–"
"I'm gonna take a test."
"Wait a second." Spencer catches your hands before you can get too far, pulling you back to the end of the bed to sit down. "Wait. Is it– is it bad? If you are?"
You look down at your stomach briefly. Anyone else might miss it, but Spencer can't not follow your behaviour, and the way you're acting now makes him think he got it wrong. That you won't be happy.
You grab Spencer's hand. "You know, it's not funny. All our friends are gonna ask how I found out, and I'm gonna have to admit that you noticed it first." Your eyes track up his face almost shyly, and soon your smile is as blistering as his.
Spencer bends under your weight as you jump up, throwing your arms behind his neck, your lips smashed to his ear. "I love you," you whisper urgently, "so much. This is good, right? This is really good."
"Are you kidding?" he asks incredulously.
Spencer takes your face into two hands and kisses you as hard as he ever has. He realises a second in that he'd much rather be squeezing you, caging you into the circle of his arms unrepentant.
"We have a really good excuse to miss dinner," Spencer says.
He sounds close to tears. You're worse, laughing wetly as you pull him into the bathroom to take your test.
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfiction#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds x reader
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Hey!! Idk know if you are taking requests right now but can you write a Theo x Hufflepuff reader imagine where the reader is always telling him to make friends from other houses. He finally does make friends but with a beautiful Ravenclaw and starts spending more time with her. The reader starts feeling insecure and ignores Theo. He soon realises that she is ignoring him and talks to her.
Btw I love your writing and can you please tag me if you do write it?
Too Friendly
Theodore Nott x reader
Warnings: Swearing, allusions to sex but no sex.
Description: The reader wants Theo to make more friends but when he does, she becomes insecure about their bond.
Sorry this took so long to get out, I'm in the middle of my final exams of high school so I don't have much time. I enjoyed writing this one. Thanks for the request @orphicmortala
“It’s sad, Theo, you’ve got, like, no friends!” You said as you tried your best to remember how to tie your yellow tie.
“What do you call Malfoy, then?” Theo asked from the bed.
“An accomplice,” you replied with that unique snark that Theo loved about you, “You need friends from other houses— Friends that aren’t just me.” You added those final words hastily before he could open his mouth in protest.
Theo rolled his eyes and beckoned you over. His hands glided over the folds of your tie with expertise, undoing the mess of a knot you’d created in order to do it up properly and perfectly. When he was done, he looked up at you with his gorgeous, oceanic eyes and the corners of his mouth where both his beautiful lips connected turned upwards. You uttered your thanks quietly as you resisted the primal urge to just not go to class at all and instead spend the whole day with him. Your mind wandered off to imagine being stuck between Theo’s checkered emerald sheets, but you brought it back to reality.
Fending off your lustful desires as well as a nun would, you bid adieu to Theo and hurried out of his room and the Slytherin common room. On your way out, you dodged the teasingly crude jokes and names that Theo’s friends tossed towards you and told Pansy that she was no better than yourself (you’d seen the way she snuck out of that empty classroom after Draco a couple days earlier, her hair and clothes all dishevelled and her thighs rubbing together uncomfortably).
The whole day, Theo dwelled on your words. While you weren’t exactly dating or in a relationship, he always found himself bound to your every word and every whim. You seemed to dictate his life in a way that you certainly shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but listen to you. So, in Arithmancy, he didn’t sit next to Blaise as he usually did, instead electing to sit with Lisa Turpin, a Ravenclaw girl he’d seen you talk to a few times.
She looked at him in confusion, “Did you need something?”
He withheld the instinct to say some snide remark and instead replied, “I thought I’d make a new friend today.”
“On some random Tuesday… in our Sixth year?” Her face contorted to expose her obvious disgust.
“Merlin’s cock and balls, I’m trying to be nice, Turpin!” Theo frowned and picked up his bag to go sit elsewhere.
Turpin grabbed his wrist as he stood up and her lips made a thin line as she pulled him back down to the seat. Her brows knitted together like a homemade sweater and she breathed out a sigh of defeat.
“No, it’s okay, sorry,” she said, “Sit here if you’d like.”
Over the next week, Theo made some serious efforts to get to know Turpin despite his friends’ obvious, loud verbal opposition. After that first Arithmancy class, Blaise had practically torn him to shreds with his massive speech on house loyalty and the horrible impact that you were clearly having on him. Daphne had recited the same speech her mother had given to her on her first day of her first year at school about how interrelations with students from the lesser houses was a gateway drug to blood sympathy (she’d given him the same speech when he started his little thing with you). And Pansy, Merlin’s beard, Pansy was furious.
Pansy had constructed this whole idea in her mind that you hated that Theo was talking to Turpin. She called it “cheating” which Theo had adamantly disagreed with. He wasn’t having sex with Turpin, in fact, he had absolutely zero romantic interest in her. He barely even liked her. The only thing the two had in common was Arithmancy and every time they hung out they talked about it until there was no more Arithmancy to talk about. It was, quite frankly, boring. Turpin was boring.
“It’s emotional cheating,” said Pansy in a huff as she and the others started towards the Great Hall for Monday breakfast.
“Emotional cheating?” Theo asked skeptically.
“Yes, Nott, emotional cheating,” she nodded, “And it’s hurting Y/n’s feelings. That’s why she hasn’t spoken to you all week.”
His gaze snapped to focus on Pansy whose black eyes were ablaze with the feminine rage of a girl’s best friend, “How do you know she hasn’t spoken to me all week?”
Pansy smirked, her honey red lipstick bright against her pale skin, and shrugged. She knew you hadn’t spoken to him all week because you wouldn’t shut up about it. In Divination on Wednesday afternoon, you’d all but assaulted Pansy with questions about Theo’s newfound interest in Turpin. All of which Pansy had no helpful responses to.
“Is he flirting with her?” You asked.
“Maybe, I don’t know, it’s not like they sit with us,” said Pansy, struggling to focus on the crystal ball with all your chatter.
“Why not? Why don’t they sit with you? Are they trying to be private?” You pushed almost frantically.
“Uh, possibly? Honestly, I just think he knows we don’t like her,” she explained.
“Why don’t you like her? Is she a bitch?” You frowned and then quickly added in a judgmental tone, “Or are you just being blood supremacists?”
“Is she a mudblood?” Pansy stopped working to stare at you.
You smacked her hand and she hissed, “I don’t know her that well. Don’t say that.”
When Theo and his friends finally arrived at the Great Hall, he searched the tables for your face. While most people usually stuck to their house’s table, you were a social butterfly and loved to flutter from table-to-table to talk to all of your many friends. Sometimes he wondered how you weren’t a prefect despite your popularity and the respect the younger years gave you. His eyes found Turpin first and she beamed and waved him over, but he blatantly ignored her. Pansy and Daphne watched on with delight as the girl cringed with embarrassment and turned back to her meal with bright red ears.
A spot of h/c hair floated above a robe lined with yellow and he abandoned his friends to go to you. You were standing at the end of the Hufflepuff table (not an unusual place to find you, but your favourite table was always the Slytherin one), and you were utterly consumed by a tale you were sewing for your housemates Hannah Abbott and Justin Finch-Fletchley.
“Y/n,” Theo spoke and his deep, smokey voice tore you straight out of your conversation, “Can we talk?”
Your eyebrows quivered and your blinking sped up as you took his appearance in for the first time all week. You hadn’t gone so long without speaking to him in at least three years (you got into an argument in your third year about the petrifications) and hearing his voice and seeing him so close was like throwing a former alcoholic into a sea of wine. There was nothing you wanted more than to indulge in him. But Hannah and Justin were glaring at him like hawks, or guard dogs, whichever was more intimidating.
“Um,” you glanced back at your friends and Hannah shook her head slightly, she’d never much liked Theo, “Sure.”
Hannah rolled her eyes and whispered something barely audible to Justin. Something about a “love-fucked pushover.” You ignored her. Theo took you to a pair of seats far from any prying ears and held your hands in his.
“You know I don’t like Turpin, right?” He said quietly.
You scoffed, “Yeah, right. And that’s why you spent all week with her.”
“I spent all week with her because you told me to!” He laughed with salt that spread itself over your wounded heart.
“Did I just? Because I really don’t remember saying ‘Hey, Theo, you know how I like you so much? I actually want you to go talk to another girl,’” you said sarcastically.
He held back a grin as best he could but the amusement glistened in his eyes and on his rosy, mole-spotted cheeks. His hand came up to your brow and massaged the frown out from between your eyebrows as you fluttered your eyelashes at him in the way you knew made him melt inside.
“I wanted to make friends for you,” he told you with that soft, romantic tone he used in bed.
“Don’t,” you ordered, “You’re Theodore Nott, you aren’t supposed to be friendly.”
For the first time in a week, he got a good look at you. He hadn’t realised how much he missed the sight of your h/l h/c hair and the way it framed your stunning face so perfectly that you appeared to have stepped right out of a portrait. He hadn’t realised how much he missed how your eyes, an elegant e/c and perpetually glossy as if always on the verge of tears, examined every centimetre of his face. He hadn’t realised how much he missed doing your tie up for you until he saw it tied like a bow around your neck.
“I’m friendly to you,” he said as his hands pulled at the end of the tie and it fell apart over your chest.
“And that’s all you need, I think,” you whispered pleasantly and pressed a loving kiss to his lips as he looped the tie around itself twice and pushed the end through the gap, tying it perfectly.
#theo nott#theo nott x reader#theo nott x you#theodore nott x reader#hp fandom#theo nott x y/n#slytherin x reader#draco malfoy x reader#harry potter x reader#theo nott imagine#theodore nott imagine#theo nott fanfic#theodore nott fanfic#theodore nott x y/n#mattheo riddle x reader#regulus black x reader#tom riddle x reader
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[4.1k] as it would turn out, you were serious about your offer. and luke was serious about accepting. it was just going to take a while for his body to remember that this was a glorified business deal between friends and nothing more. and he was definitely okay with that. (smut)
series masterlist
.
Stupidly, Luke didn’t think you were actually serious.
In his head, the whole thing felt like a fever dream, starting from the moment he spilled his drink all over you leading to the moment you blatantly asked him if he wanted you to take his virginity. It felt like one of those weird dreams that made you wake up confused and bleary and unsure what year it even was, one of those dreams that linger in the back of your head for a few days before you eventually forgot about it.
Luke would have bet money on the whole thing being a weird dream that was haunting him if it weren’t for the fact he woke up one morning, a few days after the party, with a message from you on his screen.
cherry🍒: on a scale from one to ten, how likely are you to spill your drink on me again?
cherry🍒: also my place or yours?
He stared at the messages for an embarrassingly long time, like he was staring at the proof the whole thing wasn’t some messed up dream in his head. Luke had spent the better part of the summer wondering what would have happened if he had asked for your number that night like Jack always teased him about, and now he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself with it being a reality.
hockey boy: i cannot promise anything
hockey boy: you are welcome to come to my place but jack will probably be here so…
hockey boy: he’s nosy
hockey boy: and annoying
Luke frowned at himself, finger hovering over the messages like he would have a chance to delete them before you saw them, all one after the other like he was twelve and didn’t care about double texting. Or quadruple texting. But before he could even try to hide his own embarrassment, you were typing again.
cherry🍒: my place it is then
cherry🍒: see you at seven ;)
He also didn’t care to admit how long he stared at that message before he dragged himself out of bed, trying to ignore the odd buzz itching under his skin. It wasn’t even nine in the morning and his head was already spinning.
Luke was thankful enough that it was still preseason, that there wasn’t a game he had to prepare for because he wasn’t even sure he could concentrate on anything but your messages. He had noted Jack giving him odd looks whilst they both got ready for training, giving him more space than usual as they moved around the flat (which was odd considering Jack was usually glued to his side and pissing him off whenever he got the chance).
However, the overbearing older brother role didn’t completely disappear.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Jack.”
“You’re not sick or anything?”
“I’m literally fine.”
“Because we can tell the trainers—”
“Oh my god, dude,” Luke groaned, sinking further into the passenger seat as he shot his brother a look. “I’m fine. Calm down. You sound like Quinn.”
“Sorry for caring,” Jack retorted, his fingers tightening on the wheel before his shoulders sagged. “I’m your older brother and it’s your first year in the NHL. I just wanna make sure you’re doing alright, okay? The last thing I want is you having a shit rookie year.”
But the rest went unsaid. I don’t want you having a shit rookie year like I did.
Luke softened a little. “M’fine, promise. I’ll let you know when I need my big brother, okay?”
Jack sighed, a small smile on his face. “Okay.”
“Now, can you please shut up so I can sleep until we reach the rink?”
Jack snorted in response.
Though the conversation seemed to settle the worries his older brother had, Luke knew the other boys on the team were giving him the same looks of concern. It wasn’t as though he was playing badly, it was just very clear to everyone on the team—players, coaches and trainers alike—that Luke was distracted.
He had half the decency to be a little embarrassed when he overheard Jack reassure a few trainers that it was just rookie nerves.
But he felt restless, like he couldn’t quite keep still or focus on one thing. He felt like there was a buzz resonating through his bones, making him painfully aware of his plans later tonight. It was like an anxiety settled at the pit of his stomach, constant and foreboding and eating away at him as the minutes slowly dragged on through the day.
It was horrible and exhilirating in the weirdest possible way.
Luke had managed to make it through the rest of training, managed to avoid any stern talkings from the coach but unable to avoid the one from Nico in the locker room. It was sweet and awkward all at once, especially when the rest of the team were clearly listening in to make sure one of the new rookies were doing fine. The Devils were like a family and usually he would appreciate it.
However, he wasn’t exactly going to dive into the fact he was unfocused because a pretty girl offered to take his virginity to his captain or the rest of the team. He didn’t even want to imagine how that would have played out.
But it was sweet to know the team had his back, that they saw him as his own person rather than just Jack’s little brother who was tagging along.
…
Luke was relieved when you had mentioned him coming over to your place for your meeting later that day. Yet, what he failed to take into consideration was the fact his brother would still be a nosy shit on his whereabouts.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
Luke froze, keys gripped in his one hand and his phone in the other with your address already typed into Google Maps. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore his pounding heart as he turned to Jack with a (hopefully) nonchalant look on his face.
“Just going to hang out with some friends,” he replied vaguely with a shrug of his shoulders.
Jack paused, the spoonful of rice hovering just above his plate as he narrowed his eyes at Luke. “Is Nico hosting some rookie thing or something?”
“Uh no,” Luke cleared his throat.
Jack frowned. “Is there a team thing happening tonight that I forgot?”
“No, uh,” Luke shuffled awkwardly, feeling like an interrogation spotlight was shining on him. “It’s nothing with the team.”
Jack raised his brows. “But you don’t have other friends outside the team.”
Luke frowned. “Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t,” Jack retorted. “Unless you’re a part of a book club or something.”
He shot his brother a confused look. “Why would that be the only reason I have friends outside of the team?”
“I don’t know, college and shit,” Jack answered like that explained something.
“You’re such a weirdo,” Luke grumbled before he turned on his heel, making his way towards the door again.
“Are you at least gonna tell me when you’ll be back?” Jack called out to him, a hint of older brother overbearingness in his voice.
“Not sure.”
“I—” He heard Jack shuffle to stand up, his dinner now abandoned on the coffee table as he made his way over to Luke. The look of concern from earlier that morning was back on his face. “What dodgy shit are you up to that you can’t just tell me?”
“Jack,” Luke groaned, his voice tilting towards whiny as he let out a huff of annoyance. “I’m just going out to see a friend. Nothing dodgy, I promise.”
Jack didn’t say anything at first, just letting a slow smile spread across his face.
He frowned. “What?”
“Friend, singular,” Jack pointed out before he let out a bark of laughter, playfully punching his little brother’s arm. “Aw, little Lukey is sneaking out to hook up with a girl!”
His cheeks burned. “Shut up.”
“Fucking finally, I thought you were going celibate for your rookie year or something!” Jack continued to tease him. “Who is it? Do I know her? Oh my god, is it the girl from the party? Do you have a secret girlfriend?”
“I am leaving now!” Luke shoved him away, making a beeline for the door as Jack continued to cackle behind him.
“Do I need to give you a curfew?”
“Fuck off!”
He could still hear Jack laughing when he slammed the door shut behind him.
His body felt like it was on autopilot once he got behind the wheel. He followed the instructions spoken through his GPS, kept his concentration on the road—on the journey—rather than the destination. He tried to pretend like he was just going to hang out at a friend’s, that he was back in Michigan going to one of his teammate’s houses he didn’t live with.
It was fine.
Everything was fine.
Except for the fact that once he reached your door, closed fist hovering over the wood, he felt like his body was buzzing too fast to keep up with and all the pent up anxiety over the day was about to make him explode.
He didn’t even realise he had knocked until the door swung open and you stood on the other side, grinning at him like it was a normal Sunday evening. You were dressed cosy, casual even. Just a pair of leggings, a baggy shirt and some fluffy socks that had—ironically enough—cherries printed on them.
“You’re early,” you noted.
Luke’s stomach dropped a little. “Oh shit, I’m sorry—”
“I like my men eager, you’re fine,” you said as you waved him off, unaware of the fact your words just made his body feel like it was on fire for a whole other reason as you grabbed his hand and dragged him inside.
His eyes wandered over your apartment, taking in the small knick knacks that decorated the place. It was smaller than his and Jack’s apartment, but it felt more homely. His place had a habit of looking a little clinical, like a showroom they had moved into rather than an actual home. But between training and travelling and not really caring, neither he nor Jack had bothered to change it.
But, looking around at the small details of your apartment as you led him towards your living room couch, Luke found it endearing that he could see small insights into your personality.
“You still like Coke, right?”
His eyes snapped back to you, a light blush on his cheeks when he found you staring at him with intent. “Uh yeah, Coke is good.”
He settled down on the seat, awkwardly perched on the edge whilst you curled up in the sport next to him with your feet tucked underneath him. He tried to swallow the ball in the back of his throat, eyes wandering over the room once again before they landed back on you.
“Your place is really nice—”
“Tell me about hockey.”
Luke blinked. And then blinked one more time before he remembered to speak.
“What?”
“Tell me about hockey,” you repeated.
“You want to know about hockey?” He questioned, his brows furrowed together and suddenly the panic he felt moments ago was overwhelmed by his confusion.
“Well, no, I don’t really know anything about it,” you admitted with a shrug. “But you’re so tense over there like you’re about to enter the Hunger Games or something, I thought talking about something you enjoy would help you relax.”
Something in his chest stirred at your confession. “Oh.”
“Just relax,” you said as you lightly pushed him back until he was no longer sat on the edge of the couch. However, Luke’s body didn’t seem to catch the hint, something that was very clear with how tense he still looked sitting next to you. “We aren’t going to do anything tonight,” you assured him, your hand dropping to his forearm to give it a small squeeze.
He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. “We aren’t?”
You shook your head, a soft but cheeky smile on your lips. “You need to build up your confidence a little, to really feel comfortable with everything. There’s more to sex than just sleeping with someone.”
He blinked. “There is?”
“Yes,” you laughed, but it wasn’t directed at him. He didn’t feel dumb for asking you questions. “So just take a breath and relax. Now, hockey—what’s the big deal?”
Luke couldn’t help but snort. “The big deal?”
“Yeah, why do you like it?” You asked. “I mean, you love it enough to make it your job.”
Luke smiled and there was something less heavy in his laugh—but hockey always tended to have that power over him. He knew hockey. He lived for hockey. It was as calming as it was exhilarating. It was what his whole world revolved around since the day he was born.
“I come from a big hockey family,” Luke told you. “I could skate before I could properly walk, to be honest. It’s just something that’s always…been there. I couldn’t imagine my life without it.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
Luke raised his brows in surprise. “No, I just do it to torture myself.”
“Okay, smart-ass,” you rolled your eyes at the boy, and he tried not to think about how endearing the action was. “I mean, you said it’s been in your life forever. Do you enjoy it or is it just familiar?”
There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation before he answered.
“I love it,” he replied honestly, sinking a little further into the couch as he turned his head to look at you. “It was always there but I also always sought it out, you know? I wanted hockey as much as hockey wanted me.”
“Lucky thing you were good enough to go pro, huh?” You remarked, a teasing glint in your words.
Luke’s lips twitched upwards. “Yeah, lucky me.”
“So, do you, like, fight people and shit?”
He snorted, the noise a little surprising but welcomed nonetheless. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“Damn, the two hockey videos I watched before you came weren’t lying then,” you mused.
And, fuck, his chest was doing that funny-tightening thing again.
“You watched some videos before I came?”
“Colour me curious,” you answered with a casual shrug of your shoulders.
He swallowed. “Did you like what you saw?”
Your lips pulled upwards into a smirk. “Flirting with me now, Hughes?”
In an instant, Luke’s cheeks instantly burned a red shade with a mix of embarrassment and self-consciousness washing over him. “I’m sorry about that—”
“I never said I didn’t like it,” you interrupted, watching as his eyes widened a little in surprise. But the colour remained on his cheeks. It was cute, if you were being honest with yourself.
“Oh?”
“You’re not a shy guy, Luke, I’ve seen the way you are on the ice. You just need to bring that confidence off the ice too,” you told him, shuffling a little closer to him until your knee was almost brushing his thigh. “Think of this…what we are doing…as your training.”
“My training?”
“Mhm,” you nodded as your palm landed on his thigh, right above his knee. He was so painfully aware of your hand, of the way your touch felt like it was burning through the fabric of his sweatpants to touch his skin. “Gonna help you go pro.”
His eyes darted down to your hand before it snapped back to your face. “Cherry—”
“Can I kiss you?”
He blinked. “You’re asking me?”
“It’s sexy to ask,” you told him, your thumb lightly rubbing a small line just above his knee. You shifted a bit closer, watching the way his eyelids fluttered slightly. “Consent is really, really sexy.”
“Really sexy,” he repeated, eyes locked in on your lips.
“Can I kiss you?” You asked again, squeezing his leg a little to emphasise your need for him to verbally answer.
“Yeah,” he managed to mutter out, a slight crack in his voice but you didn’t seem to care as you closed the distance between you.
Your palm was soft and warm against his cheek, guiding his head until you pressed your lips against his. It was a soft kiss, almost sweet in a way. And maybe something about the tenderness of it all washed away the unease in his chest, that lingering anxiety that he had been smothered in since he woke up. It was like the kiss washed away the lingering concerns in his head, the ones that told him this was some twisted dream or malicious ploy.
You just wanted to help, you wanted him relaxed when he was with you.
And Luke had half the mind to trust you would do just that after the initial kiss.
Your thumb slightly swept along the high of his cheekbone, soft and reassuring as he sunk further into the kiss. He seemed happy to let you take control, to let you decide how fast or passionate it was. He seemed happy to just follow.
“Better than hockey training?” You murmured against his lips between kisses, the light smacking noises a vague echo in his ear but he didn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.
“Mhm,” he hummed as he ducked his head back down, eager to press his lips against yours again.
“Impatient,” you teased but didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. “Feeling confident already, Hughes?”
Luke could feel your smile against his lips. “Maybe.”
“Good,” you stated simply and before he got the chance to realise what you were doing, before his brain had even fully processed you had asked him a question, your leg was thrown over his body and you were straddling his lap.
Luke pulled back a little, looking up at you with his cheeks flushed. “Oh.”
“Remember, this is just your training,” you reassured the boy, though it was hard for him to focus on the words coming out of your mouth when your lips were red and kiss-swollen and probably a mirror image of his own. “Just practise, yeah?”
“Just practise,” he confirmed with a nod.
“So practise,” you told him as you reached for his hands where they awkwardly hung at his side. You gripped his wrists, giving them a small squeeze before you rested them on your waist.
He swallowed. “Oh.”
You raised your brows. “This good?”
“Mhm,” he nodded.
“Luke,” you prompted until his glossy eyes found yours. “We can stop any time you want. Just say the word, okay?”
“I don’t wanna stop,” he reassured you, his hands giving a testing squeeze on your waist. “Not right now, at least. Promise.”
And when you smiled at him, he could have sworn his heart was about to beat right out of his chest.
His chest was thudding with each racing beat, blood roaring in his ears and butterflies exploding in his fucking chest when you leaned down to kiss him again. It’s like his brain was locked in on you at this very moment, not a care or concept for the world beyond this apartment. It was just about you, you, you.
And then your hands were pushing through his hair, fingers tangled in his curls as you tugged his head back until the column of his neck was exposed to you.
Luke was almost embarrassed of the whimpering noise that left his lips when you tugged on his curls, a dull but desirable pain coursing through his whole body before your lips explored his neck. His breathing was heavy, borderline panting as your teeth scraped along the sensitive spot just below his ear. And, fuck, he felt like his whole body was on fire.
“Hmmm, pretty noises,” you murmured against his neck, wet and sloppy open-mouthed kisses pressed against his skin as his body squirmed beneath you. “You gonna keep making them for me, baby?”
He nodded.
“Yeah?” You nipped his skin lightly, almost teasingly, as his hips bucked up on instinct. “Keep moaning f’me, baby, let’s see what you like.”
His grip on your waist only tightened as you continued to explore his body, as you tried to find the spots that had him whining and panting beneath you. And just when Luke thought he had a hold on himself, when he could handle the way your hands felt in his hair and your lips on his neck, your hips slowly rolled down against his and he could feel a rush of pleasure race down his spine.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he choked out between broken moans, head thrown back against the back of the couch and eyes clenched shut. “Please. More.”
“You want more?” Your warm breath fanned against his cheek as you lifted your head, hooded eyes watching the way his face scrunched up in pleasure as you continued to rock against him. “Keep making those pretty noises, baby.”
The whimper he let out made his cheeks and neck burn bright red.
“Look at you,” you mused, the bulge in his sweatpants pressed against you as you continued to grind down on his lap. “Doing so well for me, telling me what you want.”
And it was too much.
The constant stream of praise leaving your lips, the way your face was inches away from him—even if his eyes were shut—with your breath hot against his cheek. The way your hips rocked against his hard cock, the way it was straining beneath the boxers he was wearing. The way your fingers gave another experimental tug on his curls and he saw white.
His grip on your waist was almost bruising with how tight it was, the way he held onto you as his hips bucked to meet your thrusts, the way your name left his lips on a loop as a hot flush of pleasure washed over his body, as you guided him through it.
And once his brain had caught up—once he was sure his heart wasn’t going to jump out of his chest—he was painfully aware of the sticky mess in his sweatpants.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, his whole body burning with embarrassment as he looked up at you. “I am so sorry—”
“For what?”
“I—” His eyes fell shut, his body wanting nothing more than to curl in on himself. “I’m sorry, that was embarrassing.”
You frowned. “What was? The fact you came?”
His stomach twisted a little.
“Luke,” you murmured, and he could feel your hands cupping his warm cheeks but he didn’t have the courage to open his eyes just yet. “If I didn’t want you to come, I wouldn’t have been grinding on your dick like that.”
He finally looked at you, but the hot shame remained. “You didn’t even…”
“Get off?” You supplied and he looked sheepish as he nodded. “I can still enjoy something and find it hot without getting off, Hughes.”
His brows furrowed together. “I thought the whole point was that you were teaching me how to make you feel good. For womankind.”
You snorted, grinning down at the boy. “That doesn’t mean you can’t get off too.”
Luke’s lips parted with a silent ‘oh’.
“I’ll grab you some sweatpants to change into,” you told him as you shifted off his lap, looking down at his flushed cheeks and dazed eyes. “You’re a good student, Hughes.”
He raised his brows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you grinned back at him, and his chest did that funny thing again. “And I wasn’t lying. You make pretty noises. I like my boys vocal.”
And Luke was thankful you disappeared down the corridor after that, saving him from even attempting to come up with a response.
And he was shocked that once he cleaned up as best he could in your bathroom, you patted the spot next to you on the couch and told him to choose a movie whilst you ordered in some food.
It was almost laughable to think about how anxious he had been all day, only to lead up to him sharing a pizza with you with some old Jim Carey comedy playing in the background like you two really were just friends. Like you were just hanging out and enjoying each other’s company. Like you hadn’t just made him come in his pants like he was some wound up teenage boy.
It made his head spin, in a good way.
And when he was dragging his feet through the front door of his apartment a little after midnight, there was a voice in the back of his head that was telling him this was risky, that he shouldn’t have felt so giddy or jovial after he had seen you.
You were just training him, helping him. You were just his friend.
But, for right now, Luke was happy to ignore the logical voice in the back of his head and instead focus on the fact that maybe—just fucking maybe—you were right and this whole virginity thing was far more bigged up in his head than he realised.
You were his friend. And he knew you were just his friend.
Who cares if his body took a little longer to remember than his brain did?
.
#luke hughes#nhl#new jersey devils#luke hughes x reader#luke hughes x you#luke hughes x y/n#luke hughes fic#luke hughes one shot#luke hughes smut#nhl x reader#nhl x you#nhl x y/n#nhl fic#nhl one shot#nhl smut
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fluff 𐙚 established relationship 𐙚 idol!seungcheol x fem!reader 𐙚 wc: 613
. . . just cheol being cheol (aka him freaking out because of your fever)
natalia’s note: very much self indulgent, i came home with a fever all of a sudden like a week ago, and ever since im in desperate need of choi seungcheol
“i’m not dying, you know?”
“i know,” cheol huffed, and threw what had to be the tenth blanket over you.
“then why are you acting like i’m about to pass away?” you laughed, seeing your boyfriend’s focused expression. according to his logic, if the blankets weren’t all sprawled out properly, you’d freeze to death, and his furrowed dark eyebrows alongside the crease between them showed how serious he was about it.
you could hear him mutter something under his breath. he was always like that when you were sick - too worried, and too overprotective. that’s why sometimes you didn’t even bother telling him you were ill, especially with his busy schedules - you didn’t want to burden him even more (he’d probably strangle you if he heard you calling yourself a burden).
to be honest, you didn’t even have to be sick - the second cheol would notice you acting differently than usual he’d be all over you asking what’s wrong. but while usually you were very grateful for his caring nature, now was not the time. “i’m sorry for being worried about my girlfriend coming home with a fever,” he said, looking offended.
“cheol, baby. it’s just a fever,” you quickly grabbed the pills from his hand to get his attention back on you. “i’m sure it’s not even a proper fever, i’m just feeling a bit under the weather, that’s all. there is no need for you to be worried.”
your “illness” was nothing that a long session of cuddles with him and kkuma couldn’t solve, but it seemed like your boyfriend didn’t share your optimism. “fine, do whatever you want,” he grumbled, his pout on full display, and left the room, leaving you too stunned to speak.
with a loud sigh, you fell back against the stack of pillows cheol fluffed up before forcing you to lay down. of course you didn’t mean to make him think you didn't want his help, you loved how big of a caregiver he was (especially when it came to you), it’s just that unlike him - for you, being sick wasn't the end of the world, and you didn't need him to babysit you.
not wanting to argue, you stood up from the bed with a soft groan, throwing off all the blankets cheol covered you with. you knew it wouldn't be hard to appease him, he wasn't really angry, more disappointed that you were rejecting his help.
you entered the kitchen and immediately saw him cutting up some food, probably preparing dinner. “cheollie,” you said quietly, hoping he would look at you. unfortunately, he stubbornly continued to cut the vegetables. "baby, please, i didn't mean to upset you." you walked around the kitchen island and hugged him from the side, burying your head in his neck.
you saw his pout out of the corner of your eye, so your suspicions that he wasn't actually angry were correct. “i was just worried about you," he finally said after a while, and put the knife down. "there's nothing fun about seeing your girlfriend come home all burning up with fever."
“i know love, i know,” you mumbled, and kissed his bicep, running your hand gently over his tummy. “i really appreciate everything you do, but i’d rather cuddle with you and kkuma. we could watch something, and you’d get to hold me, hm?” you smiled, seeing the corners of his mouth turning up a little. if there was one thing cheol could never decline, it’d be a cuddle session with his girls.
“you’ll take the medicine, though,” he said sternly, kissing your hot forehead. “now get your ass back to bed, i’ll be right back” he added.
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DAY ONE. FIRST TIME?
ft. gojo satoru — jujutsu kaisen (呪術廻戦)
your boyfriend gojo satoru is convinced you’ll never be able to knock him off of the pedestal he stands on. saying he’ll always be the one to fuck you good and straight, that you’ll never one up him. maybe it’s time to show him that he’s not always right.
ruling. nsfw — mature content
content warnings. dom! gn! reader, first time sub! gojo, anal penetration / pegging, fingering, overstimulation, bratty gojo, slight dacryphilia, dumbification themes, hair pulling, spit as lube, established relationship, plot before porn
an. this came out way too long. anyways hope y’all enjoy day 1, some of the kinks listed on the ml did not make the cut bcs the fic would take 80 years to read and the intro is already cutting into my lifetime. also not proofread. anyways enjoy fucking gojo!!
kinktober 2023 masterlist
you and your boyfriend gojo satoru have been dating for five months at this point. your relationship is everything you’ve ever wanted in one; secure, loving, and honest. satoru is the most caring man you’ve probably ever met— though cheeky, he’s just as infatuated with you as he was when you first met.
not only is gojo amazing, but so is the sex. not to be a prude, but it’s true. he knows how to take care of his baby and never wants to leave you unsatisfied.
the only sour thing about your relationship is his teasing. especially in the mornings-after.
when you’re groaning, pressing down on a muscle in your back as you complained to gojo about how hard he went down on you the night prior. your boyfriend’s fierce laughter as he’s propped up on one arm, staring at you from his safety beneath the covers of your shared bed and messy hair.
“aw, c’mon, you know you liked it.” gojo would say as you kept prodding at your shoulders and legs. you’d shoot him a dirty look and he’d snicker loudly again. “okay, okay, i’m sorry. i’ll make it up to you today, i swear.”
one morning, your boyfriend had tossed his still-bare body over yours after a long session that night. face first into the pillow behind your head; long, spindly limbs sprawled out like a starfish on top of you as you both shared silly remarks about the long night you both had.
“y’know, one day, i’m gonna get you back for all the times you leave me sore like this,” you huffed, earning a muffle giggle from your boyfriend with his head in the sheets. “what? i’m serious.” you insisted.
gojo’s head snapped up to look at you. squinted blue eyes followed by another ugly little giggle. “uh huh, i bet.”
“what do you mean, ‘you bet’?” you scrunched your nose as your boyfriend gave you another mean chuckle through his big grin. “c’mon, y/n. you know you can’t top my skills.”
“now what does that mean?” you shot back, cocking an eyebrow at gojo’s funny expressions.
he hummed, thinking for a bit before turning his attention back to you. “you know i’m good at what i do. if you even tried to top me, you’d just end up giving up anyways.” you rolled your eyes. “not true.”
“what’s not true? that you’d give up, or that i’m good? because y’know, these fingers aren’t only good at sorcery—”
“yeah yeah, shut the fuck up.”
ever since that night, though, you haven’t stopped thinking about the idea. reversing the roles. it’s something the both of you had never tried before, but were you open to the idea. you just needed to make sure that satoru was, too.
but there was something different about tonight in particular that made you feel a bit more confident than usual.
it started off as it usually did whenever the both of you were in the mood. a handsy hello as soon as you got home from work; peppering your face with kisses and fingers pressing against your hips as you let your boyfriend lead you to the bedroom.
you’d barely be able to get a word in with the way gojo would welcome you home. lips quickly pressed together and without hesitation your back would be against the mattress and clothes discarded onto the floor.
“missed you today.” gojo mumbled into the kiss, lips sloppily trying to chase the pattern the both of you shared. hands gripping at your sides as he pushed you eagerly onto the bed.
as soon as you hit the bed you immediately grabbed at his arms and pulled him forward onto you. something inside you was pounding— pounding for tonight to be different than the rest.
you pulled gojo onto the bed, chest rising with heated breaths as a switch in your brain flipped. hands pushing him down beneath you, his back against the sheets as your boyfriend let out a breathy gasp.
“hey, what’re you doin’?” gojo mumbled, looking up at you through glassy eyes and white lashes as you reveled at the sight of satoru beneath you— a sight you weren’t used to seeing, but welcomed with open arms.
“you’re gonna let me take care of you tonight. okay toru?” you said, his eyes blowing wide and lips twitching into a small grin.
“take care of me?” he chuckled, watching as you slowly started to undo his shirt. “i’d like to see you try.”
you rolled your eyes as you pulled his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. gojo watched your every movement, watching with interest as one of your hands quickly went to circle one of his nipples.
he shivered at your cold fingertips tracing along his chest, but laughed all the same. “what, ‘s this all you’re gonna do? c’mon, baby, let me just take care of you and— mmph.” gojo was promptly cut off when he felt your fingers press against the hard-on in his pants. a small smile crept onto your lips at the sight.
“hush, toru.” you muttered, palming him through his pants as gojo let out a strained groan. “this is what you get for being so mean to me all the time. leaving me brusied and sore.”
“you said you wanted it rough.” satoru panted, looking down at you as his long fingers started to grab at the sheets beneath him. “oh, i do.” you shrugged. “but now, it’s your turn to feel what i feel.”
your boyfriend’s breath hitched in his throat at the words from your tongue. he quickly gathered himself, clearing his throat to mask the whimper that slipped his lips. “you’ll just give up, y’know. you’re just gonna give into me and come crawling back.”
“that’s what you may think, but i know what i want.” you said, removing your hand from his bulge to reach for his glinting silver belt buckle. “you’re gonna take my cock and behave, just like i do for you. and if you don’t like it, you can say our safe word and leave.”
gojo gulped. he knew you wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want. he was in the position to say no whenever he wanted to. but the thought of your thick cock splitting him open had him salivating; even if he didn’t want to admit it to his big ego.
“satoru.” your voice called him back, snapping him out of the trance he was in. he looked down at you, his belt already undone and ready to be pulled off. “color, satoru. tell me what you want.”
he swallowed thickly again, lips parting as he whispered. “green.”
you smiled softly at him, slowly pulling his belt from the loops as you muttered a slow “alright.” unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down alongside his boxers. his pretty cock revealing itself to you.
“already leaking for me, huh toru?” you snickered, the feelings of your breath along his dick making him twitch.
“still gonna break you, y’know.” gojo murmured. “you’re just gonna give up and beg me to fuck you.”
“whatever makes you feel better.” *you said plainly. the tone in your voice left him shivering. suddenly, you raised your hand to his lips and with no hesitation said, “spit.”
gojo blinked down at you, who was watching him expectantly. he parted his lips and let his tongue slip forward, spitting onto your fingers as he maintained eye contact with you. “thank you, toru.” you said, lubricating your fingers before you lined them with the edge of his hole.
he felt his heart leap into his throat when your fingertips prodded at his entrance. silently, satoru spread his legs to let you know he wanted you. and you seemed to understand his prompt, for almost immediately your long fingers slipped into him with ease.
“fuck, oh god.” gojo immediately hissed, clenching tight around your middle and ring fingers as they slowly began to thrust in and out of him. “oh my god.”
he watched as your hand worked at his insides; curling your fingers as the sorcerer finally allowed for small whines to slip past his lips. each sound left his stomach turning— the dirty sounds of his own hole clenching around his partner’s fingers making him shudder.
gojo was stuck at small whines of pleasure, heavy breathing and the occasional gasp, until your fingers hit a particularly good spot inside him that made him cry out.
“ohn— oh fuck,” gojo whined out. “there. right, right there, that— ah!” he gasped when your fingers curled against his sweet spot, making him flinch and pulse around you. “‘s that feel good, satoru?” you asked, slowly thrusting your fingers in and out of his hole, taking note of the way his fingers curled around the satin sheets of your shared bed.
satoru nodded. his chest rising and falling with sharp breaths as he kept his eyes locked on you. “yeah. feels good. right there, feels so good…” he murmured. jolting back with every thrust of your fingers in and out of him, muscles tensing and relaxing in ragged patterns before you eventually pulled your fingers out.
“so messy.” you murmured, raising your hand to his mouth again. “spit.” and he did, right onto your fingers once more.
“i think you’re ready to take me, toru.” you spread his legs and began to undo your own buckle. your boyfriend watched your hands, every move closer to watching you reveal yourself making him almost shake with anticipation.
it wasn’t until you finally pulled out your cock did he realize how big you truly were. eyes blowing into saucers as he immediately began to blabber.
“you look so big!” satoru whined. “no way you’re gonna make me take all of that!”
“oh, i will.” you purred, pressing the head of your cock to his hole. he flinched, feeling your tip just against his ass as he went to protest again. “why can’t i jus’ fuck you like usual, baby?”
you laughed meanly at his words. “what, are you scared, satoru?” you asked, leaning in and simultaneously pressing your tip just against his opening. “scared i’m gonna break you open?”
“no!” gojo shook his head furiously. “i just- i just think you’re gonna get tired and give up.”
you sighed, staring down at your boyfriend with his big wide eyes and wet eyelashes. after a moment of bathing in his beauty, you grabbed hold of his thighs and leaned back. “color, satoru.”
gojo hesitated. looking from you down to his drooling cock that was just begging to be touched. his inflated ego kept hammering in his chest, but the feeling of your tip against his hole drove every thought away and left him squirming.
“green.”
“good.” and before he knew it, you’d forced yourself into him. a loud moan clawing its way through his throat and spilling from his lips as you began to pound into him, gradually picking up speed.
suddenly, that same hammering feeling in his chest immediately died out. as soon as satoru felt your cock sliding in and out of his walls, pressing up against his prostate with every thrust, his demeanor immediately unraveled.
“fuck— oh my— fuck, you’re so big!” gojo cried out. hands scrambling to ground himself as he gripped onto the sheets. “ah— oh— oh my fucking, please, y/n!”
you couldn’t help but watch gojo’s big blue eyes grow teary. rolling back into his head as you fucked him, forcing his legs back to angle yourself well enough to hit all of the right places.
“already all ruined for me, satoru.” you cooed. your words slipped into his brain and toyed with his thoughts, leaving him quietly whimpering as he felt your hands near his head.
all of a sudden, the cloudy feeling forming in gojo’s brain flickered as you took a handful of his hair and forced him to look at you. yelping as your fingers intertwined with his snowy locks and pulled his head up.
“what was that you said earlier about me getting tired and giving up, toru?” you asked, hips angling and pounding into him faster and faster. all he could do was hiccup and gasp, head subtly bobbing from the force of your thrusts combined with the weakening grip on his scalp.
“ahmm— ah, i don’t— uhn…” he stammered, too focused on the feeling of the head of your cock kissing his prostate with every thrust to make out the words you were saying. the fog in his head was coming back, accompanied by a knot tightening in his stomach.
satoru was panting and shaking. too focused on the heat in his lower abdomen spreading across his body. “i’m- it’s-” he stuttered out, words slurred together. his brain was rattling inside his head. too embarrassed to admit the fact that he was already about to cum his brains out to himself as you kept hammering his hole. “y/n, i’m gonna— haaah, oh!”
“gonna what?” you asked, thrusts growing deep and sloppy as you kept your quick pace. “c’mon, finish your sentence. don’t tell me you’ve already gone dumb.”
his vision grew blurry with tears, a few even spilling over and down his cheeks. the heat in his stomach kept burning, hotter and hotter as his brain tried to scramble for words to try and form a sentence. hell, even a word would be nice.
“ah, ahn, i’m— haah, ah, ah!” gojo began to squeal. your grip on his hair grew tighter as he completely began to forget you were even talking to him.
and suddenly, he was cumming all over himself with a garbled “cu— ah, aahhn!” his scalp burning from the force you held him up with, legs twitching as his cock bobbed with every stream of cum he coated his stomach with.
you slowed your thrusts as you watched him cum, but didn’t halt completely. as soon as he was done, you immediately began picking up your pace once more.
“wait, wh— fuck!” satoru whined out as you let go of his hair and flipped him onto his hands and knees. his head stuffed into the pillow that was once below him as you drove your cock into his hole with more fervor than before. “i- i just came! y/n, baby, i just-”
“i never said you could cum, did i?” you asked. immediately he shut his mouth, clenching around you with a loud whine. “you’re gonna keep taking my cock until i’ve cum. until then, you sit here and look pretty for me. is that clear?”
at first he didn’t respond. not until you grabbed hold of his hair from behind and forced him up again. “i said, is that clear, satoru?”
gojo eagerly nodded his head, panting and whimpering with your every movement. “yes. yes, ‘s clear! fuck me, please!”
you were going to have a long night.
#@ genacity kinktober 2023 ! 🩸 ☆#dom reader#sub character#sub gojo satoru#sub gojo#sub jjk#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#gojo smut#sub gojo smut#dom reader smut#sub character smut#kinktober#gojo x reader#satoru x reader
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Simon 'Ghost' Riley Headcanons While You're Dating
I figured this would be kinda cute since I've only written for König. Switching it up just a little bit since I think the 141 boys are cuties <3
I know this is quite long too, I'm sorry I had a lot of thoughts I wanted to get out!!!!!
There will be both SFW and NSFW with a GN reader (they/them pronouns) ^^ Enjoy!
GENRE: Fluff, smut after NSFW cut
WARNINGS: Mentions of Ghost's childhood
Masterlist here!
***************
You'd needed to be the one to tell him how you'd felt first. Simon wasn't one to open up about his emotions and mostly tried to ignore and bottle up his feelings, so he never would've been able to gain that courage to tell you first.
When you did tell him, he became super flustered behind that mask of his. You normally called him by his alias and never really used his actual name, so he knew what you were going to say would've been serious.
"Hey, Simon? I think I like you. And I understand if you don't feel the same way, I just figured I should tell you sooner than later."
...
"Simon..?"
He would let out a flustered grumble of "Yeah yeah,, I like you too." and you two would slowly, but surely, warm up to each other more.
He'd be a very gentle lover. Just the thought of him hurting you, even by accident, made him violently ill.
Ghost wouldn't be one to be touchy very early on in you guys' relationship, he kept a lot to himself and you respected that. At times you would hold back from trying to hug him, or hold his hand, or anything, but you didn't mind. You wanted to make sure he was comfortable.
He'd soon realised you were the cuddly, touchy type, so he'd begin making moves like wrapping his arm around your waist or linking his pinkie with yours while you were walking. Just those small touches alone would make your knees weak.
Simon faced a lot of trauma in his childhood so he had trouble opening up to you at first. Once he did start opening up to you, he realised he didn't need to ignore his feelings for once. You made him feel safe.
>:'(( he loves you so much.
He'd call you all the usual pet names such as 'my love', 'darling', 'sweetheart', etc.
You'd often be the only thing on his mind when he'd be on missions or back in the barracks.
He'd always keep a printed photograph of you in a pocket somewhere so he could remember who he was fighting for.
When he'd be upset, he'd always pull that photo out just to look at it. Just seeing your face brought him immense comfort.
His love language would definitely be acts of service. He'll gladly cook a nice meal for you, or tell you to sit down and relax so he could take care of the cleaning.
However, it goes both ways. You'll pack him a lunch for the day He'd be on his knees. Make his bed for him if he were to be too busy? He'll completely melt. It's those little things.
His father didn't care all that much for him as a child coming from an abusive household, essentially needing to take care of himself. Having that someone to pack him a lunch and look after him in such a way made him feel loved and safe.
Of course he'd never take his mask off in front of you. He never took it off for anyone, there were no hard feelings. He preferred his anonymity and you are completely okay with it.
You never asked to see him without the mask because
well,
you just didn't. That was his privacy and you weren't one to invade it unless he would offer or if he were to be ready.
You two were both very patient with each other and that helped build a healthy and trustful relationship.
You also didn't mind not knowing what he really looked like. You first fell in love with who he was as a person, not his physical attributes.
When he did show you what he looked like unmasked, it was ironically during a make-out session.
(He low-key planned it out)
"Bloody hell, this thing is getting in the way." He'd say as the balaclava kept slipping down and shielding his lips from yours.
Thats when he finally pulled the felt which covered his features off, taking you by surprise.
The face-paint was still there, but his beautiful features were completely exposed to you.
He definitely got flustered at just how much you were examining his face.
"You look like you've seen a Ghost, darling."
That snapped you out of it, earning a chuckle from you before you two were sucking each others faces off again without that irritation from the fabric.
While nothing was said in the moment, by the time you two were done, you'd already begun to gush about how handsome he looked. You'd cup his face in your hands like he would to you and place kisses on his nose, forehead, cheeks, everywhere. He'd just look away in embarrassment.
"Yeah, yeah, take a picture, it'll last longer... PLEASE DON'T-"
The hard, confident Simon you knew became a blushy idiot and you loved it.
He was your Simon
__________________
NSFW
Before you two had any 'alone time' together, he'd always make sure there's a large water bottle or an electrolyte drink on the bedside table because, man, his guy has a lot of stamina and a high sex drive.
He could easily shoot a some loads into you over the course of a couple of hours.
You couldn't count how many times he'd make you cum over those few hours as you'd be a babbling mess by the end of it. No thoughts, just getting dicked down.
He wasn't exactly rough, but definitely not gentle. He'll be pounding into you like it was your last nights together for a while. And yeah, sometimes it was, so you two would need to make the most of it.
He wasn't one to inflict physical pain to you either unless it was the occasional slap on the ass or thighs.
He was one to grab onto you though. He'll grab onto any piece of your body he can.
Doggy? Bent over a table? Riding? He'll be digging his fingers into your fleshy hips.
Steamy make-out session? Or just feeling possessive? He'll gladly grab onto your thighs or wrap his arms around your waist.
The boy loves holding onto you, especially when he's in heat, leaving maybe just a few red marks from him gripping onto you so tightly. Maybe even a few scratch marks.
Missionary would definitely be his favourite position.
He'd be able to stare into that pretty face of yours for eternity if his life depended on it.
Missionary also lets him hold your hand as he pounds you into the mattress. The feeling of you squeezing his hand as tightly as you can while you cum makes him go absolutely feral.
Simon wouldn't make all that much noise in bed. Though when he's feeling desperate, he can't shut himself up. He'll let out soft moans and groans and growls into your ear just to let you know how good you're making him feel.
He also would love seeing your mouth full of his cock. The faces you'd make up at him as it slides down you throat could make him cum instantly.
Moan his name and he will also cum instantly.
"Oh, fuck- Simon~!"
He'll start pounding into you like never before, chasing both of your orgasms.
He’ll always make sure that you’re left satisfied. No point in pounding into you if you’re not going to be enjoying it the entire time.
He'd probably cum a lot too. Thick strands would shoot inside you or into your mouth, struggling to stay inside. He'd probably have a thing for pushing his fingers inside your hole to make sure his cum stays inside you.
He's a top and a soft dom so he'd have a bit of trouble getting used to bottoming and/or subbing. He wouldn't turn it away, not for you. But it would need some getting used to for him.
If he's subbing, you could very easily get him to start begging once he gets lost in the pleasure. Though he'd definitely feel embarrassed after. He's a grown, dominant, military man who engages in the most brutal and gore-y activities. He wouldn't have ever believed himself a couple of years back if the future Simon had told him he'll be begging his partner to let him cum as they jerked him off in the slowest, most torturous way.
If you two hadn't seen each other in a while, he'd be pushing you against the wall in an instant with your thighs on either side of him. He'd be practically begging you again to let him fuck you, and you'd of course let him.
Breeding kink? For sure. He LOVES to cum inside you and fill you up.
"F-Fucking hell, look at you, doll, completely stuffed." He'll say as he cums into you for the third or fourth time that night. Your entire body would for sure be shaking at that point.
Of course he’d be affected by the overstimulation as some point as well, he’d begin stuttering every now and again each time his cock would throb inside you.
He'd slam into you with such force, you'll be sobbing tears of pleasure by the time you two were done.
You'll often become extremely tired from sex from the sheer amount of stamina this man has, it can't be said enough.
This man will gladly take you to your limit, but the moment you show signs of passing out or feeling unwell, he'll stop and make sure you're okay, giving you some water and something to boost your blood sugar so you’re not passing out on him. He's not one to take such advantage of you while you're unconscious, and you respect him a lot for that.
Post-sex includes so much cuddling. He'll apologise for accidentally hurting you or if he was too rough and make sure you're all cleaned up and had water before you two head to bed or for a nap.
Post-morning-sex would include him bringing breakfast to you in bed which you thought was the most adorable thing ever.
Your legs would be jelly by the time you two were done, so just trying to make it to the bathroom would be a whole challenge.
Simon would always either carry you or provide you will that stability, it was sweet. He'd hold onto your waist as tightly as he could to make sure you wouldn't fall while your knees would give in.
He was very buff so it would be pretty easy to keep you from falling to the ground.
He'll make sure you're all squeaky clean, hydrated, and fed before anything else.
He truely was the best boyfriend you could ask for.
***************
I loved writing this so much, I'm about to go scream into my pillow. Goodnight, everyone <3
#cod mw2#call of duty#mw2 x reader#mw2 smut#Ghost headcanons#Ghost cod#Ghost x reader#Ghost mw2#Ghost x reader fluff#Ghost x reader smut#Simon Riley x reader#simon 'ghost' riley#Simon Riley fluff#Simon Riley smut#Ghost Headcanons#Simon Riley Headcanons#Ghost Imagines#Simon Riley Imagines#mw2 imagines#mw2 x you
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Hi, your last post about reader not knowing that it was sa, I saw that and I wanted to request something. What if reader knows that she have been through it but she mentions this as a joke, she says it and just keep going like she said something silly. How would the boys (141 + konig) react?
(I do this sometimes and I don’t like it, but it feels like some kind of copying mechanism)
I’m sorry if this was too much, do not feel that u need to write this.
Anyway, thank u so much and take care
Honestly I make out of pocket jokes about my own trauma all the time, so I feel this
tw: mentions of trauma, brief mentions of sexual assault- nothing graphic or descriptive, humor as a coping mechanism, comfort
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:
Whiplashed so hard his neck is broken
“You bein’ serious?”
You explain what happened but you’re a little too blasé about it, he understands humor as a coping mechanism but this is a little serious
And by ‘a little’ I mean very
“Love, you can’t just drop a bomb like that.” He tries to soften his tone but his rage at what you’ve just told him is starting to seep through
He doesn’t realize he’s being a little hypocritical, we’ve all heard his “army humor” so he really doesn’t have a lot of room to talk. But the fact that it happened to you has blinded him to that fact. It’s not that you can’t make jokes, it’s that you shouldn’t have to because it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.
He doesn’t even let you apologize before he’s pulling you into his arms, hands shaking, doing his best not to imagine what kind of sick fuck would do that to you
“Simon, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” His tone is firm and he’s refusing to let you go, so instead of arguing, you opted to melt into his embrace. Hands running up and down his back and as he’s kissing the crown of your head he’s wondering how worthwhile it’d be to give the fucker a visit. Maybe teach him a lesson or two.
John ‘Soap’ MacTavish:
Laughing with your joke at first but then it hits him like a ton of bricks
“Beg your pardon?”
You explain the joke and the context with a dismissive laugh before going back to what you were doing and he’s just frozen in place
Someone… hurt you… in one of the most awful ways imaginable, and you’re laughing it off?
He’s not sure if he should be in awe at your resilience or concerned at your choice of coping mechanism, so he takes a gentle approach
“Bonnie, you know you can talk to me, aye?”
“I know, I just… don’t want to burden you with it. I mean, it’s not like it’s your fault it happened.” He’s holding your hands in his, gently massaging the space between your thumb and your index finger,
“Aye that’s true, but it’s you. And I love you, good and bad included.” He gently held the back of your head and kissed your forehead,
“Anytime you feel like talkin’ I’m here. Copy?”
He doesn’t usually bring work jargon home but he knows it gets a laugh from you, and sure enough your little giggle proved him right
“Copy.”
John Price:
The whiplash also broke his neck
“Sorry, what?”
His heart broke when you explained yourself and whined that the explanation ruined the punchline
“Sweetheart, that’s no laughin’ matter.” His tone was gentle as he approached you, hands hesitantly coming to rest on your hips, suddenly unsure of himself
“Honey, I’m fine. It’s how I cope.”
“I know, and there’s nothin’ wrong with that. Just, maybe, talk to me about it instead, yeah?” One of his hands came up to cup your cheek and you closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth of his palm, trapping it between your cheek and your shoulder
“I don’t wanna be a downer, John.”
“Never. I’m more concerned for your well-being than bloody mood. Am I clear?” As you looked in his eyes, you saw nothing but honesty and genuine concern, so you nodded
You closed your eyes and kissed his palm before he pulled you in to a tight embrace.
Kyle ‘Gaz’ Gerrick:
He heard you say it and weakly laughs before stopping as he chews on the words a little more
“Wait, what was that?”
And when you’re passively explaining it to him in the same way you’d talk about the weather he is in shock
He’s not sure if you’re trying to put on a brave face if you’re as nonchalant as you seem. He’s inclined to believe it’s the former.
“Babe that’s no joke. That’s kind of serious.”
“Don’t sweat it, Kyle. It’s how I’ve dealt with it. I’ve got it.”
He’s unsure but at the same time if it’s really worked for you so far then there’s no harm in letting it continue right? Wrong. He’s a little uncomfortable but it’s more so because it happened to you, someone he loves so deeply and he can’t fathom the idea
“Well yeah, I get that. But maybe we can talk about it when you feel like joking about it?” He shrugs, his words cautious and carefully chosen as he makes his suggestion
“I just want you to be alright. Ok?” His arms are rubbing yours before he’s pulling you into a hug, “I’ll always be here for you, babe.”
König:
Not a single chuckle from this man as he’s chewing over the words in his head
“Schatz, what’d you just say?”
When you explained what happened with a shrug and an all too casual tone, he’s tasting iron in his mouth from how hard he’s biting his cheek
He doesn’t want you to think he’s angry at you, never in a million years, but jesus christ schatz, surely there’s no way?
It’s not that he doesn’t believe you, he just can’t believe it happened to you, you’re the light of his life, his reason for existing, you’re the morning sun and the midnight moon, he’s truly in shock
“König?” Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts and in two short steps he was in front of you, sinking to his knees and hugging your middle. He’s buried his face in your shoulder as your arms wrap around his shoulders and you run your fingers through his hair.
“Liebling, please don’t make those jokes anymore, ok?” His voice is so small and fragile, you almost felt like it was a child talking instead of the 6’ something behemoth at your feet, “I can’t stand to hear that you’ve been hurt like that.”
“König it’s ok, really. Humor is how I cope.” You kiss the crown of his head and your chin against it,
“I know, liebling, I know but I’d much rather you talk to me ok? Please? For me?”
#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#soap mctavish x reader#soap mactavish x reader#john soap mctavish x reader#john soap mactavish x reader#john soap mactavish#soap x reader#captain john price x reader#john price x reader#captain price x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#gaz x reader#kyle garrick x reader#konig x reader#könig x reader#cod x reader#mw2 x reader#cod mw2#cod mwii#cod headcanons
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